CHAPTER I. MORTALITY.

"THE blessed Virgin aid and protect thee! and when this poor frame, now worn out with infirmities, and sinking in the grave, shall, ere to-morrow's sun, rise before its Creator in an immortal state—oh! may I then be pla­ced over thee as a guardian angel, though invisible to my child!—Weep not, Matilda, but"—

Such were the words delivered by madame Maserini to her daughter, as the latter held the dying hand of her mo­ther, and in an agony of grief listened to those instructions, which she was certain would be the last she ever should re­ceive from a parent, whose maternal tenderness and affec­tion were the most sincere, and of which she now would severely feel the loss. Madame Maserini immediately after fell into a fainting fit, which lasted so long, that the nurse as well as Matilda thought she was no more; but in this they were mistaken; for to the joy of all her attendants she recovered, and inquired, as she had [...] done be­fore, whether her son (who was an officer) was yet arrived; they answered her in the negative; for as he had been in­formed several times that it was thought his mother's dis­order would prove fatal, it was known he might obtain [Page 2] leave of absence from his regiment, which was then sta­tioned in Flanders. But some little time before, an ex­press had been sent to him, setting forth that madame Maserini was much worse, and they thought her life in great danger; they also mentioned that it was her particu­lar desire to see him; he was therefore now expected every hour: but after this fit she said she should not survive that evening, and seemed extremely impatient to see her son; she said she had something of the greatest importance to communicate to him, which she refused to relate to her daughter; but still finding that he did not arrive, she asked for her confessor, when to her inexpressible surprise and grief she was informed that he was sent for, that morning, by a sick relation, ten miles off, and was not yet returned; she called for pen and ink, and though so weak as hardly able to be supported in her bed, with great pain and diffi­culty she wrote several lines, then dropped her pen, clasp­ed hold of Matilda's hand, and expired.

The grief of all who were present was most poignant; but particularly that of Matilda; she now beheld herself an orphan with a very small fortune, which was not suffi­cient to support her genteelly without some other addition; she was bere [...]t [...] a mother whose good instructions and ad­vice she could now no longer receive; in short, she was distracted.

Not many minutes after the dissolution of madame Maserini, the physician came in; he found the attendants stupified with grief, and Matilda in the same posture as she was at the moment her mother expired; he parted her hand from that of the corpse, which she [...] to her bo­som, and bathed with tears; but she had the presence of mind to take up the paper on which her mother had wrote, and when she entered her chamber, threw it carelessly in [Page 3] the escritoire, without once looking at the writing▪ in short, her mind was in such a state that for many hours she had not the least remembrance of the affair.

About half an hour after the decease of madame Mase­rini, Alfred her son arrived. When he first heard of his mother's illness, he would have set off for Paris directly, but was prevented by the indisposition of a superior officer. Immediately as he received the last express, he obtained leave of absence for a month, and left Flanders the day after; but, unfortunately, in one part of his journey, where he was obliged to ride on horseback, the animal took fright and threw him; he was taken up for dead; but being only stunned by the blow, he soon recovered; yet it served to detain him a few days; as soon as he was able to stand, he made the best of his way to the city, but arrived too late to receive the important secret that madame Maserini so much wished to impart to him.

Madame Maserini was the youngest daughter of a noble­man whose power and dignity were well known in all parts of France; having no son, he resolved to aggrandise his name through his eldest daughter; for which purpose, he determined to place his two youngest in a convent; and, if possible, to prevail on them to take the veil: in this case, the fortune he would have been necessitated to have given them, might be added to that of their eldest sister, which most likely would procure her a husband of great note; he could then have his▪ name transferred to his son-in-law, and by that means the family honours would descend to posterity, the same as by male issue:—thus did the unjust marquis intend to bury from the world two amiable young women, to satisfy an empty and ridiculous ambition.

The marchioness died when the children were very [Page 4] young, and it was reported, through his ill [...];—the marquis now thought it full time to put his scheme in execution; he accordingly persuaded the young [...] to [...]e boarders for a few months, which they both readily a­greed to; he accompanied them himself to the conv [...]nt of N****, and affected the greatest grief at parting from them; in private he begged the lady abb [...]ss to let no op­portunity pass that might hasten their desire of taking the veil. Felicia, the youngest, seemed perfectly contented with her situation; but her sister, who was of a more lively disposition, very much disliked it; and though the greatest art was used in order to make her take to a religious life, yet it all proved ineffectual; for, at the year's end, though the former determined to comply with their wishes, yet Clementina declared her aversion to them, and proved ob­stinate in her opinion; she used all the arguments in her power to persuade her sister to relinquish the thoughts of making such a place a residence for life; but Felicia was so charmed with the convent and its inhabitants, that the constantly replied, nothing in the world should ever tempt her to leave them; she accordingly took the white veil. Her father (who constantly received intelligence) read the news with the greatest pleasure; but it was in some mea­sure damped by hearing that Clementina had so great a dislike to follow her example, and that she wished much to be permitted to return home:—this request he resolved not to grant; as he thought time, and a little more use to the rules and orders of the place, might work an entire change in her sentiments.

It was at this period Louis XIV ascended the throne of France; and, among others who had business to transact at court on that occasion, was a young gentleman, the son of an Italian of large fortune. He brought with him from [Page 5] Italy his sister, whom, [...]y order of his father, he was to place in the convent of N****; the day she was introdu­ced, he had an opportunity of seeing Clementina; he was struck with her beauty, and delighted with her conversa­tion, and afterwards had several other interviews; for by the orders of the marquis [...]he was permitted to see any one in company with the lady abbess, or any other person whom she could depend upon; this kind of behaviour, he thought, would be more likely to win her over to their pur­pose, than by laying her under any restraint; her disposi­tion being naturally good, and by far more inclined to yield to entreaty than force. Signor Maserini often came on visits to his sister, who was placed with her ladyship, and the chosen companion and friend of Clementina:—it was at these times, when no one was present (which would often happen, the marquis's orders not being strictly atten­ded to), that he would declare his passion, which he might plainly perceive was not listened to with dislike, Cle­mentina felt a strong partiality for him, which soon ripen­ed into love: she told him the state of her affairs; but when he entreated her to elope with him from the convent, she always reminded him that they must expect nothing in point of fortune from the marquis. That, he answered, would not give him the least concern; for his father, who had no children except his sister and himself, was worth a considerable deal of money, and had often told him, provi­ded he could meet with a wife, whose birth, virtues and accomplishments, would bring no disgrace upon their house, that wealth would be no object with him, as he should be able to give him enough to keep them not only in plenty, but in affluence.

