University of Virginia Library

Jasper St. Aubyn;
OR,
THE COURSE OF PASSION.
A
Legend of King James the Second.
1688.

INTRODUCTION.

In the commencement of the seventeenth century, there stood
among the woody hills and romantic gorges which sweep southwardly
down from the bleak expanse of Dartmoor, one of those
fine old English halls, which, dating from the reign of the last
of the Tudors, united so much of modern comfort with so much
of antique architectural beauty. Many specimens of this style
of building are still found to be scattered throughout England,
with their broad terraces, their quaintly-sculptured porticoes,
their tall projecting oriels, their many stacks of richly decorated
chimneys, and their heraldic bearings adorning every salient
point, grotesquely carved in the red freestone, which is
their most usual, as indeed their most appropriate material.
No one, however, existed, it is probable, at that day, more perfect
in proportion to its size, or more admirably suited to its
wild and romantic site, than the manor-house of Widecomb-Under-Moor,
or, as it was more generally called, in its somewhat
sequestered neighborhood, the House in the Woods. Even
at the present time, that is a very rural and little-frequented district;
its woods are more extensive, its moorlands wilder, its
streams less often turned to purposes of manufacturing utility,

than in any other tract of the southern counties; but at the
time of which I write, when all England, was, comparatively
speaking, an agricultural country — when miles and miles of
forest existed, where there now can scarcely be found acres —
when the communications even between the neighboring country
towns were difficult and tedious, and those between the
country and metropolis almost impracticable — the region of
Dartmoor and its surrounding woodlands was less known and
less frequented, except by its own inhabitants, rude for the most
part and uncultured as their native hills, than the prairies of the
far west, or the solitudes of the Rocky mountains.

The few gentry, and lords of manors who own estates, and
had their castellated or Elizabethan dwellings, scattered here
and there, at long intervals, among the sylvan scenery of that
lonely region, were for the greater part little superior in habits,
in refinement, and in mental culture, to the boors around them.
Stanch hunters and hard drinkers, up with the lark and abed
before the curfew, loyal to their king, kind and liberal to their
dependants, and devout before their God, they led obscure and
blameless lives, careless of the great world, a rumor of which
rarely wandered so far as to reach their ears, unknown to fame,
yet neither useless nor unhonored within the sphere of their
humble influence, marked by few faults and many unpretending
virtues.

To this general rule, however, the lords of Widecomb manor
had long been an exception. Endowed with larger territorial
possessions than most of their neighbors, connected with many
of the noblest families of the realm, the St. Aubyns of Widecomb
manor had, for several generations, held themselves high
above the squires of the vicinity, and the burghers of the circumjacent
towns. Not confining themselves to the remote limits
of their rural possessions, many of them had shone in the
court and in the camp; several had held offices of trust and

honor under Elizabeth and her successor; and when, in the
reign of the unfortunate Charles, the troubles between the king
and his parliament broke out at length into open war, the St.
Aubyn of that day, like many another gallant gentleman, emptied
his patrimonial coffers to replenish the exhausted treasury;
and melted his old plate and felled his older oaks, in order to
support the king's cause in the field, at the head of his own
regiment of horse.

Thence, when the good cause succumbed for a time, and
democratic license, hardly restrained by puritanic rigor, strode
rampant over the prerogative of England's crown, and the liberties
of England's people, fines, sequestrations, confiscations,
fell heavily on the confirmed malignancy, as it was then termed,
of the lord of Widecomb; and he might well esteem himself
fortunate, that he escaped beyond the seas with his head upon
his shoulders, although he certainly had not where to lay it.

Returning at the restoration with the second Charles, more
fortunate than many of his friends, Sir Miles St. Aubyn recovered
a considerable portion of his demesnes, which, though sequestrated,
had not been sold, and with these the old mansion,
now, alas! all too grand and stately for the diminished revenues
of its owner, and the shrunken estates which it overlooked.

It would not, perhaps, have been too late even then, for prudence
and economy, joined to a resolute will and energetic purpose,
to retrieve the shaken fortunes of the house; but having
recovered peace and a settled government, the people and the
court of England appear simultaneously to have lost their
senses. The overstrained and somewhat hypocritical morality
of the protectorate was succeeded by the wildest license, the
most extravagant debauchery; and in the orgies which followed
their restoration to their patrimonial honors, too many of the
gallant cavaliers discreditably squandered the last remnants of

fortunes which had been half ruined in a cause so noble and
so holy.

Such was the fate of Sir Miles St. Aubyn. The brave and
generous soldier of the first Charles sank into the selfish, dissipated
roysterer, under his unworthy successor. He never
visited again the beautiful oak-woods and sparkling waters of
his native place, but frittered away a frivolous and useless life
among the orgies of Alsatia and the revels of Whitehall; and
died, unfriended, and almost alone, leaving an only son, who
had scarce seen his father, the heir to his impoverished fortunes
and little honored name.

His son, who was born before the commencement of the
troubles, of a lady highly bred, and endowed as highly, who
died — as the highly endowed die but too often — in the first
prime of womanhood, was already a man when the restoration
brought his father back to his native land, though not to his
patrimonial estates or his paternal duties.

Miles St. Aubyn, the younger, had been educated during the
period of the civil war, and during the protracted absence of
his father, by a distant maternal relative, whose neutrality and
humble position alike protected him from persecution by either
of the hostile parties. He grew up, like his race, strong, active,
bold, and gallant; and if he had not received much of
that peculiar nurture which renders men graceful and courtly-mannered,
almost from their cradles, he was at least educated
under the influence of those traditional principles which make
them at the bottom, even if they lack something of external
polish, high-souled and honorable gentlemen.

After the restoration he was sent abroad, as was the habit
of the day, to push his fortunes with his sword in the Netherlands,
then, as in all ages of the world, the chosen battle-ground
of nations. There he served many years, if not with high distinction,
at least with credit to his name; and if he did not

win high fortune with his sword — and indeed the day for such
winnings had already passed in Europe — he at least enjoyed
the advantage of mingling, during his adventurous career, with
the great, the noble, and the famous of the age. When, on his
return to his native land after his father's death, he turned his
sword into a ploughshare, and sought repose among the old
staghorned oaks at Widecomb, he was no longer the enthusiastic,
wild, and headstrong youth of twenty years before; but
a grave, polished, calm, accomplished man, with something of
Spanish dignity and sternness engrafted on the frankness of his
English character, and with the self-possession of one used
familiarly to courts and camps showing itself in every word
and motion.

He was a man moreover of worth, energy, and resolution,
and sitting down peacefully under the shadow of his own woods,
he applied himself quietly, but with an iron steadiness of purpose
that insured success, to retrieving in some degree the fortunes
of his race.

Soon after he returned he had taken unto himself a wife, not
perhaps very wisely chosen, from a family of descent prouder
and haughtier even than his own, and of fortunes if not as
much impoverished, at least so greatly diminished, as to render
the lady's dower a matter merely nominal. But it was an
old affection — a long promise, hallowed by love, and constancy,
and honor.

She was, moreover, a beautiful and charming creature, and,
so long as she lived, rendered the old soldier a very proud and
very happy husband, and when she died — which, most unhappily
for all concerned, was but a few months after giving birth
to an only son — left him so comfortless, and at the same time
so wedded to the memory of the dead, that he never so much
as envisaged the idea of a second marriage.

This gentleman it was, who, many long years after the death

of the gentle Lady Alice, dwelt in serene and dignified seclusion
in the old hall, which he had never quitted since he became
a widower; devoting his whole abilities to nursing his
dilapidated estates, and educating his only son, whom he regarded
with affection bordering on idolatry.

With the last Miles St. Aubyn, however, we shall have little
to do henceforth, for the soldier of the Netherlands had departed
so far from the traditions of his family — the eldest son of which
had for generations borne the same name of Miles — as to drop
that patrimonial appellation in the person of his son, whom he
had caused to be christened Jasper, after a beloved friend, a
brother of the lady, afterward his wife, who had fallen by his
side on a well-fought field in the Luxembourg.

What was the cause which induced the veteran, in other respects
so severe a stickler for ancient habitudes, to swerve from this
time-honored custom, it would be difficult to state; some of those
who knew him best, attributing it merely to the desire of perpetuating
the memory of his best friend in the person of his
only child; while others ascribed it to a sort of superstitious
feeling, which, attaching the continued decline of the house to
the continual recurrence of the patronymic, looked forward in
some degree to a revival of its honors with a new name to its
lord.

Whatever might have been the cause, the consequences of
this deviation from old family usage, as prognosticated by the
dependants of Widecomb, and the superstitious inhabitants of
the neighboring woods and wolds, were anything but likely to
better the fortunes of the lords of the manor; for not a few of
them asserted, with undoubting faith, that the last St. Aubyn
had seen the light of day, and that in the same generation
which had seen the extinction of the old name the old race
should itself pass away. Nor did they lack some sage authority
to which they might refer for confirmation of their dark

forebodings; for there existed, living yet in the mouths of men,
one of those ancient saws, which were so common a century or
two ago in the rural districts of England, as connected with the
fortunes of the old houses; and which were referred to some
Mother Shipton, or other equally infallible soothsayer of the
county, whose dicta to the vulgar minds of the feudal tenantry
were confirmations strong as proofs of Holy Writ.

The prophecy in question was certainly exceeding old; and
had been handed down through many generations, by direct oral
tradition, among a race of men wholly illiterate and uneducated;
to whom perhaps alone, owing to the long expatriation of
the late and present lords of the manor, it was now familiar;
although in past times it had doubtless been accredited by the
family to which it related.

It ran as follows, and, not being deficient in a sort of wild
harmony and rugged solemnity, produced, by no means unnaturally,
a powerful effect on the minds of hearers, when recited
in awe-stricken tones and with a bended brow beside some feebly-glimmering
hearth, in the lulls of the tempest haply raving
without, among the leafless trees, under the starless night. It
ran as follows, and, universally believed by the vassals of the
house, it remains for us to see how far its predictions were confirmed
by events, and how far it influenced or foretold the
course of passion, or the course of fate —

Thus far it has been necessary for us to tread back the path
of departed generations, and to retrace the fortunes of the Widecomb

family, inasmuch as many of the events, which we shall
have to narrate hereafter, and very much of the character of
the principal personage, to whom our tale relates, have a direct
relation to these precedents, and would have been to a certain
degree incomprehensible but for this retrogression. If it obtain
no other end, it will serve at least to explain how, amid
scenes so rural and sequestered, and dwelling almost in solitude,
among neighbors so rugged and uncivilized, there should
have been found a family, deprived of all advantages of intercommunication
with equals or superiors in intellect or demeanor,
and even unassisted by the humanizing influence of familiar
female society, which had yet maintained, as if traditionally, all
the principles, all the ideas, and all the habitudes of the brightest
schools of knightly courtesy and gentlemanly bearing, all
the graces and easy dignity of courts, among the remote solitudes
of the country.

At the time when our narrative commences, the soldier of
the Netherlands, Sir Miles St. Aubyn — for though he cared
not to bear a foreign title, he had been stricken a knight banneret
on a bloody battle-field of Flanders — had fallen long into
the sere, the yellow leaf; and though his cheek was still ruddy
as a winter pippin, his eye bright and clear, and his foot firm
as ever, his hair was as white as the drifted snow; his arm had
lost its nervous power; and if his mind was still sane, and his
body sound, he was now more addicted to sit beside the glowing
hearth in winter, or to bask in the summer sunshine, poring
over some old chronicle or antique legend, than to wake the
echoes of the oak-woods with his bugle-born, or to rouse the
heathcock from the heathy moorland with his blythe springers.

Not so, however, the child of his heart, Jasper. The boy
on whom such anxious pains had been bestowed, on whom
hopes so intense reposed, had reached his seventeenth summer.
Like all his race, he was unusually tall, and admirably formed,

for both agility and strength. Never, from his childhood upward,
having mingled with any persons of vulgar station or unpolished
demeanor, he was, as if by nature, graceful and easy.
His manners, although proud, and marked by something of that
stern dignity which we have mentioned as a characteristic of
the father, but which in one so youthful appeared strange and
out of place, were ever those of a high and perfect gentleman.
His features were marked with all the ancestral beauties, which
may be traced in unmixed races through so many generations;
and as it was a matter of notorious truth, that from the date of
the conquest, no drop of Saxon or of Celtic blood had been infused
into the pure Norman stream which flowed through the
veins of the proud St. Aubyns, it was no marvel that after the
lapse of so many ages the youthful Jasper should display, in
both face and form, the characteristic lines and coloring peculiar
to the noblest tribe of men that has ever issued from the great
northern hive of nations. Accordingly, he had the rich dark
chestnut hair, not curled, but waving in loose clusters; the clear
gray eye; the aquiline nose; the keen and fiery look; the resolute
mouth, and the iron jaw, which in all ages have belonged
to the descendant of the Northman. While the spare yet
sinewy frame, the deep, round chest, thin flanks, and limbs
long and muscular and singularly agile, were not less perfect
indications of his blood than the sharp eagle-like expression of
the bold countenance.

Trained in his early boyhood to all those exercises of activity
and strength, which were in those days held essential to
the gentleman, it needs not to say that Jasper St. Aubyn could
ride, swim, fence, shoot, run, leap, pitch the bar, and go through
every manœuvre of the salle d' armes, the tilt-yard, and the manége,
with equal grace and power. Nor had his lighter accomplishments
been neglected; for the age of his father and grandfather,
if profligate and dissolute even to debauchery, was still

refined and polished, and to dance gracefully, and touch the
lute or sing tastefully, was as much expected from the cavalier
as to have a firm foot in the stirrup, or a strong and supple
wrist with the backsword and rapier.

His mind had been richly stored also, if not very sagely
trained and regulated. For Sir Miles, in the course of his irregular
and adventurous life, had read much more than he had
meditated; had picked up much more of learning than he had
of philosophy; and what philosophy he had belonged much
more to the cold self-reliance of the camp than to the sounder
tenets of the schools.

While filling his son's mind, therefore, with much curious
lore of all sorts; while making him a master of many tongues,
and laying before him books of all kinds, the old banneret had
taken little pains — perhaps he would not have succeeded had
he taken more — to point the lessons which the books contained;
to draw deductions from the facts which he inculcated;
or to direct the course of the young man's opinions.

Self-taught himself, or taught only in the hard school of experience,
and having himself arrived at sound principles of conduct,
he never seemed to recollect that the boy would run
through no such ordeal, and reap no such lessons; nor did he
ever reflect that the deductions which he had himself drawn
from certain facts, acquired in one way, and under one set of
circumstances, would probably be entirely different from those
at which another would arrive, when his data were acquired in
a very different manner, and under circumstances altogether
diverse and dissimilar.

Thence it came that Jasper St. Aubyn, at the age of seventeen
years, was in all qualities of body thoroughly trained and
disciplined; and in all mental faculties perfectly educated, but
entirely untrained, uncorrected, and unchastened.

In manner, he was a perfect gentleman; in body, he was a

perfect man; in mind, he was almost a perfect scholar. And
what, our reader will perhaps inquire, what could he have been
more; or what more could education have effected in his behalf?

Much — very much — good friend.

For as there is an education of the body, and an education
of the brain, so is there also an education of the heart. And
that is an education which men rarely have the faculty of imparting,
and which few men ever have obtained, who have not
enjoyed the inestimable advantage of female nurture during their
youth, as well as their childhood; unless they have learned it
in the course of painful years, from those severe and bitter
teachers, those chasteners and purifiers of the heart — sorrow
and suffering, which two constitute experience.

This, then, was the education in which Jasper St. Aubyn
was altogether deficient; which Sir Miles had never so much
as attempted to impart to him; and which, had he endeavored,
he probably would have failed, to bestow.

We do not mean to say that the boy was heartless — boys
rarely are so, we might almost say never — nor that the impulses
of his heart were toward evil rather than good; far from it.
His heart, like all young and untainted hearts, was full of noble
impulses — but they were impulses; full of fresh springing
generous desires, of gracious sympathies and lofty aspirations
— but he had not one principle — he never had been taught to
question one impulse, before acting upon it — he never had
learned to check one desire, to doubt the genuineness of one
sympathy, to moderate the eagerness of one aspiration. He
never had been brought to suspect that there were such virtues
as self-control, or self-devotion; such vices as selfishness or
self-abandonment — in a word, he never had so much as heard,

and therefore he was, at the day of which we write, even what
he was; and thereafter, what we propose to show you.

At the time when the youthful heir had attained his seventeenth
year, the great object of his father's life was accomplished;
the fortunes of the family were so far at least retrieved,
that if the St. Aubyns no longer aspired, as of old, to be the
first or wealthiest family of the county, they were at least able
to maintain the household on that footing of generous liberality
and hospitable ease which has been at all times the pride and
passion of the English country gentleman.

For many years Sir Miles had undergone the severest privations,
and it was only by the endurance of actual poverty within
doors, that he was enabled to maintain that footing abroad, without
which he could scarcely have preserved his position in society.

For many years the park had been neglected, the gardens
overrun with weeds and brambles, the courts grass-grown, and
the house itself dilapidated, literally from the impossibility of
supporting domestics sufficiently numerous to perform the necessary
labors of the estate.

During much of this period it was to the beasts of the forest,
the fowl of the moorland, and the fish of the streams, that the
household of Widecomb had looked for their support; nor did
the table of the banneret himself boast any liquor more generous
than that afforded by the ale-vats of March and October.

Throughout the whole of this dark and difficult time, however,
the stout old soldier had never suffered one particle of
that ceremonial, which he deemed essential as well to the formation
as the preservation of the character of a true gentleman
to be relaxed or neglected by his diminished household.

Personally, he was at all times clad point device; nor did he
ever fail in being mounted, himself and at least one attendant,
as became a cavalier of honor. The hours of the early dinner,

and of the more agreeable and social supper, were announced
duly by the clang of trumpets, even when there were no guests
to be summoned, save the old banneret and his motherless
child, and perhaps the only visiter for years at Widecomb
manor, the gray-haired vicar of the village, who had served
years before as chaplain of an English regiment in the Low
Countries, with Sir Miles. Nor was the pewter tankard, containing
at the best but toast and ale, stirred with a sprig of rosemary,
handed around the board with less solemnity than had it
been a silver hanap mantling with the first vintages of Burgundy
or Xeres.

Thus it was that, as Jasper advanced gradually toward years
of manhood, the fortunes of the house improving in proportion
to his growth, seeing no alteration in the routine of the household,
he scarcely was aware that any change had taken place
in more essential points.

The eye and ear of the child had been taken by the banners,
the trumpets, and the glittering board, and his fancy riveted by
the solemnity and grave decorum which characterized the meals
partaken in the great hall; and naturally enough he never knew
that the pewter platters and tankards had been exchanged, since
those days, for plate of silver, and the strong ale converted into
claret or canary.

The consequence of this was simply that he found himself a
youth of seventeen, surrounded by all the means and appliances
of luxury, with servants, horses, hounds, and falcons at his
command, the leading personage, beyond all comparison, of the
neighborhood, highly-born, handsome, well-bred, and accomplished.
All this, by the way, was entirely uncorrected by any
memory of past sufferings or sorrows, either on his own part or
on that of his family, or by any knowledge of the privations and
exertions on the part of Sir Miles, by which this present affluence
had been purchased; and he became, naturally enough,

somewhat over-confident in his own qualities, somewhat overbearing
in his manner, and not a little intolerant and inconsiderate
as to the opinions and feelings of others. He then presented
in a word, the not unusual picture of an arrogant, self-sufficient,
proud and fiery youth, with many generous and noble
points, and many high qualities, which, duly cultivated, might
have rendered him a good, a happy, and perhaps even a great
man; but which, untrained as they were, and suffered to run
up into a rank and unpruned overgrowth, were but too likely to
degenerate themselves into vices, and to render him at some
future day a tormentor of himself, and an opposer of others.

Now, however, he was a general favorite, for largely endowed
with animal spirits, indulged in every wish that his fancy could
form, never crossed in the least particular, it was rarely that
his violent temper would display itself, or his innate selfishness
rise conspicuous above the superficial face of good-nature and
somewhat careless affability, which he presented to the general
observer.

It was, perhaps, unfortunate for Jasper, no less than for those
who were in after-days connected with him, whether for good
or evil, that, at this critical period of his adolescence, when the
character of the man is developed from the accidents of boyhood,
in proportion as his increasing years and altered habits
and pursuits led him to be more abroad, and cast him in some
degree into the world, the advancing years and growing infirmities
of his father kept him closer to the library and the hall.

So that at the very time when his expanding mind and nascent
passions most needed sage advice and moderate coercion,
or at least wary guidance, he was abandoned almost entirely to
his own direction. The first outbreaks, therefore, of evil principles,
the germs of a masterful will, the seeds of fierce and
fiery passions, and, above all, the growing recklessness with
regard to the feelings and the rights of others, which could

scarcely have escaped the notice of the shrewd old man had
he accompanied his son abroad, and which, if noticed, would
surely have been repressed, were allowed to increase hourly
by self-indulgence and the want of restraint, unknown and unsuspected
to the youth himself, for whom one day they were
to be the cause of so many and so bitter trials.

But it is now time that, turning from this brief retrospect of
previous events, and this short analysis of the early constitution
of the mind of him whose singular career is to form the subject
of this narrative, we should introduce our reader to the
scene of action, and to the person whose adventures in after-life
will perhaps excuse the space which has necessarily been
allotted to the antecedents of the first marked event which befell
him, and from which all the rest took their rise in a train
of connection, which, although difficult to trace by a casual observer,
was in reality close and perfect.

The manor-house of Widecomb, such as it has been slightly
sketched above, stood on a broad flat terrace, paved with slabs
of red freestone, and adorned with a massive balustrade of the
same material, interspersed with grotesque images at the points
where it was reached from the esplanade below, by three or
four flights of broad and easy steps.

The mansion itself was large, and singularly picturesque,
but the beauties of the building were as nothing to those of the
scenery which it overlooked.

It was built on the last and lowest slope of one of those romantic
spurs which tread southerly from the wild and heathery
heights of Dartmoor. And although the broad and beautifully-kept
lawn was embosomed in a very woody and sylvan chase,
full of deep glens and tangled dingles, which was in turn framed
on three sides by the deep oak-woods, covering all the rounded
hills in the rear of the estate, and to the right and left hand,
yet as the land continued to fall toward the south for many and

many a mile, the sight could range from the oriel windows of
the great hall, and of the fine old library, situated on either
hand of the entrance and armory, over a wide expanse of richly-cultivated
country, with more than one navigable river winding
among the woods and corn-fields, and many a village steeple
glittering among the hedgerows, until in the far distance it
was bounded by a blue, hazy line, which seemed to melt into
the sky, but which was in truth—though not to be distinguished
as such, unless by a practised eye—the British channel.

The hall itself, and even the southern verge of the chase,
which bounded the estate in that direction, lay, however, at a
considerable distance from the cultivated country, and was divided
from it by a vast broken chasm, with banks so precipitous
and rocky that no road had ever been carried through it,
while its great width had deterred men from the idea of bridging
it. Through this strange and terrific gorge there rushed
an impetuous and powerful torrent, broken by many falls and
rapids, with many a deep and limpid pool between them, favorite
haunts of the large salmon and sea-trout which abounded in
its waters. This brook, for it scarcely can be called a river,
although, after the rains of autumn or the melting snows of
spring, it sent down an immense volume of dark, rust-colored
water, with a roar that could be heard for miles, to the distant
Tamar, swept down the hills in a series of cascades from the
right hand, or western side of the park, until it reached the
brink of the chasm we have described, lying at right angles to
its former course, down which it plunged into an impetuous fall
and rapid of nearly three hundred feet, and rushed thence eastearly
away, walled on each side by the precipitous rock, until
some five miles thence it was crossed at a deep and somewhat
dangerous ford, by the only great road which traversed that
district, and by which alone strangers could reach the hall and
its beautiful demesnes.

To the westward or right hand side of the chase the country
was entirely wild and savage, covered with thick woods, interspersed
with lonely heaths, and intersected by hundreds of
clear brawling rills. To the eastward, however, although much
broken by forest-ground, there was a wide range of rich pasture-fields
and meadows, divided by great overgrown hawthorn
hedges, each hedge almost a thicket, and penetrated by numerous
lanes and horse-roads, buried between deep banks, and
overcanopied by foliage, that, even at noonday, was almost
impenetrable to the sunshine.

Here and there lay scattered among the fields and woods,
innumerable farm-houses and granges, the abodes of small free-holders,
once tenants and vassals of the great St. Aubyns; and,
at about six miles from the hall, nestled in a green valley,
through which ran a clear, bright trout-stream to join the turbulent
torrent, stood the little market-town of Widecomb-Under-Moor,
from their unalienated property in which the family of
St. Aubyn derived the most valuable portion of their income.

Over the whole of this pleasant aud peaceful tract, whether
it was still owned by themselves, or had passed into the hands
of the free yeomanry, the lords of Widecomb still held manorial
rights, and the few feudal privileges which had survived the
revolution; and through the whole of it, Sir Miles St. Aubyn
was regarded with unmixed love and veneration, while the boy
Jasper was looked upon almost as a son in every family, though
some old men would shake their heads doubtfully, and mutter
sage but unregarded saws concerning his present disposition
and future prospects; and some old grandames would prognosticate
disasters, horrors, and even crimes, as hanging over his
career, in consequence, perhaps, of the inauspicious change in
the patronymic of his race.

They were a happy and an unsophisticated race that inhabited
those lonely glens. Sufficiently well provided to be above

the want of necessaries, or the fears of poverty, they were not
so far removed from the necessity of labor as to have incurred
vicious ambitions — moderate, frugal, and industrious, they
lived uncorrupted, and died happy in their unlearned innocence.

It was the boast of the district, that bars and locks were appendages
to doors entirely unusual and useless; that the cage
of Widecomb had not held a tenant since the days of stiff old
Oliver; and that no deed of violence or blood had ever tainted
those calm vales with horror.

Alas! how soon was that boast to be annulled; how soon
were the details of a dread, domestic tragedy, full of dark horrors,
to render the very name of Widecomb a terror, and to invest
the beauteous scenery with images of superstitious awe
and hatred. But we must not anticipate, nor seek as yet to
penetrate the secrets of that destiny, which even during the
morn of promising young life, seemed to overhang the house—

1. PART I.

1. CHAPTER I.
THE PERIL.

It was as fair a morning of July as ever dawned in the blue
summer sky; the sun as yet had risen but a little way above
the waves of fresh green foliage which formed the horizon of
the woodland scenery surrounding Widecomb manor; and his
heat, which promised ere mid-day to become excessive, was
tempered now by the exhalations of the copious night-dews,
and by the cool breath of the western breeze, which came down
through the leafy gorges, in long, soft swells from the open
moorland.

All nature was alive and joyous; the air was vocal with the
piping melody of the blackbirds and thrushes, carolling in every
brake and bosky dingle; the smooth, green lawn, before
the windows of the old hall, was peopled with whole tribes of
fat, lazy hares, limping about among the dewy herbage, fearless,
as it would seem, of man's aggression; and to complete
the picture, above a score of splendid peacocks were strutting
to and fro on the paved terraces, or perched upon the carved
stone balustrades, displaying their gorgeous plumage to the early
sunshine.

The shadowy mists of the first morning twilight had not been

long dispersed from the lower regions, and were suspended
still in the middle air in broad fleecy masses, though melting
rapidly away in the increasing warmth and brightness of the
day.

And still a faint blue line hovered over the bed of the long
rocky gorge, which divided the chase from the open country,
floating about like the steam of a seething caldron, and rising
here and there into tall smoke-like columns, probably where
some steeper cataract of the mountain-stream sent its foam skyward.

So early, indeed, was the hour, that had my tale been recited
of these degenerate days, there would have been no gentle eyes
awake to look upon the loveliness of newly-awakened nature.

In the good days of old, however, when daylight was still
deemed to be the fitting time for labor and for pastime, and
night the appointed time for natural and healthful sleep, the
dawn was wont to brighten beheld by other eyes than those of
clowns and milkmaids, and the gay songs of the matutinal birds
were listened to by ears that could appreciate their untaught
melodies.

And now, just as the stable-clock was striking four, the great
oaken door of the old hall was thrown open with a vigorous
swing that made it rattle on its hinges, and Jasper St. Aubyn
came bounding out into the fresh morning air, with a foot as
elastic as that of the mountain roe, singing a snatch of some
quaint old ballad.

He was dressed simply in a close-fitting jacket and tight hose
of dark-green cloth, without any lace or embroidery, light boots
of untanned leather, and a broad-leafed hat, with a single eagle's
feather thrust carelessly through the band. He wore neither
cloak nor sword, though it was a period at which gentlemen
rarely went abroad without both these, their distinctive attributes;
but in the broad black belt which girt his rounded waist

he carried a stout wood-knife with a buckhorn hilt; and over
his shoulder there swung, from a leathern thong, a large wicker
fishing-basket.

Nothing, indeed, could be simpler or less indicative of any
particular rank or station in society than young St. Aubyn's
garb, yet it would have been a very dull and unobservant eye
which should take him for aught less than a high-born and
high-bred gentleman.

His fine intellectual face, his bearing erect before heaven,
the graceful ease of his every motion, as he hurried down the
flagged steps of the terrace, and planted his light foot on the
dewy greensward, all betokened gentle birth and gentle associations.

But he thought nothing of himself, nor cared for his advantages,
acquired or natural. The long and heavy salmon-rod
which he carried in his right hand, in three pieces as yet unconnected,
did not more clearly indicate his purpose than the
quick marking glance which he cast toward the half-veiled sun
and hazy sky, scanning the signs of the weather.

“It will do, it will do,” he said to himself, thinking as it were
aloud, “for three or four hours at least; the sun will not shake
off those vapors before eight o'clock at the earliest, and if he do
come out then hot and strong, I do not know but the water is
dark enough after the late rains to serve my turn awhile longer.
It will blow up, too, I think from the westward, and there will
be a brisk curl on the pools. But come, I must be moving, if I
would reach Darringford to breakfast.

And as he spoke he strode out rapidly across the park toward
the deep chasm of the stream, crushing a thousand aromatic
perfumes from the dewy wild-flowers with his heedless foot,
and thinking little of the beauties of nature, as he hastened to
the scene of his loved exercise.

It was not long, accordingly, before he reached the brink of

the steep rocky bank above the stream, which he proposed to
fish that morning, and paused to select the best place for descending
to the water's edge.

It was, indeed, a striking and romantic scene as ever met
the eye of painter or of poet. On the farther side of the gorge,
scarcely a hundred yards distant, the dark limestone rocks rose
sheer and precipitous from the very brink of the stream, rifted
and broken into angular blocks and tall columnar masses, from
the clefts of which, wherever they could find soil enough to
support their scanty growth, a few stunted oaks shot out almost
horizontally with their gnarled arms and dark-green foliage, and
here and there the silvery bark and quivering tresses of the
birch relieved the monotony of color by their gay brightness.
Above, the cliffs were crowned with the beautiful purple
heather, now in its very glow of summer bloom, about which
were buzzing myriads of wild bees sipping their nectar from its
cups of amethyst.

The hither side, though rough and steep and broken, was not
in the place where Jasper stood precipitous; indeed, it seemed
as if at some distant period a sort of landslip had occurred, by
which the fall of the rocky wall had been broken into massive
fragments, and hurled down in an inclined plane into the bed
of the stream, on which it had encroached with its shattered
blocks and rounded boulders.

Time, however, had covered all this abrupt and broken slope
with a beautiful growth of oak and hazel coppice, among which,
only at distant intervals, could the dun weather-beaten flanks
of the great stones be discovered.

At the base of this descent, a hundred and fifty feet perhaps
below the stand of the young sportsman, flowed the dark arrowy
stream — a wild and perilous water. As clear as crystal, yet
as dark as the brown cairn-gorm, it came pouring down among
the broken rocks with a rapidity and force which showed what

must be its fury when swollen by a storm among the mountains,
here breaking into wreaths of rippling foam where some unseen
ledge chafed its current, there roaring and surging white as
December's snow among the great round-headed rocks, and
there again wheeling in sullen eddies, dark and deceitful, round
and round some deep rock-brimmed basin.

Here and there, indeed, it spread into wide shallow rippling
rapids, filling the whole bottom of the ravine from side to side,
but more generally it did not occupy above a fourth part of the
space below, leaving sometimes on this margin, sometimes on
that, broad pebbly banks, or slaty ledges, affording an easy footing,
and a clear path to the angler of its troubled waters.

After a rapid glance over the well-known scene, Jasper
plunged into the coppice, and following a faint track worn by
the feet of the wild-deer in the first instance, and widened by
his own bolder tread, soon reached the bottom of the chasm,
though not until he had flushed from the dense oak covert two
noble black cocks with their superb forked tails, and glossy
purple-lustred plumage, which soared away, crowing their bold
defiance, over the heathery moorlands.

Once at the water's edge, the young man's tackle was speedily
made ready, and in a few minutes his long line went whistling
through the air, as he wielded the powerful two-handed
rod, as easily as if it had been a stripling's reed; and the large
gaudy peacock-fly alighted on the wheeling eddies, at the tail
of a long arrowy shoot, as gently as if it had settled from too
long a flight. Delicately, deftly, it was made to dance and
skim the clear, brown surface, until it had crossed the pool and
neared the hither bank; then again, obedient to the pliant wrist,
it arose on glittering wing, circled half round the angler's head,
and was sent thirty yards aloof, straight as a wild bee's flight,
into a little mimic whirlpool, scarce larger than the hat of the
skilful fisherman, which spun round and round just below a

gray ledge of limestone. Scarce had it reached its mark before
the water broke all around it, and the gay deceit vanished,
the heavy swirl of the surface, as the break was closing, indicating
the great size of the fish which had risen. Just as the
swirl was subsiding, and the forked tail of the monarch of the
stream was half seen as he descended, that indescribable but
well-known turn of the angler's wrist, fixed the barbed hook,
and taught the scaly victim the nature of the prey he had gorged
so heedlessly.

With a wild bound he threw himself three feet out of the water,
showing his silver sides, with the sea-lice yet clinging to
his scales, a fresh sea-run fish of fifteen, ay, eighteen pounds,
and perhaps over.

On his broad back he strikes the water, but not as he meant
the tightened line; for as he leaped the practised hand had
lowered the rod's tip, that it fell in a loose bight below him.
Again! again! again; and yet a fourth time he bounded into the
air with desperate and vigorous soubresaults, like an unbroken
steed that would dismount his rider, lashing the eddies of the
dark stream into bright bubbling streaks, and making the heart
of his captor beat high with anticipation of the desperate struggle
that should follow, before the monster would lie panting and
exhausted on the yellow sand or moist greensward.

Away! with the rush of an eagle through the air, he is gone
like an arrow down the rapids — how the reel rings, and the
line whistles from the swift-working wheel; he is too swift,
too headstrong to be checked as yet; tenfold the strength of
that slender tackle might not control him in his first fiery
rush.

But Jasper, although young in years, was old in the art, and
skilful as the craftiest of the gentle craftsmen. He gives him
the butt of his rod steadily, trying the strength of his tackle
with a delicate and gentle finger, giving him line at every rush,

yet firmly, cautiously, feeling his mouth all the while, and moderating
his speed even while he yields to his fury.

Meanwhile, with the eye of intuition and the nerve of iron,
he bounds along the difficult shore, he leaps from rock to rock,
alighting on their silvery tops with the firm agility of the rope-dancer,
he splashes knee-deep through the slippery shallows,
keeping his line ever taut, inclining his rod over his shoulder,
bearing on his fish ever with a killing pull, steering him clear
of every rock or stump against which he would fain smash the
tackle, and landing him at length in a fine open roomy pool, at
the foot of a long stretch of white and foamy rapids, down
which he has just piloted him with the eye of faith, and the
foot of instinct.

And now the great salmon has turned sulky; like a piece of
lead he has sunk to the bottom of the deep black pool, and lies
on the gravel bottom in the sullenness of despair.

Jasper stooped, gathered up in his left hand a heavy pebble,
and pitched it into the pool, as nearly as he could guess to the
whereabout of his game — another — and another! Ah! that
last has roused him. Again he throws himself clear out of
water, and again foiled in his attempt to smash the tackle, dashes
away down stream impetuous.

