University of Virginia Library

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.