Clementina's mind was on the rack which way to resolve; if she rejected the proposal, she would most likely be obli­ged [Page 6] to remain in the convent for life, and be constantly harassed with the importunities of all about her to take the veil; which would be worse than death; on the con­trary, if she consented to fly with signor Maserini to Italy, she must run the hazard of travelling many miles, and when she arrived in that country, would see no one that she knew, except himself and his sister;—the thoughts of leaving Fe­licia, the difficulty of escaping, and the idea of what would be the consequence if they were discovered, made her shrink with horror from the thoughts of leaving her present habi­tation. Thus she delayed coming to a resolution for near six months; when one morning as she entered a closet be­longing to the lady abbess, she perceived on the floor a let­ter, directed to her ladyship; it was her father's s [...]al, and was broken;—she at first hesitated whether she should read it; but at length determined to see the contents; which were, "that the marquis thought the manner in which she was treated was too mild, and begged that for the future she might be closely kept to her chamber, and stricter me­thods had recourse to."—Ready to faint, she ran to signora Maserini, who was equally surprised at the discovery, and wished her to comply with her brother's solicitations.—Clementina, after some little time, resolved to accept his proposals—in the afternoon he was expected, and they thought that would be a good opportunity to inform him of their determination.

CHAPTER II.

SIGNOR Maserini called in the afternoon, as was ex­pected—he only saw his sister, those measures being al­ready put in execution which the marquis had mentioned [Page 7] in his letter. She informed her brother of the circumstan­ces that had happened in the morning, and also acquainted him with Clementina's resolution to leave the convent. At these words he was in raptures; but they were soon subdued by the thoughts of what difficulties must be sur­mounted to escape from it; for Clementina was totally confined to her chamber; not even signora Maserini was permitted to see her—these orders had been given about an hour before—the young friends had therefore only time to fix, that whatever resolutions the latter intended to put in practice, she was to write them down, and contrive to drop them in the hand of the former at evening vespers. But both the brother and the sister were at loss how to elude the watchful vigilance of the different people belonging to the convent, till a scheme, proposed by signora, seemed as if it would prove favourable. She told her brother to go to the house of father Absalom, (a priest) who was expect­ed that night at a late hour to have a conference with the lady abbess, and to tell him her ladyship could not receive him; he should then procure a dress as much like father Absalom's as possible, and, at the same time when he was to have attended, to come to the gate of the convent, thro' which he might pass unnoticed, if he would hold up his handkerchief so as to cover his face, which the reverend father generally did to avoid the night air. By this means he might get to the lady abbess's apartments; but instead of entering them, to turn round a contrary way, that would take him to a winding staircase, which, after descending some time, would terminate in a large vaulted chamber; and in this place he was to wait the arrival of Clementina and his sister.

"But how is it possible," returned signor Maserini, "if you should be able to meet me there, that we can escape? You will certainly be known."

[Page 8] "Leave to me," said the lady. We shall also be [...]: and when you again pass the atten­ [...] [...]sted by us▪ they will naturally suppose you [...] her ladyship, and are returning with two of [...] be sure to have a carriage at a little [...] by day-break convey us a few miles [...] table walls; and by to-morrow evening we [...] at some little village, where we may, [...], remain in safety till the pursuit that is partly over; and we shall then be able to [...]ourney to Italy without interruption."

[...], after having thanked his sister a [...] excellent scheme, took his leave, in [...] or the elopement. Immediately after he [...] wrote down those particulars they had [...] on, and the exact manner in which [...]. At evening vespers they met; and [...] was over, she received from her friend [...] at discovery. As soon as she entered her [...] was the place where she was confined) [...]. Felicia, who had not been able to [...] account of an indisposition which obliged [...], was astonished, and begged to know, [...], the cause of her grief, But [...] to speak.

[...] had now done ringing—all was silent, [...] which howled through the apartments. [...] at hung in Felicia's cell was obliged to [...] hanging too near a casement, it was in [...] extinguished. Clementina placed it on [...] bed, and by its light observed in her [...]-like paleness. She pressed Clemen­ [...] [...] bosom, and once more begged to know [Page 9] why she wept. The latter, by degrees, and with the great­est circumspection, informed her of her intentions of leav­ing the convent. Horror showed itself in every feature of Felicia while she listened to the relation; at length, over­come by surprise, grief and weakness, she fainted. Water stood by; her sister, hardly able to support herself, appli­ed it to her relief, and had the presence of mind not to make any noise. After some minutes, she recovered, but was almost too ill to speak. Clementina supported her in her bed, and received the last words of her sister with a look of anguish and madness.

"Clementina," said Felicia, whose voice was hardly ar­ticulate, "Heaven preserve you in this ha [...]ardous attempt! O! my sister, may you see many happy years; and when the sunshine of prosperity sheds its beams upon thee, may they never be obstructed by the chilling wind of adversi­ty. Almighty Father!" she exclaimed, (and crossed her­self with the greatest fervency) "in this my last hour of dissolution, when the soul is near parting from the mortal dust, to fly unsullied to a merciful and heavenly Creator, vouch [...]afe to incline thine ear to my last prayer and dying supplication! Preserve, O Lord! my sister, through that part of life in which it shall please thee to place her, from the temptations and snares of the wicked; and when she is under the rod of affliction, inspire her with fortitude and resignation to bear it without murmuring, that with reli­gion and piety she may descend into the grave, and rise a­gain an angel of purity, ready to fly into the arms of her Saviour, her Re [...]mer and her God!"

Clementina supported her as well as she was able. She spoke no more, but survived about five minutes, and ex­pired in her arms.

CHAPTER III.

THE situation of Clementina was now dreadful beyond expression. The distant tinkling of a clock at a remote part of the monastery proclaimed the hour to be ten. The wind, which had been so very high, had entirely drop­ped, and the moon, quite obstructed by heavy clouds, could not be discerned; large drops of hail beat against the windows, and by degrees increased to a violent storm; the most tremendous claps of thunder followed fast on each other; flash after flash of vivid lightning darted through the shattered casements, which had no shutters. This war of elements was far more dreadful, it being an uncommon time of the year, the latter end of January. The body of Felicia lay still in the arms of her sister, who, totally insensi­ble, rested her hand on the same pillow, till a violent clap of thunder, which shook the convent, roused her from this reverie. She started up, and at first hardly knew where she was; but recollection soon came with redoubled force; it wanted but one hour to the time when she was to meet her friend; she was unable to come to a resolution in what manner to act. She took up the letter she had received from signora Maserini, and read it once more over.

She still considered, that, if she escaped, she might once more be happy; but if she remained in the convent, there was not the slightest hope that she should ever enjoy ano­ther hour of peace or comfort. She had now no one to leave, that could any way claim her regard or tenderness: the maternal love and affection of a mother she had never known; her father had not fulfilled that tender name, by either assiduity or kindness; her eldest sister she hardly [Page 11] ever saw, as she was placed, before her remembrance, with a relation of her mother's in Germany, who took the care of her education. The old lady visited the marquis but once only, accompanied by his daughter, and then made but a short stay; yet, in [...]his little time, the lady Eleanor's behaviour to her sisters was proud and disdainful, so as not to call forth either esteem or fondness. As to friends, she had none except signora, for the marquis never suffered them to cultivate any acquaintance. Felicia would have been the only cause that could have made her leave the con­vent with regret; she, alas! was now no more; she had conceived a sincere friends [...]ip for signora Maserini, and her heart plainly told her, her affections were placed on her brother; she therefore thought it would be more prudent to run the hazard of elopement with two persons by whom she was certainly beloved, than remain in a place where her life would be made uncomfortable. But still she was chilled with horror at the thoughts of being discovered; and the loss of her sister greatly preyed upon her spirits.