But his strength is departing — the vigor of his rush is broken.
The angler gives him the butt abundantly, strains on him
with a heavier pull, yet ever yields a little as he exerts his failing
powers; see, his broad silver side has thrice turned up,
even turned to the surface, and though each time he was recovered
himself, each time it has been with a heavier and more
sickly motion.

Brave fellow! his last race is run, his last spring sprung —
no more shall he disport himself in the bright reaches of the
Tamar; no more shall the Naiads wreathe his clear silver
scales with river-greens and flowery rushes.

The cruel gaff is in his side — his cold blood stains the eddies
for a moment — he flaps out his death-pang on the hard
limestone.

“Who-whoop! a nineteen-pounder!”

Meantime the morning had worn onward, and ere the great
fish was brought to the basket the sun had soared clear above
the mist-wreaths, and had risen so high into the summer heaven
that his slant rays poured down into the gorge of the stream,
and lighted up the clear depths with a lustre so transparent that
every pebble at the bottom might have been discerned, with the
large fish here and there floating mid depth, with their heads
up stream, their gills working with a quick motion, and their
broad tails vibrating at short intervals slowly but powerfully, as
they lay motionless in opposition to the very strongest of the
swift current.

The breeze had died away, there was no curl upon the water,
and the heat was oppressive.

Under such circumstances, to whip the stream was little better
than mere loss of time, yet, as he hurried with a fleet foot
down the gorge, perhaps with some ulterior object, beyond the
mere love of sport, Jasper at times cast his fly across the stream,
and drew it neatly, and, as he thought, irresistibly right over
the recusant fish; but though once or twice a large lazy salmon
would sail up slowly from the depths, and almost touch the fly
with his nose, he either sunk down slowly in disgust, without
breaking the water, or flapped his broad tail over the shining
fraud as if to mark his contempt.

It had now got to be near noon, for in the ardor of his success
the angler had forgotten all about his intended breakfast;
and, his first fish captured, had contented himself with a slender
meal furnished from out his fishing-basket and his leathern
bottle.

Jasper had traversed by this time some ten miles in length,

following the sinuosities of the stream, and had reached a favorite
pool at the head of a long, straight, narrow trench, cut
by the waters themselves in the course of time, through the
hard schistous rock which walls the torrent on each hand, not
leaving the slightest ledge or margin between the rapids and
the precipice.

Through this wild gorge, of some fifty yards in length, the
river shoots like an arrow over a steep inclined plain of limestone
rock, the surface of which is polished by the action of
the water, till it is as slippery as ice, and at the extremity leaps
down a sheer descent of some twelve feet into a large, wide
basin, surrounded by softly swelling banks of greensward, and
a fair amphitheatre of woodland.

At the upper end this pool is so deep as to be vulgarly deemed
unfathomable; below, however, it expands yet wider into a
shallow rippling ford, where it is crossed by the high-road,
down stream of which again there is another long, sharp-rapid,
and another fall, over the last steps of the hill; after which the
nature of the stream becomes changed, and it murmurs gently
onward through a green pastoral country unrippled and uninterrupted.

Just in the inner angle of the high-road, on the right hand of
the stream, there stood an old-fashioned, low-browed, thatch-covered,
stone cottage, with a rude portico of rustic woodwork
overrun with jasmine and virgin-bower, and a pretty flower-garden
sloping down in successive terraces to the edge of the
basin. Beside this, there was no other house in sight, unless
it were part of the roof of a mill which stood in the low ground
on the brink of the second fall, surrounded with a mass of willows.
But the tall steeple of a country-church raising itself
heavenward above the brow of the hill, seemed to show that,
although concealed by the undulations of the ground, a village
was hard at hand.

The morning had changed a second time, a hazy film had
crept up to the zenith, and the sun was now covered with a
pale golden veil, and a slight current of air down the gorge ruffled
the water.

It was a capital pool, famous for being the temporary haunt
of the very finest fish, which were wont to lay there awhile, as
if to recruit themselves after the exertion of leaping the two
falls and stemming the double rapid, before attempting to ascend
the stream farther.

Few, however, even of the best and boldest fishermen cared
to wet a line in its waters, in consequence of the supposed impossibility
of following a heavy fish through the gorge below or
checking him at the brink of the fall. It is true, that throughout
the length of the pass, the current was broken by bare, slippery
rocks peering above the waters, at intervals, which might be
cleared by an active cragsman; and it had been in fact reconnoitred
by Jasper and others in cool blood, but the result of the
examination was that it was deemed impracticable as a fishing
ground.

Thinking, however, little of striking a large fish, and perhaps
desiring to waste a little time before scaling the banks and
emerging on the high road, Jasper threw a favorite fly of peacock's
harl and gold tinsel lightly across the water; and, almost
before he had time to think, had hooked a monstrous fish, which
at the very first leap, he set down as weighing at least thirty
pounds.

Thereupon followed a splendid display of piscatory skill.
Well known that his fish must be lost if he once should succeed
in getting his head down the rapid, Jasper exerted every nerve,
and exhausted every art to humor, to meet, to restrain, to check
him. Four times the fish rushed for the pass, and four times,
Jasper met him so stoutly with the butt, trying his tackle to the
very utmost, that he succeeded in forcing him from the perilous

spot. Round and round the pool he had piloted him, and had
taken post at length, hoping that the worst was already over,
close to the opening of the rocky chasm.

And now, perhaps waxing too confident, he checked his fish
too sharply. Stung into fury, the monster sprang five times in
succession into the air, lashing the water with his angry tail,
and then rushed like an arrow down the chasm.

He was gone — but Jasper's blood was up, and thinking of
nothing but his sport, he dashed forward and embarked with a
fearless foot in the terrible descent.

Leap after leap he took with beautiful precision, alighting
firm and erect on the centre of each slippery block, and bounding
thence to the next with unerring instinct, guiding his fish the
while with consummate skill through the intricacies of the pass.

There were now but three more leaps to be taken before he
would reach the flat table-rock above the fall, which once attained,
he would have firm foot-hold and a fair field. Already
he rejoiced, triumphant in the success of his bold attainment,
and confident in victory, when a shrill female shriek reached
his ears, from the pretty flower-garden; caught by the sound
he diverted his eyes, just as he leaped, toward the place whence
it came; his foot slipped, and the next instant he was flat on
his back in the swift stream, where it shot the most furiously
over the glassy rock. He struggled manfully, but in vain.
The smooth, slippery surface afforded no purchase to his griping
fingers, no hold to his laboring feet. One fearful, agonizing
conflict with the wild waters, and he was swept helplessly
over the edge of the fall, his head, as he glanced down foot
foremost, striking the rocky brink not without violence.

He was plunged into the deep pool, and whirled round and
round by the dark eddies long before he rose, but still, though
stunned and half disabled, he strove terribly to support himself,
but it was all in vain.

Again he sunk and rose once more, and as he rose that wild
shriek again reached his ears, and his last glance fell upon a
female form wringing her hands in terror on the bank, and a
young man rushing down in wild haste from the cottage on the
hill-side.

He felt that aid was at hand, and struck out again for life —
for dear life.

But the water seemed to fail beneath him.

A slight flash sprang across his eyes, his brain reeled, and
all was blackness.

He sunk to the bottom, spurned it with his feet, and rose
once more, but not to the surface.

His quivering blue hands emerged alone above the relentless
waters, grasped for a little moment at empty space and then disappeared.

The circling ripples closed over him, and subsided into stillness.

He felt, knew, suffered nothing more.

His young, warm heart was cold and lifeless — his soul had
lost its consciousness — the vital spark had faded into darkness
— perhaps was quenched for ever.

2. CHAPTER II.
THE WAKENING.

When Jasper St. Aubyn opened his eyes, dim with the
struggle of returning consciousness and life, they met a pair of
eyes fixed with an expression of the most earnest anxiety on
his own — a pair of eyes, the loveliest into which he ever had yet
gazed, large, dark, unfathomably deep, and soft withal and tender,
as the day-dream of a love-sick poet. He could not mark
their color; he scarce knew whether they were mortal eyes,
whether they were realities at all, so sickly did his brain reel
and so confused and wandering were his fancies.

Then a sweet, low voice fell upon his ear, in tones the gentlest,
yet the gladdest, that ever he had heard, exclaiming:—

“Oh! father, father, he lives — he is saved.”

But he heard, saw no more; for again he relapsed into unconsciousness,
and felt nothing further, until he became sensible
of a balmy coolness on his brow, a pleasant flavor on his
parched lips, and a kindly glow creeping as it were through all
his limbs, and gradually expanding into life.

Again his eyes were unclosed, and again they met the earnest,
hopeful gaze of those other eyes, which he now might perceive
belonging to a face so exquisite, and a form so lovely, as
to be worthy of those great glorious wells of lustrous tenderness.

It was a young girl who bent over him, perhaps a few months
older than himself, so beautiful that had she appeared suddenly
even in her simple garb, which seemed to announce her but one
degree above the peasants of the neighborhood, in the midst of

the noblest and most aristocratical assembly, she would have
become on the instant the cynosure of all eyes, and the magnet
of all hearts.

Of that age when the heart, yet unsunned by passion, and
unused to strong emotion, thrills sensibly to every feeling awakened
for the first time within it, and bounds at every appeal to
its sympathies; when the ingenuous countenance, unhardened
by the sad knowledge of the world, and untaught to conceal one
emotion, reflects like a perfect mirror every gleam of sunshine
that illuminates, every passing cloud that overshadows it pure
and spotless surface, the maiden sought not to hide her delight,
as she witnessed the hue of life return to his pale cheeks, and
the spark of intelligence relume his handsome features.

A bright, mirthful glance, which told how radiant they might
be in moments of unmingled bliss, laughed for an instant in
those deep blue eyes, and a soft, sunny smile played over her
warm lips; but the next minute, she dropped the young man's
hand, which she had been chafing between both her own, buried
her face in her palms, and wept those sweet and happy
tears which flow only from innocent hearts, at the call of greatitude
and sympathy.

“Bless God, young sir,” said a deep, solemn voice at the
other side of the bed on which he was lying, “that your life is
spared. May it be unto good ends! Yours was a daring venture,
and for a trivial object against which to stake an immortal
soul. But, thanks to Him! you are preserved, snatched as it
were from the gates of death; and, though you feel faint now,
I doubt not — and your soul trembles as if on the verge of another
world — you will be well anon, and in a little while as strong as
ever in that youthful strength on which you have ta'en such
pride. Drink this, and sleep awhile, and you shall wake refreshed,
and as a new man, from the dreamless slumber which
the draught shall give you. And you, silly child,” he continued,

turning toward the lovely girl, who had sunk forward on the
bed, so that her fair tresses rested on the same pillow which
supported Jasper's head, with the big tears trickling silently
between her slender fingers, “dry up your tears; for the youth
shall live, and not die.”

The boy's eyes had turned immediately to the sound of the
speaker's accents, and in his weak state remained fixed on his
face so long as the sound continued, although his senses followed
the meaning but imperfectly.

It was a tall, venerable-looking old man who spoke, with
long locks, as white as snow, falling down over the straight
cut collar of his plain black doublet, and an expression of the
highest intellect, combined with something which was not melancholy,
much less sadness, but which told volumes of hardships
borne, and sorrows endured, the fruits of which were
piety, and gentleness, and that wisdom which cometh not of
this world.

He smiled thoughtfully, as he saw that his words were hardly
comprehended, and his mild glance wandered from the pale
face of the handsome boy to the fair head of the young girl
bending over him, like a white lily overcharged with rain.

“Poor things,” he whispered softly, as if speaking to himself,
“to both it is the first experience of the mixed pain and pleasure
of this world's daily trials. God save them scatheless to the
end!”

Then recovering himself, as if by a little effort, from his
brief fit of musing, he held forth a large glass goblet which was
in his right hand, full of some bright ruby-colored liquid, to the
lips of Jasper, saying:—

“Drink, youth, it will give thee strength. Drink, and fear
nothing.”

The young man grasped the bright bowl with both hands,

but even then he had lacked strength to guide it to his lips, had
not his host still supported it.

The flavor was agreeable, and the coolness of the draught
was so delicious to the feverish palate and parched tongue of
Jasper, that he drained it to the very bottom, and then, as if exhausted
by the effort, relaxed his hold, and sunk back on his
pillow in a state of conscious languor, exquisitely soft and entracing.

More and more that voluptuous dream-like trance overcame
him, and though his eyes were still open he saw not the things
that were around him, but a multitude of radiant and lovely visions,
which came and went, and returned again, in mystic evolutions.

With a last effort of his failing senses, half conscious of the
interest which she took in him, yet wholly ignorant who or
what was that gentle she, he stretched out his hand and mastered
one of hers with gentle violence, and holding it imprisoned
in his burning fingers, closed his swimming eyes, and sunk
into a deep and dreamless sleep.

The old man, who had watched every symptom that appeared
in succession on his expressive face, saw that the potion had
taken the desired effect, and drawing a short sigh, which
seemed to indicate a sense of relief from apprehension, looked
toward the maiden, and addressed her in a low voice, not so
much from fear of wakening the sleeper, as that the voice of
affection is ever low and gentle.

“He sleeps, Theresa, and will sleep until the sun has sunk
far toward the west, and then he will waken restored to all his
youthful power and spirits. Come, my child, we may leave
him to his slumbers, he shall no longer need a watcher. I will
go to my study and would have you turn to your household duties.
Scenes such as this which you have passed will call up
soft and pitiful fancies in the mind, but it behooves us not over-much

to yield to them. This life has too much of stern and
dark reality, that we should give the reins to truant imagination.
Come, Theresa.”

The young girl raised her head from the pillows, and shook
away the long, fair curls from her smooth forehead. Her tears
had ceased to flow, and there was a smile on her lip, as she
replied, pointing to her hand which he held fast grasped, in his
unconscious slumber

“See, father, I am a prisoner. I fear me I can not withdraw
my hand without arousing him.”

“Do not so, then, Theresa; to arouse him now, ere the effects
of the potion have passed away, would be dangerous,
might be fatal, Perchance, however, he will release you when
he sleeps quite soundly. If he do so, I pray you, come to me.
Meantime, I leave you to your own good thoughts, my own little
girl.”

And with these words, he leaned across the narrow bed, over
the form of the sleeping youth, and kissed her fair white brow.

“Bless thee, my gentle child. May God in goodness bless,
and be about thee.”

“Amen! dear father,” said the little girl, as he ended; and
in her turn she pressed her soft and balmy lips to his withered
cheek.

A tear, rare visitant, rose all unbidden to the parent's eye as
he turned to leave her, but ere he reached the door, her low
tones arrested him, and he came back to her.

“Will you not put my books within reach of me, dear father?”
she said. “I can not work, since the poor youth has made my
left hand his sure captive, but I would not be altogether idle,
and I can read while I watch him. Pardon my troubling you,
who should wait on you, not be waited on.”

“And do you not wait on me ever, and most neat-handedly,
dear child?” returned her father, moving toward a small, round

table, on which were scattered a few books, and many implements
of feminine industry. “Which of these will you have,
Theresa?”

“All of them, if you please, dear father. The table is not
heavy, for I can carry it about where I will, myself, and if you
will lift it to me, I can help myself, and cull the gems of each
in turn. I am a poor student, I fear, and love better, like a little
bee, to flit from flower to flower, drinking from every chalice
its particular honey, than to sit down, like the sloth, and
surfeit me on one tree, how green soever.”

“There is but little industry, I am afraid, Theresa, if there be
little sloth in your mode of reading. Such desultory studies are
wont to leave small traces on the memory. I doubt me much
if you long keep these gems you speak of, which you cull so
lightly.”

“Oh! but you are mistaken, father dear, for all you are so
wise,” she replied, laughing softly. “Everything grand or
noble, of which I read, everything high or holy, finds a sort of
echo in my little heart, and lies there for ever. Your grave,
heavy, moral teachings speak to my reason, it is true, but when
I read of brave deeds done, of noble self-sacrifices made, of
great sufferings endured, in high causes, those things teach my
heart, those things speak to my soul, father. Then I reason no
longer, but feel — feel how much virtue there is, after all, and
generosity, and nobleness, and charity, and love, in poor, frail
human nature. Then I learn not to judge mildly of myself,
nor harshly of my brothers. Then I feel happy, father, yet in
my happiness I wish to weep. For I think, noble sentiments
and generous emotions sooner bring tears to the eye than mere
pity, or mere sorrow.”

And, even as she spoke, her own bright orbs were suffused
with drops, like dew in the violet's cups, and she shook her
head with its profusion of long, fair ringlets archly, as if she

would have made light of her own sentiment, and gazed up into
his face with a tearful smile.

“You are a good child, Theresa, and good children are very
dear to the Lord,” said the old man. “But of a truth, I would
I could see you more practically-minded; less given to these
singular romantic dreamings. I say, not that they are hurtful,
or unwise, or untrue, but in a mere child, as you are, Theresa,
they are strange and out of place, if not unnatural. I would I
could see you more merry, my little girl, and more given to the
company of your equals in age, even if I were to be the loser
thereby of something of your gentle company. But you love
not, I think, the young girls of the village.”

“Oh! yes, I love them dearly, father. I would do anything
for any one of them; I would give up anything I have got to
make them happy. Oh, yes, I love Anna Harlande, and Rose
Merrivale, and Mary Mitford, dearly, but — but —”

“But you love not their company, you would say, would you
not, my child?”

“That is not what I was about to say; but I know not how
it is, their merriment is so loud, and their glee so very joyous,
that it seems to me that I can not sympathize with them in
their joy, as I can in their sorrow; and they view things with
eyes so different from mine, and laugh at thoughts that go nigh
to make me weep, and see or feel so little of the loveliness of
nature, and care so little for what I care most of all, soft, sad
poetry, or heart-stirring romance, or inspired music, that when
I am among them, I do almost long to be away from them all,
in the calm of this pleasant chamber, or in the fragrance of my
bower beside the stream. And I do feel my spirit jangled and
perplexed by their light-hearted, thoughtless mirth, as one feels
at hearing a false note struck in the midst of a sweet symphony.
What is this? what means this, my father?”

“It is a gift, Theresa,” replied the old man, half mournfully.

“It means that you are endowed rarely, by God himself, with
powers the most unusual, the most wondrous, the most beautiful,
most high and godlike of any which are allowed to mortals.
I have seen this long, long ago — I have mused over it; hoped,
prayed, that it might not be so; nay, striven to repress the
germs of it in your young spirit, yet never have I spoken of it
until now; for I knew not that you were conscious, and would
not be he that should awaken you to the consciousness of the
grand but perilous possession which you hold, delegated to you
direct from Omnipotence.”

He paused, and she gazed at him with lips apart, and eyes
wide in wonder. The color died away in a sort of mysterious
awe from her warm cheek. The blood rushed tumultuously to
her heart. She listened, breathless and amazed. Never had
she heard him speak thus, never imagined that he felt thus, before
— yet now that she did hear, she felt as though she were
but listening again to that which she had heard many times
already; and though she understood not his words altogether,
they had struck a kindred chord in her inmost soul, and while
its vibration was almost too much for her powers of endurance,
it yet told her that his words were true.

She could not, for her life, have bid him go on, but for worlds
she would not have failed to hear him out.

He watched the changed expression of her features, and
half struck with a feeling of self-reproach that he should have
created doubts, perhaps fears, in that ingenuous soul, smiled on
her kindly, and asked in a confident tone:—

“You have felt this already, have you not, my dear child?”

“Not as you put it to me, father; no, I have never dreamed
or hoped that I had any such particular gift of God, such glorious
and pre-eminent possession as this of which you speak.
I may, indeed, have fancied at times that there was something
within me, in which I differed from others around me — something

which made me feel more joy — deeper, and fuller, and more
soul-fraught joy, than they feel; and sorrow, softer, and moved
more easily, if not more piercing or more permanent — which
made me love the world, and its inhabitants, and above all its
Maker, with a far different love from theirs — something which
evermore seems struggling within me, as if it would forth and
find tongue, but can not. But now, that you have spoken, I
know that it indeed must be as you say, and that this unknown
something is a gift, is a possession from on high. What is this
thing, my father?”

“My child, this thing is genius,” replied the old man solemnly.

The bright blood rushed back to her cheek in a flood of crimson
glory; a strange, clear light, which never had enkindled
them before, sprang from her soft, dark eyes; she leaned forward
eagerly. “Genius!” she cried. “Genius and I! Father,
you dream, dear father.”

“Would that I did; but I do not, Theresa.”

“And wherefore, if it be so, indeed, that I am so gifted,
wherefore would you alter it, my father?”

“I would not alter it,” he replied, “my little girl. Far be it
from my thoughts, weak worm that I am, to alter, even if I
could alter, the least of the gifts of the great Giver. And this,
whether it be for good, or unto evil, is one of the greatest and
most glorious. I would not alter it, Theresa. But I would
guide, would direct, would moderate it. I would accustom you
to know and comprehend the vast power of which you, all unconsciously,
are the possessor. For, as I said, it is a fearful
and a perilous power. God forbid that I should pronounce the
most marvellous and godlike of the gifts which he vouchsafes
to man, a curse and not a blessing; God forbid that, even while
I see how oft it is turned into bitterness and blight by the coldness
of the world, and the check of its heaven-soaring aspirations,

I should doubt that it has within itself a sovereign balm
against its own diseases, a rapture mightier than any of its
woes, an inborn and eternal consciousness which bears it up as
on immortal pinions, above the cares of the world, and the poor
realities of life. Nevertheless, it is a perilous gift, and too
often, to your sex, a fatal one. Yet I would not alarm you, my
own child, for you have gentleness of soul, such as may well
temper the coruscations of a spirit which waxes oftentimes too
strong to be womanly, and piety, which shall, I trust, preserve
you, should any aspiration of your heart wax over-vigorous and
daring to be contented with the limitations of humanity. In
the meantime, my child, fear nothing, follow the dictates of
your own pure heart, and pray for his aid, who neither giveth
aught, nor taketh away, without reason. Hark!” he interrupted
himself, starting slightly, “there is a sound of horses' hoofs
without; your brother has returned, and it may be Sir Miles is
with him. We will speak more of this hereafter.”

And with the word he turned and left the room.

When he was gone she raised her eyes to heaven, and with
a strange rapt expression on her fair features rose to her feet,
exclaiming:—

“Genius! Genius! Great God, great God, I thank thee.”

Then, in the fervor of the moment, which led her naturally
to clasp her hands together, she made a movement to withdraw
her fingers from Jasper's death-like grasp, unconscious, for the
time, of everything around her.

But, as she did so, a tightened pressure of his hand, and
some inarticulate sounds which proceeded from his lips, recalled
her with a start to herself.

She dropped into her seat, as if conscience-stricken, gazed
fixedly in his face, then stooped and pressed her lips on his inanimate
brow; started again, looked about the room with a half
guilty glance, bowed her head on his pillow, and wept bitterly.

3. CHAPTER III.
THE RECOGNITION.

The evening had advanced far into night before the effects
of the potion he had swallowed passed away, and left the mind
of Jasper clear, and his pulse regular and steady. When he
awoke from his long stupor, and turned his eyes around him, it
seemed as if he had dreamed of what he saw before him; for
the inanimate objects of the room, nay, the very faces which
met his eye, had something in them that was not altogether unfamiliar,
yet for his life he could not have recalled when, or if
ever he had seen them before.

The old dark-wainscoted walls of the irregular, many-recessed
apartment, adorned with a few water-color drawings,
and specimens of needlework, the huge black and gold Indian
cabinet in one corner, the tall clock-stand of some foreign wood
in another, the slab above the yawning hearth covered with
tropical shells and rare foreign curiosities, the quaint and grotesque
chairs and tables, with strangely-contorted legs and
arms, and wild satyr-like faces grinning from their bosses, the
very bed on which he lay, with its carved headboard, and
groined canopy of oak, and dark-green damask curtains, were
all things which he felt he must have seen, though where and
how he knew not.

So was the face of the slight fair-haired girl who sat a little
way removed from his bed's head, by a small round work-table,
on which stood a waxen taper, bending over some one of those
light tasks of embroidery or knitting which women love, and
are wont to dignify by the name of work.

On her he fixed his eyes long and wistfully, gazing at her, as
he would have done at a fair picture, without any desire to address
her, or to do aught that should induce her to move from
the graceful attitude in which she sat, giving no sign of life
save in the twinkling of her long, downcast eyelashes, in the
calm rise and fall of her gentle bosom, and the quick motion of
her busy fingers.

Jasper St. Aubyn was still weak, but he was unconscious of
any pain or ailment, though he now began gradually to remember
all that had passed before he lost his consciousness in the
deep pool above the fords of Widecomb.

So weak was he, indeed, that it was almost too great an effort
for him to consider where he was, or how he had been saved,
much more to move his body, or ask any question of that fair
watcher. He felt indeed that he should be perfectly contented
to lie there all his life, in that painless, tranquil mood, gazing
upon that fair picture.

But while he lay there, with his large eyes wide open and
fixed upon her, as if by their influence he would have charmed
her soul out of its graceful habitation, a word or two spoken in
a louder voice than had yet struck his ear, for persons had been
speaking in the room all the time, although he had not observed
them, attracted his notice to the other side of his bed.

It was not so much the words, for he scarce heard, and did
not heed their import, as the tone of voice which struck him;
for though well-known and most familiar, he could in no wise
connect it with the other things around him.

With the desire to ascertain what this might mean, there
came into his mind, he knew not wherefore, a wish to do so
unobserved; and he proceeded forthwith to turn himself over
on his pillow so noiselessly as to excite no attention in the
watchers, whoever they might be.

He had not made two efforts, however, to do this, before he

became aware of what, while he lay still, he did not suspect,
that several of his limbs had received severe contusions, and
could not as yet be moved with impunity.

He was a singular youth, however, and an almost Spartan
endurance of physical pain, with a strange persistency in whatever
he undertook, had been from very early boyhood two of
his strongest characteristics.

In spite, therefore, of his weakness, in spite of the pain every
motion gave him, he persevered, and turning himself inch by
inch, at length gained a position which enabled him clearly to
discern the speakers.

They were two in number, the one facing him, the other
having his back turned so completely that all he could see was
a head covered with long-curled locks of snow-white hair, a
dark-velvet cloak, and the velvet scabbard of a long rapier protruding
far beyond the legs of the oak-chair on which he sat.
The lower limbs of this person were almost lost in darkness as
they lay carelessly crossed under the table, so that he divined
rather than saw that they were cased in heavy riding-boots, on
the heels of which a faint golden glimmer gave token of the
wearer's rank in the knightly spurs he wore.

The lamp which stood upon the table by which they were
conversing was set between the two, so that it was quite invisible
to Jasper, and its light, which to his eyes barely touched
the edges of the figure he had first observed, fell full upon the
pale high brow and serene lineaments of the other person, who
was in fact no other than the old man who had spoken to the
youth in the intervals of his trance, and administered the potion
from the effects of which he was but now recovering.

Of this, however, Jasper had no recollection, although he
wondered, as he had done concerning the girl, where he had
before seen that fine countenance and benevolent expression,
and how once seen he ever should have forgotten it.

There was yet a third person in the group, though he took
no part in the conversation, and appeared to be, like Jasper,
rather an interested and observant witness of what was going
on, than an actor in the scene.

He was a tall, dark-haired and dark-eyed man, in the first
years of manhood, not perhaps above five or six years Jasper's
senior; but his bronzed and sunburnt cheeks curiously contrasted
with the fairness of his forehead, where it had not been exposed
to the sun, and an indescribable blending of boldness —
it might have almost been called audacity — with calm self-confidence
and cold composure, which made up the expression
of his face, seemed to indicate that he had seen much of the
world, and learned many of its secrets, perhaps by the stern
lessoning of the great teachers, suffering and sorrow.

The fignre of this young man was but imperfectly visible, as
he stood behind the high-backed chair, on which the old man,
from whom the similarity in their features, if not in their expression,
Jasper took to be his father, was seated. But his
face, his muscular neck, his well-developed chest and broad
shoulders, displayed by a close-fitting jerkin of some dark stuff,
were all in strong light; and as the features and expression of
the countenance gave token of a powerful character and energetic
will, so did the frame give promise of ability to carry out
the workings of the mind.

The dialogue, which had been interrupted by a silence of
some seconds following on the words that had attracted Jasper's
notice, was now continued by the old man who sat facing
him.

“That question,” he said, in a firm yet somewhat mournful
tone, “is not an easy one to answer. The difficulty of subduing
prejudices on my own part, the fear of wounding pride on
yours — these might have had their share in influencing my
conduct. Beside, you must remember that years have elapsed

— the very years which most form the character of men — since
we parted; that they have elapsed under circumstances the
most widely different for you and for me; that we are not, in
short, in anything the same men we then were — that the
gnarled, weather-beaten, earth-fast oak of centuries differs not
so much from the green pliant sapling of half a dozen summers,
as the old man, with his heart chilled and hardened into living
steel by contact with the world, from the youth full of generous
impulses and lofty aspirations, loving all men, and doubting
naught either in heaven above, or in the earth beneath. You
must remember, moreover, that although, as you have truly
said, we were friends in youth, our swords, our purses, and
our hearts in common, we had even then many points of serious
difference; and lastly, and most of all, you must remember
that if we had been friends, we were not friends when we
last parted —”

“What! what!” exclaimed a voice, which Jasper instantly
recognised for his father's, though for years he had not heard
him speak in tones of the like animation. “What, William
Allan, do you mean to say that you imagined that any enmity
could have dwelt in my mind, for so slight a cause —”

“Slight a cause!” interrupted the other. “Do you call that
slight which made my heart drop blood, and my brain boil with
agony for years — which changed my course of life, altered my
fortunes, character, heart, soul, for ever; which made me, in a
word, what I now am? Do you call that a slight cause, Miles
St. Aubyn? Show me, then, what you call a grave one.”

“I had forgotten, William, I had forgotten,” replied, Sir
Miles, gently, and perhaps self-reproachfully. “I mean, I
had forgotten that the rivaling in a strife which to the winner
seems a little thing, may to the loser be death, or worse than
death! Forgive me, William Allan, I had forgotten in my selfish
thoughtlessness, and galled you unawares. But let us say

no more of this — let the past be forgotten — let wrongs done,
if wrongs were done, be buried in her grave, who was the most
innocent cause of them; and let us now remember only that we
were friends in youth, and that after long years of separation,
we are thus wonderfully brought together in old age; let me
hope to be friends henceforth unto the grave.”

“Amen, I say to that. Miles St. Aubyn, amen!”

And the two old men clasped their withered hands across the
table, and Jasper might see the big drops tricking slowly down
the face of him who was called William Allan, while from the
agitation of his father's frame he judged that he was not free
from the like agitation.

There was a little pause, during which, as he fancied, the
young man looked somewhat frowningly on the scene of reconciliation;
but the frown, it frown it were, passed speedily away,
and left the bold, dark face as calm and impassive as the surface
of a deep unruffled water.

A moment or two afterward, Sir Miles raised his head, which
he had bowed a little, perhaps to conceal the feelings which
might have agitated it, and again clasping the hand of the other,
said eagerly,—

“It is you, William, who have saved my boy, my Jasper;
and this is not the first time that a scion of your house has preserved
one of mine from death, or yet worse, ruin!”

Wilham Allan started, as if a sharp weapon had pierced him.

“And how,” he cried, “Miles St. Aubyn, how was the debt
repaid? I tell you it is written in the books that can not err.
that our houses were ordained for mutual destruction!”

“What, man,” exclaimed Sir Miles, half-jestingly, “do you
still cling to the black art? Do you still read the dark book of
fate? Methought that fancy would have taken wing with other
youthful follies.”

The old man shook his head sadly, but made no reply.

“And what has it taught thee, William, unless it be that this
life is short, and this world's treasures worthless; and that I
have learned from a better book, a book of wider margin.
What, I say, has it taught thee, William Allan?”

“All things,” replied the old man, sorrowfully. “Even unto
this meeting — every action, every event of my own life, past
or to come, happy or miserable, virtuous or evil, it has taught
me.”

“But has it taught thee, William, whereby to win the good
and eschew the evil; whereby to hold fast to the virtuous, and
say unto the evil, `Get behind me.' Has it taught thee, I say
not to be wiser, but to be happier or better?”

“What is, is! What shall be, shall be! What is written,
shall be done! We may flap, or flutter, or even fight, like fish
or birds, or, if you will, like lions in the toil; but we are nettled,
and may not escape, from the beginning! The man may
learn the workings of the God, but how shall he control them?”

“And this is thy philosophy — this all that thine art teaches?”

“It is. No more.”

“A sad philosophy — a vain art,” replied the other. “I 'll
none of them.”

“I tell thee, Miles St. Aubyn, that years ago, years ere I had
heard of Widecomb or its water, I saw you deep, red-whirling
pool; I saw that drowning youth; I saw the ready rescue, and
the gentle nursing; and now,” he cried, stretching his hands
out widely, and gazing into vacancy, “I see a wilder and a sadder
sight — a deeper pool, a stronger cataract, a fierce storm
bellowing among the hills, and torrents thundering down every
gorge and gully to swell the flooded rivers. A young man and
a maiden — yet no! no! not a maiden! mounted on gallant
horses, are struggling in the whelming eddies. Great God!
avert — hold! hold! He lifts his arm, he smites her with his
loaded whip — smites her between the eyes that smiles upon

him; she falls, she is down, down in the whirling waters —
rider and horse swept over the mad cataract; but who — who?
— ha!” and with a wild shriek he started to his feet, and fell
back into the arms of the young man, who from the beginning
of the paroxysm evidently had expected its catastrophe, and
who, with the assistance of the girl, supported him, now quite
inanimate and powerless, from the room, merely saying to Sir
Miles, “Be not alarmed, I will return forthwith.”

“My father!” exclaimed Jasper, in a faint voice, as the door
closed upon them.

The old man turned hastily to the well-known accents, and
hurried to the bedside. “My boy, my own boy, Jasper. Now,
may God's name be praised for ever!”

And falling into a chair by his pillow, the same chair on
which that sweet girl had sat a few hours before, he bent over
him, and asked him a thousand questions, waiting for no reply,
but bathing his face with his tears, and covering his brow with
kisses.

When he had at length satisfied the old man that he was well
and free from pain, except a few slight bruises, he asked his
father eagerly where he was, and who was that strange, old man.

“You are in the cottage, my dear boy,” replied the old knight,
“above Widecomb pool, tended by those who, by the grace of
God and his exceeding mercy, saved you from the consequences
of the frantic act which so nearly left me childless. Oh!
Jasper, Jasper, 't was a fearful risk, and it had well nigh been
fatal.”

“It was but one mis-step, father,” replied the youth, who, as
he rapidly recovered his strength, recovered also his bold
speech and daring courage. “Had there been but foothold at
the tunnel's end, I had landed my fish bravely; and, on my
honor, I believe, had I such another on my line's end, I should
risk it again. Why, father, he was at least a thirty-pounder.”

“Never do so — never do so again, Jasper. Remember that
to risk life heedlessly, and for no purpose save an empty gratification,
a mere momentary pleasure, is a great crime toward
God, and a gross act of selfishness toward men, as much so as
to peril or to lose it in a high cause, or for a noble object, is
great, and good, and self-devoted. Think! had you perished
here, all for a paltry fish, which you might purchase for a silver
crown, you had left to me years — nay, a life of misery.”

“Nay, father, I never thought of that,” answered the young
man, not unmoved by the remonstrance of his father, “but it
was not the value of the fish. I should have given him away,
ten to one, had I taken him. It was that I do not like to be
beaten.”

“A good feeling, Jasper; and one that leads to many good
things, and without which nothing great can be attained; but
to do good, like all other feelings, it must be moderated and
controlled by reason. But you must learn to think ever before
acting, Jasper.”

“I will — I will, indeed, sir; but you have not told me who
is this strange, old man.”

“An old friend of mine, Jasper—an old friend whom I have
not seen for years, and who is now doubly a friend, since he
has saved your life.”

At this moment the door opened, and the young man entered
bearing a candle.