It was now near the time when she was to repair to sig­nora Maserini's room: she put some trinkets of her sister's, which Felicia had given her before she took the white veil, into a small silver casket which she could place in her pocket, and among them the picture of her mother; she shed a flood of tears at the thought, that if the original had lived, how happy she might now have been; she then, according to the directions in the letter, wrote with her pencil feign­ed memorandums relative to their escape, and the names of several roads quite contrary to those they meant to take; and dropped this book in the place where it was most likely to be found.

Eleven o'clock now struck, and the hail had in some measure abated, though the thunder and lightning still [Page 12] continued, when Clementina took a last farewell of her de­parted sister; she embraced the corpse, wept over it, and was for some time unable to move, till she at last tore her­self away from the body, and, with her eyes swimming in tears, implored the Author of all events to support her in the few critical hours she must undergo. With a trem­bling hand she then unbarred the door, which opened into a long gallery, on each side of which were different cells; she could not take the lamp, for fear of the light glancing into any of the apartments, and was therefore only guided by each flash of lightning that came through a large window at the further end. So weak as to be hardly able to walk, she at length arrived at the casement, and sat down on a seat under it to recover her strength. The way she had al­ready come was by far the most dangerous on account of discovery, there being one or more inhabitants in each of the rooms she had passed. She now went through several passages that led to a large vaulted chamber, and from thence began to ascend a stone stair-case that wound round the south tower of the convent, and took her entirely away from the cells below, belonging to the nuns, to the sleeping rooms of the boarders above. The thunder in this place had a most awful sound; the lightning, though it could only enter a small painted casement which stood at a great height, yet served to show the gloomy horrors of the place.

She was already half way up; but, terrified at the thoughts of her situation, she rested for a few moments against the old iron railing, when a light step seemed to move on the same stair. Almost convulsed with horror, she shrunk back, and was fortunately unable to call out, when at the same moment a strong flash of lightning dart­ed from the window above, and showed her the figure of a [Page 13] man; the sight of it was but momentary, and all again was silent and dark. With breathless agitation, and consi­derable quickness, she ran up the other part of the stair­case, flew across two passages, and arrived at the chamber of signora Maserini. She gave the signal they had fixed on, and the door was carefully opened by her friend, who with astonishment received Clementina, fainting in her arms.

She soon recovered, and informed signora of the death of her sister, and also of the event that had so much alarmed her. The former intelligence she was surprised and griev­ed at; but the latter, concerning the person on the stairs, she told her was her brother, who was to wait in the cham­ber below. This circumstance signora had neglected to mention in the letter, which might have been the cause of discovery. She insisted on Clementina's taking a glass of wine, and helped her to dress in the apparel of a priest, and then made herself ready in another disguise of the same kind.

She now thought it full time to attend her brother, and begging Clementina to support herself through this great trial, she softly opened the door; they proceeded to the stair-case, and descended it. It was quite dark, the thun­der and lightning being over. When they had got to the bottom, signora, in a whisper, called her brother, who in­stantly answered. He was going to congratulate them on having got so far without discovery; but his sister stopped him—"This," said she, "is not a place for compli­ments." They all three then reascended the stair-case, passed through a long passage, and arrived at the door of the lady abbess's apartments; they stopped there about two minutes, and then, holding their handkerchiefs partly over their faces, they crossed a large hall, and arrived at [Page 14] the door at the further end; they here passed two persons, who made no inquiries. This door led them to an inner court, and from that to an outer one, in which there were several porters; but they, supposing them to have returned from a conference with her ladyship, asked no questions. They had now only to pass the outside gates, which they did in the same manner, without any obstructions, and saw themselves totally free from the convent.

Signora and her brother were overjoyed at their good fortune; but Clementina, though she was happy in having escaped, yet sorrow still hung upon her brow. They walk­ed about half a mile, and then entered the chaise that waited for them; signor Maserini's servant was on horse­back; they desired the post-boy, whom they were obliged to acquaint with the whole affair, to drive as fast as possi­ble, and he might depend on being rewarded. Signora acquainted her brother (who had very tenderly inquired after Clementina's health, and the cause of her melancho­ly) of Felicia's death, and begged him not to force her to talk; that her spirits, which within a few hours had been so greatly shocked, might again be a little composed.

This observation was just: Clementina had in a little time gone through a great deal of trouble: the surprise and concern which followed the finding of her father's let­ter, the grief she felt at those orders being so soon put in execution, the terror and anxiety she was under when she read signora's billet, the sudden shock of her sister's death, the horror she felt during the storm, with the alarm she re­ceived on the stair-case, and her dread of being discovered the whole night, conspired to overwhelm her with sensa­tions almost equal to madness; her looks plainly confirm­ed that she was exceedingly ill, and it did not escape sig­nora or her brother. He was almost distracted to know [Page 15] in what manner to act. To wait for advice, would be as bad as to discover themselves; yet to see her in such a state, without any aid, was distressing beyond expression. He could not persuade her to take any nourishment, though he had provisions in the chaise to prevent their stopping on the road for any thing else than to change horses. Signora was extremely sorry to see her friend so much indisposed; she perceived a fever was coming on; she therefore advised her brother, about three o'clock in the afternoon, to order the post-boy to turn out of the high road, and drive into a wild part of the country, which, though it might take them out of the way they intended to go, yet in such a place they might find some retired cottage, where they could stop for some time in safety; for she was very certain Clementina would not be able to proceed on the journey.

Her brother consented, and ordered the boy accordingly, who turned into another road, which led them to a wild heath, and from that to a remote, solitary forest. They continued in one track for some miles, till it began to grow dark, when they descended into a deep valley, at the bottom of which was a cottage that stood by itself. The chaise then stopped, and signor Maserini and his sister alighted; they were obliged to help Clementina carefully out, who, supported by each of their arms, walked up to the retired dwelling, which seemed to be the residence of virtue, contentment and happiness.

CHAPTER IV. ADVERSITY.

"WHO would not relinquish the gaudy pomp and splendour of a court, the costly robe, the sumptuous feast, the deceitful courtier, and all the pride of emp­ty greatness, to spend their few remaining days in such a cot as this? The happy pair, blessed with each other's love, whose health and strength permit them to earn their daily bread, and care for no one, might here enjoy repose, and, with comfort to themselves and others, breathe out a life of piety and virtue." Such were the thoughts of [...]ignor Maserini, as he aided to support Clementina to the door of the cottage; he knocked, and it was opened by a young man who seemed not yet to have attained his twen­tieth year.

"Friend," said the disguised priest, "admit under your hospitable roof three travellers, who for one night beg a lodging, and will repay you to the utmost of their power, with gratitude and prayers."

The young shepherd (for such his dress denoted him [...] [Page 17] be) courteously invited them into a small clean room, where, on one side of the fire, sat a man and woman seemingly much advanced in years, and on the other a beautiful young girl, who looked to be about eighteen: they rose, and seemed greatly surprised at the entrance of the priests: the old man instantly ordered supper for his reverend guests, after assuring them they were sincerely welcome.

Signora Maserini placed Clementina next to her, while her brother went to the post-boy, whom he liberally re­warded, and told him to make the best of his way home, and acquaint his master he had been with only one gentle­man, quite a different road from that they had travelled; he then re-entered the cottage with Edward, whose horse they turned loose in a field behind it. Clementina, since he had been out, had fainted, and was just recovering.

Amazement might be seen in each face of the cottagers; that three priests should ride in a chaise attended by a ser­vant, was strange, as such sort of people usually walked; the effeminate beauty of two of them was remarkable; and then one of them fainting, was astonishing. Signora thought it would be better to inform them of their situa­tion at once, and trust to their generosity in concealing them; she therefore gave her brother the hint, and called on one side the old woman, whom she acquainted with the whole affair, while he did the same to the man. They both greatly wondered in what manner they could escape, but readily promised their protection.

Clementina all this time seemed totally insensible of what was going forward, and, in short, was in a state of stupidity; for she hardly gave any answer to those ques­tions that were put to her, nor could they persuade her to take any nourishment; she was therefore undressed [...] [Page 18] put into a warm bed. Neither the brother nor the sister could partake of the homely fare that was set before them; but about eight o'clock signor Maserini left the cottage with the young shepherd and Edward, and walked to a small cot, that belonged to the father of the former, who was acquainted by his son with the history of the gentleman he had brought. There was one bed to spare, which signor Maserini took possession of, and Edward slept with Cyril, which was the young man's name.

La Faril, the old cottager, insisted on his daughter Sa­bina sitting up with Clementina, and begged signora to re­tire to rest, as he was sure the fatigue [...]he must [...]ave under­gone must make sleep very necessary. She took his advice, and lay down in a small room next to Clementina's. Both La Faril and his wife gave Sabina a charge to be very care­ful of the young lady, and then they themselves bowed un­der the influence of the drowsy god.

Signor Maserini was at the cottage early the next morn­ing; he eagerly inquired after Clementina's health, and was informed by Sabina that she was very ill, and had been delirious the greater part of the night; she was now asleep, but was so disturbed she feared it would not refresh her; neither his sister nor her mother was up, and her father was gone out. He had not changed his dress, but was still in the disguise of a priest. He asked Sabina whe­ther there was any medical man lived near; she said there was one about three miles off, who always attended their family; he asked her for a direction, which she gave hi [...]; and not considering the hazard he ran, he resolved to go to him.

It was hardly light when he set off: he had not got above a mile, when he was accosted by a man who was crossing the same [...].

[Page 19] "Father," said he, "there is sad news." "What, my son?" replied signor Maserini. "Why," returned he, "there are two young ladies gone off with a young man, who▪ they say, is brother to one of them, from the convent of N****; and the other, who is daughter to some mar­quis, has poisoned her sister, for the was found dead in the morning"

[...] then continued to give an account how it was sup­posed they had escaped; and a man whose chaise was [...] the same night, had some thoughts it [...] a differ­ent road from that the post boy informed him; for, upon inquiry, no such cartiage had been seen in the places through which he said he had passed. He concluded with saying, [...] supposed the [...] search would be made after them, and that [...]e heard the news from a friend who had [...] and arrived at his cottage about six that morning.

It happened well that the man was so pleased with his own discourse, at not to take much notice of his hearer; for [...] would not have required a very acute observer to have seen his countenance change several times; he wished much to return back directly; but then his companion would certainly remark it; he therefore thought it best to continue walking [...] he could part with him without b [...] ­ing noticed [...] opportunity offered about half a [...] man turned short into a lane, and [...] him a good morning. He ran back as fast a [...] [...], and [...]ound breakfast quite ready; he told them [...] of his [...] return: and they all allowed it was not unlikely but the cottage might be searched; but their perplexity and [...] were still increased, when he informed them of the suspicions that had fallen on Cle­mentina, concer [...]ing Felicia's death; but they all agreed [Page 20] by no means to inform her of any part of the adventure.

There was now the greatest necessity for them to be con­cealed; for as there were no witnesses to contradict an af­fair which by appearances seemed probable, he was dis­tracted to think, that if they were taken, Clementina might suffer the punishment of a murderer: and in such cases strict inquiries and search were made through France. In what manner to act they knew not: Clementina was too ill to travel; and if she could, there was not a doubt but they would be overtaken; the officers might be here in three or four hours' time; and La Faril would run a great [...] in concealing them. Edward had no change of dress; he arrived at the cottage a little while after his master in the morning; Cyril, the young shepherd, who, the [...] found, was to marry Sabina, had set off early with his fa­ther on a short journey, and would not return till night. [...] of them had promised secresy, and begged signor Maserini and his servant would sleep there as long as he thought proper. None of them could think of any scheme to pr [...]ent discovery, till Sabina said, "Father, is there not at the [...] of the garden a cave, which none knows of besides ourselves!" La Faril instantly turned pale, and answered, "Yes, my dear; but it will, I am afraid, be too damp for the sick lady." "Is it not possible," said signore Maserini, "to have it warmed by fires?" They [...] agreed i [...] would. "Then, for heaven's sake, my friend," answered her brother, "let us begin about it directly."

All hands were set to work; Edward made a fi [...]e in it immediately and conveyed feather-beds, provisions, chairs, a table, candles, a lamp, [...], tinder-box, matches, and every other utensil that could any way make it comfort­able. The cave extended a great way back under some [Page 21] hills which rose at the bottom of La Faril's garden; the entrance was entirely hidden from the eye by thick moss and shrubs which grew round the bottom of the eminence. It seemed to have been a retreat at the time Henry the Fifth conquered France. The present possessor, who by chance discovered it, had never disclosed the secret to any but his own family; for a son of La Faril's who turned out exceedingly wild, but was since dea [...] committed a robbery about ten miles from the cottage, and, for fear of being taken, begged his father to conceal him in the cave, which was accordingly done; and [...] officers of justice, though they searched every part of the house and garden, did not perceive the entrance of it. It was at the recollec­tion of this circumstance, that La Faril turned [...] when Sabina mentioned the cave; for it was very necessary they should keep the knowledge of it in their own bosoms, as he would be punished, if it was known, for screening his own son from the rigour of the [...].

About two o'clock in the afternoon, every thing was ready: but though great fires had been kept in it ever since the morning, it was yet damp; [...] th [...]refore thought it best not to enter that [...] the next day; and then signor Maserini could instruct Cyril and his father in what manner to act. Edward was placed at a window on the top of the cottage, with a glass, so [...] could per­ceive any one coming that way within a [...]; and [...] notice would be time enough for them to ma [...]e their escape to the garden: he was also to sit up all night in the cave to keep in a large [...], that it might be thoroughly aired by the morning.

Clementina was better, and perfectly sensible and com­posed; signora ventured to inform her of the affair relative to her brother's meeting the man in the morning, carefully [Page 22] concealing that part concerning the death of her sister.