“He is at ease now,” he said. “It is a painful and a searching
malady to which at seasons he is subject. We know well
how to treat him; when he awakes to-morrow, he will remember
nothing of what passed to-day, though at the next attack he
will remember every circumstance of this. I pray you, therefore,
Sir Miles, take no note in the morning, nor appear to observe
it, if he be somewhat silent and reserved. Ha! young
sir,” he continued, seeing that Jasper was awake, and taking

him kindly by the hand, “I am glad to see that you have recovered.”

“And I am glad to have an opportunity to thank you, that
you have saved my life, which I know you must have done right
gallantly, seeing the peril of the deed.”

“About as gallantly as you did, when you came so near losing
it,” he answered. “But come, Sir Miles, night wears
apace, and if you will allow me to show you to your humble
chamber the best our lowly house can offer, I will wish you
good repose, and return to watch over my young friend here.”

“My age must excuse me, that I accept your offer, whose
place it should be to watch over him myself.”

“I need no watcher, sir,” replied Jasper, boldly. “I am
quite well now, and shall sleep, I warrant you, unto cock-crow
without awakening.”

“Good-night, then, boy!” cried Sir Miles, stooping over him
and again kissing his brow, “and God send thee better in
health and wiser in condition.”

“Good-night, sir; and God send me stronger and braver, and
more like my father,” said the youth, with a light laugh.

“I will return anon, young friend — for friends I hope, we
shall be,” said the other, as he left the room, lighting Sir Miles
respectfully across the threshold.

“I hope we shall — and I thank you. But I shall be fast
asleep ere then.”

And so he was; but not the less for that did the stalwart
young man watch over him, sitting erect in one of the high-backed
chairs, until the first pale light of dawn came stealing
in through the latticed casement, and the shrill cry of the early
cock announced the morning of another day.

4. CHAPTER IV.
THE BASEBORN.

The earliest cock had barely crowed his first salutations to
the awakening day, and the first warblers had not yet begun
to make their morning music in the thick shrubberies around
the cottage, when aroused betimes, by his anxiety for Jasper,
Sir Miles made his appearance, already full dressed, at the
door of the room in which his son was sleeping.

For he was yet asleep, with that hardy young man still
watching over him, apparently unmoved by the loss of his own
rest, and wholly indifferent to what are usually deemed the indispensable
requirements of nature.

“You are aloof betimes, sir,” said the youth, rising from his
seat as the old cavalier entered the room; “pity that you should
have arisen so early, for I could have watched him twice as
long, had it been needful, but in truth it was not so. Your son
has scarce moved, Sir Miles, since you left the chamber last
night. You see how pleasantly and soundly he is sleeping.”

“It was not that, young sir,” replied the old man cordially.
“It was not that I doubted your good will, or your good watching
either; but he is my son, my only son, and how should I
but be anxious. But as you say, he sleeps pleasantly and well.
God be thanked, therefore. He will be none the worse for
this.”

“Better, perhaps, Sir Miles,” replied the other, with a slight

smile. “Wiser, at least, I doubt not he will be; for in good
truth, it was a very boyish, and a very foolish risk to run.”

The old man, for the first time, looked at the speaker steadfastly,
and was struck by the singular expression of his countenance
— that strange mixture of impassive, self-confident composure,
and half-scornful audacity, which I have mentioned as
being his most striking characteristics. On the preceding
evening, Sir Miles had been so much engrossed by the anxiety
he felt about his son, and subsequently by the feelings called
forth in his inmost heart by the discovery of an old comrade in
the person of William Allan, that in fact he had paid little attention
to either of the other personages present.

He had observed, indeed, that there were a fair, young girl
and a powerfully-framed youth present; he had even addressed
a few words casually to both of them, but they had left no impression
on his mind, and he had not even considered who or
what they were likely to be.

Now, however, when he was composed and relieved of fear
for his son's life, he was struck, as I have said, by the expression
and features of the young man, and began to consider who
he could be; for there was no such similarity, whether of feature,
expression, voice, air, or gesture, between him and William
Allan, as is wont to exist between son and sire.

After a moment's pause, however, the old cavalier replied,
not altogether pleased apparently by the tone of the last remark.

“It was a very bold and manly risk, it appears to me,” he
said, “and if rash, can hardly be called boyish; and you, I
should think,” he added, “would be the last to blame bold actions.
You look like anything but one who should recommend
cold counsels, or be slack either to dare or do. I fancy you
have seen stirring times somewhere, and been among daring
deeds yourself.”

“So many times, Sir Miles,” replied the young man, modestly,

that I have learned how absurd it is to seek such occasions
without cause. There be necessary risks enough in life, and
man has calls enough, and those unavoidable, on his courage,
without going out of his way to seek them, or throwing any
energy or boldness unprofitably to the winds. At least so I
have found it in the little I have seen of human life and
action.”

“Ha! you speak well,” said Sir Miles, looking even more
thoughtfully than before at the marked and somewhat weather-beaten
features of the young man. “And where have you met
with perils so rife, and learned so truly the need of disciplining
natural energies and valor?”

“On the high seas, Sir Miles, of which I have been a follower
from a boy.”

“Indeed! are you such a voyager! and where, I pray you,
have you served?”

“I can not say that I have exactly served. But I have visited
both the Indias, East and West; and have seen some
smart fighting — where they say peace never comes — beyond
the line, I mean with the Dons, both in Darien and Peru.”

“Ha! but you have indeed seen the world, for one so young
as you; and yet I think you have not sailed in the king's ships,
nor held rank in the service.”

“No, Sir Miles, I am but a poor free-trader; and yet sometimes
I think that we have carried the English flag farther, and
made the English name both better known and more widely
feared, than the cruisers of any king who has sat on our throne,
since the good old days of Queen Bess.”

“His present majesty did good service against the Dutch,
young man. And what do you say to Blake? Who ever did
more gloriously at sea, than rough old Blake?”

“Ay, sir, but that was in Noll's days, and we may not call
him a king of England, though of a certainty he was her wise

and valiant ruler. And for his present majesty, God bless him!
that Opdam business was when he was the duke of York; and
he has forgotten all his glory, I think, now that he has become
king, and lets the Frenchman and the Don do as they please
with our colonists and traders, and the Dutchman, too, for that
matter.”

The old man paused, and shook his head gravely for a moment,
but then resumed with a smile:—

“So so, my young friend, you are one of those bold spirits
who claim to judge for yourselves, and make peace or war as
you think well, without waiting the slow action of senate or
kings, who hold that hemispheres, not treaties, are the measure
of hostility or amity:—

“Not so, exactly, noble sir. But where we find peace or
war, there we take them; and if the Dons won't be quiet, on
the other side the line, and our good king won't keep them
quiet, why we must either take them as we find them, or give
up the great field to them altogether.”

“Which you hold to be un-English and unmanly?”

“Even so, sir.”

“Well, I, for one, will not gainsay you. But do not you
fear, sometimes that while you are thus stretching a commission
— that is the term, I believe, among you liberal gentlemen —
you may chance to get your own neck stretched some sultry
morning in the Floridas or in Darien?”

“One of the very risks I spoke of but now, Sir Miles,” replied
the young man, laughing. “My life were not worth five
minutes' purchase if the governor of St. Augustine or of Panama
either, for that matter, could once lay hold on me.”

“I marvel,” said the old cavalier, again shaking his head solemnly,
“I marvel much —” and then interrupting himself suddenly
in the middle of his sentence he lapsed into a fit of meditative
silence.

“At what, if I may be so bold — at what do you so much
marvel?”

“That William Allan should consent,” replied the cavalier,
“that son of his should embark in so wild and stormy a career —
in a career which, I should have judged, with his strict principles
and somewhat puritanical feeling, he would deem the reverse
of gracious or godfearing.”

“He knows not what career I follow,” answered the young
man, bluntly. “But you are in error altogether, sir. I am no
son of William Allan.”

“No son of William Allan! Ha! now that I think of it,
your features are not his, nor your voice either.”

“Nor my body, nor my soul!” replied the other, hastily and
hotly, “no more than the free falcon's are those of the caged
linnet! Sometimes I even marvel how it can be that any drop
of mutual or common blood should run in our veins; and yet it
is so — and I — I — yet no — I do not repent it!”

“And wherefore should you? there is no worthier or better
man, I do believe, than William Allan living; and, in his
younger days at least, I know there was no braver.”

“No braver? — indeed! indeed!” exclaimed the young man,
eagerly — “was he, indeed, brave?”

“Ay, was he, youth! brave both to do and to suffer. Brave,
both with the quick and dauntless courage to act, and with the
rarer and more elevated courage to resolve and hold fast to resolution.
But who are you, who, living with him, know both so
little and so much of William Allan? If you be not his son,
who are you?”

“His sister's son, Sir Miles — his only sister's son, to whom,
since that sister's death, he has been — God forgive me for that
I said but now — more than a father; for surely I have tried
him more than ever son tried a father, and he has borne with
me still with a most absolute indulgence and unwearied love.”

“What — what!” exclaimed Sir Miles, much moved and
even agitated by what he heard, “are you the child of that innocent
and beautiful Alicia Allan, whom — whom —” The old
man faltered and stopped short, for he was in fact on the point
of bursting into tears.

But the youth finished the sentence, which he had left unconcluded,
in a stern, slow voice, and with a lowering brow.

“Whom your friend, Denzil Olifaunt, betrayed by a mock
marriage, and afterward deserted with her infants. Yes, Sir
Miles, I am one of those infants, the son of Alicia Allan's
shame! And my uncle did not slay him — therefore it is I
asked you, was he brave.”

“And yet he was slain — and for that very deed!” replied the
old man, gloomily, with his eyes fixed upon the ground.

“He was slain,” repeated the young sailor, whose curiosity
and interest were now greatly excited. “But how can you
tell wherefore? No one has ever known who slew him — how
then can you name the cause of his slaying?”

“There is One who knows all things!”

“But He imparts not his knowledge,” answered the other,
not irreverently. “And unless you slew him, I see not how
you can know this. Yet, hold, hold!” he continued, impetuously,
as he saw that Sir Miles was about to speak, “if you did
slay him, tell it not; for if he did betray my mother, if he did
abandon me to disgrace and ruin — still, still he was my
father.”

“I slew him not, young man,” replied the cavalier, gravely,
“but he was slain for the cause that I have named, and I saw
him die — repentant.”

“Repentant!” exclaimed the youth, grasping the withered
hand of the old knight, in the intensity of his emotions, “did he
repent the wrong he had done my mother?”

“As surely as he died.”

“May God forgive him, then,” said the seaman, clasping his
hands together and bursting into tears, “as I forgive him.”

“Amen! amen!” cried the knight, “for he was mine ancient
friend, the comrade of my boyhood, before he did that thing;
and I, too, have something to forgive to him.”

“You, Sir Miles, you! — what can you have to forgive?”

“Tell me first, tell me — how are you named?”

“Denzil,” answered the youth, “Denzil, Nothing!” he added,
very bitterly, “my country, and my country's law give me no
other name, but only Denzil — its enemies have named me
Bras-de-fer!”

“Then mark me, Denzil; as he of whom you are sprung, of
whom you are named, was my first friend, so was your mother
my first love; and she returned my love, till he, my sometime
confidant, did steal her from me, and made his paramour, whom
I would have made my wife.”

“Great God!” exclaimed the young man, struck with consternation;
“then it must, it must have been so — it was you
who slew my — my father!”

“Young man, I never lied.”

“Pardon me, Sir Miles. Pardon me, I am half distraught.
And you loved my mother, and — and — he repented. Why
was not I told of this before? And yet,” he added, again
pausing, as if some fresh suspicion struck him, “and yet how
is this? I heard you speak yester even to my uncle, of wrongs
done — done by yourself to him, and of a woman's death — that
woman, therefore, was not, could not have been my mother.
Who, then, was she?”

“His mother,” replied Sir Miles St. Aubyn, calmly, but sadly,
pointing to the bed on which Jasper lay sleeping tranquilly,
and all unconsciously of the strange revelations which were
going on around him. “If my friend robbed me of William
Allan's sister, so I won from William Allan, in after-days, her

who owned his affection; but with this difference, that she I
won never returned your uncle's love from the beginning, and
that I never betrayed his confidence. If I were the winner,
it was in fair and loyal strife, and though it has been, as I
learned for the first time last night, a sore burden on your uncle's
heart, it has been none on my conscience; my withers
are unwrung.”

“I believe it, sir; from my soul I believe it,” cried the young
man, enthusiastically, “for, on my life, I think you are all honor
and nobility. But tell me, tell me now, if you love, if you pity
me — as you should do for my mother's sake — who slew my
father?”

“I have sworn,” answered the cavalier, “I have sworn never
to reveal that to mortal man; and if I had not sworn, to you I
could not reveal it; for, if I judge aright, you would hold yourself
bound to —”

“Avenge it!” exclaimed the youth, fiercely, interrupting
him; “ay, were it at my soul's purchase — since he repented.”

“He did repent, Denzil; nay, more, he died, desiring only
that he could repair the wrong he had done you, regretting
only that he could not give you his name, and his inheritance,
as he did give you his dying blessing, and your mother his last
thought, his last word in this world.”

“Did she know this?”

“Denzil, I can not answer you; for within a few days after
your father's death, I left England for the Low Countries, and
returned not until many a year had passed into the bygone eternity.
When I did return, the sorrows of Alicia Allan were at
an end for ever; and though I then made all inquiries in all
quarters, I could learn nothing of your uncle or yourself, nor
ever have heard of you any more until last night, when we
were all so singularly brought together.”

“I ought to have known this; I would, I would to God that

I had known it. My life had been less wild, then, less turbulent,
less stormy. My spirit had not then burned with so rash
a recklessness. It was the sense of wrong, of bitter and unmerited
wrong done in past times, of cold and undeserved scorn
heaped on me in the present, as the bastard — the child of infamy
and shame! that goaded me into so hot action. But it is
done now, it is done, and can not be amended. The world it is
which has made me what I am — let the world look to it — let
the world enjoy the work of its hands.”

“There is nothing, Denzil,” said the old man, solemnly,
“nothing but death that can not be amended. Undone things
may not be, but all things may be amended by God's good
grace to aid us.”

“Hast thou not seen a sapling in the forest, which, overcrowded
by trees of stronger growth, or warped from its true
direction by some unnoted accident, hath grown up vigorous
indeed and strong, but deformed amd distorted in its yearly progress,
until arrived at its full maturity? Not all the art or all
the strength of man or man's machinery can force it from its
bias, or make it straight and comely. So is it with the mind
of man, Sir Miles. While it is young and plastic, you shall
direct it as you will — once ripened, hardened in its growth,
whether that growth be tortuous or true, as soon shall you remodel
the stature of the earth-fast oak, as change its intellectual
bias. But I am wearying you, I fancy, and wasting words
in unavailing disquisition. I hear my uncle's step without,
moreover; permit me, I will join him.”

“Hold yet a moment,” replied the old man, kindly, “and let
me say this to you now, while we are alone, which I may perchance
lack opportunity to say hereafter. Your mother's son,
Denzil Olifaunt — for so I shall ever call you, and so by his last
words you are entitled to be called — can never weary me.
Your welfare will concern me ever — what interests you, will

interest me always, and next to my own son I shall hold you
nearest and dearest to this old heart at all times. Now leave
me if you will — yet hold! tell me before you go, what I am
fain to learn concerning your good uncle — the knowledge shall
perchance save painful explanation, perhaps grave misunderstanding.”

“All that I know is at your service,” answered the young
man, in a calmer and milder tone than he had used heretofore
— for he was, in truth, much moved and softened by the evident
feeling of the old cavalier; “but let me thank you first for
your kindly offers, which, should occasion offer, believe me, I
will test as frankly as you have made them nobly.”

To his latter words Miles St. Aubyn made no answer, except
a grave inclination of his head, for his mind was pre-occupied
now by thoughts of very different import — was fixed, indeed,
on days long passed, and on old, painful memories.”

“This girl,” he said at length, “this fair young girl whom I
saw here last night, is she — is she your sister? I think you
had a sister — yet this fair child hath not Alicia's hair, nor her
eyes — who is she?”

“God was most good in that,” answered the seaman, with
much feeling, “he took my sister to himself, even before my
mother pined away. A man's lot is hard enough who is the
son of shame — a woman's is intolerable anguish. Theresa is
my uncle's child — his only child. His love for her is almost
idolatry, and were it altogether so, she deserves it all. Lo!
there she passes by the casement — was ever fairer face or
lovelier figure? and yet her soul, her innocent and artless soul,
has beauties that as far surpass those personal charms, as they
exceed all other earthly loveliness.”

“You love her,” said the cavalier, looking quickly upward,
for he had been musing with downcast eyes, while Denzil
spoke, and had not even raised his lids to gaze upon Theresa

as she passed through the garden. “You love this innocent
and gentle child.”

The young man's cheek burned crimson, ashamed that he
should have revealed himself so completely to one who was
almost a stranger. But he was not one to deny or disguise a
single feeling of his heart, whether for good or for evil, and he
replied, after a moment's pause, with an unfaltering and steady
voice, “I do love her, more than my own soul!”

“And she,” asked the old knight, “does she know, does she
return your affection?”

Again the sailor hesitated; “Women, they say,” he replied,
at length, “know always by a natural instinct when they are
beloved, and therefore I believe she knows it. For the rest,
she is always most affectionate, most gentle, nay, even tender.
Further than this, I may not judge.”

“Father,” exclaimed a faint voice from the bed, at this moment.
“Is that you, father?” and Jasper St. Aubyn opened
his eyes, languid yet from the heavy slumber into which the
opiate had cast him, and raised himself up a little on his pillow,
though with a slow and painful motion.

“My son,” cried the old man, hurrying to the side of the bed,
“my own boy, Japser, how fare you now? You have slept
well.”

“So well,” answered the bold boy, “that I feel strong
enough, and clear enough in the head, to be up and about; but
that whenever I would move a limb, there comes an accursed
twinge to put me in mind that limestone rock is harder than
bone and muscle.”

Meanwhile, as soon as the old cavalier's attention was diverted
by the awakening of his own son from his trance-like
slumber, Denzil Bras-de-fer, as he called himself, and as I
shall therefore call him, left the room quietly, and a few minutes
afterward might have been seen, had not the eyes of those

within the chamber been otherwise directed, to pass the casement,
following the same path which had been taken by Theresa
Allan a little while before.

5. CHAPTER V.
THE LOVESUIT.

The morning was still very young, and the sun which was
but just beginning to rise above the brow of the eastern hill,
poured his long, yellow rays, full of a million dusty motes, in
almost level lines down the soft, green slopes, diversified by
hundreds of cool purple shadows, projected far and wide over
the laughing landscape, from every tree and bush that intercepted
the mild light.

The dews of the preceding night still clustered unexhaled,
sparkling like diamonds to the morning beams, on every leaf
and flower; a soft west wind was playing gently with the thousands
of bright buds and blossoms which decked the pleasant
gardens; and the whole air was perfumed with the delicate fragrance
of the mignionette and roses, which filled the luxuriant
parterres. The hum of the revelling bees came to the ear
with a sweet, domestic sound, and the rich carol of the black-bird
and the thrush came swelling from the tangled shrubberies,
full fraught with gratitude and glee.

It was into such a scene, and among such sights and sounds,
that the young free-trader wandered forth from the tranquillity
and gloom of the sick chamber in which he had spent a sleepless

night; but his mind had been too deeply stirred by his conversation
with Sir Miles St. Aubyn, and chords of too powerful
feeling had been thrilled into sudden and painful life, to allow
him to be penetrated, as he might have been in a less agitated
hour, by the sweet influences of the time and season.

Still, though he was unconscious of the pleasant sights and
sounds and smells which surrounded him, as he strolled slowly
through the bowery walks of the old garden, they had more or
less effect upon his perturbed and bitter spirit; and his mood
became gradually softer, as he mused upon what had passed
within the last hour, alone in that bright solitude.

Wild and impetuous and almost fierce by nature, he had
brooded from his very boyhood upward over his real and imaginary
wrongs, until the iron had so deeply pierced his soul,
that he could see nothing but coldness, and hostility, and persecution,
in the conduct of all around him, with the exception
of his old student uncle and his sweet Theresa. Ever suspecting,
ever anticipating injury and insult, or at least coldness and
repulsion from all with whom he was brought into contact, he
actually generated in the breasts of others the feelings, which
he imputed to them all unjustly. Accusing the world of injustice
or ere it was unjust, in the end he made it to be so indeed;
and then hated it, and railed against it, for that which it had
never dreamed of, but for his own fantastic waywardness.

It was unfortunate for Denzil, that the good man, into whose
care he had fallen, ever of a philosophical and studious, nay,
even mystic disposition, had become, since the sad fate of his
beloved sister, and the early death of a yet dearer wife, so
wholly visionary, so entirely given up to the wildest theorizing,
the most abstruse and abstract metaphysical inquiries, that no
one could have been devised less fitting for the guardian and
instructor of a high-spirited, hot-headed, fiery boy than he was.

The consequence of this was, as it might have been expected,

that disgusted early with the strange sorts of learning which
the old man persisted in forcing into him against the grain, and
discontented with the stillness and deathlike tranquility of all
around him, the boy ran away from his distasteful home, and
shipped for the India voyage in a free-trader, half merchantman,
half-picaroon, before he had yet attained his thirteenth
year. In that wild and turbulent career, well suited to his
daring and contemptuous spirit, he had, as he himself expressed
it, become hardened and inured, not to toils and sufferings
only, but to thoughts and feelings, habits and opinions,
which perhaps now could never be eradicated from his nature,
of which they had become, as it were, part and parcel.

When he returned, well nigh a man of years, quite a man in
stature, and perhaps more than most men in courage, resource,
coolness, and audacity, old Allan, to whom he had written once
or twice, apprizing him that he had adopted the sea as his
home and his profession, received him with a hearty welcome,
and with few or no inquiries as to the period during which he
had been absent.

Thereafter, he came and went as he would, unasked and unheeded.
When he was ashore, the cottage by the fords of
Widecomb was his home; and his increasing wealth — for he
had prospered greatly in his adventurous career — added materially
to the comforts of old Allan's housekeeping. His life
was, therefore, spent in strange alternations; now amid the
wildest excitement — the storm, the chase, the fierce and frantic
speculation, the perilous and desperate fight, the revelry, the
triumph, and the booty; and now, in the calmest and most
peaceful solitude, amid the sweetest pastoral scenery, and with
the loveliest and most innocent companion that ever soothed the
hot and eager spirit of erring and impetuous man, into almost
woman's softness.

And hence it was, perhaps, that Denzil Bras-de-fer had, as

it were, two different natures — one fierce, rash, bitter, scornful,
heedless of human praise or human censure, pitiless to human
sorrow, reckless of human life, merciless, almost cruel—
the other generous, and soft, and sympathetic, and full of every
good and gentle impulse.

And it was in the latter of these only, that Theresa Allan
knew him.

It must not be supposed, from what I have written, that Denzil
was a pirate, or a buccanceer — far from it. For though, at
times, he and his comrades assumed the initiative in warfare,
and smote the Spaniards, and the Dutchmen, and the French,
unsparingly, beyond the line, and made but small distinction
between the meum and the tuum, especially if the tuum pertained
to the stranger and the papist, still neither public opinion,
nor their own consciences condemned them — they were
regarded, as Cavendish, and Raleigh, and Drake, and Frobisher,
and Hawkins, had been, a reign or two before, as bold,
headlong adventurers; perhaps a little lawless, but on the whole,
noble and daring men, and were esteemed in general rather an
ornament than a disgrace to their native land.

As men are esteemed of men, such they are very apt to be
or to become; and, having the repute of chivalrous spirit, of
generosity and worth, no less than of dauntless courage, and
rare seamanship, the adventurous free-traders of that day held
themselves to be, in all respects, gentlemen, and men of honor;
and holding themselves so, for the most part they became so.

It was, therefore, by no means either wonderful or an exception
to a rule, that Denzil Bras-de-fer should have been such as
I have described him, awake to gentle impulses, alive to good
impressions, easily subject to the influences of the finest female
society, and in no respect a person from either his habits, his
tastes, or his profession, to be rejected by men of honor, or eschewed
by women of refinement.

And now, as he followed slowly on the steps of his beautiful
cousin, the young man was more alive than usual to the higher
and nobler sensibilities of his mind. The information which
he had gained concerning his own father's feelings, at the moment
of his death, had greatly softened him, and it began to
occur to him — which was, indeed true — that, he might have
been during his whole life conjuring up phantoms against which
to do battle, and attributing thoughts and actions to the world at
large, of which the world might well be wholly innocent.

Up to this moment, although he had long been aware of his
constantly increasing passion for his fair cousin, he had rested
content with the mild and sisterlike affection which she had
ever manifested toward him; and, having been ever her sole
companion, ever treated with most perfect confidence and sympathy,
having found her at all times charmed to greet his return,
and grieved at his departure; knowing, above all things,
that at the worst he had no rival, and that her heart had never
been touched by any warmer passion than she felt toward himself,
he had scarcely paused to inquire even of himself, whether
he was beloved in turn, much less had he endeavored to penetrate
the secrets of her heart, or to disturb the calm tenor of
her way by words or thoughts of passion.

Now, however, the words, the questions of the old cavalier
had awakened many a doubt in his soul; and with the doubt
came the desire irrepressible to envisage his fate, to learn and
ascertain, once and for all, whether his lot was to be cast henceforth
in joy or in sorrow; whether, in a word, he was to be a
wanderer and an outcast, by sea and land, unto his dying day,
or whether this very hour was to be to him the commencement
of a new era, a new life.

Now, as he walked forth in the beautiful calm morning, in
that old, pleasant garden, which had been the scene of so
much peaceable and innocent enjoyment, he felt himself at once

a sadder and a better man than he had ever been before; and
while determined to delay no longer, but to try his gentle cousin's
heart, he was supported by no high and fiery hope. He
seemed to have lost, he knew not how or wherefore, that proud,
heaven-reaching confidence, which was wont to count all things
won while they were yet to win; still less did his heart kindle
and blaze out with that preconceived indignation at the idea of
being unappreciated or neglected, which would a few hours before
have goaded him almost to frenzy.

I have written much of his character to little purpose, if it
be not plain that humility was the frame of mind least usual to
the youthful seaman, yet now, for once, he was humble. He
had discovered, for the first time in his life, that he had erred
grossly in his estimate of others, and was beginning to suspect
that that false estimate had led him far away from true principles,
true conceptions; he was beginning, in a word, to suspect
that he was himself less sinned against than sinning; and that
his was, in fact, a very much misguided and distempered spirit.

He clasped his brow closely with a feverish and trembling
hand, as he walked onward slowly, pondering, with his whole
soul intent upon the future and the past. He was inquiring of
himself, “Does she, can she love me?” and he could make no
answer to his own passionate questioning. While he was in
this mood, bending his steps toward the favorite bower wherein
he half hoped half feared to find Theresa, a soft voice fell upon
his ear, and a light hand was laid upon his arm, as he passed
the intersection of another shady walk with that through which
he was strolling.

“Good-morrow, Denzil,” said the young girl merrily. “I
never thought to see you out so early in the garden; but I am
glad that you are here, for I want you. So come along with
me at once, and tell me if it be not a nest of young nightingales
which I have found in the thick syringa-bush beside my arbor.

Come, Denzil, don't you hear me? Why, what ails you, that
you look so sad, and move so heavily this glorious summer
morning? You are not ill, are you, dear Denzil?”

“Dear Denzil,” he repeated, in a low, subdued tone. “Dear
Denzil! I would to God that I were dear to you, Theresa —
that I were dear to any one.”

So singular was the desponding tone in which he spoke, so
strange and unwonted was the cloud of deep depression which
sat on his bold, intelligent brow, that the young girl stared at
him in amazement, almost in alarm.

“You are ill,” she cried, in tones of affectionate anxiety;
“you must be ill, or you would never speak so strangely, so
unkindly; or is it only that you are overdone with watching by
that poor youth's sick bed? Yet no, no, that can never be, you
who are so strong and so hardy. What is it, dearest cousin?
Tell me, what is it makes you speak so wildly? — would that
you were dear to me! why, if not you, you and my good, kind
father, who on the face of the wide earth is dear to poor Theresa!
That you were dear to any one! You, whom my father
looks upon and loves as his own son; you, whose companions
hold as almost more than mortal — for have I not
marked the inscriptions on your sabre's guard, and on the telescope
they gave you? You, who have saved the lives of so
many fellow-mortals; you, to whom those ladies, rescued at
Darien from the bloodthirsty Spaniards, addressed such glowing
words of gratitude and love; you, Cousin Denzil, you, who
are so great, so brave, so wise, so skilful, and above all, so generous
and kind; you talk of wishing you were dear to any one!
Good sooth! you must be dreaming, or you are bewitched, gentle
Denzil.”

“If I be,” he replied with a smile, for her high spirits and
gay enthusiasm aroused him from his gloomier thoughts, and

began to enkindle brighter hopes in his bosom, “if I be, thou,
Theresa, art the enchantress who has done it.”

“Ay! now you are more like yourself; but tell me,” she
said, caressingly, “what was it made you sad and dark but
now?”

“Only this, dear Theresa, that I am again about to leave
you.”

“To leave us — to leave us so soon and so suddenly. Why
you have been here but three little weeks, which have passed
like so many days, and when you came you said that you would
stay with us till autumn. Oh, dear! my father will be so
grieved at your going. You do not know, you do not dream
how much he loves you, Denzil. He is a different person altogether
when you are at home — so much gayer, and more sociable!
Oh! wherefore must you leave us so quickly, and after
so long an absence, too, as your last? Oh, truly, it is unkind,
Denzil.”

“And you, Theresa, shall you be sorry?”

“I will not answer you,” she replied, half-petulantly, half-tearfully.
“It is unkind of you to go, and doubly unkind to
speak to me thus. What have I done to you now, what have I
ever done to you, that you should doubt my being sorry? Are
not you the only friend, the only companion I have got in the
wide world? Are you not as near and dear to me, as if you
were my own brother? Do not I love you as my brother, even
as my father loves you as his son? Ah, Denzil! if you are
never less loved than you are by poor Theresa Allan, you will
ne'er need to complain for lack of loving.”

And she burst into tears as she ended her rapid speech; for
she did not comprehend in the least at what he was aiming, and
her innocent and artless heart was wounded by what she fancied
to be a doubt of her affection.

“And if you feel so deeply the mere temporary absence

which my profession forces on me, Theresa, how think you,
should you feel were that absence to be eternal?”

“Eternal!” she exclaimed, turning very pale. “Eternal!
What do you mean by eternal?”

“It may well be so, Theresa; and yet it rests with yourself,
after all, whether I go or not — and yet be sure of this, if I do
go, I go for ever.”

“With me — does it rest with me?” she cried, joyously.
“Oh! if it rests with me, you will not go at all — you will
never go any more. I am always in terror while you are absent;
and the west wind never blows, howling as it does over
these desolate, bare hills, with its mournful, moaning voice,
which they say is the very sound of a spirit's cry, but it conjures
up to my mind all dread ideas of the tremendous rush
and roar of the mountain billows upon some rock-bound, leeward
coast, as I have heard you tell by the cheerful hearth;
and of stranded vessels, creaking and groaning as their huge
ribs break asunder, and of corpses weltering on the ruthless
waves; oh! such dread day-dreams! If it rest with me, go
you shall not, Denzil, ever again to sea. And why should you?
You have won fame enough, and glory and wealth more than
enough to supply your wants as long as you live. Why should
you go to sea again, dear Denzil?”

“I will not go again, Theresa, if such seriously be your deliberate
desire.”

“If such seriously be my deliberate desire!” the fair girl repeated
the words after him with a sort of half-solemn drollery.
Was it the native instinct of the female heart, betraying itself
in that innocent and artless creature, scarcely in years more
than a child — the inborn, irrepressible coquetry of the sex, foreseeing
what was about to follow from the young man's lips, yet
seeking all unconsciously to delay the avowal, to protract the
uncertainty, the excitement, or was it genuine, unsuspecting innocence?

“You are most singularly solemn,” she continued,
“this fine morning, Denzil, wondrously serious and deliberate;
and so, as you are so precise, I must, I suppose, answer you
likewise, in due set form. Of course, it is my desire to have
the company of one whom I esteem and love, of one to whom
I look up for countenance and protection, of my only relative
on earth, except my dear old father, as much as I can have it,
with due regard to his interests and well-being. My father is
getting very old, too, and infirm; and at times I fancy that his
mind wanders. I can not fail, therefore, to perceive that he
needs a more able and energetic person near him than I am.
I can, moreover, see no good cause why you should persist in
following so perilous and stormy a profession, unless it be that
you love it. Therefore, as I have said, of course, if it rest with
me to detain you, I would do so — but always under this proviso,
that it were with your own good will; for I confess, dear
Denzil, that I fear, if you were detained against your wish, if
you still pant for the strong excitement, the stormy rapture, as
I have heard you call it, of the chase, the battle, and the tempest,
you never could be happy here, whatever we might do to
please you. Now, Denzil, seriously and deliberately, you are
answered.”

“I could be happy here. I am weary of agitation and excitement.
I feel that I have erred — that the path I have taken
leads not to happiness. I want tranquillity, repose of the heart,
above all things — love!”

“Then do not go — then I say positively, Denzil, dear Denzil,
stay with us — you can find all these here.”

“Are you sure — all of them?”

“Sure? Why, if not here in this delicious, pastoral, simple
country, in this dear cottage, with its lovely garden and calm
waters, where in the world should you find tranquillity? If

not here, in the midst of your best friends, in the bosom of
your own family, where should you look for love?”

“Theresa, there be more kinds of love than one — and that
I crave is not cold, duteous, family affection.”

Now, for the first time, it seemed that the young man's meaning
broke clearly upon her mind; now a sudden and bright illumination
burst upon all that seemed strange, and wild, and
inconsistent in his conduct, in his speech, in his very silence.
Unsuspected before, it was now evident to her at once that
deep, overmastering passion was the cause to which she must
refer all that had been, for some time past, to her an incomprehensible
enigma in her cousin's demeanor.

And now that she was assured, for the first time in her life,
that she was really, deeply, ardently beloved — not as a pretty,
childish playmate, not as an amiable and dear relative, but as
herself, for herself, a loveable and lovely woman, how did the
maiden's heart respond to the great revelation?

Elevated on the instant from the girl to the woman, a strange
and thrilling sense, a sort of moral shock affected her whole
system — was it of pleasure or of pain?

It has been often said, and I presume said truly, that no woman
— no, not the best and purest, the most modest and considerate
of their sex — ever received a declaration of love from any
man, even if the man himself be distasteful to her, even if the
love he proffer be illicit and dishonest, without a secret and instinctive
sense of high gratification, a consciousness of power,
of triumph, a pride in the homage paid to her charms, a sort of
gratitude for the tribute rendered to her sex's loveliness. She
may, and will, repulse the dishonorable love with scorn and
loathing, yet still, though she may spurn the worthless offering,
and heap reproach upon the daring offerer, still she will be half
pleased by the offer — if it be only that she has had the power,
the pleasure — for all power is pleasure — of rejecting it. She

may, and will, gently, considerately, sympathetically decline
the honest offers of a pure love which she can not reciprocate
or value as it should be valued; but even if he who made the
tender be repulsive, almost odious, still she must be gratified,
perhaps almost grateful for that which he has done.

To a young girl more especially, just bursting from the bud
into the bloom of young womanhood, scarce conscious yet that
she is a woman, scarcely awake to the sense of her own powers,
her own passions — a creature full of vague, shadowy, mysterious
fancies, strange, uncomprehended thoughts, and half-perceived
desires, there is — there must be — something of wondrous
influence, of indescribable excitement, in the receiving a
first declaration.