She was not so much alarmed as might have been ex­pected, and seemed extremely happy in the contrivance of the cave. Since the sleep she had in the morning, though it was much disturbed, she had mended, and was now able to sit up for an hour to have her bed made. She ate a lit­tle supper; and, in short, through the good attention and management [...] her hostess, Clementina seemed perfectly recovered from those dangerous symptoms of a fever which appeared the night before.

At nine o'clock, signor Maserini took his leave, and walked to the cottage of Cyril and his father; he informed them of the whole affair concerning the cave, by permission of La Faril, who knew them to be too much his friends to discover it. Signor Maserini begged both of them, if any inquiry should be made after him, to declare they knew no­thing of him; he conjured them to lay the same injunc­tions on a young girl who was a distant relation to them, and kept their house; all which they promised faithfully to perform. The place was so exceedingly retired, that none of them had been seen, except by La Faril, his wife and daughter, Cyril, his father, the young girl and the man before mentioned; nor was any stranger observed in that part, sometimes for three months together; and the only way they had of procuring povision was, by going to a small town four miles distant. Signor Maserini thanked both the father and the son for their hospitality towards him, and, after wishing them a good night, retired to his bed.

CHAPTER V.

THE dejected lover had now time to recollect his situation. Though his father was exceedingly fond of him, yet there was a haughty pride and obstinacy in his disposition, that made him tremble l [...]st he should disap­prove of his proceedings. It was true, he had several times told him that, with respect to his marrying, he should consider wealth as no object; but used always to lay a particular stress on his consent being first obtained: this last circumstance he had never mentioned to Clemen­tina. He also knew him to be whimsical and capricious, insomuch that it would not be unlikely, should they ever be so fortunate as to arrive in Italy, but he might refuse his consent to their nuptials, though not capable of alledg­ing any reason for his dislike. He therefore determined to persuade Clementina to be married to him before they made themselves known to his father, whom they could [...] deceive by telling him the ceremony had not been performed: if he approved of her as [...] daughter, it was all very well; if, on the contrary, he rejected her, it would be out of his power to part them, as she would be his by the most sacred ties on earth; for, should the worst hap­pen, and his father totally discard him, at the death of a brother of his late mother's, no one could prevent his tak­ing possession of a very good fortune; and till that period, which was not likely to be long, his uncle being a man much advanced in years, he could support himself and wife by industry and application to his pencil, which art he was a proficient in, though he only learnt it as an ac­complishment. But still the thoughts of their being disco­vered [Page 24] again intruded on his mind, and he shrunk with horror from the idea that Clementina might suffer an ig­nominious death: sleep refused its aid, and the rest of the night was spent in melancholy reflections on the dangers they had passed, and disagreeable conjectures on those that might still be to come. He rose about six, more fatigued than when he retired to rest, and took the advantage of the darkness of [...] morning, to walk to the cottage; he found them all up, as they had determined to enter the cave be­fore day- [...]ight. Clementina was considerably better; sig­nora Maserini was in good spirits, but they were damped by seeing her brother look so ill: she however concealed her uneasiness, for fear of alarming Clementina, who had also taken notice of it.

After a hasty breakfast, they thought it full time to pro­ceed to the garden; it was a disagreeable morning, though not so cold as might have been expected for the time of the year; yet there was a chilling dampness in the air, which made it far more uncomfortable than a severe frost; and a few small stars, scattered about the heavens, gave the hea­vy black clouds which encompassed a large space a more dreary appearance. It was just beginning to grow light, when the melancholy party came out from the cottage. La Faril went first: his thoughts were fixed on the simi­larity of the present scene with that when he conducted his only son to the same gloomy habitation.

The recollection of this circumstance drew a tear from his aged eye; for the good old man could not help paying that tribute to his memory, though he had shed many on account of his vices and extravagances. Signor Maserini walked after him; he was wholly taken up with the idea of their being discovered; and when he looked on Cle­mentina, who rested on one arm while his sister laid hold [Page 25] on the other, he almost cursed himself for leading her into so much danger.

Clementina was distressed to see him look so ill, but fear­ed nothing while she was under his protection.—Signora had no misfortunes of her own; to see them happy, she thought would make her so; and therefore her anxiety or happiness was heightened or decreased according to the si­tuation of her brother and her friend.—Sabina and her mother followed, with their hands and eyes lifted towards heaven, imploring blessings on their visitors, and praying that they might remain undiscovered.

When they arrived at the care, La Faril touched the se­cret spring, and the door flew open;—they were received by Edward, who had, as he was ordered, kept good fires all night, so that the place felt perfectly warm: their con­ductor then told them that Sabina should come every night after it was dark, to inform them if any thing particular had happened, and to be useful in any way that might serve to make them comfortable:—signor Maserini return­ed him a thousand thanks for his kindness and friendship.—La Faril and his family then took their leave, and the door closed after them.

The cave, as was before mentioned, ran a great way back;—it was divided into three regular apartments, which, though narrow, were each of them long:—the first they made their sitting room; in the second signor Maserini slept; and in the third, Clementina and his sister.—Edward had a small bed placed for him close to the entrance, that he might be ready to give an alarm if he heard any noise that seemed to threaten danger.—They received no light but from candles or lamps:—this, added to the antique manner in which it was fitted up, and the hollow echo that sent back every sound they uttered, gave the place a [Page 26] gloomy and melancholy appearance;—but, disagreeable as it might seem, it was to them a comfortable retreat;—it might preserve them from their enemies; and with that hope, any situation would be acceptable, though, if pos­sible, ten times more disgusting than that they now possessed.

Sabina arrived at the cave about ten o'clock at night, attended by Cyril;—they informed signor Maserini that no inquiries had been made after them that day; but they had heard the king's officers were within a few miles of the place; and there was not a doubt but they would remain there until the next morning. The young lovers stopped about an hour, and then took their leave.

CHAPTER VI.

IT was near twelve o'clock wh [...] signor Maserini, who had been reading to Clementina and his sister ever since the departure of Cyril and Sabina, declared he was fatigued, and proposed going to rest; they both readily consented, and had retired to their chamber about a quarter of an hour, when Edward ran into his master's room, with the news that the officers were certainly arrived, for he had heard them talking close to the cave.

Fortunately, he did not speak loud; and signor Maserini, who was just beginning to undress, desired him not to disturb the ladies, and he himself would come to the door and listen to their conversation.—They both proceeded to the mouth of the cave; the wind was high, and the noise which it occasioned among the trees, prevented them from hearing but now and then a few words.—The first person [Page 27] whose voice they could distinguish, was Cyril.—Signor Maserini was very glad he was there;—he seemed to be talking to one of the officers—

"You see," said he, "there are no signs of a place where we could conceal any one, even if we had ever such an inclination."

"Hold—not so fast, young man," answered a stern voice:—"we shall [...] particularly this place; for I remember, some years back, being here on the same er­rand, after a young thief, who, though he was seen to en­ter this cottage, yet could not be found. He was, I be­live, that old man's son."

"Ah!" exclaimed La Faril," call him not by that name; he is now no more; and those epithets are ill be­stowed on one who has long since been in his grave, and is by this time partly turned to earth again"—Here the old man burst into tears, and, as they supposed, retired to the house; for they heard him no more.