And so it was with Theresa Allan. She was, in truth, no
angel — for angels are not to be met with in the daily walks of
this world — she was, indeed, neither more nor less than a mere
mortal woman, mortal in all the imperfection, and narrowness,
and feebleness, and inability to rise even to the height of its
own best aspirations, which are peculiar to mortality — woman
in all the frailty, and vanity, and variety, no less than in all the
tenderness, the truth, the constancy, the loveliness, the sweetness
of true womanhood. She was, in a word, just what a
great modern poet has described in those sweet lines: —

And no one who is a true judge of human nature, and yet more
of woman's nature, will regret that she was such; for he must be
a poor judge indeed, he must know little of the real character
of womanhood, who does not feel that one half of her best influences,
one half of her sweetest power of charming, soothing,
controlling, winding herself about the very heart-strings, arises
from her very imperfections. Take from her these, and what
she might then be we know not, but she would not be woman, and
until the world has seen something better and more endearing,
until a wiser artificer can be found than He who made her,
even as she is, a help meet for man — away with your abstractions!
give her to us as she is, at least, if not perfect, the best
and brightest of created things — a very, very woman.

She heard his words, she felt his meaning, yet the sense of
the words seemed to be lost, the very sounds rang in her ears
dizzily, her breath came so painfully that she almost fancied
she was choking, the earth appeared to shake under her feet,
and everything around her to wheel drunkenly to and fro.

She pressed one hand upon her heart, aud caught her cousin's
arm with the other to support herself. Her whole face,
which a moment before had been alive and radiant with the
warm hues of happiness and youth, became as white as marble.
Her very lips were bloodless; her whole frame trembled as if
she had an ague-fit.

He gazed on her in wonder, almost in terror. For a moment
he thought she was about to faint, almost to die; and so
violent, in truth, was the affection of her nerves, that, had she
not been relieved by a sudden passion of tears, it is doubtful
what might have been the result.

They were standing, when Denzil Bras-de-fer uttered the
words which had wrought so singular a change in Theresa's
manner, within a pace or two of the sylvan bower of which she
had spoken, and without a moment's pause, or a syllable uttered,
he hurried her into its quiet recess, and placing her gently on
the mossy seat within, knelt down at her feet, holding her left
hand in his own, and gazing up anxiously in her face.

He was amazed — he was alarmed. Not for himself alone,
not from the selfish fear of losing what he most prized on earth
— but for her.

He knew not, indeed, whether that strange and almost terrible
revulsion arose from pleasure or from pain. He knew not, could
not even conjecture whether it boded good or evil to his hopes,
to his happiness. But the scales had fallen from his eyes in an
instant. He had discovered now, what her old father, recognizing
genius with the intuitive second-sight of kindred genius,
had perceived long before, that this young, artless, inexperienced,
childlike girl, was, indeed, a creature wonderfully and
fearfully made.

He had never before suspected that beneath that calm, gentle,
tranquil, unexcitable exterior there beat a heart, there
thrilled a soul, full of the strongest capabilities, the most earnest
aspirations, the most intense imaginings, that ever were awakened
by the magic touch of love, into those overwhelming
passions, which can tend to no middle state, but must lead to
the perfect happiness or utter misery of their possessor.

But he saw it, he knew it now; and he felt that so soon as
the present paroxysm should pass over, she too, would feel and
know all this likewise. Whether for good or for evil, for weal
or for wo, he perceived that he had unlocked for her whom he
truly and singly loved, the hitherto sealed fountain of knowledge.

And he almost shuddered at the thought of what he had done
— he almost wished that he had stifled his own wishes, sacrificed
his own hopes.

For though impetuous and impulsive, though in some degree
warped and perverted, he was not selfish. And when he observed
the terrible power which his words had produced upon
her, and judged thence of the character and temper of her mind
and intellect, a sad suspicion fell upon him that hers was one
of those over-delicate temperaments, one of those spirits too
rarely endowed, too sensitively constituted, ever to know again,
when once awakened to self-consciousness, that quietude, in
which alone lies true happiness.

Several minutes passed before a word was spoken by either.
But gradually the color returned to her lips, to her cheeks, and
the light relumed her beautiful blue eyes, and the tremor passed
away from her slight frame; but her face continued motionless,
and so calm that its gravity almost amounted to severity. It
was not altogether melancholy, it was not at all anger, but it was,
what in a harder and less youthful face would have been sternness.
Never before had he seen such an expression on any
human face — never, assuredly, had hers worn it before. It
was the awakening of a new spirit — the consciousness of a
new power — the first struggling into life of a great purpose.

Her hand lay passive in his grasp, yet he could feel the
pulses throbbing to the very tips of those small, rosy fingers, so
strongly and tumultuously, that he could not reconcile such evidence
of her quick and lively feeling with the fixed tranquillity
of the eye which was bent upon his own, with the rigidity
of the marble brow.

At length, and contrary to what is wont to happen, it was he
who first broke silence.

“Theresa,” he said, “I have grieved — I have pained — perhaps
offended you.”

And then she started, as his voice smote her ears, so complete
had been the abstraction of her mind, and recovering all
her faculties and readiness of mind on the instant.

“Yes, Denzil,” she said, very sweetly, but very sorrowfully,
“you have grieved me, you have pained me, very, very deeply;
but oh, do not imagine that you have offended me — that you could
offend me. No; you have torn away too suddenly, too roughly,
the veil that covered my eyes and my heart. You have
awakened thoughts, and feelings, and perceptions, in my soul,
of whose existence I never dreamed before. You have made
me know myself, as it were, better within the last few minutes
than I ever knew myself before. It seems to me, that I have

lived longer and felt more since we have sat here together, than
in all the years I can count before. And, oh, my heart! my
heart! I am most unhappy!

“You can not love me, then, Theresa,” he said, tranquilly;
for he had vast self-control, and he was too much of a man to
suffer his own agitation or distress to agitate or distress her
further. “You can not love me as I would be loved by you
— you can not be mine.”

“Denzil,” she said, in tones full of the deepest emotion,
“until the moment in which you spoke to me, I never thought
of love; I never dreamed or imagined to myself what it should
be, other than the love I bear to my father, to you, to all that is
kind, and good, and beautiful, in humanity or in nature. But
your words, I know not how or wherefore, have awakened me,
as it were, into a strange sort of knowledge. I do not love, I
almost hope that I never may love, as you would wish me to
love you; but I do feel now that I know what such love should
be; and I tremble at the knowledge. I feel that it would be
too strong, too full of fear, of anxiety, of agony, to allow of happiness.
Oh, no, no! Denzil, do not ask me, do not wish me
to love you so; pray rather, pray for me to God rather, that I may
never love at all — for so surely as I do love, I know that I shall
be a wretched, wretched woman!”

That was a strange scene, and it passed between a strange
pair. Great influences had been at work in the minds of both
within the last few hours, and it would have been very difficult
to say in which the greatest change had been wrought.

In her, the tranquil, innocent, unconscious girl had been
aroused into the powerful, passionate, thoughtful woman. A
knowledge of that whereof she had been most ignorant before,
“her glassy essence,” had awakened her, as the breeze awakens
the lake, from repose into power.

In him, the violent, hot-headed, stubborn, and impetuous man

of action, had been tamed down by a conversion almost as sudden
and convincing into the slow, self-controlled, self-denying
man of counsel. As the discovery of power had aroused her
into life, so had the discovery of long-cherished, long-injurious
error, tamed him into tranquility.

One day ago he would have raved furiously, or brooded sullenly
and darkly over her words. Now, even with the fit of
passion all-puissant over him, with the wild heat of love burning
within his breast, with the keen sense of disappointment
wringing him, he had yet force of temper to control himself,
nay, more, he had force of mind enough to see and apprehend,
that this Theresa, was no longer the Theresa whom he loved;
and that, although he still adored her, it was impossible either
for him to meet the aspirations of her glowing and inspired
genius, or for her to be to him what he had dreamed of, the
tranquillizing, soothing spirit which should pour balm upon his
wounded, restless, irritable feelings — the wife, whose first, best
gift to him should be repose and tranquility of soul.

He pressed her hand tenderly, and said, as he might have
done to a dear sister.

“I have been to blame, Theresa. I have given you pain,
rashly, but not wantonly. Forgive me, for you are the last person
in the world to whom I would give even a moment's uneasiness.
I did not suspect this, dear, little girl. I did not dream
that you were so nervous, or moved so easily; but you must
not yield to such feelings — such impulses — for it is only by
yielding to them that they will gain power over you, and make
you, indeed, an unhappy woman. You shall see, Theresa, how
patiently I will bear my disappointment — for that it is a disappointment,
and a very bitter one, I shall not deny — and how I
will be happy in spite of it, and all for love of you. And in
return, Theresa, if you love poor Denzil, as you say you do, as
your true friend and your brother, you will control these foolish

fancies of your little head, which you imagine to be feelings of
your heart, and I shall one day, I doubt not, have the pleasure
of seeing you not only a very happy woman, but a very happy
wife.”

“Oh, you are good, Denzil,” she said, tearfully and gently.
“Oh, you are very good and noble. Why — why can not I —”
and she interrupted herself suddenly, and covering her eyes
with both her hands, wept silently and softly for several minutes.
And he spoke not to her the while, nor even sought to
soothe, for he well knew that tears were the best solace to an
over-wrought, over-excited spirit.

After a little while, as he expected, she recovered herself
altogether, and looking up in his face with a wan and watery
smile —

“You are not hurt, you are not wounded by what I have
done,” she said, “dear Denzil. You do not fancy that I do not
perceive, do not feel, and esteem, and love all your great, and
good, and generous, and noble qualities. I am a foolish, weak,
little girl — I am not worthy of you; I could not, I know I
could not make you happy, even if I could — if I could — if —
you know what I would say, Denzil.”

“If you could be happy with me yourself,” he answered,
smiling in his turn, and without an effort, although his smile
was pensive and sad likewise. “No, my Theresa, I am not
hurt or wounded. I am grieved, it is true, I can not but be
grieved at the dissipating of a pleasant dream, at the vanishing
of a hope long-indulged, long-cherished — a hope which has
been a solace to me in many a moment of pain and trial, a
sweet companion in many a midnight watch. But I am neither
hurt nor wounded; for your have never given me any reason to
form so bold, so unwarranted a hope, and you have given me
now all that you can give me, sympathy and kindness. Our
hearts our affections, I well know, let men say what they will,

are not our own to give — and a true woman can but do what
you have done. Moreover, even with the sorrow and regret
which I feel at this moment, there is mingled a conviction that
you are doing what is both wise and right; for although you
have all within yourself, though you are all that would make
me, or a far better man than I — ay, the best man who ever
breathed the breath of life — supremely happy; still, if you
could not be happy with me, and in me yourself — how could I
be so?”

She looked up at him again, and now, with an altered expression,
for there was less of sadness and more of surprise,
more of respect for the man who spoke so composedly, so well,
in a moment of such trial, on her fair features. Perhaps, too,
there might have been a shadow of regret — could it be of regret
that he did not feel more acutely the loss which he had
undergone? If there were such a feeling in her mind — for
she was woman — it was transient as the lightning of a summer's
night — it was gone before she had time even to reproach
herself for its momentary existence.

“You are astonished,” he said, interpreting her glance, almost
before she knew that he had observed it, “you are astonished
that I should be so calm, who am by nature so quick and
headlong. But I, too, have learned much to-day — have learned
much of my own nature, of my own infirmities, of my own errors
— and with me to learn that these exist, is to resolve to
conquer them. I have learned first, Theresa, that my father,
whom I have ever been forced to regard as my worst enemy,
died conscious of the wrong he had done me — done my mother
— and penitent, and full of love and of sorrow for us both.
And therein have I convicted myself of one great error, committed,
indeed, through ignorance, which has, however, been the
cause, the source of many other errors — which has led me to
charge the world with injustice, when I was myself unjust

rather to the world — which has made me guilty of the great
offence, the great crime of hating my brother-men, when I
I should have pitied them, and loved them. Therefore I will
be wayward no more, nor rash, nor reckless. I will make one
conquest at least — that of myself and of my own passions.”

“I know — I know,” said the girl, suddenly blushing very
deeply, “that you are everything that is good and great; everything
that men ought to admire and women to love, and yet —”

“And yet you can not love me. Well, think no more of
that, Theresa. Forget —”

“Never! never!” she exclaimed, clasping her hands eagerly
together. “I never can forget what you have made me feel,
what I must have made you suffer this day.”

“Well, if it be so, remember it, Theresa; but remember it
only thus. That if you have quenched my love, if you destroyed
my hope, you have but added to my regard, to my affection.
Promise me that wherever you may be, however, or
with whomsoever your lot shall be cast, you will always remember
me as your friend, your brother; you will always call
on me at your slightest need, as on one who would shed his
heart's blood to win you a moment's happiness.”

“I will — I will,” she cried affectionately, fervently. “On
whom else should I call? And God only knows,” she added
mournfully, “how soon I shall need a protector. But will you,”
she continued, catching both his hands in her own, “will you
be happy, Denzil?”

“I will,” he replied, firmly, returning the gentle pressure;
“I will, at least in so far as it rests with man to be so, in despite
of fortune. But mark me, dear Theresa, if you would
have me be so, you can even yet do much toward rendering me
so.”

“Can I? — then tell me, tell me how, and it is done already.”

“By letting me see that you are happy.”

“Alas!” and she clasped her hand hard over her heart, as if
to still its violent beating. “Alas! Denzil.”

“And why, alas! Theresa?”

“Can we be happy at our own will?”

“Independently of great woes, great calamities, which we
may not control, which are sent to us for wise ends from above
— surely, I say, surely we can.”

“And can you, Denzil?”

“Theresa, this is to me a great wo — yea, a great calamity;
and yet I reply, ay! after a time, after the bitterness shall be
overpast, I can, and more, I will. Much more, then, can you,
who have never felt, who I trust and believe will never meet
any such wo or grief — much more can you be happy. Wherefore
should you not, foolish child? — have you not been happy
hitherto? What have you, that you should not be happy now?”

“Nothing,” she replied, faintly. “I have nothing why I
should be unhappy, unless it be, that if I have made you so.”

“Theresa, you have not — you shall see that you have not
— made me unhappy.”

“And yet, Denzil, yet I feel a foreboding that I shall be,
that I must be unhappy. A want — I feel a want of something
here.”

“You are excited, agitated now; all this has been too much
for your spirits, for your nerves; and I think, Theresa, I am
sure that you are too much alone — you think, or rather you
muse and dream, which are not healthy modes of thinking —
too much in solitude. I will speak to my uncle about that before
I go —”

“Before you go!” she interrupted him, quickly. “Go
whither?”

“To sea. To my ship, Theresa.”

“Then you are hurt, then you are angry with me. Then I
have no influence over you.”

“Cease, cease, Theresa. It is better, it is necessary — I
must go for a while, until I have weaned myself from this desperate
feeling, until I shall have accustomed myself to think of
you, to regard you as a sister only; until I shall have schooled
myself so far as to be able to contemplate you without agony
as not only not being mine — but being another's.”

“Would it — would it be agony to you, Denzil? Then mark
me, I never, never will be another's.

“Madness!” he answered, firmly; “madness and wickedness,
too, Theresa. Neither men nor women were intended by
the great Maker to be solitary beings. God forbid, if you can
not be mine, that I should be so selfish as to wish your life barren,
and your heart loveless. No; love, Theresa, when you
can — only love wisely. Then the day shall come when it will
add to my happiness to see and know you happy in the love of
one whom you can love, and who shall love you as you should
be loved. Never speak again as you did but now, Theresa.
And now, dearest girl, I will leave you. Rest yourself awhile,
and compose yourself, and then go if you will to your good
father.”

“Shall I — shall I tell him,” she faltered, “what has passed
between us?”

“As you will, as you judge best, Theresa. I am no advocate
for concealment, still less for deceit — but here there is
none of the latter, and to tell him this might grieve his kind
spirit.”

“You are wise — you are good. God bless you.”

“And you, Theresa,” and he passed his arm calmly across
her shoulder, and bending over, pressed his lips, calmly as a
brother's kiss, on her pure brow. “Fare you well.”

“You are not going — going to leave us, now?”

“Not to-day — not to-day, Theresa.”

“Nor to-morrow?” she said, beseechingly.

“Nor to-morrow,” he replied, after a moment's hesitation,
“but soon. Now compose yourself, my dear little girl. Farewell,
and God bless you.”

6. CHAPTER VI.
THE ROVER.

After scenes of great excitement there ever follows a sort of
listless languor; and, as in natural commotions the fiercest elemental
strife is oftentimes succeeded by the stillest calms, so
in the agitations of the human breast, the most tumultuous passions
are followed frequently, if not invariably, by a sort of
quiet which resembles, though it is not, indifference.

Thus it was, that day, in the household of William Allan.
Tranquil and peaceful at all times, in consequence of the reserved
and studious habits of the master of the house, and the
deep sympathy with his feelings and wishes which ruled the
conduct of his children — for Denzil was, in all respects save
birth, the old man's son — that house was not usually without
its own peculiar cheerfulness, and its subdued hilarity, arising
from the gentle yet mirthful disposition of the young girl, and
the high spirits of Denzil, attuned to the sobriety of the place.

But during the whole of that day its quietude was so very
still as to be almost oppressive, and to be felt so by its inmates.
Allan himself was still enveloped in one of those mysterious
moods of darkness, which at times clouded his strong and powerful
intellect, as marsh exhalations will obscure the sunshine
of an autumn day. Denzil was silent, reserved, thoughtful, not

gloomy or even melancholy, but — very unusually for him —
disposed to muse and ponder, rather than to converse or to act.
Theresa was evidently agitated and perturbed; and although
she compelled herself to be busy about her domestic duties, to
attend to the comforts of the strange guests whom accident had
thrown upon their hospitality, though she strove to be cheerful,
and to assume a lightness of heart which she was far from feeling,
she was too poor a dissembler to succeed in imposing
either on herself or on those about her, and there was no one
person in the cottage, from the old cavalier down to the single
femaleservant, with the exception of her father, who did not
perceive that something had occurred to throw an unwonted
shadow over her mind.

Jasper, alone perhaps of all the persons so singularly thrown
together, was himself. His age, his character, his temperament,
all combined to render him the last to be affected seriously
by anything which did not touch himself very nearly.
And yet he was not altogether what is called selfish; though
recklessness, and natural audacity, and undue indulgence, and,
above all, the evil habits which had grown out of his being too
soon his own master, and the master of others, had rendered
him thoughtless, if not regardless, of the feelings of those around
him.

All the consequences of his accident, except the stiffness and
pain remaining from his contusions, had passed away; and
though he was confined to his bed, and unable to move a limb
without a pang, his mind was as clear, and his spirit as untamed
as ever.

His father, who had been aroused from the state of indolence
and sedentary torpor, which was habitual rather than natural
to him, by the accident which had startled him into excitement
and activity, had not yet subsided into his careless self-indulgence;
for the subsequent events of the past evening, and his

conversation with Denzil on that morning, had moved and interested
him deeply — had set him to thinking much about the
past, and thence to ruminating on the future, if perchance he
could read it.

He by no means lacked clear-sightedness, or that sort of
wordly wisdom, which arises from much intercourse with the
world in all its various phases. He was far from deficient in
energy when aught occurred to stimulate him into action, whether
bodily or mental. And now he was interested enough to induce
him so far to exert himself, as to think about what was
passing, and to endeavor to discover its causes.

It was not, therefore, long before he satisfied himself, and
that without asking a question, or giving utterance to a surmise,
that an explanation had taken place between the young seaman
and Theresa, and that the explanation had terminated in the
disappointment of Denzil's hopes. Still he was puzzled, for
there was an air of tranquil satisfaction — it could not be called
resignation, for it had no particle of humility in its constituents
— about the young man, and an affectionate attention to his
pretty cousin, which did not comport with what he supposed to
be his character, under such circumstances as those in which
he believed him to stand toward her.

He would have looked for irritability, perhaps for impetuosity
bordering on violence, perhaps for sullen moodiness — the present
disposition of the man was to him incomprehensible. And
if so, not less was he unable to understand the depression of
the young girl, who was frequently, in the course of the day, so
much agitated, as to be on the point of bursting into tears, and
avoided it only by making her escape suddenly from the room.

Once or twice, indeed, he caught her eyes, when she did not
know that she was observed, fixed with an expression, to which
he could affix no meaning, upon the varying and intelligent
countenance of his son — an expression half-melancholy, half-wistful,

conveying no impression to the spectator's mind, of the
existence in hers of either love or liking, but rather of some
sort of hidden interest, some earnest curiosity coupled almost
with fear — something, in a word, if such things can be, that
resembled painful fascination. Once, too, he noticed, that not
he only, but Denzil Bras-de-fer likewise, perceived the glance,
and was struck by its peculiarity. And then the old cavalier
was alarmed; for a spirit, that was positively fearful, inflamed
the dark face and gleaming eyes of the free-trader — a spirit of
malevolence and hate, mingled with iron resolve and animal
fierceness, which rendered the handsome features, while it
lasted, perfectly revolting.

That aspect was transient, however, as the short-lived illumination
of a lightning flash, when it reveals the terrors of a
midnight ocean. It was there; it was gone — and, almost before
you could read it, the face was again inscrutable as blank
darkness.

The thought arose, several times that day, in the mind of
Miles St. Aubyn, that he would give much that neither he nor
his son had never crossed the threshold of that house; or that
now, being within it, it were within his power to depart. But
carriages, in those days, were luxuries of comparatively rare
occurrence even in the streets of the metropolis; and in the remote
rural counties, the state of society, the character of the
roads, and the limited means of the resident landed proprietors
rendered them almost unknown.

There were not probably, within fifty miles of Widecomb,
two vehicles of higher pretension than the rough carts of the
peasantry and farmers; all journeys being still performed on
horseback, if necessary by relays; even the fair sex travelling,
according to their nerves and capability to endure fatigue, either
on the side-saddle, or on pillions behind a relative or a trusty
servant.

Until Jasper should be sufficiently recovered either to set foot
in stirrup, or to walk the distance between the fords of Widecomb
and the House in the Woods, there was therefore no alternative
but to make the best of it, and to remain where they
were, relying on the hospitality of their entertainers.

Denzil's manner, it is true, partook in no degree of the coloring
which that transient expression seemed to imply in his
feelings; for, though unwontedly silent, when he did speak he
spoke frankly and friendly to the young invalid; and more than
once, warming to his subject, as field-sports, or bold adventures,
of this kind or that, came into mention, he displayed interest
and animation; and even related some personal experiences,
and striking anecdotes, of the Spanish Main and of the Indian
islands, with so much spirit and liveliness, as to show that he
not only wished to amuse, but was amused himself.

While he was in this mood, he suffered it to escape him, or
to be elicited from him by some indistinct question of the old
cavalier, that he intended ere long to set forth again on another
voyage of adventure to those far climes which were still invested
with something of the romance of earlier ages.

It was at this hint, especially, that Sir Miles St. Aubyn observed
Theresa's beautiful blue eyes fill with unbidden tears,
and her bosom throb with agitation so tumultuous, that she had
no choice but to retire from the company, in order to conceal
her emotion.

And at this, likewise, for the first time did William Allan
manifest any interest in the conversation.

“What,” he said, “what is that thou sayest, Denzil, that thou
art again about to leave us? Methought it was thy resolve to
tarry with us until after the autumnal solstice.”

“It was my resolve, uncle,” replied the young man quietly;
“but something has occurred since, which has caused me to
alter any determination. My mates, moreover, are very anxious

to profit by the fine weather of this season, and so soon as
I can ship a cargo, and get some brisk bold hands, I shall set
sail.”

“I like not such quick and sudden changes,” replied the old
man; “nor admire the mind which can not hold to a steady
purpose.”

The dark complexion of Denzil fired for a moment at the rebuke,
and his nether lip quivered, as though he had difficulty in
repressing a retort. He did repress it, however, and answered,
apparently without emotion:—

“You are a wise man, uncle, and must know that circumstances
will arise which must needs alter all plans that are
merely human. L'homme propose, as the Frenchman has it,
mais Dieu dispose. So it is with me, just now. The changed
determination which I have just announced does not arise from
any change in my desires, but from a contingency on which I
did not calculate.”

“It were better not to determine until one had made sure of
all contingencies,” said William Allan, sententiously.

“Then I think, one would never determine at all. For, if I
have learned aright, mutability is a condition unavoidable in human
affairs. But be this as it may, the only change, I can imagine,
which will hinder me from sailing on the Virginia voyage,
so soon as I can ship a crew and stow a cargo, will be a change
of the wind. It blows fair now, if it will only hold a week. One
other change there is,” he added, as his fair cousin entered the
room with a basket of fresh-gathered roses, “which might detain,
but that change will not come to pass; do you think it will,
Theresa?”

“I think not, Cousin Denzil,” she replied with a slight blush,
“if you allude to that concerning which we spoke this morning.”

The old knight looked from one to the other of the young
people in bewilderment. Their perfect understanding and extreme

control of their feelings were beyond his comprehension,
and yet he could not believe that he had mistaken.

“What, are you too against me, girl?” said her father quickly.
“Have you given your consent to his going?”

“My consent!” she replied; “I do not imagine that my consent
is very necessary, or that Denzil would wait long for it.
But I do think it is quite as well he should go now, if he must
go at all, particularly as he intends, if I understand rightly, that
it should be his last voyage.”

“I did not promise that, Theresa,” said the sailor, with a
faint smile — “although” —

“Did you not?” — she interrupted him quickly — “I thought
you had; but it must be as you will, and certainly it does not
much concern me.”

And with the words she left the room hastily, and not as it
appeared very well pleased.

“There! seest thou that?” cried her father — “seest thou
that, Denzil?”

“Ay! do I,” replied the young man with a good deal of
bitterness. “But I do not need to see that, to teach me that
women are capricious and selfish in their exigency of services.”

There was a dead pause. A silence, which in itself was
painful, and which seemed like to give birth to words more painful
yet, for William Allan knit his brow darkly, and compressed his
lower lip, and fixed his eye upon vacancy.

But at this moment Jasper, whose natural recklessness had
rendered him unobservant of the feelings which had been displayed
during that short conversation, raised himself on his
elbow, and looking eagerly at Denzil exclaimed:—

“Oh, the Virginia voyage! To the New World! My God!
how I should love to go with you. Do you carry guns? How
many do you muster of your crew?”

The interruption, although the speaker had no such intention,

was well timed, for it turned the thoughts and feelings of all
present into a new channel. The two old men looked into each
other's face, and smiled as their eyes met, and Allan whispered,
though quite loud enough to be audible to all present:—

“The same spirit, Miles, the same spirit. As crows the old
game-cock, so crows the young game-chicken!”

“And why not?” answered Denzil, with a ready smile, for
there was something that whispered at his heart, though indeed
he knew not wherefore, that it were not so ill done to remove
Jasper from that neighborhood for a while. “If Sir Miles judge
it well that you should see something of the world, in these
piping times of peace, it is never too soon to begin. You shall
have a berth in my own cabin, and I will put you in the way of
seeing swords flash, and smelling villanous saltpetre, in a right
good cause, I'll warrant you.”

“A right good cause, Denzil? and what cause may that be?”
asked his uncle in a caustic tone.

“The cause of England's maritime supremacy,” answered
the young man proudly. “That is cause good enough for
me. For what saith Bully Blake in the old song —

and he carolled the words in a fine deep bass voice, to a stirring
air, and then added — “That, sir, is the cause we fight for, on
the line and beyond it — and that we will fight for, here and
everywhere, when it shall be needful to fight for it. And now,
young friend, to answer your question. I do carry guns, eighteen
as lively brass twelve-pounders as ever spoke good English
to a Don or a Monsieur, or a Mynheer either, for that matter;
and then for crew, men and officers, I generally contrive to
pack on board eighty or ninety as brisk boys as ever pulled upon a
brace, or handled a cutlass.”

“Why you must reckon on high profits to venture such an

outlay,” said Sir Miles, avoiding the question of his son's participation
in the cruise.

“Ay!” answered Denzil, “if no gold is to be had for picking
up in Eldorado, there is some to be gained there yet by free-trading
— and once in a while one may have the luck to pick
up a handful on the sea.”

“On the sea, ay! how so?”

“Once I was going quietly along before the trades, with my
goods under hatches as peaceable and lawful a trader, as need
be, when we fell in with a tall galleon laveering. Having no
cause to shun or fear her, I lay my own course with English
colors flying, when what does she but up helm and after us.
In half an hour she was within range and opened with her bow
guns, in ten minutes more she was alongside, and —”

“Alongside, in ten minutes, from long cannon range!” exclaimed
Miles St. Aubyn — “what were you doing then, that
she overhauled you so fast?”

“Running down to meet her, Sir Miles, with every stitch of
canvass set that would draw, when I saw that she was bent on
having it; and — as I was about to say when you interrupted
me — in twenty more she had changed owners.”

“Indeed! indeed! that was a daring blow,” said the old soldier,
rousing at the tale, like a superannuated war-horse to the
trumpet, “and what was she?”

“A treasure-galleon, sir; a Spaniard homeward bound, with
twenty-six guns, and two hundred men.”

“And what did you do with your prize, in peace time? You
hardly brought her into Plymouth, I should fancy.”

“Nor into Cadiz, either,” he replied with a smile. “Her
crew or what was left of them, were put on board a coaster
bound for St. Salvador, her bars and ingots on board the good
ship `Royal Oak,' of Bristol, and she — oh! she, I think, was
sent to the bottom!”

“A daring deed!” said Sir Miles, shaking his head gravely
— “a daring deed, truly, which might well cost you all your
lives, were it complained of by the most Christian king!”

“And yet his supreme Christianity fired on us the first!”

“And yet, that plea, I fear, would hardly save you in these
days, but you would hang for it.”

“Amen!” replied the young man. “Better be hanged, `his
country crying he hath played an English part,' than creep to
a quiet grave a coward from his cradle. And now, what say
you, young sir, would you still wish to adventure it with us,
knowing what risks we run?”

“Ay, by my soul!” answered the brave boy, with a flashing
eye, and quivering lip, “and the rather, that I do know it.
What do you say, father? May I go with him? In God's
name, will you not let me go with him?”

“Indeed, will I not, Jasper,” said Sir Miles, with an accent
of resolve so steady, that the boy saw at once it was useless to
waste another word on it. “Besides, he is only laughing at
you. Why! what in Heaven's name should he make with such
a cockerel as thou, crowing or ere thy spurs have sprouted!”

“Laughing at me, is he!” exclaimed the boy, raising himself
up in his bed, actively, without exhibiting the least sign of the
pain, which racked him, as he moved. “If I thought he were,
he 'd scarce sail so quickly as he counts on doing.”

Here Denzil would have spoken, but the old cavalier cut in
before him, saying with a sneer:—

“It is like thou couldst hinder him, my boy, at any time;
most of all when thou art lying there bedridden.”

“The very reason wherefore I could hinder him the easier,”
replied Jasper, who saw by Denzil's grave and calm expression
that the meaning his father had attached to his speech, was not
his meaning.

“And how so, I prithee?”

“Had he, as you say he did, intended to mock me, or insult
me otherwise, I would have prayed him courteously to delay
his sailing until such time as my hurts would permit me to
draw triggers, or cross swords with him; and he would have
delayed at my request, being a gentleman of courage and of
honor.”

“Assuredly I should,” replied Denzil Bras-de-fer, “and you
would have done very rightly to call on me in that case. But
let me assure you, nothing was further from my intention than
to laugh at you. I sailed myself, and smelt gunpowder in earnest,
before I was so old as you are by several years; and I
was perfectly in earnest when I spoke, although I can now
well see that my offer, though assuredly well intended, could
not be accepted.”

Before Jasper had time to reply to these words, his father
said to him with a look of approbation:—

“You have answered very well, my son; and I am glad that
you have reflected, and seen so well what becomes a gentleman
to ask, and to grant in such cases. For the rest, you ought to
see that Master Denzil Olifaunt is perfectly in the right; and,
that having offered you courteously what you asked rashly, he
now perceives clearly the impossibility of your accepting his
offer.”

“I do not, however, see that at all,” answered the boy moodily.
“You carried a stand of colors, I have heard you say,
before you were fifteen, and you deny me the only chance of
winning honor that ever may be offered to me, in these degenerate
times, and under this peaceful king.”

“I do not think that it would minister very much to your
honor, or add to the renown of our name, that you should get
yourself hanged on some sand-key in the Caribbean sea, or
knocked on the head in some scuffle with the Spanish guarda
costas — no imputation, I pray you believe me, Master Olifaunt,

on your choice of a career, the gallantry and justice of which I
will not dispute, though I may not wish my son to adopt it.”

“I know not what you would have me do,” said the boy,
“unless you intend to keep me here all my life, fishing for salmon
and shooting black-cock for an occupation, and making
love to country-girls for an amusement.”

“I was not aware, Jasper,” answered his father more seriously
than he had ever before heard him speak, “that this latter
was one of your amusements. If it be so, I shall certainly
take the earliest means of bringing it to a conclusion, for while
it is not very creditable to yourself, it is ruinous to those with
whom you think fit to amuse yourself as you call it.”

“I did not say that I ever had amused myself so,” replied
Jasper, somewhat crest-fallen by the rebuke of his father —
“though if I am kept moping here much longer, Heaven only
knows what I may do.”

“Well, sir, no more of this!” said the old man sharply.
“You are not yet a man, whatever you may think of yourself;
neither, I believe, are you at all profligate or vicious. Although
as boys at your age are apt enough to do, you may think it
manly to affect vices of which you are ignorant. But to quit
this subject, when do you think you shall sail, Master Olifaunt?”

“I can not answer you that, Sir Miles, certainly. I purpose
to set off hence for Plymouth to-morrow afternoon, and, as I
shall ride post, it will not take me long ere I am on board.
When I arrive, I shall be able to fix upon a day for sailing.”

“But you will return hither, will you not, before you go to
sea?”

“Assuredly I will, Sir Miles, to say farewell to my kind
uncle here, who has been as a father to me, and to my little
Theresa.”

“And you will pass one day I trust, if you may not give us

more, with Jasper at the manor. We can show you a heron
or two on the moor, and let you see how our long-winged falcons
fly, if you are fond of hawking. It shall be my fault, if
hereafter, after so long an interruption, I suffer old friendship,
and recent kindness also, to pass away and be forgotten.”

“I will come gladly to see my young friend here, who will
ere then be quite recovered from this misadventure; and who,
if he rides as venturesomely as he fishes, will surely leave me
far behind in the hot hawking gallop; for though I can ride, I
am, sailor-like, not over excellent at horsemanship.”

7. CHAPTER VII.
THE EIDOLON.

Thus passed the afternoon, until the evening meal was announced,
and Jasper was left alone, with nothing but his own
wild and whirling thoughts to entertain him. He was ill at
ease in his own mind, ill at ease with himself and with all
around him. Vexed with Denzil Bras-de-fer, for offering in
the first instance to take him as a partner in his adventure, and
then for failing at the pinch to back his offer by his stout opinion;
vexed with his father for thwarting his will, and yet more
for rebuking him publicly, and in the presence of Theresa, too,
before whom, boylike, he would fain have figured as a hero;
and lastly, vexed with Theresa herself, because, though kind
and gentle, she had not sat by his bedside all day, as she did
yesterday, or devoted all her attention to himself alone, he was

in the very mood to torment himself, and every one else, to the
extent of his powers.

Then, as his thoughts wandered from one to another of those
whom he thought fit to look upon as having wronged him, they
settled on the most innocent of all, Theresa; and, at the same
moment, the wild words, which he had uttered without any ulterior
meaning at the time, and with no other intent than that
of annoying his father, recurred to his mind, concerning village-maidens.

He started, as the idea occurred to him, and at first he wondered
what train of thought could have brought back those
words in connection with Theresa's image. But, as he grew
accustomed to his own thought, it became, as it were, the father
to the wish; and he began to consider how pretty and gentle
she was, and how delicate her slight, rounded figure, and
how soft and low her voice. Then he remembered that she
had looked at him twice or thrice during the day, with an expression
which he had never seen in a woman's eyes before,
and which, though he understood it not, did not bode ill to his
success; and lastly, the worst, bitterest thought of all arose in
his mind, and retained possession of it. “I will spite them
all,” he thought, “that proud, insolent, young sailor, who, because
he is a few years older than I, and has seen swords
drawn once or twice — for all, I doubt if he can fence or shoot
any better than I, or if he be a whit more active — affects to
look down upon me as a stripling. His `young friend,' truly!
let him look out, whether he have not cause to term me something
else ere he die. By God! I believe he loves the girl, too!
he looked black as a thunder-cloud over Dartmoor, when she
smiled on me! And my father — by my soul! I think he 's
doting; and her dainty ladyship, too! I 'll see if I can not have
her more eager to hear me, than she has shown herself to-day.

I will do it — I will, by all that's holy! Heaven! how it will
spite them!”

Then he laid his head down on the pillow, and began to reflect
how he should act, and what were his chances of success
in the villany which he meditated; and he even asked himself,
with something of the boy's diffidence in his first encounter
with woman, “But can I, can I win her affection?” and vanity
and the peculiar audacity of his race, of his own character,
made answer instantly, “Ay, can I. Am I not handsomer,
and cleverer, and more courtly? am I not higher born, and
higher bred, and higher mannered, not only than that seafaring
lout, but than any one she has ever met withal? Ay, can I,
and ay, will I!”

And in obedience to this last and base resolve, the worst and
basest that ever had crossed the boy's mind, no sooner had they
returned from the adjoining room, after the conclusion of the
evening meal, than he contrived entirely to monopolize Theresa.

First, he asked her to play at chess with him; and then, after
spending a couple of hours, under the pretence of playing,
but in reality gazing into her blue eyes, and talking all sorts of
wild, enthusiastical, poetical romance, half-earnest and half-affected,
he declared that his head ached, and asked her to read
aloud to him; and when she did so, sitting without a thought
of ill beside his pillow, while their fathers were conversing in
a low tone over the hearth, and Denzil was absent making his
preparations for the next day's journey, he let his hand fall, as
if unconsciously, on hers, and after a little while, emboldened
by her unsuspicious calmness, imprisoned it between his fingers.

It might have been that she was so much engrossed in reading,
for it was Shakspere's sweet Rosalind that the boy had
chosen for her subject, that she was not aware that her hand
was clasped in his. It might have been, that, accustomed to its
pressure, from his involuntary retention of it during his lethargic

sleep on the preceding day, she let it pass as a matter of
no consequence. It might have been, that almost unsuspected
by herself, a feeling of interest and affection, which might easily
be ripened into love, was already awakened in her bosom,
for the high-spirited, handsome, fearless boy, who, in some
measure, owed his life to her assistance.

At all events, she made no effort to withdraw it, but let it lie
in his, passive, indeed, and motionless, save for its quivering pulse,
but warm, and soft, and sensitive. And the boy waxing bolder,
and moved into earnestness by the charms of the position,
ventured to press it once or twice, as she read some moving
line, and murmured praises of the author's beauties, and of the
sweet, low voice that lent to those beauties a more thrilling
loveliness, and still the fairy fingers were not withdrawn from
his hold, though her eye met not his, nor any word of hers answered
his whispered praises.

At length a quick, strong step came suddenly to the door of
the room, and almost before there was time for thought, the
door was thrown open, and Denzil Olifaunt entered.

Instantly Theresa started at the sound, and strove to withdraw
her hand, while a deep blush of shame and agitation crimsoned
her cheeks and brow, and even overspread her snowy
neck and bosom.

It was not, as that bold boy fancied at the time, in the vanity
and insolence of his uncorrected heart, that she knew all the
time, that she was allowing what it was wrong, and immodest,
and unmaidenly, to endure, and that now she was afraid and
ashamed, not of the error, but of the detection.

No. In the purity of her heart, in the half-pitiful, half-protecting
spirit which she felt toward Jasper, first as an invalid,
and then as a mere boy — for although he was, perhaps, a year
her senior, who does not know that boys in their eighteenth
year are a full lustre younger than girls of the same age — she

had thought nothing, dreamed nothing of impropriety in yielding
her hand to the boy's affectionate grasp, until the step of
the man, whose proffered love she had that very day declined,
led her to think intuitively what would be his feelings, and
thence what must be Jasper's, concerning that permitted license.

But the wily boy, for, so young as he was, he lacked neither
sagacity to perceive, nor audacity to profit by occasion, saw
his advantage, and holding his prize with a gentle yet firm
pressure, without so much as turning his eyes to Denzil, or
letting it be known that he was aware of his presence, raised it
to his lips, and kissed it, saying, in a low, earnest tone: —

“I thank you, from my very soul, for your gentleness and
kind attention, dearest lady; your sweet voice has soothed me
more than words can express; there must be a magic in it, for
it has charmed my headache quite away, and divested me,
moreover, from the least desire to seek glory, or the gallows,
with your bold cousin.”

The eyes of Denzil Bras-de-fer flashed fire, as he saw, as he
heard what was passing; and he made two or three strides forward,
with a good deal of his old impetuosity, of both look and
gesture. His brow was knitted, his hands clinched, and his
lip compressed over his teeth, so closely that it was white and
bloodless.

But happily — or perhaps, unhappily — before he had time to
commit himself, he saw Theresa withdraw her hand so decidedly,
and with so perfect a majesty of gentle yet indignant
womanhood, gazing upon the audacious offender, as she did so,
with eyes so full of wonder and rebuke, that he could not doubt
the sincerity or genuineness of her anger.

Acquitting her, therefore, of all blame or coquetry, and looking
upon Jasper as a mere boy, and worthy to be treated as
such only, reflecting, moreover, that he was, for the time being,
shielded by his infirmity, he controlled himself, though not

without an effort, and with a lip now curling scornfully, and an
eye rather contemptuous than angry, advanced to the fireside,
and took his seat beside his uncle and Sir Miles, without taking
the slightest notice of the others.

In the meantime, Theresa, after she had disengaged her
hand from Jasper, and cast upon him that one look of serene indignation,
turned her back on him quietly, in spite of some attempt
at apology or explanation which he began to utter.
Walking slowly and composedly to the table, she laid down on
it the volume of Shakspere which she had been reading to
him, and selecting some implements of feminine industry,
moved over to the group assembled round the hearth, and sat
down on a low footstool, between Denzil and her father.

No one but the two young men and herself were aware what
had passed; and she, though annoyed by Jasper's forwardness,
having, as she thought, effectually repelled it, had already dismissed
it from her mind as a thing worth no further consideration.
Denzil, on the other hand, though attaching far more
importance to his action, saw plainly that this was not the time
or the place for making any comment on it, even if he had been
capable of adding to Theresa's embarrassment; while Jasper,
mortified and frustrated by the lady's scornful self-possession,
and the free-trader's manifest self-contempt, had no better mode
of concealing his disappointment, than by sinking back upon
his pillow, as if fatigued or in pain, and feigning to fall gradually
asleep — a feint which, as is oftentimes the case, terminated
at last in reality.

Meanwhile, the two old men continued to talk quietly, in
rather a subdued tone, of old times and the events of their
youth, and thence of the varied incidents which had checkered
their lives, during the long space of time since they had been
friends and comrades, with many a light and shadow. And as
they, garrulous, as is the wont of the aged and infirm, and

“laudatores temporis acti,” found pleasure even, in the retrospect
on things which in their day were painful, the young man
sat beside them silent, oppressed with the burden of present
pain, and yet more by the anticipation of worse suffering to be
endured thereafter.

Nearly an hour passed thus, without a single word being exchanged
between Denzil and Theresa; he musing deeply, with
his head buried in his hands, as he bent over the embers of the
wood fire, which the vicinity of the cottage to the water's edge
rendered agreeable even on summer evenings, and she plying
her needle as assiduously as if she were dependent on its exercise
for her support.

Several times, indeed, she looked up at him with her candid,
innocent face, and her beautiful blue eye clear and unclouded,
as if she wished to catch his attention. But he was all unconscious
of her movement, and continued to ponder gloomily on
many things that had, and yet more that had not, any existence
beyond the limits of his own fitful fancy.

At length tired of waiting for his notice, the rather that the
night was wearing onward, she arose from her seat, folding up
her work as she did so, and laid her hand lightly on her cousin's
shoulder —

“And are you really going to leave us to-morrow, Denzil?”
she said, softly.

“For a few days only,” he answered, raising his head, and
meeting her earnest eye with a cold, sad smile. “I am going
to ride down to-morrow afternoon as far as Hexworthy, where I
will sleep, and so get into Plymouth betimes the following day.”

“And when shall you come back to us?”

“I shall not stay an hour longer than I can avoid, Theresa;
and I think that in three days I may be able to arrange all that
I have to do; if so, you may look for me within the week — at
furthest, I shall be here in ten days.”

“And how long may we count on keeping you here, then?
It will be long, I fear, before we shall meet again.”

“The ship can not be fit for sea within three weeks, Theresa,
or it may be a month; and I shall stay here, be sure, until
the last moment. But as all mortal matters are uncertain to a
proverb, and as none of us can say when, or if ever, we shall
meet again, and as I have much to say to you before I go to sea
this time, will you not walk in the garden with me for an hour
before breakfast to-morrow?”

“Surely I will. How can you doubt it, Denzil?”

“I do not doubt it. And then I can give you my opinion about
the young nightingales, which we forgot, after all, this morning.
I dare say they will turn out to be hedge-sparrows.”

“I will be there soon after the sun is up, Denzil, and that I
may be so, good night, all,” and with the word, kissing her
father's brow, and giving her hand affectionately to Denzil, she
courtesied to the old cavalier, and left the room without so much
as looking toward Jasper, who was, however, already fast
asleep, and unconscious of all sublunary matters.

Her rising, though she had not joined in the conversation for
the last hour or more, broke up the company, and in a few minutes
they had all withdrawn, each to his own apartment; and
Jasper was left alone, with the brands dying out one by one on
the hearth-stone, and an old tabby cat dozing near the andirons;
this night he had no other watchers, and none were there
to hear or see what befell him during the hours of darkness.

But had there been any one present in that old apartment, he
would have seen that the sleep of the young man was strangely
restless and perturbed, that the sweat-drops stood in large cold
beads upon his brow, that his features were from time to time
fearfully distorted, as if by pain and horror, and that he tossed
his arms to and fro, as if he were wrestling with some powerful
but intangible oppressor.

From time to time, moreover, he uttered groans and strangely
murmured sounds, and a few articulate words; but these so unconnected,
and at so long intervals asunder, that no human
skill could have combined them into anything like intelligible
sentences. At length with a wild, shrill cry, he started up
erect in his bed, his hair bristling with terror, and the cold
sweat flowing off his face like rain-drops.

“O, God!” he cried, “avert — defend! Horror! horror!”
Then raising his hands slowly to his brow, he felt himself,
grasped his arm, and sought for the pulsations of his heart, as
if he were laboring to satisfy himself that he was awake.

At length, he murmured, “It was a dream! The Lord be
praised! it was but a dream! and yet, how terrible, how vivid!
Even now I can scarce believe that I was not awake and saw it.”

But as his eye ran over the objects to which it had become
accustomed during the last days, and which were now indistinctly
visible in the glimmering darkness of a fine summer
night, he became fully satisfied that he had been indeed asleep;
and with a muttered prayer, he settled himself down again on
the pillow, and composed himself to sleep once more.

He had not slept, however, above half an hour before the
same painful symptoms recurred; and after even a longer and
more agonizing struggle than the first, he again woke, panting,
horror-stricken, pale and almost paralyzed with superstitious
terror.

“It was!” he gasped, “it was — it must have been in reality.
I saw her, as I did last night, tangible, face to face; but, O
God! what a glare of horror in those beautiful blue eyes — what
a gory spot on that smooth, white brow — what agony — what
supplication in every lovely feature. And he, he who dealt
the blow — I could not see the face, but the dress, the figure,
nay, the seat on horseback — great God! they were all mine
own!”

He paused for a long time, meditating deeply, and casting
furtive glances around the large old-fashioned room, as though
he expected to see some of the great heavy shadows which
brooded in the dim angles and irregular recesses of the walls,
detach themselves from their lurking-places, in the guise of
human forms disembodied, and come forth to confront him.

After a while, however, his naturally strong intellect and
characteristic audacity led him to discard the idea of supernatural
influence in the appalling vision, which had now twice so
cruelly disturbed him. Still, so great had been the suffering
and torture of his mind during the conflict of the sleeping body
and the sleepless intellect, that he actually dreaded the return
of slumber, lest that dread phantom should return with it; and
he therefore exerted himself to keep awake, and to arm his
mind against the insidious stealing on of sleep, from very fear
of what should follow.

But the very efforts which he made to banish the inclination,
wearied the mind, and induced what he would most avoid; and
within an hour he was again unconscious of all external sights
and sounds, again terribly alive to those inward sensations
which had already terrified him almost beyond endurance.

This time the trance was shorter, but from the symptoms
which appeared on his features, fiercer and stronger than before;
nor, as before, when he awoke, did the impression pass
away which had been made on him before his eyes were
opened. No; as he started up erect, and gazed wildly, scarce
as yet half awake, around him, the first thing that met, or
seemed to meet his staring eyes, was a gray, misty shadow,
standing relieved by a dark mass of gloom in the farthest angle
of the chamber. Gradually, as he stared at it with a fascinated
gaze, which, had it been to save his life, he could not have
withdrawn, the shape, if shape it were, drew nearer, nearer,
with a slow, gliding, ghastly motion.

The moon had by this time arisen, and cast a feeble, ineffectual
light through the mass of tangled foliage which curtained
the large diamond-paned casements of the cottage, streaming
in a dim, misty ray across the centre of the chamber. Directly
in the middle of this pallid halo, as if it had been a silver
glory, paused, or appeared to pause, that thin, transparent form
— so bodiless, indeed, it seemed, that the outlines of the things
which stood beyond it, were visible, as if seen through a gauzy
curtain. A cloud passed over the moon's face, and all was
gloom; yet still the boy's eyes felt the presence of that disembodied
visitant, which they could now no longer distinguish in
the darkness.

At this moment, as if to add a real terror to that which, even
if unreal, needed no addition, the cat, which hitherto had been
sleeping undisturbedly by the warm ashes on the earth, uttered
an unusual plaintive cry, most unlike to the natural note of her
species, whether of pleasure or of anger, and rushed at two or
three long bounds, to the bed on which the boy was sitting up
in voiceless horror. Her eyes glared in the darkness, like coals
of livid fire, her bristles were set up like the quills of the porcupine,
her tail was outspread, till it almost resembled a fox's
brush.

The cloud drifted onward, and the moon shone out brighter
than before; and there he still saw that tall, white shape, clearer,
distincter, stronger, than when he first beheld it. The cat
cowered down upon the pillow by his side, with a low, wailing
cry of terror, her back, bristling in wrath but now, was humbly
lowered, dread of something unnatural had quelled all her savage
instincts.

Clearer and clearer waxed the vision, and now he might mark
the delicate symmetrical proportions of the figure, and now the
pale, white outlines of the lovely face. It was Theresa Allan.
Yet the fair features were set in a sort of rigid cataleptic horror,

full of dread, full of agony and consternation; and the blue
eyes glared, fixed and glassy, without speculation; and right
in the centre of the brow there glowed, like a sanguine star, a
great spot of gore.

The thing seemed to raise its arm, and point with a gesture
of majestic menace, right toward the terrified beholder. Then
the white lips were parted with a slow, circular distortion, showing
the pearly teeth within, and — if a voice came forth from
those ghastly lips, Jasper St. Aubyn knew it not, for he had sunk
back on his pillow — if, indeed, he had ever, as he believed to
the day of his death, raised himself up from it — in a deep
trance, from which he passed into a dead, heavy, dreamless stupor,
which continued undisturbed until the sun was high in the
heavens, and the whole household were afoot, and busied about
their usual avocations.

In the meantime, she whose image, whether in truth it was
an eidolon, or merely the idea of a diseased mind and preoccupied
spirit had been so busy during the hours of darkness, had
awakened all refreshed by light and innocent slumbers, with
the first peep of day, and arising from her couch had descended
into the garden, still half enveloped in the dewy vapors of the
summer night, half-glimmering in the slant radiance of the new-risen
sun.

She was the first at her appointment, for Denzil had not yet
made his appearance, and she walked to and fro awaiting him,
among the flowery thickets and sweet-scented shrubberies, all
bathed in the copious night-dews, half-wondering, half-guessing,
what it could be that he should so earnestly desire to communicate.
And as she walked, she considered with herself all
that had occurred during the last three days, and the more she
considered, the less was she able to comprehend the workings
of her own mind, or to explain to herself wherefore it was that

she could not divest herself of the idea that the crisis of her
life, the fate of her heart was at hand.

That she had rejected Denzil's proffered love, his honest,
manly love, she knew that she ought not to regret, for she felt
surely that she could not love him in return as he ought, as he
deserved to be loved; and yet she did almost regret it. Then
she began to ask herself why she did not, why she could not
love him, endowed eminently as he was with many high and
noble qualities; and she was soon answered, when she considered
how far he fell short of her standard, in mental and intellectual
culture, in all that pertained to the secret sympathies of
the heart, to the kindred tastes and sentiments, to that community
of hopes and wishes, which, under the head of eadem velle
atque nolle, the Roman philosophical historian had declared to
be the sole base of true friendship — might he not better have
said of true love?

Thence by an easy and natural transition the girl's thoughts
turned to the young stranger — to his magnificent person and
striking intellectual beauty — to his singular and original character,
so audacious, so full of fiery and rebellious self-will, so
confident in his own powers, so daring, almost insolent toward
man, and yet, at the same time, so fraught with gentle and sensitive
fancies, so rapt by romance or poetry, so liable to all
swift impressions of the senses, so humble, yet with so proud
and self-arrogating a humility, toward woman.

She thought of the tones of his beautifully-modulated voice,
of the expression of his deep, clear, gray eye; she remembered
how the one had melted, as it were, almost timorously in
her ear, how the other had dwelt almost boldly on her face, yet
with a boldness which seemed meant almost as homage.

She mused on these things; and then paused to reflect how
helplessly and deathfully he had lain at her feet, when he was
drawn forth from that deep, red whirlpool; and how sickly

those fine eyes swam when she first beheld them. How small
a thing would have extinguished, and for ever, the faint spark
of life which then feebly fluttered in his bosom; how childlike
he had yielded himself to her ministration, and with how piteous
yet grateful an expression he had acknowledged, when he
awoke from his first trance-like stupor, midway as it were between
life and death, the gentleness of her protection.

Most true it is, that pity is akin to love; where pity, as is
seldom the case from woman toward man, can exist apart from
something approaching to contempt; where it is called forth by
the consequences of neither physical nor mental weakness.
Still more is it the province and the part of woman to love
whom she has protected.

With both sexes, I believe that to have conferred, rather than
to have received kindness — to be owed rather than to owe gratitude
— is conductive to the growth of kindly feeling, of friendship,
of affection, love! But with a true woman, to have been
dependent on her for support, to have looked up into her eyes
for aid on the sick bed, for sympathy in mortal sorrow, to have
revived by her nursing, to have been consoled by her comforting
— these are the truest and most direct key to her affection.

Theresa thought of all these things, and as she did so, her
bosom heaved almost unconsciously with a sigh, and a tear rose
unbidden to her eye. She almost loved Jasper St. Aubyn.

Again, to the recollection of his boldness on the previous
evening, of his half-forcible seizure of her hand, of the kiss
he had so daringly imprinted on her soft fingers, of the too-meaning
words which he had addressed to her, and of the tone,
which conveyed even more of consciousness and confidence
than the words themselves, all rushed at once upon her mind;
and, though she was alone, she started, and her face crimsoned
at the mere memory of what she half felt as an indignity.

“And could he think me,” she murmured to herself, “so

light, so vain, so easy to be won, that he dare treat me thus at
almost a first interview? or was it but the rashness, the imprudence,
the buoyancy of extreme youth, inspired by sudden love,
and encouraged by his own headstrong character?” She
paused a moment, and then said almost aloud, “Oh, no, no, I
will not believe it.”

“And what will you not believe, Theresa?” said a clear, firm
voice, close behind her; “what is it that you are so energetically
determined not to believe, my pretty cousin?”

She started, not well pleased that even Denzil should have
thus, as it were, stolen upon her privacy, and overheard what
was intended for no mortal ear. Theresa was as guileless as
any being of mortal mould may be; but even the most artless
woman can not be altogether free from some touch of instinctive
artifice — that innocent and gentle guile is to woman what
nature has bestowed on all, even the humblest of its creatures,
her true weapon of defence, her shield against the brute tyranny
of man. And Theresa was a woman. She replied, therefore,
without an instant's hesitation, although her voice did falter
somewhat, and her cheeks burn, as she spoke: —

“That you are angry with me, Cousin Denzil.” But then,
as she felt his cold, clear, dark eye — how piercingly it dwelt upon
her features — reading, or striving to read, her very soul, she
continued, seeing at once the necessity of placing him on the
defensive, so as to turn the tide of aggressive warfare, “but I
am angry with you, I assure you; nor do I think it at all like
you, Denzil, or at all like a true cavalier, as you pretend to be,
first, to keep a lady waiting for you, I don't know how long,
here alone, and then to creep upon her, like an Indian or a spy,
and surprise what little secrets she might be turning over in
her own mind. You must have trodden lightly on purpose, or
I should have heard your step. I did not look for this at your
hand, Cousin Denzil.”

He still gazed at her with the same dark, fixed, piercing
glance, without answering her a word! and, although conscious
of no wrong, she met his gaze with her calm, candid, truthful
eye, she could not endure his suspicious look, but was fluttered,
and blushed deeply, and was so much embarrassed, that had
not pride and anger come to her aid, she would have burst into
tears. But they did come to her aid, and she cried with a quivering
voice and a flashing eye: —

“For what do you look at me so, Denzil? I do not like it
— I will not bear it! You have no right to treat me thus! it is
not kind, nor courteous, nor even manly! If it be to browbeat
me, and tyrannize over me, that you asked me to meet you
here, I could have thanked you to spare me the request. But
I shall leave you to yourself, and return home; and so, good-morrow
to you, and better breeding, and a better heart, too,
Cousin Denzil!”

But though she said she was going, she made no movement
to do so, but hesitated, waiting for his answer.

“You must be greatly changed, Theresa,” he said bitterly,
“to take offence at so slight a cause, or to speak to me in such
a tone. But you are greatly changed, and there 's an end of it.”

“I am not changed at all,” replied the girl, still chafing at the
recollection of that scrutinizing eye, which she perhaps felt the
more, because conscious that her own reply had not been perfectly
sincere. “But I do not allow your right to pry meanly
into my secret thoughts, or to catechize me concerning my words,
or to accuse me of falsehood, when I answer you.”

“Accuse you of falsehood, Theresa! who ever dreamed of
doing so?”

“Your eye did so, sir,” she replied. “When I told you that
I was determined `not to believe that you were angry with me,'
you fixed your glance upon me with the expression of a pedagogue,
who, having caught a child lying, would terrify it into

truth. I am no child, I assure you, Denzil, nor are you yet my
master. Think as you may about it.”

It was now Denzil's turn to be confused, for he could not deny
that she had construed the meaning of his look aright; and
would not, so proud was he and so resolute, either deny or
apologize for what was certainly an act of rudeness.

After a moment's pause, however, he looked up at her from
under downcast eyelids, with a look of defiance mingled with
distrust, and answered bluntly:—

“I do not believe that was your meaning, or that you were
thinking about me at all.”

“And what if it were not? Am I bound, I pray you, to be
thinking of nothing but you? I must have little enough to
think of, if it were so.”

“You might at least have told me so much, frankly.”

“I thank you, Cousin Denzil,” she made answer, more
proudly, more firmly than ever he had heard her speak before.
“I thank you, for teaching me a lesson, though neither very
kindly, nor exactly as a generous gentleman should teach a
lady. But you are perfectly correct in your surmises, sir. I
was not thinking of you at all; no more, sir, than if you were
not in existence, and if I answered you, as I did, sir, falsely —
yes! falsely is the word! — it is because, in the first place, you
had no right to ask me the question you did, and, in the second,
because I did not choose to answer it! Now, cousin, allow me
to teach you something — for you have something yet to learn,
wise as you are, about us women. If you ask a lady unmannerly
questions, hereafter, and she turn them off by a flippant
joke, or an unmeaning falsehood, understand that you have been
very rude, and that she does not wish to be so likewise, by rebuking
your impertinence. Now, do you comprehend me?”

“Perfectly, madam, perfectly. You have made marvellous
strides of late, upon my honor! Yesterday morning an unsophisticated

country-maiden — this morning a courtly, quick-witted,
manœuvring, fine lady! God send you, much good of
the change, though I doubt it. I can see all, read all, plainly
enough now — poor Denzil Bras-de-fer is not high enough, I
trow, for my dainty lady! Perchance, when he is farther off,
he may be better liked, and more needed. At all events, I did
not look for this at your hands, Theresa, on the last morning,
too, that we shall spend together for so long a time.”

Angry as she was, and indignant at the dictatorial manner he
had assumed toward her, these last words disarmed her in a
moment. A tear rose to her eyes, and she held out her hand
to him kindly.

“You are right, Denzil,” she said, “and I was wrong to be
so angry. But you vexed me, and wounded me by your manner.
I am sorry; I ought to have remembered that you were
going to leave us, and that you have some cause to be grieved
and irritable. Pardon me, Denzil, and forget what I said hastily.
We must not quarrel, for we have no friends save one another,
and my dear old father.”

But Denzil's was no placable mind, nor one that could divest
itself readily of a preconceived idea. “Oh!” he replied, “for
that, fair young ladies never lack friends. For every old one
they cast off they win two new ones. See, if it be not so,
Theresa. Is it not so with you?”

She looked at him reproachfully, but softly, and then burst
into tears. “You are ungenerous,” she said, “ungenerous.
But all men, I suppose, are alike in this — that they can feel no
friendship for a woman. So long as they hope for her love, all
is submission on their part, and humility, and gentleness, and
lip-service — once they can not win that, all is bitterness and
persecution. I did not look for this at your hand! But I will
not quarrel with you, Denzil. I dealt frankly with you yester
morning; I have dealt affectionately with you ever; I will deal

tenderly and forgivingly with you now. I only wish that you
had not sought this interview with me, the only object of which
appears to have been the embittering the last hours of our intercourse,
and the endeavoring to wring and wound my heart.
But I —”

“If you had dealt frankly with me,” he interrupted her, very
angrily, “you would have told me honestly that you loved another.”

“Loved another! What do you mean? What other?”

So evident was the truth, the sincerity of her astonishment,
that jealousy itself was rebuked and put to silence in the young
man's bosom; and he endeavored to avoid or change the subject.
But the womanly indignation of the fair girl was now
awakened; her pride had been touched; her delicacy wounded;
her sensibilities assailed in the tenderest point.

“Leave me!” she said, after a little pause, during which she,
in her turn gazing upon him, now bewildered and abashed, with
eyes of serene wonder, not all unmingled with contempt —
“Nay! not another word — leave me — begone! You are not
worthy of a woman's love — you are not worthy to be treated or
regarded as a man. Leave me, I say, and trouble me no more.
Poor, weak, mean-spirited, vain, jealous, and ungenerous, begone!
You know — no man knows better — the falsehood of
the last words you have spoken. No man knows better their
unfeelingness, their ungenerous cruelty. But if I had — if I
had loved another — in what does that concern you? in what
am I responsible to you for my likings or dislikings? Once
and for all be it said, I love you not — should not love you,
were you the only one of your sex on the face of God's earth
— and I pray God to help and protect the woman who shall
love you — if ever you be loved of woman, which I for one believe
not — for she shall love the veriest tyrant that ever tortured
a fond heart, under the plea of loving.”

“I go,” he replied. “I am answered, once and for all. I
go, and may you never need my aid, my forgiveness.”

“Forgiveness!” she exclaimed, with a contemptuous glance.
“Forgiveness! I know not what you have to forgive! But
you should rather pray that I may have need of them; then
may you have the pleasure of refusing me at my need.”

“Ah! it is thus you think of me. It is time, then, that I
should leave you, Fare you well, Theresa.”

“There is no need for farewells at present. The day is
early yet; and I trust still to see your temper changed before
you set forth on your journey. It would grieve my father
sorely that you should leave us thus.”

“He will not know how I leave you. He will see me no
more for years — perhaps never!”

“What do you mean?”

“That I shall mount my horse within this half hour, and return
no more until I shall have twice crossed the Atlantic. So
fare you well, Theresa.”

“Fare you well, Denzil, if it must be so. And God bless
you, and send you a better mind. You will be sorry for this
one day. There is my hand, fare you well; and rest assured
of this, return when you may, you will find me the same
Theresa.”

He took her hand, and wrung it hard. “Farewell,” he said.
“Farewell; and God grant that when I do return, I find you
the wife, and not the mistress, of Jasper St. Aubyn.”

Ungenerous and bitter at the last, he winged the shaft at
random, which he hoped would pierce the deepest, which he
trusted would prevent the consummation he most dreaded —
that she should be the wife of the boy whom he had saved,
whom he had now hated.

The other contingency, at which he had hinted basely, unmanly,
brutally, he knew to be impossible — but he knew also,

that the surmise would gall her beyond endurance. That, that
was the cruel, the unworthy object of the last words Denzil
Bras-de-fer ever exchanged in this world with Theresa
Allan.

He turned on his heel, and, without looking back once, strode
through the garden, with all his better feelings lost and swallowed
up in bitterness and hatred — entered his own apartment,
and there wrote a few lines to his uncle, to the effect that in
order to avoid the pain of a parting, and the sorrows of a last
adieu, he had judged it for the wisest to depart suddenly and
unawares, and that he should not return to Widecomb until his
voyage should be ended.

Then, leaving the house, where he had passed so many a
happy hour, in hot and passionate resentment, he mounted his
horse and rode away at a hard gallop across the hills toward
Hexworthy and Plymouth.

The last words he uttered had gone to Theresa's heart like a
death-shot. She did not speak, or even sigh, as she heard
them, but pressed her hand hard on her breast, and fell speechless
and motionless on the dewy greensward.

He, engrossed by his selfish rage, and deafened to the sound
of her fall by the beatings of his own hard heart, stalked off
unconscious what had befallen her; and she lay there, insensible,
until the servant-girl, missing her at the breakfast hour,
found her there cold, and, as at first she believed, lifeless.

She soon revived, indeed, from the swoon; but the excitement
and agitation of that scene brought on a slow, lingering
fever; and weeks elapsed ere she again left her chamber. When
she did quit it, the fresh green leaves of summer had put on
their sere and yellow hue, the autumn flowers were fast losing
their last brilliancy, the hoar-frosts lay white, in the early
mornings, over the turf-walks of her garden, ice had been seen
already on the great pool above the fords of Widecomb, and

everything gave notice that the dreary days of winter were approaching,
and even now at hand.

The northwest winds howled long and hollow over the open
hills and heathery wolds around Widecomb manor, and ever as
their wild melancholy wail fell on the ears of Theresa, as she
sat by her now lonely hearth, they awoke a thought of him, the
playmate of her happy childhood, from whom she had parted,
not as friends and playmates should part, and who was now
ploughing the fair Atlantic, perhaps never to return.

A shadow had fallen upon her brow; a gloom upon her
young and happy life.

And where was he who, unconsciously, though not perhaps
unintentionally, had been the cause of the cloud which had arisen,
and whence that shadow, that gloom? Where was Jasper St.
Aubyn?

2. PART II.

1. CHAPTER I.
THE WIFE.

Two years had passed away since Denzil Bras-de-fer set
sail on the Virginia voyage, and from that day no tidings had
been heard of him in England.

In the meantime, changes, dark, melancholy changes, had altered
everything at Widecomb. The two old men, whom we
last saw conversing cheerfully of times long gone, and past joys
unforgotten, had both fallen asleep, to wake no more but to immortality.
Sir Miles St. Aubyn slept with his fathers in the
bannered and escutcheoned chapel adjoining the hall, wherein
he had spent so many, and those the happiest, of his days;
while William Allan — he had preceded his ancient friend, his
old rival, but a few weeks on their last journey — lay in the
quiet village churchyard, beneath the shade of the great lime-trees,
among the leaves of which he had loved to hear the hum
of the bees in his glad boyhood. The leaves waved as of old,
and twinkled in the sunshine, and the music of the revelling
bees was blithe as ever, but the eye that had rejoiced at the
calm scenery, the ear that had delighted in the rural sound,
were dim and deaf for ever.

Happy — happy they! whom no more cares should reach,
no more anxieties, for ever — who now no more had hopes to
be blighted, joys to be tortured into sorrows, and, worst of all,
affections to breed the bitterest griefs, and make calamity of so
long life. Happy, indeed, thrice happy!

There was a pleasant parlor, with large oriel windows looking
out upon the terrace of Widecomb hall, and over the beautiful
green chase, studded with grand old oaks, down to the
deep ravine through which the trout stream rushed, in which
the present lord of that fair demesne had so nearly perished at
the opening of my tale.

And in that pleasant parlor, within the embrasure of one of
the great oriels, gazing out anxiously over the lovely park, now
darkening with the long shadows of a sweet summer evening,
there stood as beautiful a being as ever gladdened the eye of
friend, husband, or lover, on his return from brief absence
home.

It was Theresa — Allan no longer, but St. Aubyn; and with
the higher rank which she had so deservedly acquired, she had
acquired, too, a higher and more striking style of beauty. Her
slender girlish stature had increased in height, and expanded
in fullness, roundness, symmetry, until the delicate and somewhat
fragile maiden had been matured into the perfect, full-blown
woman.

Her face also was lovelier than of old; it had a deeper, a
more spiritual meaning. Love had informed it, and experience.
And the genius, dormant before, and unsuspected save by the
old fond father, sat enthroned visibly on the pale, thoughtful
brow, and looked out gloriously from those serene, large eyes,
filled as they were to overflowing with a clear, lustrous, tranquil
light, which revealed to the most casual and thoughtless
observers, the purity, the truth, the whiteness of the soul
within.

But if you gazed on her more closely,

You saw that how pure, how calm, how innocent soever, she
was not yet exempt from the hopes, the fears, the passions, and
the pains of womanhood.

The woman was more lovely than the girl, was wiser, greater,
perhaps better — alas! was she happier?

She had been now nearly two years a wife, though but within
the last twelve months acknowledged and installed as such in
her husband's house. It had been a dark mystery, her love —
the child of sorrow and concealment, although she might thank
her own true heart, guided by principle, and lighted by a higher
star than any earthly passion, even the love of God, it had not
been the source of shame.

Artfully, yet enthusiastically, had that bold, brilliant, fascinating
boy laid siege to her affections; and soon, by dint of kindred
tastes, and feelings, and pursuits, he had succeeded in
winning the whole perfect love of that pure, overflowing soul.

She loved him with that fervor, that devotion of which women
alone are perhaps capable, and of women only those who are
gifted with that extreme sensibility, that exquisite organization,
which, rendering them the most charming, the most fascinating,
and the most susceptible of their sex, too often renders them
the least happy.

And he, too, loved her — as well, perhaps, as one of his character
and temperament could love anything, except himself; he
loved her passionately; he admired her beauty, her grace, her
delicacy, beyond measure. He understood and appreciated her
exquisite taste, her brilliancy, her feminine and gentle genius.
He was not happy when he was absent from her side; he
could not endure the idea that she should love, or even smile
upon another, he coveted the possession of a creature so beautiful,

a soul so powerful, and at the same time so loving. Above
all, he was proud to be loved by such a being.

But beyond this he no more loved her, than the child loves
its toy. He held her only in his selfishness of soul, even before
his passion had

But he knew nothing, felt nothing, understood nothing of her
higher, better self; he saw nothing of her inner light — guessed
nothing of what a treasure he had won.

He would have sacrificed nothing of his pleasures, nothing
of his prejudices, nothing of his pride, had such a sacrifice been
needed to make her the happiest of women. While she would
have laid down her life for the mere delight of gaining him one
moment's joy — would have sacrificed all that she had, or hoped
to have, save honor, faith, and virtue. And to yield these he
never asked her.

No! in the wildest dream of his reckless, unprincipled imagination,
he never fancied to himself the possibility of tempting
her to lawless love. In the very boldest of his audacious
flights, he never would have dared to whisper one loose thought,
one questionable wish, in the maiden's ear. It had, perhaps,
been well he had done so — for on that instant, as the night-mists
melt away and leave the firmament pure and transparent at
the first glance of the great sun, the cloud of passion which obscured
her mental vision would have been scattered and dispersed
from her clear intellect by the first word that had flashed
on her soul conviction of his baseness.