The officers stopped about half an hour, during which time Cyril remained with them.—Signor Maserini won­dered at his having stopped so late, but looked on it as a fortunate circumstance, as La Faril was too weak and in­firm to attend them in a proper manner. He was exceed­ingly glad to think that neither his sister nor Clementina had known any thing of the matter, and pleased himself with the thoughts how happy they would be, when he informed them the affair they most dreaded was now over; nor were his conjectures wrong; for his intelligence gave them the greatest pleasure.

The following night, Sabina arrived at the cave. She told them that when Cyril and herself entered the cottage from seeing them the night before, the father of the former had called to tell them the officers were within two miles [Page 28] of them; he had heard it at a place where he had been in the afternoon; they therefore thought it would be best for Cyril to stay all night, in case they should come at a late hour to surprise them. It was fortunate they took that precaution; for about midnight they were knocked up by the unwelcome visitors. Cyril let them in; and, after their coming from the garden, they stopped about a quarter of an hour, and then departed.

Their only fear was now to fix in what manner they should proceed to Italy without discovery; but at all events they determined to remain in the cave, at least a month, that the affair might be in some measure forgotten; and they could then consult what disguise would be the most proper for them to travel in. They had resided in their habitation near a fortnight before La Faril dared to make them a visit; but receiving intelligence that the of­ficers were certainly returned, he took the first opp [...]rtunity▪ to see them, and proposed they should travel to Italy in the disguise of Savoyards, as he had dresses which would fit them, and every thing proper for that character; they hav­ing been made for a masquerade. His scheme met with the greatest approbation, and they accordingly set about carrying it into execution.

In about three weeks every thing was prepared, and the morning fixed when they were once more to venture forth in search of happiness. Sabina and her mother attended them very early, in order to assist in putting on the dres­ses. La Faril arrived soon after; and at six o'clock they thought it full time to set off, as it would be necessary they should get some distance from the cottage before day­light. La Faril made signor Maserini perfectly acquainted with the way across the country: and in case any ques­tions were asked them by the villagers, they were to reply [Page 29] they were going to Italy, the place where such sort of people mostly reside. Cyril also attended to take his leave. The spring of the cave was turned, and they once more breathed in open air: yet the thoughts of leaving the place which had preserved them from their enemies, created a pang in their breasts, and particularly since they knew not how soon they might once more wish to be con­fined within its close recess. Signor Maserini clasped La Faril's hand, and stammered out his gratitude, accompa­nied with tears, while the good old man, whose silver hairs and aged form denoted those pearly drops which hung up­on his withered cheek were not the first soft emblems of his feeling heart, pressed him to his bosom; then, almost overcome with weakness and the effect of years, he nearly funk insensible on the earth—This was too much for signor Maserini;—he pressed his sister and Clementina to hasten their departure, and hurried away from the spot to which he before seemed rooted.

It was an exceeding cold morning, and the twinkling bright stars which illumined the heavens, plainly show­ed it to be a severe frost. They got three miles from the cave before day-light, and continued travelling without any disagreeable circumstances happening on the road, except the curiosity of the peasants, whose homely enter­tainment and good nature made ample amends for their ignorance.

After some days, they had the pleasure to enter Italy. Signor Maserini hired lodgings some miles from his fa­ther's residence, and entreated Clementina to become his, before he made himself known to him. She was very un­willing to consent; but at last, overcome by the persua­sions of the brother and the sister, he had the rapture to receive her as his own, about a fortnight after their arrival. [Page 30] The only difficulty that now remained was, to make it known to his father, which he determined to do in three or four days after their marriage, but first wrote to La Faril. In the letter he inclosed a considerable present, and sent it by a friend who was going that way, as he was certain every method would be taken to intercept any letters di­rected to him, as La Faril lay under the greatest suspicion in point of concealing his son, as well as signor Maserini.

The day arrived on which he was to pay a visit to his father. He begged his sister to stay with Clementina, as she would be in want of company, and was a stranger to the place. He set off early in the morning, and, after some hours' quick travelling, during which time his ideas were entirely taken up in thinking of his father, and in what manner he should be received, he arrived at the large hea­vy gates of the abbey. With a trembling hand he pulled the bell, but could not hear it ring. After another at­tempt, he found the wire was rusty; yet it made a noise. A thought struck him, which chilled him with horror—his father might be dead!—for he made himself known to no one since his coming to Italy, but his friend who carried the letter to La Faril; and he could give no intelligence concerning his friends, as he arrived the same night as sig­nor Maserini, from Spain, was taken ill, and did not go out till he proceeded on his journey to England, when he promised to leave the letter as he went through France.

CHAPTER VII.

THIS idea had not crossed his mind five minutes before a man and a boy approached him: he asked them if they could tell the reason why that abbey was uninhabited?

[Page 31] "Heaven bless you, master!" said the man: "you must surely be a stranger in this part, if you have not heard of the old gentleman's death who lived here."

Signor Maserini turned pale; the bridle dropped from his hand, and he must have fallen upon the ground, had he not been received into the arms of the villager.

"You are not well, sir," said the man, as he placed him on a seat under the large heavy portico of the abbey.—"Lubin, run and get the gentleman some water from yonder spring."

The boy obeyed, and brought [...]ome in a pitcher which he had in his hand; he was persuaded to drink a small quantity, and soon recovered. He informed the peasant he was a distant relation of the late count, and was come upon a visit to the abbey; that the hearing so suddenly of his death had quite overcome him.

"Ah, your honour," replied the man, "there has been strange doings for these last six months; heaven knows best;—but one cannot be hanged for thinking, as the saying is."

"Strange doings! for heaven's sake explain yourself, friend," said signor Maserini, "for I have the greatest reason to be interested in the affairs of the count."

"If you will step with me to my cot, signor, I will re­late to you the circumstances that have happened. My wife expects me home to dinner, as I must return, in less than an hour, to my labour in yonder vineyard"

He readily assented; and having walked a small distance, they arrived at his habitation. The horse was turned in­to a field When they entered the cottage, a neat middle-aged woman was preparing dinner: they wished much their guest would partake of their homely fare; but he could not eat.—They had not resided in that part above six [Page 32] months, therefore knew nothing of signor Maserini's per­son He conjured the man to begin his narration; and the honest husbandman complied, as follows:—

"You, no doubt, signor, were acquainted with young Percival Maserini and his sister Sisera, the only children of the late count. Twelve months have not yet passed since they both took leave of their father at that very abbey, and travelled into France, on account of some business which required Percival's attendance at court, as Louis XIV had just then ascended the throne. Sisera was to be placed in the convent of N****, while her brother staid, which they supposed would not be above four months; and then they were to return together. The count for some time received letters from them both: but though the business which caused their journey was finish­ed at the expiration of the four months, they did not by any means seem inclined to return to Italy; and, in a little while after, their correspondence dropped; for though letters were continually sent to them, no answers were received.