But whether the wish ever crossed his mind or not, he never
gave it tongue, nor did she even once suspect it.

Still he had wooed her secretly — laying the blame on his
father's pride, his father's haughty and high ambition, which he
insisted would revolt at the bare idea of his wedding with any

lady, who could not point to the quarterings of a long, noble line
of ancestry; he had prevailed on her, first to conceal their love,
and at length to consent to a secret marriage.

It was long, indeed, ere he could bring her to agree even to
that clandestine step; nor, had her father lived but a few weeks
longer, would he have done so ever.

The old man died, however, suddenly, and at the very moment
when, though she knew it not, his life was most necessary
to his daughter's welfare. He was found dead in his bed, after
one of those strange, mysterious seizures, to which he had for
many years been subject, and during which he had appeared
to be endowed with something that approached nearly to a
knowledge of the future. Although, if such were, indeed, the
case, it was scarce less wonderful that on the passing away of
the dark fit, he seemed to have forgotten all that he had seen
and enunciated of what should be thereafter.

Be this, however, as it may — he was found by his unhappy
child, dead, and already cold; but with his limbs composed so
naturally, and his fine benevolent features wearing so calm and
peaceful an expression, that it was evident he had passed away
from this world of sin and sorrow, during his sleep, without a
pang or a struggle. Never did face of mortal sleeper give surer
token of a happy and glorious awakening.

But he was gone, and she was alone, friendless, helpless, and
unprotected.

How friendless, how utterly destitute and helpless, she knew
not, nor had even suspected, until the last poor relics of her
only kinsman, save he who was a thousand leagues aloof on the
stormy ocean, had been consigned to the earth, whence they
had their birth and being. Then, when his few papers were
examined, and his affairs scrutinized by his surviving, though
now fast declining friend, St. Aubyn, it appeared that he had
been supported only by a life annuity, which died with himself,

and that he had left nothing but the cottage at the fords, with
the few acres of garden-ground, and the slender personal property
on the premises, to his orphan-child.

It was rendered probable by some memoranda and brief notes,
found among his papers, the greater part of which were occupied
by abstruse mathematical problems, and yet wilder astrological
calculations, that he had looked forward to the union of his
daughter with the youth whom he had brought up as his own
son, and whose ample means, as well as his affection for the
lovely girl, left no doubt of his power and willingness to become
her protector.

What he had observed, during his sojourn at the cottage, led
old Sir Miles, however, who had assumed, as an act of duty,
no less than of pleasure, the character of executor to his old
friend, to suspect that the simple-minded sage had in some sort
reckoned without his host; and that on one side, at least, there
would be found insuperable objections to his views for Theresa's
future life. And in this opinion he was confirmed immediately
by a conversation which he had with the poor girl, so soon as
the first poignant agony of grief had passed from her mind.

In this state of affairs, an asylum at the manor was offered
by the old cavalier, and accepted by the orphan with equal
frankness, but with a most unequal sense of obligation — Sir
Miles regarding his part in the transaction as a thing of course,
Theresa looking on it as an action of the most exalted and extraordinary
generosity.

In truth, it had occurred already to the mind of the old knight
so soon as he was satisfied within himself that Theresa's affections
were not given to her wild and dangerous cousin, that he
would gladly see her the wife of his own almost idolized boy.
For, though of no exalted or ennobled lineage, she was of gentle
blood, of an honorable parentage, which had been long established
in the county, and which, if fallen in fortunes, had

never lost caste, or been degraded, as he would assuredly have
deemed it, by participation in any mechanical or mercantile pursuit.
He had seen enough of courts and courtiers to learn their
hollowness, and all the empty falsehood of their gorgeous show
— he had mingled enough in the great world to be convinced
that real happiness was not to be sought in the hurlyburly of its
perilous excitement, and incessant strife; and that which would
have rendered him the happiest, would have been to see Jasper
established, tranquilly, and at his ease, with domestic bonds to
insure the permanency of his happiness, before his own time
should come, as the lord of Widecomb.

And such were his views when he prevailed on Theresa to
let the House in the Woods be her home, until at least such
time as news could be received of her cousin; who, certainly,
whatever might be the relative state of their affections, would
never suffer her to want a home or a protector.

He had observed that Jasper was struck deeply by the charms
of the sweet girl; he knew, although he had affected not to
know it, that, under the pretence of fishing or shooting excursions,
he had been in the almost daily habit of visiting her,
since the accident which had led to their acquaintance; and he
was, above all, well assured that the girl loved him with all the
deep, unfathomable devotion of which such hearts as hers alone
are capable.

Well pleased was he, therefore, to see the beautiful being
established in the halls of which he hoped to see her, ere long,
the mistress; and if he did not declare his wishes openly to
either on the subject, it was that he was so well aware of his
son's headstrong and wilful temper, that he knew him fully
capable of refusing peremptorily the very thing which he most
desired, if proffered to him as a boon, much more urged upon
him as the desire of a third party — which he was certain to
regard as an interference with his free will and self-regulation

— while, at the same time he feared to alarm Theresa's delicacy,
by anticipating the progress of events.

Thus, with a heart overflowing with affection for that wild,
wilful, passionate boy, released from the only tie of obedience
or restraint that could have bound her, poor Theresa was delivered
over, fettered as it were, hand and foot, to the perilous
influence of Jasper's artifices, and the scarce less dangerous
suggestions of her own affections.

It was strange that, quick as she was and clever, even beyond
her sex's wonted penetration, where matters of the heart are
concerned, Theresa never suspected that the old cavalier had
long perceived and sanctioned their growing affection. But
idolizing Jasper as she did, and believing him all that was high
and generous and noble, seeing that all his external errors
tended to the side of rash, hasty impulse, never to calculation
or deceit, she saw everything, as it were, through his eyes, and
was easily induced by him to believe that all his fatherlike
kindness and fatherlike attention to her slightest wish, arose
only from his love for her lost parent, and compassion for her
sad abandonment; nay, further, he insisted that the least suspicion
of their mutual passion would lead to their instant and
eternal separation.

It was lamentable, that a being so bright, so excellent as she,
believing that such was the case, and bound as she was by the
closest obligations, the dearest gratitude to that good old man,
should have consented, even for a moment, to deceive him, much
more to frustrate his wishes in a point so vital.

But she was very young — she had been left without the
training of a mother's watchful heart, without the supervision of
a mother's earnest eye — she was endowed marvellously with
those extreme sensibilities which are invariably a part of that
high nervous organization, ever connected with poetical genius.
She loved Jasper with a devotedness, a singleness, and at the

same time a consuming heat of passion, which scarcely could
be believed to exist in one so calm, so self-possessed, and so
innocently-minded — and, above all, she had none else in the
wide world on whom to fix her affections.

And the boy profited by this; and with the sharpness of an
intellect, which, if far inferior to hers in depth and real greatness,
was as far superior to it in worldly selfishness and instinctive
shrewdness, played upon her nervous temperament,
till he could make each chord of her secret soul thrill to his
touch, as if they had been the keys of a stringed instrument.

The hearts of the young who love, must ever, must naturally
resent all interference of the aged, who would moderate or oppose
their love, as cold, intrusive tyranny; and thus, with plausible
and artful sophistry, abetted by the softness of her treacherous
heart, too willing to be deceived, he first led her to regard
his father as opposed to the wishes of that true love, which, for
all the great poet knew or had heard, “never did run smooth,”
and thence to resent that opposition as unkind, unjust, tyrannical.
And thence — alas! for Theresa! — to deceive the good
old man, her best friend on earth — ay, to deceive herself.

It is not mine to palliate, much less to justify her conduct.
I have but to relate a too true tale; and in relating it, to show,
in so for as I can, the mental operations, the self-deceptions,
and the workings of passion — from which not even the best
and purest of mankind are exempt — by which an innocent and
wonderfully-constituted creature was betrayed into one fatal
error.

She was persuaded — words can tell no more.

It was a grievous fault, and grievously Theresa answered it.

When ill things are devised, and to be done, ill agents are
soon found, especially by the young, the wealthy, and the powerful.

The declining health of Sir Miles St. Aubyn was no secret

in the neighborhood — the near approach of his death was already
a matter of speculation; and already men almost looked
upon Jasper as the lord, in esse, of the estates of Widecomb
manor.

The old white-headed vicar had a son, poor like himself, and
unaspiring — like himself, in holy orders; and for him, when
his own humble career should be ended, he hoped the reversion
of the vicarage, which was in the gift of the proprietor
of Widecomb. The old man had known Jasper from his boyhood,
had loved Theresa, whom he had, indeed, baptized, from
her cradle. He was very old and infirm, and some believed
that his intellect was failing. Between his affection for the
parties, and his interest in his son's welfare, it was easy to
frame a plausible tale, which should work him to Jasper's will;
and with even less difficulty than the boy looked for, he was
prevailed upon to unite them secretly, and at the dead of night,
in the parish-church at the small village by the fords.

The sexton of the parish-church was a low knave, with no
thought beyond his own interest, no wish but for accumulation
of gain. A gamekeeper, devoted to the young master's worst
desires, a fellow who had long ministered to his most evil
habits, and had, in no small degree, assisted to render him
what he was, only too willingly consented to aid in an affair
which he saw clearly would put the young heir in his power
for ever.

He was selected as one of the witnesses — for without witnesses,
the good but weak old vicar would not perform the ceremony;
and he promised to bring a second, in the person of
his aged and doting mother, the respectability of whose appearance
should do away with any scruples of Theresa's while her
infirmity should render her a safe depository of the most dangerous
secret.

And why all this mystery —this tortuous and base deviation

from the path of right — this unnecessary concealment, and unmeaning
deceit?

Wherefore, if the boy were, indeed, what he has been described,
and no more — impulsive, wilful, rash, headlong, irresistible
in his impulses — if not a base traitor, full of dark plots,
deep-laid beforehand — wherefore, if he did love the girl, with
all the love of which his character was capable, if he had not
predetermined to desert her — wherefore did he not wed her
openly in the light of day, amid crowds of glad friends, and
rejoicing dependants? Why did he not gladden the heart of
his aged father, and lead her to the home of his ancestors, a happy
and honored bride, without that one blot on her conscience,
without that one shadow of deceit, which marred the perfect
truthfulness of her character, and in after-days weighed on her
mind heavily?

A question to which no answer can be given, unless it be
that to tortuous minds the tortuous method is ever the readiest;
and intrigue — only for that it is intrigue — a joy to the intriguer.

2. CHAPTER II.
THE TEMPTER.

Reader, the heart of man is a strange compound, a deceitful
thing.

Jasper St. Aubyn did love Theresa Allan, as I have said before,
with all the love which he could bestow on anything divine
or human. His passion for the possession of her charms,
both personal and mental, was, as his passions ever were, inordinate.
His belief in her excellence, her purity, in the stability
of her principles, the impregnable strength of her virtue,
could not be proved more surely than by the fact, that he had
never dared an attempt to shake them. His faith in her adoration
for himself was as firm-fixed as the sun in heaven. And,
lastly, his conviction of the constancy of his own love toward
her, of the impossibility of that love's altering or perishing, was
strong as his conviction of his own being.

But he was one of those singularly-constituted beings, who
will never take an easy path when he has the option of one
more difficult; never follow the straight road when he can see
a tortuous byway leading to the same end.

Had his father as he pretended, desired to thwart his will,
or prevent his marriage with Theresa, for that very cause he
would have toiled indefatigably, till he had made her his own
in the face of day. Partly swayed by a romantic and half-chivalrous
feeling, which loved to build up difficulties for the
mere pleasure of surmounting them, partly urged on by pure
wilfulness and recklessness of temper, he chose evil for his

good, he rushed into deceit where truth would, in fact, have
served his purpose better. A boyish love of mystery and mischief
might probably have had its share likewise in his strange
conduct, and a sort of self-pride in the skill with which he managed
his plot, and worked the minds of older men into submission
to his own will. Lastly, to compel Theresa to this sacrifice
of her sense of duty and propriety, to this abandonment of
principle to passion, appeared to his perverted intellect a mighty
victory, an overwhelming proof of her devotedness to his
selfish will.

If there were any darker and deeper motive in his mind, it
was unconfessed to himself; and in truth, I believe, none such
then existed. If such did in after-times grow up within him,
it arose probably from a perception of the fatal facility which
that first fraud, with its elaborate deceits, had given him for
working further evil.

Verily, it is wise to pray that we be not tempted. The perilous
gift of present opportunity has made many a one, who had
else lived innocent, die, steeped to the very lips in guilt.

Such were the actuating motives of his conduct; of her pure
love, and the woman's dread of losing what she loved, by over-vehement
resistance.

At the dead of a dark, gusty night in autumn, when the young
moon was seen but at rare intervals between the masses of
dense, driving wrack which swept continuously across the
leaden-colored firmament before the wailing west winds, when
the sere leaves came drifting down from the great trees, like
the ghosts of departed hopes, when the long, mournful howl of
some distant ban-dog baying the half-seen moon, and the dismal
hootings of the answered owls, were the only sounds
abroad, the poor girl stole, like a guilty creature, from her virgin-chamber,
and, faltering at every ray of misty light, every
dusky shadow that wavered across her way, as she threaded

the long corridors, crept stealthily down the great oaken staircase,
and joined her young lover in the stone-hall below.

Her palfrey and his hunter stood saddled at the foot of the
terrace steps, and, almost without a word exchanged between
them, she found herself mounted and riding, with her right
hand clasped in his burning fingers, through the green chase
toward the village.

The clock was striking midnight — ill-omened hour for such
a rite as that — in the tower of the parish-church, as Jasper St.
Aubyn sprung to the ground before the old Saxon porch, and
lifting his sweet bride from the saddle, fastened the bridles of
their horses to the hooks in the churchyard-wall, and entered
the low-browed door which gave access to the nave.

A single dim light burned on the altar, by which the old
vicar, robed in his full canonicals, awaited them, with his
knavish assistant, and the two witnesses beside him.

Dully and unimpressively, at that unhallowed hour, and by that
dim light, the sacred rite was performed and the dread adjuration
answered, and the awful bond undertaken, which, through
all changes, and despite all chances of this mortal life, makes
two into one flesh, until death shall them sever.

The gloom, the melancholy, the nocturnal horror of the scene
sunk deeply on Theresa's spirit; and it was in the midst of
tears and shuddering that she gave her hand and her heart to
one, who, alas! was too little capable of appreciating the invaluable
treasure he had that night been blessed withal. And
even when the ceremony was performed, and she was his immutably
and for ever, as they rode home as they had come,
alone, through the dim avenues and noble chase, which were
now in some sort her own, there was none of that buoyancy,
that high, exulting hope, that rapture of permitted love,
which is wont to thrill the bosoms of young and happy brides.

Nor, on the following day, was the melancholy gloom which,

despite all her young husband's earnest and fond endeavors to
cheer and compose her, still overhung her mind, in anywise
removed by the tidings which reached the manor late in the
afternoon.

The aged vicar, so the tale went, had been called by some
unusual official duty to the parish-church, long after it was dark,
and in returning home, had fallen among the rocks, having
strayed from the path, and injured himself so severely that his
life was despaired of.

So eagerly did Jasper proffer his services, and with an alacrity
so contrary to his usual sluggishness, when his own interests
were not at stake, did he order his horse and gallop down
to the village to visit his old friend, that his father smiled, well
pleased, and half-laughingly thanked Theresa, when the boy
had gone; saying that he really believed her gentle influence
was charming some of Jasper's wilfulness away, and that he
trusted ere long to see him, through her precept and example,
converted into a milder and more humanized mood and temper.

Something swelled in the girl's bosom, and rose to her throat,
half-choking her — the hysterica passio of poor Lear — as the
good old man spoke, and the big tears gushed from her eyes.

It was by the mightiest effort only that she kept down the
almost overmastering impulse which prompted her to cast herself
down at the old man's feet, and confess to him what she
had done, and so implore his pardon and his blessing.

Had she done so, most happy it had been for her unhappy
self; more happy yet for one more miserable yet, that should be!

Had she done so, she had crowned the old man's last days
with a halo of happiness that had lighted him down the steps
to the dusky grave rejoicing — she had secured to herself, and
to him whom she had taken for better or for worse, innocence,
and security, and self-respect, and virtue, which are happiness!

She did it not; and she repented not then — for when she

told Jasper how nearly she had confessed all, his brow grew
as dark as night, and he put her from him, exclaiming with an
oath, that had she done so, he had never loved her more — but
did she not repent thereafter?

It was late when Jasper returned, and he was, to all outward
observers, sad and thoughtful; but Theresa could read something
in his countenance, which told her that he had derived
some secret satisfaction from his visit.

In a word, the danger, apprehension of which had so prompted
Jasper's charity, and quickened his zeal in well-doing — the
danger, that the old clergyman should divulge in extremis the
duty which had led him to the church at an hour so untimely,
was at an end for ever. He was dead, and had never spoken
since the accident, which had proved fatal to his decrepit frame
and broken constitution.

Moreover, to make all secure, he had seen the rascal sexton,
and secured him for ever, by promising him an annuity so long
as the secret should be kept; while craftier and older in iniquity
than he, and suspecting — might it not be foreseeing — deeper
iniquity to follow, the villain, who now alone, with the suborned
witnesses, knew what had passed, stole into the chancel,
and cut out from the parish-register the leaf which contained
the record of that unhappy marriage.

It is marvellous how at times all things appear to work prosperously
for the success of guilt, the destruction of innocence;
but, of a truth, the end of these things is not here.

It so fell out that the record of Theresa Allan's union with
Jasper St. Aubyn, was the first entry on a fresh leaf of the
register. One skilful cut of a sharp knife removed that leaf so
as to defy the closest scrutiny; had one other name been inscribed
thereon, before hers, she had been saved.

Alas! for Theresa!

But to do Jasper justice, he knew not of this villany; nor,

had he known, would he then have sanctioned it. He only
wished to secure himself against momentary discovery.

The ill consequences of this folly, this mysterious and unmeaning
craft, had now, in some degree, recoiled upon himself.
And delighting, as he really did, in the closest intercourse with his
sweet, young bride, he chafed and fumed at finding that the necessity
of keeping up the concealment, which he had so needlessly
insisted on, precluded him from the possibility of enjoying his
new possession, as he would, entirely, and at all hours.

He would have given almost his right hand now to be able
to declare openly that she was his own. But for once in his
life, he dared not! He could not bring himself to confess to
his kind father the cruel breach of confidence, the foul and
causeless deceit of which he had been guilty; and he began
almost to look forward to the death of that excellent and idolizing
parent, as the only event that could allow him to call his
wife his own.

It was not long before his wish — if that can be called a wish,
which he dared not confess to his own guilty heart, was accomplished.

The first snows had not fallen yet, when the old cavalier fell
ill, and declined so rapidly that before the old year was dead
he was gathered to his fathers. As he had lived, so he died,
a just, upright, kindly, honorable man — at peace with all men,
and in faith with his God.

His last words were entreaty to his son to take Theresa
Allan to his wife, and to live with her unambitiously, unostentatiously,
as he had lived himself, and was about to die, at Widecomb.
And even then, though he promised to obey his father's
bidding, the boy's heart was not softened, nor was his conscience
touched by any sense of the wrong he had done. He
promised, and as the good man's dying eye kindled with pleasure,
he smiled on him with an honest seeming smile, received

his parting kiss, and closed his eyes, and stood beside the dead,
unrelenting, unrepentant.

He was the lord of Widecomb; and so soon as the corpse by
which he stood should be composed in the quiet grave, the
world should know him, too, as the lord of Theresa Allan.

And so he swore to her, when he stole that night, as he had
done nightly since their marriage, to her chamber, after every
light was extinguished, and, as he believed, every eye closed
in sleep; and she, fond soul! believed him, and clasped him to
her heart, and sunk into sleep, with her head pillowed on his
breast, happier than she had been since she had once — for the
first, last time — deviated from the paths of truth.

But he who has once taken up deceit as his guide, knows
not when he can quit it. He may, indeed, say to himself “Thus
far will I go, and no farther,” but when he shall have once attained
the proposed limit, and shall set himself to work to recover
that straight path from which he has once deviated, fortunate
will he be, indeed, if he find not a thousand obstacles,
which it shall tax his utmost energy, his utmost ingenuity, to
surmount, if he have not to cry out in despair:—

Jasper St. Aubyn did honestly intend to do, the next day,
what he that night promised; nor did he doubt that he could do
it, and so do it, as to save her scatheless, of whom he had not
yet grown weary.

But, alas! of so delicate a texture is a woman's reputation,
that the slightest doubt, the smallest shade once cast upon it,
though false as hell itself, it shall require more than an angel's
tears to wash away the stain. All cautiously as Jasper had
contrived his visits to the chamber of his wife, all guarded as
had been his intercourse with her, although he had never
dreamed that a suspicion had been awakened in a single mind

of the existence of such an intercourse, he had not stolen
thither once, nor returned once to his own solitary couch, but
keen, curious, prying eyes had followed him.

There was not a maid-servant in the house but knew Miss
Theresa's shame, as all believed it to be; but tittered and triumphed
over it in her sleeves, as an excuse, or at least a palliation
of her own peccadilloes; but told it, in confidence, to
her own lover, Tom, the groom, or Dick, the falconer, until it
was the common gossip of the kitchen and the butlery, how the
fair and innocent Theresa was Master Jasper's mistress.

But they nothing dreamed of this; and both fell asleep that
night, full of innocent hopes on the one hand, and good determinations
— alas! never to be realized — on the other.

The morrow came, and Sir Miles St. Aubyn was consigned
to the vault where slept his fathers of so many generations.
Among the loud and sincere lamentations of his grateful tenantry
and dependants, the silent, heartfelt tears of Theresa, and
the pale but constrained sorrow of his son, he was committed,
earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust, to his long last
home, by the son of the aged vicar, who had already been inducted
to the living, which his father had held so many years
before him.

The mournful ceremonial ended, Jasper was musing alone in
the old library, considering with himself how he might best
arrange the revelation, which he proposed to make that very
evening to his household of his hitherto concealed marriage
with Theresa, when suddenly a servant entered and informed
him that Peter Verity, the sexton, would be glad to speak six
words with his honor, if it would not be too much trouble.

“By no means,” replied Jasper, eagerly, for he foresaw, as
he thought, through this man a ready mode of extricating himself
from the embarrassment of the disclosure, “admit him instantly.”

The fellow entered; a low, miserable, sneaking scoundrel,
even from his appearance; and Jasper felt as if he almost
loathed himself that he had ever had to do with so degraded a
specimen of mortality. He had need of him, however, and was
compelled, therefore, much against his will, to greet him, and
speak him fairly.

“Ha, Verity,” he said, “I am glad you have come, I should
have sent for you in the morning, if you had not come up to-night.
You have managed that affair for me right well; and I
shall not forget it, I assure you. Here are ten guineas for you,
as an earnest now, and I shall continue your annuity, though
there will be no need for concealment any longer. Still I
shall want your assistance, and will pay you for it liberally.”

“I thank your honor, kindly,” answered the fellow, pocketing
the gold. “But with regard to the annuity, seeing as how
what I 've done for your honor is a pretty dangerous job, and
one as I fancy might touch my life, I —”

“Touch your life! why what the devil does the fellow
mean!” Jasper interrupted him, starting to his feet, “I never
asked you — never asked any man — to do aught that should
affect his life.”

“You never did ask me, right out in words, that is a fact,
your honor. You was too deep for that, I 'm a thinking! But,
Lord bless ye! I understood ye, for all, as well as if you had
asked me. And so, be sure, I went and did it straight. I 'd
ha' done anything to serve your honor — that I would — and I
will again, that 's more.”

“In God's name, what have you done, then?” exclaimed
Jasper, utterly bewildered.

“Why, seeing as your honor did n't wish to have your marriage
with Miss Theresa known, and as there was n't no way
else of hiding it, when the old parson was dead and gone, and
a new one coming, I went and cut the record of it out of the

church-register, and I 've got it here, safe enough. So if your
honor fancies any time to get tired like of miss, why you can
e'en take another wife, and no one the wiser. There 's not a
soul knows aught about it but me, and black Jem Alderly; and
we 'll never say a word about it, not we. Nor it would n't matter
if we did, for that, when once you 've got this here paper.
And so I was thinking, if your honor would just give me five
hundred guineas down, I 'd hand it over, and you could just put
it in the fire, if you choosed, and no one the wiser.”

Jasper cast his eyes up to heaven in despair, and wrung his
hands bitterly.

“Great God!” he said, “I would give five thousand if you
could undo this that you have done. I will give you five
thousand if you will replace the leaf where it was, undiscovered.”

“It ain't possible,” replied the man. “The new vicar he
has looked over all the register, and made a copy of it; and he
keeps it locked up, too, under his own key, so that, for my life,
I could not get it, if I would. And I 'd be found out, sure as
God — and it 's hanging by the law! nothing less. But what
does it signify, if I may be so bold, your honor?”

“When my poor father died, all cause of concealment was
at an end; and I wished this very day to acknowledge my marriage
with Mrs. St. Aubyn.”

The man uttered a low expressive whistle, as who should
say, “Here is a change, with a vengeance!” But he dared
not express what he thought, and answered humbly,

“Well, your honor, I do n't see how this alters it. You have
nothing to do but to acknowledge madam as your wife, and
there 's no one will think of asking when you were married, nor
has n't no right to do so neither. And if they should, you can
say the doctor married you in his own parlor, and I can swear
to that, your honor; if you want me, any time; and so 'll Jem

Alderly; and this writing, that I 'll give you, will prove it any
time, for it's in the doctor's own hand-writing, and signed by
the witnesses. So just you give me the five hundred, and I 'll
give you the register; and you can do as you will with it, your
honor. But if I was your honor, and you was Peter Verity,
I 'd just tell the servants, as madam was my wife, and interduce
her as Mrs. St. Aubyn like; but I 'd not say when nor where,
nor nothing about it; and I 'd just keep this here paper snug; as
I could perduce it, if I wanted, or make away with it, if I
wanted; it 's good to have two strings to your bow always.”

Jasper had listened to him in silence, with his eyes buried
in his hands, while he was speaking, and as he ceased he made
no reply; but remained motionless for several minutes.

Then he raised his head, and answered in an altered and
broken voice.

“It can not be helped now, but I would give very much it
had been otherwise.” He opened a drawer, as he spoke, in the
escritoir which stood before him, and took out of it a small box
bound with brass and secured by a massive lock, the key of
which was attached to a chain about his neck. It was filled
with rouleux of gold, from which he counted out the sum specified,
and pushed the gold across the table to the man, saying,
“Count it, and see that it is right, and give me the paper.”

Then satisfying himself that it was the very register in question,
he folded it carefully, and put it away in the box whence
he had withdrawn the gold; while the villain who had tempted
him stowed away the price of his rascality in a leathern bag
which he had brought with him for the purpose, well assured
that his claim would not be denied.

That done, he stood erect and unblushing, and awaited the
further orders of the young lord of Widecomb.

“Now, Peter,” said he, collecting himself, “mark me. You
are in my power! and if I ever hear that you have spoken

a word without my permission, or if you fail to speak when I
command you — I will hang you.”

And he spoke with a devilish energy, that showed how seriously
he was in earnest. “Do you understand that, Master
Peter Verity?”

“I do, your honor,” answered the man, with a doubtful and
somewhat gloomy smile; “but there is no need of such threats
with me; it is alike my interest and my wish to serve you, as
I have done already.”

“And it is my interest and my wish that you should serve
me, as differently as possible from the way in which you
have served me; or served yourself, rather, I should say, sirrah.”

“I beg your honor's pardon, if I have done wrong. I meant
to do good service.”

“Tush, sirrah! tush! If I be young, I am neither quite a
child, nor absolutely a fool. You meant to get me into your
power, and you have got yourself into mine. Now listen to
me, I know you for a very shrewd rascal, Peter Verity, and
for one who knows right well what to say, and what not to
say. Now, as I told you, I am about this very evening to
make known my marriage with the lady whom you saw me
wed. You will be asked, doubtless, a thousand questions on
the subject by all sorts of persons. Now, mark me, you will
answer so as to let all who ask understand that I am married,
and that you have known all about it from the first; but you
will do this in such a manner that no one shall be able to assert
that you have asserted anything; and further, that, if need
should be hereafter, you may be able to deny point blank your
having said aught, or known aught on the subject. I hope you
will remember what I am desiring you to do correctly, Peter
Verity; for, of a truth, if you make the slightest blunder, I shall
carry this document, which you have stolen from the church-register,

to the nearest justice of the peace, and make my deposition
against you.”

“I understand perfectly, your honor, and will do your bidding
correctly,” said the fellow, not a little embarrassed at finding
how much his position had altered, since he entered the
library, as he thought, well nigh the young heir's master.

So you shall do well,” replied Jasper. “Now get you gone.
Let them give you some ale in the buttery, but when I send
word to have the people collected in the great hall, make yourself
scarce. It is not desirable that you should be there when
I address them;” and lighting a hand-lamp as he ceased speaking,
for it had grown dark already during the conversation, he
turned his back on the discomfited sexton, and went up by a
private staircase to what was called the ladies' withdrawing-room,
an apartment which, having been shut up since the death
of his own mother, had been reopened on Theresa's joining the
family.

“The sexton of the church has been with you, Jasper,” she
said, eagerly, as her husband entered the room; “what should
have brought him hither?”

“He was here, you know, dearest, at the sad ceremonial;
and I had desired him to bring up a copy of the record of our
marriage. He wished to deliver it to me in person.”

“How good of you, dear Jasper, and how thoughtful,” she
replied, casting her fair, white arms about his neck, and kissing
his forehead tenderly, “that you may show it to the people, and
prove to them that I am indeed your wife.”

“Show it to the people! Prove that you are my wife!” he
answered impetuously, and with indignation in his every tone.
“I should like to see the person ask me to show it, or doubt
that you are my wife. No, indeed, dear Theresa, your very
thought shows how young you are, and ignorant of the world.
To do what you suggest, would but create the doubt, not destroy

it. No, when they have done supper, I shall cause the
whole household to be collected in the great stone-hall; and
when they are there, I shall merely lead you in upon my arm,
tell them we have been married in private these three months
past, and desire them to respect you as my dear wife, and their
honored mistress. That, and your being introduced to all
friends and visiters as Mistress St. Aubyn, is all that can be
needed; and, in cases such as ours, believe me, the less eclat
given to the circumstances, the better it will be for all parties.
And do not, I pray you, dearest, suffer the servant-girls to ask
you any questions on the subject, or answer them if they do.
But inform me of it forthwith.”

“They would not dream of doing so, Jasper,” she replied
gently. “And you are quite right, I am certain, and I will do
all that you wish. Oh! I am so happy! so immeasurably
happy, Jasper, even when I should be mournful at your good
father's death, who was so kind to me; but I can not — I can
not — this joy completely overwhelms me. I am too, too
happy.”

“Wherefore, so wondrous happy all on a sudden, sweet
one?” asked the boy, with a playful smile, laying his hand, as
he spoke, affectionately on her soft, rounded shoulder.

“That I need fear no longer to let the whole world know
how dearly, how devotedly I love my husband.”

And she raised her beautiful blue eyes to his, running over
with tears of tenderness and joy; and her sweet lips half apart,
so perfumed and so rosy, and radiant with so bright a smile, as
might have tempted the sternest anchorite to bend over her as
Jasper did, and press them with a long kiss of pure affection.

“Now I will leave you, dearest,” he said, kindly, “for a little
space, while I see that things are arranged for this great
ceremonial. I will warn old Geoffrey first of what I am about
to say to them, that they may not overwhelm us by their wonder

at the telling; and do you, when you hear the great bell
ring to assemble them, put on your prettiest smile, and your
most courageous look, for then I shall be on my way to fetch you.”

It was with a beating heart, and an almost sickening sense
of anxiety, that poor Theresa awaited the moment which was
to install her in the house of her husband as its lawful lady.
She felt the awkwardness, the difficulty of her situation, although
she was far indeed from suspecting all the causes which
in reality existed to justify her embarrassment and timidity.

She had not long, however, to indulge in such fancies, and
perhaps it was well that she had not; for her timidity seemed
to grow on her apace, and she began to think that courage
would fail her to undergo the ordeal of eyes to which she
should be exposed.

But at this moment, when she was giving way to her bashfulness,
when her terrors were gaining complete empire over
her, the great bell began to ring. Slow and measured the first
six or seven clanging strokes fell upon her ear, resembling more
the minute-tolling of a death-bell, than the gay peal that gives
note of festive tidings and rejoicing. But almost as soon as
this thought occurred to her, it seemed that the ringer, whoever
he was, had conceived the same idea, for the cadence of the
bell-ringing was changed suddenly, and a quick, merry chime
succeeded to the first solemn clangor.

At the same instant the door of the withdrawing-room was
thrown open, and her young husband entered hastily, and catching
her in his arms, kissed her lips affectionately. “Come,
dearest girl,” he said, as he drew her arm through his own,
“come, it will all be over in five minutes, and then everything
will go on as usual.”

And without waiting a reply, he led her down the great staircase
into the stone-hall, wherein all the servants of the household,
and many of the tenantry and neighboring yeomen, who

had not yet dispersed after the funeral, were assembled in a
surprised and admiring although silent crowd.

The old steward, to whom Jasper had communicated his
purpose, had already informed them of the object of their convocation,
and great was their wonder, though as yet they had
little time to comment on it, or communicate their thoughts and
suspicions of the news.

And now they were all collected, quiet, indeed, and respectful
— for such was the habit of the times — but all eagerness to
hear what the young master had to say, and, to speak truly,
little impressed by the informality of the affair, and little
pleased that one whom they regarded as little higher than
themselves, should be elevated to a rank and position so commanding.

Gathering even more than his wonted share of dignity from
the solemnity of the moment, and bearing himself even more
haughtily than his wont, from a sort of an inward consciousness
that he was in some sort descending from his proper sphere,
and lowering his wife by doing that which was yet necessary
to establish her fair fame, the young man came down the broad
oaken-steps, with a slow, proud, firm step, his athletic although
slender frame, seeming to expand with the elevation of his excited
feelings. He carried his fine head, with the brows a little
bent, and his eyes, glancing like stars of fire, as they ran
over every countenance that met his gaze, seeking, as it seemed,
to find an expression which should challenge his will or underrate
his choice.

She clung to his arm, not timidly, although it was evident
that she felt the need of his protection, and, although there was
an air of bashfulness and a slight tremor visible in her bearing,
they were mixed with a sort of gentle pride, the pride of conscious
rectitude and purity, and she did not cast down her beautiful
blue eyes, nor avoid the glances which were cast on her

from all sides, by some desiring to read her secret, by some
wishing to prejudge her character, but looked around her tranquilly,
with a sweet, lady-like self-possession, that won many
hearts to her cause, which, before her coming, had been prepared
to think of her unkindly.

Finding no eye in the circle that met his own with an inquisitive,
much less an insolent glance, Jasper St. Aubyn paused,
and addressed his people with a subdued and almost melancholy
smile, although his voice was clear and sonorous.

“This a sad occasion,” he said, “on which it first falls to my
lot, my people, to address you here, as the master of a few, the
landlord of many, and, as I hope to prove myself, the friend of
all. To fill the place of him, who has gone from us, and whom
you all knew so well, and had so much cause to love, I never
can aspire; but it is my earnest hope and desire to live and
die among you as he did; and if I fail to gain and hold fast
your affections, as he did, it shall not be for want of endeavoring
to deserve them. But my object in calling you together, my
friends, this evening, was not merely to say this to you, or to
promise you my friendship and protection, but rather to do a
duty, which must not be deferred any longer, for my own sake,
and for that of one far dearer than myself.” Here he paused,
and pressing the little white hand which reposed on his arm so
gently, smiled in the face of his young wife, as he moved her
a little forward into the centre of the circle. “I mean, to present
to you all, Mistress St. Aubyn, my beloved wife, and your
honored mistress! Some of you have been aware of this for
some time already; but to most of you it is doubtless a surprise.
Be it so. Family reasons required that our marriage should be
kept secret for a while. Those reasons are now at an end, and
I am as proud to acknowledge this dear lady as my wife, and
to claim all your homage and affection for her, both on my account,
and on account of her own virtues, as I doubt not you

will be proud and happy to have so excellent and beautiful a
lady to whom to look up as your mistress.”