"This gave the count great alarm, and he wrote to a principal person near the place, concerning them. In a little time he received information that his son had run away with a young lady from the convent of N****, where he had placed his sister; that she also had eloped with them, as well as the servant who stopped with Percival in France: he concluded with saying, the strictest search was making after them, as it was supposed the young lady had poisoned her sister, who was placed in the convent with her, had taken the white veil, and was found dead in her bed the morning after her departure.

"This news, signor, was like a thunderbolt to the old count: he had not a doubt but they would be taken. [Page 33] From that day he drooped, and in about a week after was laid up with a violent fever. Count D'Ollifont, his ne­phew, was sent for." Here Percival trembled: he knew D'Ollifont to be his enemy. The man continued—"He attended his [...] with the greatest tenderness, insomuch that he recovered enough to sit up for a few hours every day, and dispatched him to find some intelligence of his children: he accordingly set off for France, but returned at the end of the second day, with a letter which he ac­quainted his uncle was given him on the road by a messen­ger, sent from France for that purpose; it came from a friend of his who resided there, and acquainted him that both signor and signora Maserini were no more; that the former had fallen in a duel with an officer of the guards, who was going to secure them; and that the latter was seized with a violent grief, which turned her brain, and she had found means to poison herself, unknown to those who had the care of her; that lady Clementina was placed in the Bastile, till it was settled what punishment she should suffer; but that she was not married to signor Maserini. This news caused a relapse in the old gentleman's disor­der. Nor was it he alone who suffered: every domestic of his household, signor, shed tears for the loss of two ami­able children, who were never known to give a tender parent one pang of sorrow, except in this circumstance, and that cost them their lives."

"Would it had!" repeated signor Maserini to himself. "That ever I should have lived to have seen this day!"

The woman was too much employed in cooking her hus­band's dinner, and the husband too much taken up in eat­ing it, and telling the story, to take any particular notice of him; or else the inward workings of his soul might ea­sily have been observed. The man continued:—

[Page 34] "The old count now grew considerably worse; his physicians gave him over, and, in about a week after his relapse, he died of a broken heart. when he heard of the death of his children, he altered his will; the servants were all left mourning, and a genteel legacy; old Absalom a comfortable allowance for life; his tenants a twelve­month's rent; except which, and a few other legacies, he bequeathed the whole of his fortune to count D'Ollifont. Among the estates is Grasville Abbey, which has been [...]ut up ever since the death of count Maserini; nor has any of the furniture been removed."

"How happened that, my friend?"

"I know not, your honour; but folks say strange things—that there has been soul play, and that the place is haunted by the father and his children; but it is known for certain, that count D'Ollifont intended to sleep there the night o [...] his uncle's funeral, but could not rest: he started up about midnight, left the place with his servants directly, and the next week returned to Spain, where he was sent for at the time his uncle was taken ill."

Signor Maserini inquired if he himself had ever seen any thing at the abbey to confirm the reports of its being haunt­ed, and how he came to be so particularly acquainted with those affairs relative to its late inhabitants.

"Why, by old Absalom the steward, signor," answered the man. "He lived just by here, but did not long survive his old master; and as to seeing any thing, as your honour talks of, I cannot say I ever did; but Dorothy once said she saw a light one night pass several of the casements in the west tower; this Dorothy declared she could take her [...]ath of."

"Is there any way to get to the inside of the abbey?"

"None, signor; each of the gates is well locked, barred and bolted; and the windows are all fastened."

[Page 35] After some further conversation, the man's dinner-time was expired. Signor Maserini rewarded him for his trou­ble, and then with a heavy heart mounted his horse and departed.

CHAPTER VIII.

WHEN the iron rod of adversity falls suddenly upon us, and misfortunes of the most distressing nature unexpect­ly darken our future prospects, surprise for a little time gets the better of our feelings; amazement and horror gain such an ascendency over our intellects, that, in the relation of our griefs, we forget for some time the nature and cause of them, while we listen with attention to the frivolous story of the circumstances by which they were occasioned.

Signor Maserini was in this state while the husbandman related to him the account of his father, and the villainy of count D'Ollifont. His astonishment was so great, that the death of the former, and the total loss of his fortune, were entirely forgotten, and he thought only on the false­hood his cousin had propagated. He left the cottage; his horse took his own course for some time; nor did he per­ceive he was entering by degrees into a thick wood, till some trees obstructed his way; he leaped from his horse, and threw himself on the ground; the thoughts of his situation now flashed on his memory, and the loss of his father he regretted with the most sincere grief. The impo­sition which had been put in practice to deprive him and his sister of their fortunes, excited both his surprise and [Page 36] anger; in short, the different emotions he felt, almost drove him to a state of distraction.

In this situation he remained for near two hours, till, harrassed through distress and fatigue, he fell into a slum­ber. Horrid dreams disturbed him, and his sleep was both uneasy and disagreeable; yet he remained in this state of forgetfulness till it was nearly dark: he started up and mounted his horse, which had not moved from his side; he remembered he had promised Clementina and his sister to be at home early in the evening; but that would now be impossible, as the wood was intricate, nor was he acquainted with the way out. He wandered about in search of the right path for near two hours, but was unsuc­cessful, till chance led him to the direct track: he follow­ed it, and in a little time found himself clear of the laby­rinth. He was very ill, and hardly able to ride; the cold had seized him by being so long in the open air; he, how­ever, continued a good pace till he once more found himself before the gates of Grasville Abbey.

The night was very dark, the thunder rolled at a dis­tance, and faint flashes of lightning followed one after ano­ther with considerable quickness; he stopped once more to look at the place where he had spent so many happy juvenile hours, and where he had that day hoped to have been received with cordiality and tenderness. He had ex­perienced the reverse; he had found his father was no more, and that he had been duped out of his right by one who was allied to him by the ties of blood, and, as he had supposed, by those of friendship.

A tear fell from his eye while he looked on the venerable structure, every part of which seemed deserted; a gloomy stillness reigned through the heavy pile, nor was the so­lemn silence broke but by the bird of night, which had [Page 37] taken up its habitation under one part of the pòrtico. The idea of the place being haunted now entered his imagination.

"Would to heaven," said he, "the report I have heard was true, that I might be permitted to converse, nay, only to see, the spirit of my sire! surely he would—"

Here he was interrupted by a stong flash of lightning, which darted right on his face, and was followed b [...] a loud [...] of thunder. Though he was struck silent, his eye was still fixed on the abbey; the noise of the thunder had not died away above three minutes before a violent crash was heard at the other part of the building; it seemed like the falling of armour, and continued for some little time.

Signor Maserini was struck with astonishment; horror and expectation seized him at the same moment; he turn­ed his horse round, and rode to the side whence the noise seemed to proceed; all again was silent, yet he still con­tinued locking on the place. It was by the west tower—he recollected the account he had heard of the light being seen there. At the moment he was thinking on this cir­cumstance, a faint glimmering passed a small casement in the very part of the west tower the woman had described. His situation may be more easily imagined than described: He was a perfect statue with astonishment; still he thought it might be fancy; but he was thoroughly convinced, when a stronger light appeared in the same place a few mi­nutes afterwards, but disappeared in an instant. Every nerve was stiffened with horror; he still drew nearer that part of the abbey; five minutes had not elapsed before the light again appeared in the same place; he now plain­ly perceived a figure pass, bearing a lamp; it vanished as quick as the former light had done, and all again was silent and dark.