He ceased, and three full rounds of cheering responded to
his manly speech. The circle broke up, and crowded around
the young pair, and many of the elder tenants, white-headed
men and women, came up and craved permission to shake hands
with the beautiful young lady, and blessed her with tears in
their eyes, and wished her long life and happiness here and
hereafter.

But among the servants of the household, there was not, by
any means, the same feeling manifested. The old steward, indeed,
who had grown up a contemporary of Jasper's father, and
the scarcely less aged housekeeper, did, indeed, show some
feeling, and were probably sincere as they offered their greetings,
and promised their humble services. But among the
maid-servants there passed many a meaning wink, and half-light,
half-sneering titter; and two or three of the younger men nudged
one another with their elbows, and interchanged thoughts with
what they considered a vastly knowing grin. No remarks
were made, however, nor did any intimation of doubt or distrust
reach the eyes or ears of the young couple — all appeared
to be truthful mirth and honest congratulation.

Then having ordered supper to be prepared for all present,
and liquor to be served out, both ale and wine, of a better quality
than usual, that the company might drink the health of their
young mistress, well pleased that the embarrassing scene was
at an end, Jasper led Theresa up to her own room, palpitating
with the excitement of the scene, and agitated even by the excess
of her own happiness.

But as the crowd was passing out of the hall into the dark
passages which led to the buttery and kitchen, one of the girls
of the house, a finely-shaped, buxom, red-lipped, hazel-eyed
lass, with a very roguish expression, hung back behind the

other maids, till she was joined by the under-falconer, a strapping
fellow in a green jerkin, with buckskin belt and leggins.

“Ha! Bess, is that you?” he said, passing his arm round
her waist, “thou 'rt a good lass, to tarry for me.”

And drawing her, nothing reluctant, aside from the crowd
into a dark corner, he kissed her a dozen times in succession,
a proceeding which she did not appear, by any means to resent,
the “ha' done nows!” to the contrary, notwithstanding, which
she seemed to consider it necessary to deliver, and which her
lover, probably correctly, understood as meaning, “Pray go on,
if you please.”

This pleasant interlude completed, “Well, Bess,” said the
swain, “and what think'st thou of the new mistress — of the
young master's wife? She 's a rare bit now, hant she?”

“Lor, Jem!” returned the girl, laughing, “she hant no more
his wife than I be yourn, I tell you.”

“Why, what be she, then, Bess?” said the fellow, gaping in
stupid wonderment, “thou didst hear what Master Jasper said.”

“Why, she be his sweetheart. Just what we be, Jem,” said
the unblushing girl, “what the quality folks calls his `miss.'
Why, Jem, he 's slept in her room every night since she came
here. He 's only said this here, about her being his wife, to
save her character.”

“No blame to him for that Bess, if it be so. But if you 're
wise, lass, you 'll keep this to yourself. She 's a beauty, anyways;
and I do n't fault him, if she be his wife, or his `miss,'
either, for that matter.”

“Lor!” replied the girl. “I sha n't go to say nothing, I 'm
sure. I 've got a good place, and I mean to keep it, too. It 's
naught to me how they amuse themselves, so they do n't meddle
with my sweet-hearting. But do you think her so pretty,
Jem? She 's a poor slight little slip of a thing, seems to me.”

“She beant such an armful as thou, Bess, that's a fact,” answered

the fellow, making a dash at her, which she avoided,
and took to her heels, looking back, however, over her shoulders,
and beckoning him to follow.

Such were not the only comments of the kind which passed
that evening; and although, fortunately for Jasper's and Theresa's
peace of mind, they never dreamed of what was going on
below, it was in fact generally understood among the younger
men and women, both of those within and without the house,
that Jasper's declaration was a mere stratagem, resorted to in
order to procure more respect and consideration for his concubine.
And, although she was everywhere treated and addressed
as St. Aubyn's wife, every succeeding day and hour
she was more generally regarded as his victim, and his mistress.

Such is the consequence of a single lapse from rectitude and
truth.

Alas for Theresa! her doom, though she knew it not, was
but too surely sealed for ever.

Had it not been for the exceeding gentleness and humility
of the unhappy girl, it is probable that she would have been
very shortly made acquainted, one way or other, with the opinion
which was entertained concerning her, in her own house,
and in the neighborhood. But the winning affability of her
manners, the total absence of all arrogance or self-elevation in
her demeanor toward her inferiors in station, her respect everywhere
manifested to old age and virtue, her kindness to the
poor and the sick, her considerate good-nature to her servants,
and above all her liberal and unostentatious charities, rendered
it impossible that any could be so cruel as to offer her rudeness
or indignity, on what was at most mere suspicion. Added to
this, the fierce impetuosity of Jasper, when crossed by anything,
or opposed in his will, and the certainty that he would stop at
nothing to avenge any affront aimed at Theresa, so long as he

chose to style her his wife, deterred not only the household and
village gossips, but even that more odious class, the hypocritical,
puritanic, self-constituted judges of society, and punishers
of what they choose to deem immorality, from following out the
bent of their mischievous or malicious tempers.

In the meantime, month after month had passed away.
Winter had melted into the promises of spring; and the gay
flowers of summer had ripened into the fruits of luxuriant autumn.
A full year had run its magic round since Theresa gave
herself up to Jasper, for better for worse, till death should them
part.

The slender, joyous maiden had expanded into the full-blown,
thoughtful, lovely woman, who was now watching at the oriel
window, alone, at sunset for the return of her young husband.

Alone, ay, alone! For no child had been born to bless their
union, and to draw yet closer the indissoluble bonds which man
may not put asunder. Alone, ay, alone! as all her days were
now spent, and some, alas! of her nights also. For the first
months of her wedded life, when the pain of concealment had
been once removed, Theresa was the happiest of the happy.
The love, the passion, the affection of her boy-bridegroom
seemed to increase daily. To sit by her side, during the snowy
days of winter, to listen to her lute struck by the master-hand
of the untaught improvisatrice, to sing with her the grand old
ballads which she loved, to muse with her over the tomes of
romance, the natural vein of which was not then extinguished
in the English heart, to cull the gems of the rare dramatists
and mighty bards of the era, which was then but expiring; and,
when the early days of spring-time gave token of their coming,
in the swelling flowerbud and bursting leaf, to wander with her
through the park, through the chase, to ride with her over the
heathery moorland hills, and explore the wild recesses of the
forest, to have her near him in his field-sports, to show her

how he struck the silvery salmon, or roused the otter from his
sedgy lair — these seemed to be the only joys the boy coveted
— her company his chiefest pleasure, the undisturbed possession
of her charms his crowning bliss.

But passion is proverbially short-lived; and the most so with
those who, like Jasper, have no solidity of character, no stability
of feeling, no fixed principles, whereon to fall back for
support. One of the great defects of Jasper's nature was a total
lack of reverence for anything divine or human — he had
loved many things, he never had respected one. Accustomed
from his earliest boyhood to see everything yield to his will, to
measure the value of everything by the present pleasure it
afforded him, he expected to receive all things, yet to give
nothing. He was in fact a very pattern of pure selfishness,
though no one would have been so much amazed as he had he
heard himself so named.

Time passed, and he grew weary, even of the very excess
of his happiness — even of the amiability, the sweetness, the
ever-yielding gentleness of his Theresa. That she should so
long have charmed one so rash and reckless was the real wonder,
not that she should now have lost the power of charming
him.

Nevertheless so it was; the mind of Jasper was not so constituted
as to rest very long content with anything, least of all
with tranquillity —

and his, surely, was of the hottest. He began as of old to long
for excitement; and even the pleasures of the chase, to which
he was still devoted, began to prove insufficient to gratify his
wild and eager spirit. Day after day, Theresa saw less of
him, and ere long knew not how or where many of his days
were spent. Confidence, in the true sense of the word, there
never had been between them; respect or esteem, founded upon
her real virtues and rare excellences, he had never felt — therefore,
when the heat and fierceness of passion died out, as it
were, by the consumption of its own fuel, when her personal
charms palled on him by possession, when her intellectual endowments
wearied him, because they were in truth far beyond
the range of his comprehension, and therefore out of the pale
of his sympathies, he had nothing left whereon to build affection
— thus passion once dead in his heart, all was gone at once
which had bound him to Theresa.

He neglected her, he left her alone — alone, without a companion,
a friend, in the wide world. Still she complained not,
wept not, above all upbraided not. She sought to occupy herself,
to amuse her solitude with her books, her music, her wild
flights into the world of fancy. And when he did come home
from his fierce, frantic gallops across the country with the worst
and wildest of the young yeomanry, or from his disgraceful orgies
with the half-gentry of the nearest market-town, she received
him ever with kindness, gentleness, and love.

She never let him know that she wept in silence; never
allowed him to see that she noticed his altered manner; but
smiled on him, and sung to him, and fondled him, as if he had
been to her — and was he not so? — all that she had on earth.
And he, such is the spirit of the selfish and the reckless of our
sex, almost began to hate her, for the very meekness and affection
with which she submitted to his unkindness.

He felt that her unchanged, unreproaching love was the
keenest reproach to his altered manner, to his neglectful coldness.
He felt that he could better have endured the bitterest
blame, the most agonized remonstrance, the tears of the veriest
Niobe, than meet the ever-welcoming smile of those rosy lips,
the ever-loving glance of those soft blue eyes.

Perhaps had she possessed more of what such men as he
call spirit, had the vein of her genius led to outbursts of vehement,

unfeminine, Italian passion, the flashing eye, the curling
lip, the face pallid with rage, the tongue fluent with the torrent
eloquence of indignation, he might have found in them something
to rouse his dormant passions from the lethargy which had
overcome them, something to stimulate and excite him into renewed
desire.

But as well might you expect from the lily of the valley the
blushes and the thorns of the rose, from the turtle-dove the
fury and the flight of the jer-falcon, as aught from Theresa St.
Aubyn, but the patience, the purity, the quiet, and the love of a
pure-minded, virtuous woman.

But she was wretched — most wretched — because hopeless.
She had prayed for a child, with all the yearning eagerness of
disappointed, craving womanhood — a child that should smile
in her face, and love her for herself, being of herself, and her
own — a child that should perhaps win back to her the lost
affections of her lord. But in vain.

And still she loved him, nay, adored him, as of old. Never
did she see his stately form, sitting his horse with habitual
grace, approaching listlessly and slowly the home which no
longer had a single attraction to his jaded and exhausted heart,
but her whole frame was shaken by a sharp, nervous tremor,
but a mist overspread her swimming eyes, but a dull ringing
filled her ears, her heart throbbed and palpitated, until she
thought it would burst forth from her bosom.

She ever hoped that the cold spell might pass from him, ever
believed, ever trusted, that the time would come when he would
again love her as of old, again seek her society, and take pleasure
in her conversation; again let her nestle in his bosom, and
look up into his answering eyes, by the quiet fireside in winter
evenings. Alas! she still dreamed of these things — even
although her reason told her that they were hopeless — even
after he had again changed his mood from sullen coldness to

harsh, irritable anger, to vehement, impetuous, fiery wrath,
causeless as the wolf's against the lamb, and therefore the more
deadly and unsparing.

Politics had run high in the land of late, and everywhere
parties were forming. Since the battle of Sedgemoor, and the
merciless cruelty with which the royal judges had crushed out
the life of that abortive insurrection, and drowned its ashes in
floods of innocent gore, the rage of factions had waxed wilder
in the country than they had done since the reign of the first
Charles, the second English king of that unhappy race, the
last of which now filled the painful seat of royalty.

Yet all was hushed as yet and quiet, as the calm which precedes
the bursting of a thunder-cloud. Secluded as Widecomb
manor was, and far divided from the seats of the other gentry
of Devonshire by tracts of moor and forest, and little intercourse
as Jasper had held hitherto with his equals in rank and birth
—limited as that intercourse had been to a few visits of form,
and a few annual banquets — the stir of the political world
reached even the remote House in the Woods.

The mad whirl of politics was precisely the thing to captivate
a mind such as Jasper's; and the instant the subject was
broached to him, by some of the more leading youths of the
county, he plunged headlong into its deepest vortices, and was
soon steeped to the lips in conspiracy.

Events rendered it necessary that he should visit the metropolis,
and twice during the autumn he had already visited it —
alone. And twice he had returned to his beautiful young wife,
who hailed his coming as a heathen priestess would have
greeted the advent of her god, more alienated, colder, and more
careless than before.

Since he had last returned, the coldness was converted into
cruelty, active, malicious, fiendish cruelty. Hard words, incessant
taunts, curses — nay, blows! Yet still, faithful to the end

and fond, she still loved him. Still would have laid down the
dregs of the life which had been so happy till she knew him,
and which he had made so wretched, to win one of his old
fond smiles, one of his once caressing tones, one of his heart-felt
kisses.

Alas! alas! Theresa! Too late, it was all too late!

He had learned, for the first time, in London, the value of
his rank, his wealth, his position. He had been flattered by
men of lordly birth, fêted and fondled by the fairest and noblest
ladies of the land. He had learned to be ambitious — he had
begun to thirst for social eminence, for political ascendency,
for place, power, dominion. His talents had created a favorable
impression in high quarters — his enthusiasm and daring
rashness had made an effect — he was already a marked man
among the conspirators, who were aiming to pull down the
sovereignty of the Stuarts. Hints had been even thrown out
to him, of the possibility of allying himself to interests the most
important, through the beautiful and gorgeous daughter of one
of the oldest of the peers of England. The hint had been
thrown out, moreover, by a young gentleman of his own country
— by one who had seen Theresa. And when he started and
expressed his wonder, and alluded tremulously to his wife, he
had been answered by a smile of intelligence, coupled with an
assurance that every one understood all about Theresa Allan;
and that surely he would not be such a fool as to sacrifice such
prospects for a little village paramour. “The story of the concealed
wedding took in nobody, my lad,” the speaker added,
“except those, like myself, who chose to believe anything you
chose to assert. Think of it, mon cher; and, believe me, that
liaison will be no hinderance.”

And Jasper had thought of it. The thought had never been
for one moment, absent from his mind, sleeping or waking,
since it first found admission to the busy chambers of his brain.

From that unfortunate day, his life had been but one series of
plots and schemes, all base, atrocious, horrible — some even
murderous.

Since that day his cruelty had not been casual; it had a
meaning, and a method, both worthy of the arch fiend's devising.

He sought first deliberately to break her heart, to kill her
without violence, by the action of her own outraged affections
— and then, when that failed, or rather when he saw that the
process must needs be too slow to meet his accursed views, he
aimed at driving her to commit suicide — thus slaying, should
he succeed in his hellish scheme, body and soul together of the
woman whom he had sworn before God's holy altar, with the
most solemn adjuration, to love, comfort, honor, and keep in
sickness and in health — the woman whose whole heart and
soul were his absolute possession; who had never formed a
wish, or entertained a thought, but to love him and to make him
happy. And this — this was her reward. Could she, indeed,
have fully conceived the extent of the feelings which he now
entertained toward her, could she have believed that he really
was desirous of her death, was actually plotting how he might
bring it about, without dipping his hand in her blood, or calling
down the guilt of downright murder on his soul, I believe he
would have been spared all further wickedness.

To have known that he felt toward her not merely casual irritation,
that his conduct was not the effect of a bad disposition, or
of an evil temper only, but that determined hatred had supplanted
the last spark of love in his soul, and that he was possessed
by a resolution to rid himself of the restraint which his marriage
had brought upon him, by one means or another — to have
known this, I say, would have so frozen her young blood, would
have so stricken her to the heart, that, if it had not slain her
outright, it would have left her surely — perhaps happier even
to be such — a maniac for the poor remnant of her life.

That morning, at an early hour, he had ridden forth, with two
or three dogs at his heel, and the gamekeeper, James Alderly,
better known in that neighborhood as Black Jem, who had of
late been his constant companion, following him.

Dinner-time had passed — supper-time — yet he came not;
and the deserted creature was yet watching wistfully, hopefully
for his return.

Suddenly, far off among the stems of the distant trees, she
caught a glimpse of a moving object; it approached; it grew
more distinct — it was he, returning at a gallop, as he seldom
now returned to his distasteful home, with his dogs careering
merrily along by his side, and the grim-visaged keeper spurring
in vain to keep up with the furious speed at which he rode, far
in the rear of his master.

She pressed her hand upon her heart, and drew a long, deep
breath. “Once more,” she murmured to herself, “he hath
come back to me once more!”

And then the hope flashed upon her mind that the changed
pace at which he rode, and something which even at that distance
she could descry in his air and mien, might indicate an
alteration in his feelings. “Yes, yes! Great God! can it be?
He sees me, he waves his hand to me. He loves — he loves
me once again!”

And with a mighty effort, she choked down the paroxysm
of joy, which had almost burst out in a flood of tears, and hurried
from the room, and out upon the terrace, to meet him, to
receive once more a smile of greeting. His dogs came bounding
up to her, as she stood at the top of the stone steps, and
fawned upon her, for they loved her — everything loved her,
save he only who had most cause to do so.

Yet now, it was true, he did smile upon her, as he dismounted
from his horse, and called her once more “Dear Theresa.”
And he passed his arm about her slender waist, and led her

back into the house, chiding her good-humoredly for exposing
herself to the chilly night-wind.

“I feel it not,” she said joyously, with her own sunny smile
lighting up her face, “I feel it not — nor should feel it, were it
charged with all the snow-storms of the north; my heart is
so warm, so full. Oh! Jasper, that dear name, in your own
voice, has made me but too happy.”

“Silly child!” he replied, “silly child,” patting her affectionately
on the shoulder, as he had used to do in times long past —
at least it seemed long, very long to her, though they were in
truth but a few months distant. “And do you love me, Theresa?”

“Love you?” she said, gazing up into his eyes with more
of wonder that he should ask such a question, than of any other
feeling. “Love you, O God! can you doubt it, Jasper?”

“No,” he said, hesitating slightly, “no, dearest. And yet I
have given you but little cause of late to love me.”

“Do you know that—do you feel that, Jasper?” she cried,
eagerly, joyously, “then I am, indeed, happy; then you really
do love me?”

“And can you forgive me, Theresa?”

“Forgive you — for what?”

“For the pain I have caused you of late.”

“It is all gone — it is all forgotten! You have been vexed,
grieved about something that has wrung you in secret. But
you should have told me of it, dearest Jasper, and I would have
consoled you. But it is all, all over now; nay, but I am now
glad of it since this great joy is all the sweeter for the past sorrow.”

“And do you love me well enough, Theresa, to make a sacrifice,
a great sacrifice for me?”

“To sacrifice my heart's blood — ay, my life, if to do so would
make you happy.”

“Your life, silly wench! how should your little life profit

me? But that is the way ever with you women. If one ask
you the smallest trifle, you ever proffer your lives, as if they
could be of any use, or as if one would not be hanged for taking
them. I have known girls refuse one kiss, and then make a
tender of their lives.”

He spoke with something of his late habitual bitterness, it
is true; but there was a smile on his face, as he uttered the
words, and she laughed merrily, as she answered.

“Oh! I will not refuse you fifty of those; I will be only too
glad if you think them worth the taking. But I did speak foolishly,
dearest; and you must not blame me for it, for my heart
is so over flowing with joy, that, of a truth, I scarcely know what
I say. I only wished to express that there is nothing in the
wide world which you can ask of me, that I will not do, willingly,
gladly. Will that satisfy you, Jasper?”

“Why, ay! if you hold to it, Theresa,” he answered, eagerly;
“but, mind you, it is really a sacrifice which I ask — a great
sacrifice.”

“No sacrifice is great,” she replied, pressing his arm, on
which she was hanging with both her white hands linked together
over it, “no sacrifice which I can make, so long as you
love me.”

“I do love you dearly, girl,” he answered; “and if you do
this that I would have you do, I will love you ten times better
than I do, ten times better than I ever did.”

“That were a bribe, indeed,” she replied, laughing with her
own silvery, girlish laugh. “But I don't believe you could
love me ten times better than you once did, Jasper. But if
you will promise me to love me ever as you did then, you may
ask me anything under heaven.”

Well I will promise — I will promise, wench. See that you
be as ready to perform.”

And, as he spoke, he stooped down, for the keeper had now

retired with his horses, and they were entirely alone, and embraced
her closely, and kissed her as he had not done for many
a month before.

“I will — I will, indeed, dearest Jasper. Tell me, what is
it I must do?”

“Go to your room, dearest, and I will join you there and tell
you. I must get me a crust of bread and a goblet of wine, and
give some directions to the men, and then I will join you.”

“Do not be very long, dearest. I am dying to know what I
can do to please you.” And she stood upon tiptoes, and kissed
his brow playfully, and then ran up stairs with a lighter step
than had borne her for many a day.

Her husband gazed after her with a grim smile, and nodded
his head in self-approbation. “This is the better way, after
all. But will she, will she stand to it? I should not be surprised.
'S death! one can never learn these women! What
d—d fools they are, when all is told! Flattery, flattery and
falsehood, lay it on thick enough, will win the best of them
from heaven to — Hades!”

Oh, man, man! and all that was but acting.

3. CHAPTER III.
THE SACRIFICE.

An hour had quite passed, when, as she sat alone in her
little gayly-decorated study, with its walls hung with water-color
drawing of her own execution, its tables strewn with poetry
and music of her own composition, and her favorite books,
and her own lute — her little study in which the happiest hours
of her life had been spent, the first hours of her married life,
while Jasper was all that her fancy painted him — his step came
along the corridor, but with a slow and hesitating sound, most
unlike to the quick, firm, decided tread, for which he was remarkable.

She noticed the difference, it is true, at the moment, but forgot
it again instantly. It was enough! It was he! and he was
coming once again to seek her in her own apartment; he had
a boon to ask of her — he had promised to love her — he had
called her “his dear Theresa.”

And now she sprang up, with her soul beaming from her
eyes, and ran to meet him. The door was opened ere he
reached it, and as he entered, she fell upon his neck, and wound
her snowy arms about his waist, and kissed him fifty times, and
wept silent tears in the fullness of her joy.

And did not his heart respond in the least to her innocent
and girlish rapture; did he not bend at all from his bad purpose;
was there no melting, no relenting in that callous, selfish
nature; was, indeed, all within him hard as the nether
millstone?

He clasped her, he caressed her, he spoke to her fondly,
lovingly, he kissed like Judas to betray. He suffered her to
lead him to his favorite seat of old, the deep, softly-cushioned,
low arm-chair, and to place her footstool by his side, and nestle
herself down upon it as she used to do, with her arms folded
negligently across his knee, and her beautiful rounded chin propped
upon them, with her great earnest eyes looking up in his
face, like unfathomable wells of tenderness.

And he returned her gaze of fondness, unabashed, unembarrassed;
and yet it was some time before he spoke; and
when he did speak at length, his voice was altered and almost
husky. But it was from doubt how best he might play his part,
not that he shrunk from the task he had imposed upon himself,
either for shame or for pity.

“Well my Theresa,” he said, at last, “have you thought
whether you will make this sacrifice?”

“No, Jasper, I have not thought about it; but if you wish
me to make it, I will make it, and it will be no sacrifice.”

“But I tell you, Theresa, that it is a sacrifice, a mighty and
most painful sacrifice; a sacrifice so great and so terrible, that
I almost fear, almost feel that it would be selfish in me to ask
it of you.”

“Ask it, then; ask it quickly, that you may see how readily
it shall be granted.”

“Can you conceive no sacrifice that you would not make to
please me?”

“None that you would ask of me.”

“Theresa, no one can say what another might ask of them.
Husbands, lovers, brothers, have asked strange sacrifices — fearful
sacrifices, at woman's hands; and — they have been made.”

“Ask me, then, ask me,” she repeated, smiling, although her
face had grown somewhat pale as she listened to his words,
and marked his strangely excited manner. “I repeat, there is

no sacrifice which you would ask of me, which I will not make.
Nay more, there is none which I should think a sacrifice if it
is to preserve your love to me, when I feared that I had lost it
for ever, though how, indeed, I knew not.”

“We shall see,” he said affecting to muse with himself, and
ponder deeply. “We shall see; you are a great historian, and
have read of all the celebrated women of times past and present.
You have heard of the beautiful Mademoiselle Desvieux, she
who — ”

“She who was the promised wife of the great, the immortal
Bossuet; and who sacrificed her own happiness, freeing her
lover from the claims she held on him, lest a wife should be a
clog upon his pure yet soaring ambition, lest an earthly affection
should wean him from a higher love, and weaken the cords
that were drawing him toward heaven! I have — I have heard
of her! Who has not — who does not revere her name — who
does not love her?

“And what think you of her sacrifice, Theresa?”

“That it was her duty. A difficult duty to perform, you will
say, but still her duty. Her praise is, that she performed it gloriously.
And yet I doubt not that her sacrifice bore her its
own exceeding great reward. Loving as she loved, all her
sorrows must have been changed into exultation, when she saw
him in after days the saint he became, the saint she helped to
make him.”

“And could you have made such a sacrifice, Theresa?”

“I hope so, and I think so,” she replied with a little hesitation.
“But it avails not now to think of that, seeing that I can
not make such. She was a maiden, I am a wedded wife.”

“True dearest, true. I only named her, to judge, by your
opinion, of what I wish to learn, ere I will ask you. There
was another sacrifice, Theresa, a very terrible sacrifice, made
of late, and made to no purpose, too, as it fell out — a sacrifice

of far more doubtful nature; yet there be some who have not
failed to praise it?”

“What was it — do you praise it?”

“At least I pity it, Theresa.”

“What was it? — tell me.”

“After the late rebellion at Sedgemoor. Have you not heard,
Theresa?”

“No, I think not — go on, I want to hear it; go on, Jasper.”

“There was a young man, a cavalier, very young, very
brave, very nobly born, and, it is said, very handsome. He
was taken after the rout of that coward, Gray of Werk's horse
— cast into prison, and, when his turn came, tried by the butcher,
Kirke — you know what that means, Theresa.”

“Condemned,” she said, sadly. “Of course he was condemned
— what next?”

“To be hung by the neck upon the shameful gibbet, and then
cut down, while yet alive, and subjected to all the barbarous
tortures which are inflicted as the penalty of high treason.”

“Horrible! horrible! and — what more, Jasper?”

“Have you not, indeed, heard the tale?”

“Indeed, no, I pray you tell me, for you have moved me
very deeply.”

“It is very moving. The boy had a sister — the loveliest
creature, it is said, that trod the soil of England, scarce seventeen
years of age, a very paragon of grace, and purity, and
beauty. They two were alone in the world — parents, kinsfolk,
friends, they had none. They had none to love but one another,
even as we, my Theresa; and they did love — how, you
may judge. The girl threw herself at the butcher's feet, and
implored her brother's pardon.”

“Go on, go on, Jasper,” cried the young wife, excited almost
beyond the power of restraining her emotions by the dreadful
interest of his tale, “and, for once, he granted it.”

“And, for once, as you say, he granted it. But upon one
condition.”

“And that was—”

“And that was, that the young girl should make a sacrifice
—an awful sacrifice — should submit, in a word, to be a martyr
for her brother's sake.”

“To die for him — and she died! Of course, she died to
save him; that was no sacrifice, none, Jasper — I say none!
Why, any woman would have done that.”

“It was not to die for him — it was to sacrifice herself—herself—for
she was lovely, as I told you — to the butcher.”

“Ah!” sighed Theresa, with a terrible sensation at her heart,
which she could not explain, even to herself; “and what—
what die she?”

“She asked permission to consult her brother.”

“And he told her that he had rather die ten thousand deaths
than that she should lose one hair's breadth of her honor!”
cried Theresa, enthusiastically clasping her hands together.

“And he told her that life was very sweet, and death on a
gallows very shameful!”

“The caitiff! the miserable, loathsome slave! the filthy dastard!
I trust that Kirke drew him with wild horses! The
gallows were too good for such a slave.”

“Then you would not have made such a sacrifice?”

“I—I!” she exclaimed, her soft, blue eyes actually flashing
fire; “I sacrifice my honor! but lo!” she interrupted herself,
smiling at her own vehemence, “am I not a little fool, to fancy
that you are in earnest? No, dearest Jasper, I would no more
make that sacrifice, than you would suffer me to do so. Did
not I make that reservation? did I not say any sacrifice, which
you would ask of me?”

“Ay, dearest!” he replied, gently laying his hand on her
head, “you do me no more than justice there. I would die as

many deaths as I have hairs on my head, before you should so
save me.” And for the first time that night Jasper St. Aubyn
spoke in earnest.

“I know you would, Jasper. But go on, I pray you, with
this fearful tale. I would you had not begun it; but now you
have, I must hear it to the end. What did she?”

“She did, Theresa, as her brother bade her. She sacrificed
herself to the butcher!”

“Poor wretch! poor wretch! and so her brother lived with
the world's scorn and curses on his head — and she — did she
die, Jasper?”

“No, my Theresa. She is alive yet. It was the brother
died.”

“How so? how could that be? Did Kirke then relent?”

“Kirke never relented! When the girl awoke in the butcher's
chamber, with fame and honor — all that she loved in life
lost to her for ever — he bade her look out of the window —
what think you she saw there, Theresa?”

“What?”

“The thing, that an hour before was her brother, dangling
in the accursed noose from the gibbet.”

“And God did not speak in thunder?”

“To the girl's mind, he spoke — for that went astray at once,
jangled and jarred, and out of tune for ever! There was a
sacrifice, Theresa.”

“A wicked one, and so it ended, wickedly. We'll none
of such sacrifices, Jasper. If we should ever have to die,
which God avert in his mercy, any death of violence or horror,
we will die tranquilly and together. Will we not, dearest?”

“As you said but now, may the good God guard us from
such a fate, Theresa; and yet,” he added, looking at her fixedly,
and with a strange expression, “we may be nearer to it than
we think for, even now.”

“Nearer to what, Jasper? speak,” she cried eagerly, as if
she had missed the meaning of the words he last uttered.

“Nearer to the perils of the law, for high treason,” answered
her husband, in a low, dejected voice. “It is of that I have
been anxious to speak with you all the time.”

“Then speak at once, for God's sake, dearest Jasper! speak
at once, and fully, that we may know the worst;” and she
showed more composure now, in what she naturally deemed
the extremity of peril, than he had looked for, judging from the
excitement she had manifested at the mere listening to the
story of another's perils. “Say on,” she added, seeing that he
hesitated, “let me know the worst.”

“It must be so, though it is hard to tell, Theresa; we — myself,
I mean, and a band of the first and noblest youths of England
— have been engaged, these three months past, in a conspiracy,
to banish from the throne of England this last and
basest son of a weak, bigoted, unlucky race of kings — this
cowardly, blood-thirsty, persecuting bigot — this papist monarch
of a protestant land, this James the Second, as men call him;
and to set in his place the brave, wise, virtuous William of
Nassau, now stadtholder of the United Provinces. It is this
business which has obliged me to be absent so often of late, in
London. It is the failure of this business which has rendered
me morsoe, unkind, irritable — need I say more, you have pardoned
me, Theresa.”

“The failure of this business!” she exclaimed, gazing at
him with a face from which dismay had banished every hue of
color, “the failure!”

“Ay, Theresa, it is even so. Had we succeeded in liberating
England from the cold tyrant's bloody yoke, we had been
patriots, saviors, fathers of our country — Brutuses, for what I
know, and Timoleons! We have failed — therefore, we are
rebels, traitors; and, I suppose, ere long shall be victims.”

“The plot, then, is discovered?”

“Even so, Theresa.”

“And how long, Jasper, have you known this dreadful termination?”

“I have foreseen it these six weeks or more. I knew it, for
the first time, to-day.”

“And is it absolutely known, divulged, proclaimed? Have
arrests been made?” she asked, with a degree of coolness that
amazed him, while he felt that it augured ill for the success of
his iniquitous scheme; but he had, in some sort, foreseen her
questions, and his answers were prepared already. He answered,
therefore, as unhesitatingly as if there had been one
word of truth in all that he was uttering.

“It is all known to one of the leading ministers of the government;
it is not divulged; and no arrests have been made
yet. But the breathing space will be brief.”

“All, then, is easy! Let us fly! Let us take horse at once
—this very night! By noon to-morrow, we shall be in Plymouth,
and thence we can gain France, and be safe there until
this tyranny shall be o'erpast.”

“Brave girl!” he replied, with the affectation of a melancholy
smile. “Brave Theresa, you would bear exile, ruin,
poverty, with the outlawed traitor; and we might still be happy.
But alas, girl! it is too late to fly. The ports are all
closed throughout England. It is too late to fly, and to fight is
impossible.

“Then it remains only that we die!” she exclaimed, casting
herself into his arms, “and that is not so difficult, now that I know
you love me, Jasper.” But, even as she uttered the words, his
previous conversation recurred to her mind, and she started
from his arms, crying out, “But you spoke of a sacrifice! — a
sacrifice which I could make! Is it possible that I can save
you?”

“Not me alone, Theresa, but all the band of brothers who
are sworn to this emprise; nor them alone, but England, which
may, by your deed, still be liberated from the tyrant.”

She turned her beautiful eyes upward, and her lips moved
rapidly, although she spoke not. She was praying for aid from
on high — for strength to do her duty.

He watched her with calm, expectant, unmoved eyes, and
muttered to himself, “I have gained. She will yield.”

“Now,” she said, “now,” as her prayer was ended, “I am
strong now to bear. Tell me, Jasper, what must I do to save
you?”

“I can not tell you, dearest. I can not — it is too much —
you could not make it; nor if you would, could I? Let it
pass. We will die — all die together.”

“And England!” exclaimed the girl, with her face kindling
gloriously; “and our mother England, must she perish by inches
in the tyrant's clutch, because we are cowards? No, Jasper,
no. Be of more constant mind. Tell me, what is it I
must do? and, though it wring my heart and rack my brain, if
I can save you and your gallant friends, and our dear native
land, I will save them, though it kill me.'

“Could you endure to part from me, Theresa — to part from
me for ever?

“To part from you, Jasper!” no written phrase can express
the agony, the anguish, the despair, which were made manifest
in every sound of those few, simple words. A breaking
heart spoke out in every accent.

“Ay, to part from me, never to see me more — never to hear
my voice; only to know that I exist, and that I love you — love
you beyond my own soul! Could you do this, Theresa, in the
hope of a meeting hereafter, where no tyranny should ever part
us any more?

“I know not — I know not!” she exclaimed, in a shrill, piercing

tone, most unlike her usual soft, slow utterance. “Is this
the sacrifice you spoke of? Would this be called for at my
hands?”

“To part from me so utterly that it should not be known or
suspected that we had ever met — ever been wedded.”

“Why, Jasper,” she cried, starting, and gazing at him wildly,
“that were impossible; all the world knows that we have met
— that we have lived together here — that I am your wife.
What do you mean? Are you jesting with me? No, no!
God help me! that resolute, stern, dark expression. No, no,
no, no! Do not frown on me, Jasper; but keep me not in this
suspense — only tell me, Jasper.”

“The whole world — that is to say, the whole world of villagers
and peasants here, do know that we have met — that we
have lived together; but they do not know — nay, more, they do
not believe, that you are my wife, Theresa.”

“Not your wife — not your wife! What, in God's name,
then, do they believe me to be. But I am — I am — yes, before
God and man, I am your wife, Jasper St. Aubyn! That shame
will I never bear. The parish register will prove it.”

“Before God, dearest, most assuredly you are my wife; but
before man, I grieve to say, it is not so; nor will the register, to
which you appeal — as I did, when I first heard the scandal —
prove anything, but against you. It seems the rascal sexton
cut out the record of our marriage from the register, so soon as
the old rector died. He is gone, so that he can witness nothing.
Alderly and the sexton will not speak, for to do so would
implicate themselves in the guilt of having mutilated the church-register.
Alderly's mother is an idiot. We can prove nothing.”

“And when did you learn all this, Jasper?” she asked, calmly;
for a light, a fearful yet most clear illumination began to
dawn upon her mind.

“Last night. And I rode down this morning to the church,

to inspect the register. It is as I was told; there is no trace
of the record which we signed, and saw witnessed, on its
pages.”

“And to what end should Verity and Alderly have done this
great crime needlessly?”

“Villains themselves, they fancied that I too was a villain;
and that, if not then, at some after time, I should desire to profit
by their villany, and should then be in their power.”

“Ha!” she said, still maintaining her perfect possession. “It
seems, at least, that their villany was wise, was prophetical.”

“Theresa!” his voice was stern, and harsh, and threatening
— his brow as black as midnight.

“Pardon me!” she said. “Pardon me, Jasper; but you
should make allowance for some feeling in a woman. I am,
then, looked upon as a lost, fallen wretch, as a disgrace to my
name and my sex, a concubine, a harlot — is it not so, Jasper?”

“Alas! alas! Theresa!”

“And you would have me? — speak!”

“I would not have you do it; God knows! it goes nigh to
break my heart to think of it — I only tell you what alone can
save us — ”

“I understand — it needs not to mince the matter; what is it,
then, can save us — save you, I should say rather, and your
friends?”

“That you should leave me, Theresa, and go where you
would, so it were not within a hundred miles of this place —
but better to France or Italy; all that wealth could procure you
should have; and my love would be yours above all things,
even although we never meet, until we meet in heaven.”

“Heaven, sir, is for the innocent and faithful, not for the liar
and the traitor! But how shall this avail anything to save you,
if I consent to do it? I must know, all; I must see all clearly,
before I act.”

“Are you strong enough to bear what I shall say to you, my
poor Theresa?”

“Else had I not borne to hear what you have said to me.”

“It is the secretary of state, then, who has discovered our
plot. He is himself half inclined to join us; but he is a weak,
interested, selfish being, although of vast wealth, great influence,
and birth most noble. Now, he has a daughter — ”

“Ah!” the wretched girl started as if an ice-bolt had shot to
her very heart, “and you — you would wed her!”

“That is to say, he would have me wed her; and on that
condition joins our party. And so our lives, and England's liberties,
should be preserved by your glorious sacrifice.”

“I must think, then — I must think,” she answered, burying
her head in her hands, in truth, to conceal the agony of her
emotions, and to gain time, not for deliberation, but to compose
her mind and clear her voice for speech.

And he stood gazing on her, with the cold, cutting eye, the
calm, sarcastic, sneer, of a very Mephistopheles, believing that
she was about to yield, and inwardly mocking the very weakness
on which he had played, to his own base and cruel purposes.

But in a moment she arose and confronted him, pale, calm,
majestical, most lovely in her extremity of sorrow, but firm as
a hero or a martyr.

“And so,” she said, in a clear, cold, ringing voice, “this is
the sacrifice you ask of me? — to sever myself from you for
ever — to go forth into the great, cruel, cold world alone, with
a bleeding, broken heart, a blighted reputation, and a blasted
name? All this I might endure, perhaps I would — but you
have asked more of me, Jasper. You have asked me to
confess myself a thing infamous and vile — a polluted wretch
— not a wife, but a wanton! You have asked me, your own
wedded wife, to write myself down, with my own hand, a harlot,

and to stand by and look on at your marriage with another
— as if I were the filthy thing you would name me. Than be
that thing, Jasper, I would rather die a hundred-fold; than call
myself that thing, being innocent of deed or thought of shame,
I had rather be it! Now, sir, are you answered? What, heap
the name of harlot on my mother's ashes! What, blacken my
dead father's stainless escutcheon! What — lie, before my
God, to brand myself, the first of an honest line, with the
strumpet's stain of blackness! Never! never! though thou and
I, and all the youth of England, were to die in tortures inconceivable;
never! though England were to perish unredeemed!
Now, sir, I ask you, are you answered?”

“I am,” he replied, perfectly unmoved, “I am answered,
Theresa, as I hoped, as I expected to be.”

“What do you mean? — did you not ask me to do this thing?”

“I did not, Theresa. I told you what sacrifice might save
us all. I did not ask you to make it. Nay, did I not tell you
that I would not even suffer you to make it?”

“But you told me — you told me — God help me, for I think
I shall go mad! Oh! tempt me no further, Jasper; try me no
further. Is — is this true, that you have told me?”

“Every word — every word of it, my own best love,” answered
the arch deceiver, “save only that I would not for my
life, nay, for my soul, have suffered you to make the sacrifice I
spoke of. Perish myself, my friends! perish England! nay,
perish the whole earth, rather!”

“Then why so tempt me? Why so sorely, so cruelly try
this poor heart, Jasper?”

“To learn if you were strong enough to share in my secrets
— and you shall share them. We must fly, Theresa; not from
Plymouth; not from any seaport, but from the wildest gorge in
the wild coast of Devon. I have hired a fishing-boat to await
us. We must ride forth alone, as if for a pleasure-party, across

the hills, to-morrow, and so make our way to the place appointed.
If we escape, all shall be well — come the worst, as
you said, my own Theresa, at least we shall die together.”

“Are you in earnest, Jasper?”

“On my soul! by the God who hears me!”

“And you will take me with you; you will not cast me from
you; you will uphold me ever to be your own, your wedded
wife?”

“I will — I will. Not for the universe! not for my own
soul! would I lose you, my own, my own Theresa!”

And he clasped her to his bosom, in the fondest, closest embrace,
and kissed her beautiful lips eagerly, passionately. And
she, half fainting in his arms, could only murmur, in the revulsion
of her feelings, “Oh, happy! happy! too, too happy!”

Then he released her from his arms, and bade her go to bed,
for it was waxing late, and she would need a good night's rest
to strengthen her for the toils of to-morrow's journey.

And she smiled on him, and prayed him not to tarry long
ere he joined her; and retired, still agitated and nervous from
the long continuance of the dreadful mental conflict to which
he had subjected her.

But he, when she had left the room, turned almost instantly
as pale as ashes — brow, cheeks, nay, his very lips were white
and cold. The actor was exhausted by his own exertions.
The man shrunk from the task which was before him.

“The worse for her!” he muttered, through his hard-set
teeth, “the worse for her! the obstinate, vain, wilful fool! I
would, by Heaven! I would have saved her!”

Then he clasped his burning brow with the fingers of his
left hand, as if to compress its fierce, rapid beating, and strode
to and fro, through the narrow room, working the muscles of
his clinched right hand, as if he grasped the hilt of sword or
dagger.

“There is no other way,” he said at length; “there is no
other way, and I must do it — must do it with my own hand.
But — can I — can I —?” he paused a moment, and resumed
his troubled walk. Then halted, and muttered in a deep voice,
“By hell! there is naught that a man can not do; and I — am I
not a man, and a right resolute, and stout one? It shall be so
— it is her fate! her fate! Did not her father speak of it that
night, as I lay weak and wounded on the bed? did I not dream
it thrice thereafter, in that same bed? though then I understood
it not. It shall be there — even there — where I saw it happen;
so shall it pass for accident. It is fate! — who can strive
against their fate?”

Again he was silent, and during that momentary pause a deep,
low, muttering roar was heard in the far distance — a breathless
hush — and again, that long, hollow, crashing roll, that tells of
elemental warfare.

Jasper's eyes flashed, and his whole face glared with a fearful
and half-frenzied illumination.

“It is,” he cried, “it is thunder! From point to point it is
true! It is her fate — her fate!”

And with the words, he rushed from the room; and within
ten minutes, was folded in the rapturous embrace of the snowy
arms of her, whose doom of death he had decreed already in
the secrets of his guilty soul.

4. CHAPTER IV.
THE DEED OF BLOOD.

Throughout that livelong night, the thunder roared and
roared incessantly, and from moment to moment the whole firmament
seemed to yawn asunder, showing its inner vaults,
sheeted with living and coruscant fire, while ever and anon
long, arrowy, forked tongues, of incandescent brightness, darted
down from the zenith, cleaving the massive storm-clouds with
a crash that made the whole earth reel and shudder.

Never, within the memory of man, had such a storm been
known at that season of the year. Huge branches, larger than
trees of ordinary size, were rent from the gigantic oaks by the
mere force of the hurricane, and whirled away like straws before
its fury. The rain fell not in drops or showers, but in
vast sheeted columns. The rills were swollen into rivers, the
rivers covered the lowland meadows, expanded into very seas.
Houses were unroofed, steeples and chimneys hurled in ruin to
the earth, cattle were killed in the open fields, unscathed by
lightning, by the mere weight of the storm.

Yet through that awful turmoil of the elements, which kept
men waking, and bold hearts trembling from the Land's End to
Cape Wrath, Jasper St. Aubyn slept as calmly as an infant,
with his head pillowed on the soft bosom of his innocent and
lovely wife. And she, though the tempest roared around, and
the thunder crashed above her, so that she could not close an
eye in sleep; though she believed that to-morrow she was about
to fly from her native land, her home, never, perhaps, to see

them more; though she looked forward to a life of toil and
wandering, of hardship, and of peril as an exile's wife, perhaps
to a death of horror, as a traitor's confederate, she blessed God
with a grateful heart, that he had restored to her her husband's
love, and watched that dear sleeper, dreaming a waking dream
of perfect happiness.

But him no dreams, either sleeping or waking, disturbed from
his heavy stupor, or diverted from his hellish purpose. So
resolute, so iron-like in its unbending pertinacity was that
young, boyish mind, that having once resolved upon his action,
not all the terrors of heaven or of hell could have turned him
from it.

There lay beneath one roof, on one marriage-bed, ay, clasped
in one embrace, the resolved murderer, and his unconscious
victim. And he had tasted the honey of her lips, had fondled,
had caressed her to the last, had sunk to sleep, lulled by the
sweet, low voice of her who, if his power should mate his will,
would never look upon a second morrow.

And here, let no one say such things can not be, save in the
fancy of the rhapsodist or the romancer — that such things are
impossible — for not only is there nothing under the sun impossible
to human power, or beyond the aim of human wickedness,
but such things are and have been, and will be again, so long
as human passion exists uncontrolled by principle.

Such things have been among ourselves, and in our own day,
as he who writes has seen, and many of those who read must
needs remember — and such things were that night at Widecomb.

With the first dappling of the dawn, the rage of the elements
sunk into rest, the winds sighed themselves to sleep, the pelting
torrents melted into a soft, gray mist; only the roar of the
distant waters, mellowed into a strange, fitful murmur, was
heard in the general tranquillity that followed the loud uproar.

Wearied with her involuntary watching, Theresa fell asleep
also, still clasping in her fond arms the miserable, guilty thing
which she had sworn so fatally, and kept her vow so faithfully,
to love, honor, and obey.

When the sun rose, the wretched man awoke from his deep
and dreamless sleep; and as his eye fell on that innocent, sweet
face, calm as an infant's, and serene, though full of deep thoughts
and pure affections, he did start, he did shudder, for one second's
space — perhaps for that fleeting point of time, he doubted.
But if it were so, he nerved himself again almost without
an effort, disengaged himself gently from the embrace of her
entwined arms, with something that sounded like a smothered
curse, and stalked away in sullen gloom, leaving her buried in
her last natural slumber.

Two hours had, perhaps, gone over, and the morning had
come out bright and glorious after the midnight storm, the atmosphere
was clear and breezy, the skies pure as crystal, and
the glad sunshine glanced and twinkled with ten thousand gay
reflections in the diamond rain-drops which still gemmed every
blade of grass, and glistened in every floweret's cup, when Theresa's
light step was heard coming down the stairs, and her
sweet voice inquiring where she should find Master St. Aubyn.

“I am here,” answered his deep voice, which for the moment
he made an effort to inflect graciously, and with the word
he made his appearance from the door of his study, booted to
the mid-thigh, and spurred; with a long, heavy rapier at his
side, and a stout dagger counterbalancing it in the other side
of his girdle. He was dressed in a full suit of plain, black velvet,
without any ornament or embroidery; and whether it was
that the contrast made him look paler, or that the horror of
what he was about to do, though insufficient to turn his hard
heart, had sufficed to blanch his cheek and lips, I know not,

but, as she saw his face, Theresa started as if she had seen a
ghost.

“How pale you look, Jasper,” she said earnestly; “are you
ill at ease, dearest, or anxious about me? If it be the last, vex
not yourself, I pray you; for I am not in the least afraid, either
of the fatigue or of the voyage. For the rest,” she added, with
a bright smile, intended to reassure him, “I have long wished
to see La Belle France, as they call it; and to me the change
of scene, so long as you are with me, dearest Jasper, will be
but a change of pleasure. I hope I have not kept you waiting.
But I could not sleep during the night for the thunder,
and about daybreak I was overpowered by a heavy slumber. I
did not even hear you leave me.”

“I saw that you slept heavily, my own love,” he made answer,
“and was careful not to wake you, knowing what you
would have to undergo to-day, and wishing to let you get all
the rest you could before starting. But come, let us go to breakfast.
We have little time to lose, the horses will be at the
door in half an hour.”

“Come, then,” she answered, “I am ready;” and she took
his arm as she spoke, and passed, leaning on him, through the
long suite of rooms, which now, for above a year had been her
home in mingled happiness and sorrow. “Heigho!” she murmured,
with a half sigh, “dear Widecomb! dear, dear Widecomb,
many a happy hour have I spent within your walls, and
it goes hard with me to leave you. I wonder, shall I ever see
you more.”

“Never,” replied the deep voice of her husband, in so strange
a tone, that it made her turn her head and look at him quickly.
A strange, dark spasm had convulsed his face, and was not yet
passed from it, when her eye met his. She thought it was the
effect of natural grief at leaving his fine place — the place of
his birth — as an outlaw and an exile; and half-repenting that

she had so spoken as to excite his feelings, she hastened to
soothe them, as she thought, by a gayer and more hopeful word.

“Never heed, dearest Jasper,” she said, pressing his arm, on
which she hung, “if we do love old Widecomb, there are as
fair places elsewhere, on the world's green face, and if there
were not, happy minds will aye find, or make happy places.
And we, why spite of time and tide, wind and weather, we will
be happy, Jasper. And I doubt not a moment, that we shall
yet live to spend happy days once more in Widecomb.”

“I fear, never,” replied the young man, solemnly. It was a
singular feeling — he did not repent, he did not falter or shrink
in the least from his murderous purpose; but, for his life, he
could not give her a hope, he could not say a word to cheer
her, or deceive her, further than he was compelled to do in order
to carry out his end.

The morning meal passed silently and sadly; for, in spite
of all her efforts to be gay, and to make him lighter-hearted,
his brow was clouded, and he would not converse; and she,
fearing to vex him, or to trespass on what she believed to be his
deep regret at leaving home, ceased to intrude upon his sorrow.

At length he asked her, “Are you ready?” and as he spoke,
arose from the table.

“Oh yes,” she answered, “I am always ready when you
want me. And see, Jasper,” she added, “here are my jewels,”
handing him a small ebony casket, “I thought they might be
of use to us, in case of our wanting money; and yet I should
grieve to part with them, for they are the diamonds you gave
me that night we were wedded.”

He took it with a steady hand, and thrust it into the bosom
of his dress, saying, with a forced smile, “You are ever careful,
Theresa. But you have said nothing, I trust, to your maidens,
of our going.”

“Surely not, Jasper, they believe I am going but for a morning's

ride. Do you not see that I have got on my new habit?
You have not paid me one compliment on it, sir. I think you
might at least have told me that I looked pretty in it. I know
the day when you would have done so, without my begging it.”

“Is that meant for a reproach, Theresa?” he said, gloomily,
“because —”

“A reproach, Jasper,” she interrupted him quickly, “how
little you understand poor me! I hoped, by my silly prattle, to
win you from your sorrow at leaving all that you love so dearly.
But I will be silent —”

“Do so, I pray you, for the moment.”

And without further words, he led her down the steps of the
terrace, and helped her to mount her palfrey, a beautiful, slight,
high-bred thing, admirably fitted to carry a lady round the trim
rides of a park, but so entirely deficient in bone, strength, and
sinew, that no animal could be conceived less capable of enduring
any continuous fatigue, or even of making any one strong
and sustained exertion. Then he sprung to the back of his
own noble horse, a tall, powerful, thorough-bred hunter, of about
sixteen hands in height, with bone and muscle to match, capable,
as it would appear, of carrying a man-at-arms in full harness
through a long march or a pitched battle.

Just as he was on the point of starting, he observed that one
of his dogs, a favorite greyhound, was loose, and about to follow
him, when he commanded him to be taken up instantly,
rating the man who had held the horses very harshly, and
cursing him soundly for disobeying his orders.

Then, when he saw that he was secure against the animal's
following him, he turned his horse's head to the right hand,
toward the great hills to the westward, saying aloud, so that all
the bystanders could hear him —

“Well, lady fair, since we are only going for a pleasure-ride,
suppose we go up toward the great deer-park in the forest. By

the way,” he added, turning in his saddle, to the old steward,
who was standing on the terrace, “I desired Haggerston, the
horse-dealer, to meet me here at noon, about a hunter he wants
to sell me. If I should not be back, give him some dinner, and
detain him until I return. I shall not be late, for I fancy my
lady will not care to ride very far.”

“Do n't be too sure of that, Jasper,” she replied, with an
arch smile, thinking to aid him in his project. “It is so long
since I have ridden out with you, that I may wish to make a
day of it. Come, let us start.”

And she gave her jennet its head, and cantered lightly away
over the green, her husband following at a trot of his powerful
hunter; and in a few minutes they were both hidden from the
eyes of the servants, among the clumps of forest-trees and the
dense thickets of the chase.

At something more than three miles' distance from Widecomb
house, to the westward, there is a pass in the hills, where
a bridle-road crosses the channel of the large brook, which I
have named so often, and which, at a point far lower down, was
the scene of Jasper's ill-omened introduction to Theresa Allan.

This bridle-road, leading from the sparse settlements on Dartmoor
to the nearest point of the seacoast, was a rough, dangerous
track, little frequented except by the smugglers and poachers
of that region, and lay, for the most part, considerably below
the level of the surrounding country, between wooded hills,
or walls of dark, gray rock.

The point at which it crosses the stream is singularly wild
and romantic, for the road and the river both are walled by
sheer precipices of gray, shattered, limestone rock, nearly two
hundred feet in height, perfectly barren, bare, and treeless, except
on the summits, which are covered with heather and low
stunted shrubbery.

The river itself, immediately above the ford, by which the

road passes it, descends by a flight of rocky steps, or irregular,
shelvy rapids, above a hundred feet within three times as many
yards, and then spreads out into a broad, open pool, where its
waters, not ordinarily above three feet deep, glance rapidly,
still and unbroken, over a level pavement of smooth stone, almost
as slippery as ice. Scarce twenty yards below this, there
is an abrupt pitch of sixty feet in perpendicular height, over
which the river rushes at all times in a loud, foaming waterfall,
but after storms among the hills, in a tremendous roaring
cataract.

The ford is never a safe one, owing to the insecure foothold
afforded by the slippery limestone, but when the river is in
flood, no one in his senses would dream of crossing it.

Yet it was by this road that Jasper had persuaded his young
wife that they could alone hope to escape with any chance of
safety, and to this point he was leading her. And she, though
she knew the pass, and all its perils, resolute to accompany him
through life, and if need should be, to death itself, rode onward
with him, cheerful and apparently fearless.

They reached its brink, and the spectacle it afforded, was,
indeed, fearful. The river swollen by the rains of the past
night, though, like all mountain torrents, rising and falling rapidly,
it was already subsiding, came down from the moors with
an arrowy rush, clear and transparent as glass, yet deep in color
as the rich brown cairn-gorm. The shelvy rapids above the
ford were one sheet of snow-white foam, and in the ford itself
the foam-flakes wheeled round and round, as in a huge, boiling
caldron, while below it the roar of the cataract was louder than
the loudest thunder, and the spray rolling upward from the
whirlpool beneath, clung to the craigs above in mist-wreaths so
dense that their summits were invisible.

“Good God!” cried Theresa, turning deadly pale, as she
looked on the fearful pool. “We are lost. It is impossible.”

“By Heaven!” he answered, impetuously, “I must pass it,
or stay and be hanged. You can do as you will, Theresa.”

“But is it possible?”

“Certainly it is. Do you think I would lead you into certain
death? But see, I will ride across and return, that you
may see how easy it is, to a brave heart and a cool hand.”

And, confident in the strength of his horse and in his own
splendid horsemanship, he plunged in dauntlessly, and keeping
up stream near to the foot of the upper rapids, struggled through
it, and returned to her without much difficulty, though the water
rose above the belly of his horse.

He heard, however, that a fresh storm was rattling and roaring,
even now, among the hills above, and he knew by that sign
that a fresh torrent was even now speeding its way down the
chasm.

There was no time to be lost — it was now or never. He
cast an eager glance around — a glance that read and marked
everything — as he came to land; save only Theresa, there was
not a human being within sight.

“You see,” he said, with a smile, “there is no danger.”

“I see,” she answered merrily. “Forgive me for being
such a little coward. But you will lead Rosabella, won't you,
Jasper?”

“Surely,” he answered. “Come.”

And catching the curb-rein of the pony with his left hand,
and guiding his own horse with his right, holding his heavy-loaded
hunting-whip between his teeth, he led her down into
the foaming waters, so that her palfrey was between himself
and the cataract.

It was hard work, and a fearful struggle for that slender,
light-limbed palfrey to stem that swollen river: and the long
skirt of Theresa's dress, holding the water, dragged the struggling
animal down toward the waterfall. Still, despite every

disadvantage, it would have battled to the other side, had fair
play been given it.

But when they reached the very deepest and most turbulent
part of the pool, under pretence of aiding it, Jasper lifted the
jennet's fore-legs, by dint of the strong, sharp curb, clear off
the bottom. The swollen stream came down with a heavier
swirl, its hind legs were swept from under it, in an instant, and
with a piercing scream of agony and terror, the palfrey was
whirled over the brink of the fall.

But, as it fell, unsuspicious of her husband's horrible intent,
the wretched girl freed her foot from the stirrup, and throwing
herself over to the right hand, with a wild cry, “Save me!
save me, my God! save me, Jasper!” caught hold of his velvet
doublet with both hands, and clung to him with the tenacious
grasp of the death-struggle.

Even then — even then, had he relented, one touch of the
spur would have carried his noble horse clear through the peril.

But no! the instant her horse fell, he shifted his reins to the
left hand, and grasped his whip firmly in the right; and now,
with a face of more than fiendish horror, pale, comprest, ghastly,
yet grim and resolute as death, he reared his hand on high, and
poised the deadly weapon.

Then, even then, her soft blue eyes met his, full, in that moment
of unutterable terror, of hope and love, even then overpowering
agony. She met his eyes, glaring with wolfish fury;
she saw his lifted hand, and even then would have saved his
soul that guilt.

“Oh no!” she cried, “oh no! I will let go — I will drown,
if you wish it; I will, I will, indeed! O God! do not you —
do not you — kill me, Jasper.”

And even as she spoke, she relaxed her hold, and suffered
herself to glide down into the torrent; but it was all too late —
the furious blow was dealt — with that appalling sound, that

soft, dead, crushing plash, it smote her full between those
lovely eyes.

“O God! — my God! — forgive — Jasper! Jasper!” — and
she plunged deep into the pool; but as the waters swept her
over the cataract's verge, they raised her corpse erect; and its
dead face met his, with the eyes glaring on his own yet wide
open, and the dread, gory spot between them, as he had seen
it in his vision years before.

He stood, motionless, reining his charger in the middle of
the raging current, unmindful of his peril, gazing, horror-stricken,
on the spot where he had seen her last — his brain reeled,
he was sick at heart.

A wild, piercing shout, almost too shrill to be human, aroused
him from his trance of terror. He looked upward almost unconsciously,
and it seemed to him that the mist had been drawn
up like a curtain, and that a man in dark garb stood gazing on
him from the summit of the rocks.

If it were so, it was but for a second's space. The fog
closed in thicker again than before, the torrent came roaring
down in fiercer, madder flood, and wheeling his horse round,
and spurring him furiously, it was all that Jasper St. Aubyn
could do, by dint of hand and foot, and as iron a heart as ever
man possessed, to avoid following his victim to her watery
grave.

Once safe, he cast one last glance to the rocks, to the river,
but he saw, heard nothing. He whirled the bloody whip over
the falls, plunged his spurs, rowel-deep, into the horse's sides,
and with hell in his heart, he galloped, like one pursued by the
furies of the slain, back, alone, to Widecomb.

5. CHAPTER V.
THE VENGEANCE.

It was not yet high noon, when, wet from spur to shoulder
with mud and spray, bloody with spurring, spotted from head
to heel with gory foam-flakes from his jaded horse's wide-distended
jaws, and quivering nostrils, bareheaded, pale as death,
and hoarse with shouting, Jasper St. Aubyn galloped frantically
up to the terrace-steps of Widecomb house; and springing to
the ground, reeled, and would have fallen headlong had he not
been caught in the arms of one of the serving-men, who came
running down the stone stairs to assist him.

As soon as he could collect breath to speak, “Call all!” he
cried, “call all! Ring the great bell, call all — get ladders,
ropes — run — ride — she is gone — she is lost — swept over the
black falls at Hawkshurt! O God! O God!” and he fell, as it
seemed, senseless to the earth.

Acting — sheer acting, all!

They raised him, and carried him up stairs, and laid him on
the bed — on her bed — the bed whereon he had kissed her lips
last night, and clasped her lovely form which was now haply
entwined in the loathsome coils of the slimy mud-eels.

He shuddered. He could not endure it. He opened his
eyes again, and feigning to recover his senses, chid the men
from his presence, and again commanded, so peremptorily, that
none dare disobey him, that every servant — man, woman, maid
or boy — should begone to the place he had named, nor return
till they brought back his lost angel's body.

They believed that he was mad; but mad or sane, his anger
was so terrible at all times, and now so fierce, so frantic and
appalling, that none dared to gainsay him.

Within half an hour after his return, save himself there was
not a human being left within the walls of Widecomb manor.

Then he arose and descended slowly, but with a firm foot
and unchanged brow, into the great library of the hall. It was
a vast, gloomy, oblong chamber, nearly a hundred feet in
length, wainscoted and shelved with old black-oak, and dimly
lighted by a range of narrow windows, with dark-stained glass
and heavily-wrought stone mullions.

There was a dull wood-fire smouldering under the yawning
arch of the chimney-piece, and in front of the fire stood an old
oaken-table, and a huge leathern arm-chair.

Into this Jasper cast himself, with his back to the door,
which he had left open, in the absence of his mind. For
nearly an hour he sat there without moving hand or foot, gazing
gloomily at the fire. But, at the end of that time, he started,
and seemed to recollect himself, opened the drawer of the writing-table,
and took out of it the record of his wretched victim's
marriage.

He read it carefully, over and over again, and then crushed
it in his hand, saying, “Well, all is safe now, thank God!”
Yes, he thanked God for the success of the murder he had
done! “But here goes to make assurance doubly sure.”

And with the word he was about to cast the paper which he
held into the ashes, when the hand of a man, who had entered
the room and walked up to him with no very silent or stealthy
step, while he was engrossed too deeply by his own guilty
thoughts to mark very certainly anything that might occur
without, was laid with a grip like that of an iron vice upon his
shoulder.

He started and turned round; but as he did so, the other hand

of the stranger seized his right hand which held the marriage
record, grasping it right across the knuckles, and crushed it together
by an action so powerful and irresistible, that the fingers
involuntarily opened, and the fatal document fell to the ground.

Instantly the man cast Jasper off with a violent jerk which
sent him to a distance of some three or four yards, stooped,
gathered up the paper, thrust it into his bosom, and then folding
his arms across his stalwart breast, stood quietly confronting
the murderer, but with the quietude of the expectant gladiator.

Jasper stared at the swarthy, sun-burnt face, the coal-black
hair clipped short upon the brow, the flashing eyes, that pierced
him like a sword. He knew the face — he almost shuddered
at the knowledge — yet, for his life, he could not call to mind
where or when he met him.

But he stared only for an instant; insulted — outraged — he,
in his own house! His ready sword was in his hand forthwith
— the stranger was armed likewise with a long broadsword and
a two-edged dagger, and heavy pistols at his girdle; yet he
moved not, nor made the slightest movement to put himself on
the defensive.

“Draw, dog!” cried Jasper, furiously. “Draw and defend
yourself, or I will slay you where you stand.”

“Hold!” replied the other steadily. “There is time enough
— I will not balk you. Look at me! — do you not know me?”

“Know you? — not I; by Heaven! some rascal smuggler, I
trow — come to rob while the house is in confusion! but you
have reckoned without your host this time. You leave not this
room alive.”

“That as it may be,” said the other, coolly. “I have looked
death in the face too often to dread much the meeting; but ere
I die, I have some work to do. So you do not know me?”

“Not a whit, I tell you.”

“Then is the luck mine, for I know you right well, young sir!”

“And for whom do you know me!”

“For a most accursed villain always!” the man answered;
“two hours since, for Theresa Allan's murderer! and now,
thanks to this paper, which, please God, I shall keep, for Theresa
Allan's — husband!”

He spoke the last words in a voice of thunder, and at the
same time drew and cocked, at a single motion, a pistol with
each hand.

“Never!”

“Take up your pistols, then — they lie there on the table.
We will turn, back to back, and walk each to his own end of
the room, then turn and fire — if that do not the work, let the
sword finish it.”

“Amen!” said St. Aubyn, “and the Lord have mercy on
your soul, for I will send it to your cousin in five minutes.”

“And may the fiend of hell have yours — as he will, if there
be either fiend or God. Are you ready?”

“Ay.”

“Then off with you, and when you reach the wall, turn and
fire.”

And as he spoke, he turned away, and walked slowly and
deliberately with measured strides toward the door by which
he had entered.

Before he had taken six steps, however, a bullet whistled
past his ear, cutting a lock of his hair in its passage, and rebounded
from the wall, flattened at his feet. Jasper had turned
at once, and fired at him with deliberate aim.

“Ha! double murderer! die in your treason!” and the sailor
leveled his pistol in turn, and pulled the trigger; had it gone
off, Jasper St. Aubyn's days were ended then and there; but no
flash followed the sparks from the flint — and he cast the useless
weapon from him.

At once they both raised their second pistol, and again Jasper's
was discharged with a quick, sharp report; and almost
simultaneously with a crack, a dull sound, as of a blow, followed
it; and he knew that his ball had taken effect on his
enemy.

Again Denzil's pistol failed him; and then, for the first time
Jasper observed that the seaman's clothes were soaked with
water. He had swam that rapid stream, and followed his beloved
Theresa's murderer, almost with the speed of the stout
horse that bore him home.

Not a muscle of Denzil's face moved, not a sinew of his
frame quivered, yet he was shot through the body, mortally —
and he knew it.

“Swords!” he cried, “swords!”

And bounding forward, he met the youth midway, and at the
first collision, sparks flew from the well-tempered blades.

It was no even conflict, no trial of skill — three deadly
passes of the sailor, as straight and almost as swift as lightning,
with a blade so strong, and a wrist so adamantine, that no
slight of Jasper's could divert them, were sent home in tierce
— one in his throat, “That for your lie!” shouted Denzil; a

second in the sword-arm, “that for your coward blow!” a third,
which clove his heart to the very cavity, “that for your life!”

Ten seconds did not pass, from the first crossing of their
blades until Jasper lay dead upon the floor, flooding his own
hearth-stone with his life-blood.

Denzil leaned on his avenging blade, and looked down upon
the dead.

“It is done! it is done just in time! But just — for I am
sped likewise. May the great God have mercy on me, and
pardon me my sins, as I did this thing not in hatred, but in
justice and in honor! Ah — I am sick — sick!”

And he dropped down into the arm-chair in which Jasper
was sitting as he entered; and though he could hardly hold his
head up for the deadly faintness, and the reeling of his eyes
and brain, by a great effort he drew out the marriage-record
from his breast — Jasper's ball had pierced it, and it was dappled
with his own life-blood — and smoothed it out fairly, and
spread it on the board before him.

Then he fell back, and closed his eyes, and lay for a long
time motionless; but the slow, sick throbbing of his heart
showed that he was yet alive, though passing rapidly away.

Once he raised his dim eyes, and murmured, “They tarry
— they tarry very long. I fear me, they will come too late.”

But within ten minutes after he had spoken, the sound of a
multitude might be heard approaching, and a quick, strong, decided
step of one man coming on before all the rest.

Within the last few minutes, Denzil had seemed to lose all
consciousness and power. He was, indeed, all but dead.

But at these sounds he roused like a dying war-horse to the
trumpet; and as the quick step crossed the threshold, he staggered
to his feet, drew his hand across his eyes, and cried,
with his old sonorous voice — it was his last effort —

“Is that you, lieutenant?”

“Ay, ay, captain.”

“Have you found her?”

“She is here,” said the young seaman, pointing with his
hand to the corpse, which they were just bearing into the
room.

“And he — ha! ha! ha! ha! — he is there!” and he pointed
with a triumphant wafture of his gory sword, toward Jasper's
carcass, and then, with the blood spouting from his mouth and
nostrils, he fell headlong.

His officer raised him instantly, and as the flow of blood
ceased, he recovered his speech for a moment. He pointed to
the gaping crowd.

“Have — have you — told them — lieu — lieutenant?”

“No, sir.”

“Tell — tell them — l-let me hear you.”

“You see that wound in her forehead — you saw it all, from
the first,” he said, to the crowd, who were gazing in mute horror
at the scene. “I told you, when I took you to the body,
that I saw her die, and would tell you how she died, when the
time should come. The time has come. He — that man,
whose body lies there bleeding, and whose soul is now burning
in Tophet, murdered her in cold blood — beat her brains out
with his loaded hunting-whip. I — I, Hubert Manvers, saw
him do it.”

There was a low, dull murmur in the crowd, not of dissent
or disbelief, but of doubt.

“And who slew master?” exclaimed black Jem Alderly,
coming doggedly forward, “this has got to be answered for.”

“It is answered for, Alderly,” said Denzil, in a faint, but audible
voice. “I did it — I slew him, as he has slain me. I
am Denzil Olifaunt, whom men call Bras-de-fer. Do any of
you chance to know me?”

“Ay, ay, all on us! all on us!” shouted half the room; for

the frank, gallant, bold young seaman had ever been a general
favorite. “Huzza, for Master Denzil!”

And in spite of the horrors of the scene, in spite of the presence
of the dead, a loud cheer followed.

“Hush!” he cried, “hush! this is no time for that, and no
place. I am a dying man. There is not five minutes' life in
me. Listen to me. Did any of you ever hear me tell a lie?”

“Never! never!”

“I should scarce, therefore, begin to do so now, with heaven
and hell close before my eyes. Hubert Manvers spoke truly.
I also saw him murder her — murder his own wife — for such
she was; therefore I killed him!” He gasped for a moment,
gathered his breath again, and pointing to the table, “that paper,
Hubert — quick — that paper — read it — I — am going —
quick!”

The young man understood his superior's meaning in an instant,
caught the paper from the table, beckoned two or three
of the older men about him, among others, Geoffrey, the old
steward, and read aloud the record of the unhappy girl's marriage.

At this moment the young vicar of Widecomb entered the
room, and his eyes falling on the paper, “That is my father's
handwriting,” he cried; “this is a missing leaf of my church-register!”

“Was she not — was she not — his — wife?” cried Bras-de-fer,
raising himself feebly on his elbow, and gazing with his
whole soul in his dying eyes at the youthful vicar, and at the
horror-stricken circle.

“She was — she was assuredly, his lawful wife, and such I
will uphold her,” said the young man, solemnly. “Her fame
shall suffer no wrong any longer — her soul, I trust, is with her
God already — for she was innocent, and good, and humble, as
she was lovely and loving. Peace be with her.”

“Poor, poor lady!” cried several of the girls who were present,
heart-stricken, at the thought of their own past conduct,
and of her unvarying sweetness. “Poor, poor lady!”

“Hubert — Hubert — I — I have cleared her — char — her
character, I have avenged her death; lay me beside her. In
ten — ten minutes I shall be — God — bless you, Hubert — with
Theresa! A — men!”

He was dead. He had died in his duty — which was justice
— truth — vengeance!