[Page 38] His passions were now wrought up to the highest pitch; he galloped round to the front gates, alighted, and in vain attempted to enter the abbey; every entrance was strongly fastened; his brain was disordered, and he still continued to force the doors; but, after a long time, finding his ex­ertions all in vain, he again mounted his horse, and rode as fast as possible towards his own home.

CHAPTER IX.

SIGNORA Maserini waited with impatience the return of her brother; she wished much to hear of her father's health, and in what manner he received the account of Clementina: nor was Clementina less anxious; her spi­rits were depressed, she trembled for fear of ill news, yet the vivacity of her sister-in-law supported her tolerably well through the day. Night approached, and the time when signor Maserini promised to be at home expired: his fa­ther might have detained him; several circumstances might have happened to make him later. With these thoughts they in some measure satisfied themselves till it grew late; they were then exceedingly unhappy at not seeing him: the roads he had to come were often infested by banditti.

A little while after midnight, a loud rap was heard at the door: Edward flew to open it; neither Sisera nor Clementina could ask who it was, before signor Maserini stood before them: his appearance for a moment struck them motionless with surprise; nor was it to be wondered a [...]: the disorder of his dress, and the wildness which dart­ed from his eyes, made his figure altogether horrible.

"How does my father?" asked his sister.

[Page 39] "Well," he exclaimed; "but if you wish to know, Sisera, ask the angels in heaven: they best can tell thee."

"Alas!" she cried, and burst into tears: "my father is no more; I know it by thy looks—by the strange an­swers you give to my questions."

"You are right," said he: "our father has paid the debt of nature."

He seemed now rather more composed; yet complained of violent pains in his head and limbs. Signora Maserini grieved much for the loss of her father: she could get no further intelligence from her brother's discourse, which was very incoherent and difficult to be understood, but that her father was no more, and they were duped out of their right; but by whom, and in what manner, she could not possibly find out. He talked much of an appearance he had seen in the abbey; but they looked upon it as the effect of a disordered brain.

The morning found them still more distressed. Signor Maserini was in a high fever, and quite delirious, his sister almost distracted, and Clementina very little better; the former immediately sent for a physician who lived near, and had always attended their family: she hoped from him to receive some i [...]telligence concerning her father's affairs, which [...]he situation of her brother prevented him from communicating. Edward was dispatched, and in a little time returned with the gentleman they so much wished to see.

He was a character universally [...] in Italy; his abilities were equally exerted in behalf of the poor and those in a higher sphere of life; he was a friend to the in­digent and distressed of every class, yet looked upon with admiration and respect by all who were so happy as to be known by him. Such was the man who, with all the [Page 40] marks of astonishment and surprise in his countenance, was conducted by Edward to signora Maserini [...] he informed her that it was supposed, by all who knew them, that both she and her brother had been dead some time; he also confirmed the news of her father's death; she would not, however, detain him to relate to her how such a report had been spread, till he had first seen her brother: he had some knowledge of the physician, yet every answer he gave to their questions, proved him in a state of insani­ty. Clementina and Sisera anxiously inquired the gentle­man's opinion; he told them he had a very violent fever, and some very alarming symptoms; nor could he give any satisfactory answer concerning what might be the issue of his disorder: he however assured them he would do all in his power to forward his recovery.

They both returned him their sincere thanks. Sisera begged to know how the report concerning their death could be believed▪ and the particulars of her father's dis­solution, as she supposed he attended him in his illness. He answered in th [...] affirmative, and related to her exactly the same train of circumstances which the husbandman had before communicated to her brother. Clementina was in the room at the same time he mentioned the account of her having been supposed to poison her sister.

Her situation is more easily conceived than described: that she should be suspected to murder a sister whom she so dearly loved, and whose death she so much regre [...]ted—the idea was almost too horrid for her to support. An illness of some days followed the sudden shock she felt at the phy­sician's recital; for though no proof could have been brought to confirm so terrible a charge, yet she shuddered at the thought of the distress and horror it would have occasioned her. They now wondered not at Percival's ill­ness, [Page 41] and supposed his talking so much about the light and appearance in the abbey, was occasioned by the report of its being haunted.

New difficulties now perplexed them: a week had elaps­ed, and no signs of amendment appeared in signor Maseri­ni's disorder; yet all their money was nearly exhausted. In this dilemma they resolved to apply to the physician; he immediately lent them as much as they desired; and if at any time they should want more, begged they would speak, and he would accommodate them.

In about a month signor Maserini began to alter for the better; he talked more rationally, and by degrees gained strength; in six weeks he was able to leave the room, and soon after, by the assiduity and judgment of the doctor, found himself nearly as well as ever. He returned the good man a thousand thanks for his care and friendship, and hoped it would soon be in his power to repay him the sum he had sent them: he also begged him to contradict, as much as possible, the scandalous report his cousin had pro­pagated, and make it known that he now intended to live by the practice of his pencil. The physician promised to comply with his wishes, and assured him he should consi­der himself happy to serve him in any respect.

Signor Maserini paid a visit to the old uncle, at whose death he was to receive the fortune before mentioned;—he was astonished at the sight of him; railed at count D'Ollifont for his villainy, and testified the greatest joy at seeing his nephew.

Percival now began to apply himself to his profession; he was soon known, but received with coldness by those who once called themselves his friends; his abilities, however, gained him patrons, and his industry preserved them. He was in a little time able to discharge his debt [Page 42] to the physician, and found he could earn not only a com­fortable but a genteel provision. He determined, however, if possible, to retrieve some part of his father's fortune, yet resolved not to act rashly, but proceed by a due course of law. In the first place, he wished much to see the inside of the abbey: this took up a great deal of time; he was near three months before he could get a sanction to enter it: he had then to send to Spain for the keys, as count D'Ollifont had them in his possession, nor would he give them up without great trouble; in short, it was near six months before he could gratify his wi [...]hes, of once more seeing the inside of Grasville Abbey. The light and figure he had seen in the west tower continually haunted his ima­gination; and though he was not by any means supersti­tious, yet many disagreeable ideas served to perplex him; he, however, never mentioned the circumstance to any one since the recovery of his reason; not even to his wife or sister; as he naturally supposed it would prey upon their spirits, and make them fearful of searching the abbey, which he was determined to do alone. Having got the [...], the day was fixed for his departure. Clementina and Sisera wished much to accompany him; he begged them not, as he knew it would hurt his sister extremely▪ to enter the family mansion, under their present circum­stances, and could give no pleasure to the former. He ac­cordingly set [...]; they were detain­ed a long time on the road by a violent storm, and did not arrive at [...] Abbey till it was d [...].

CHAPTER X.

SIGNOR Maserini did not intend to enter the building that night; yet curiosity prompted him to take a view of the west tower. He accordingly dismounted, and told Edward to hold his horse at the front gates, while he walk­ed round the abbey. Having arrived at that part where he had before seen the figure and the light, he stood some time observing the window, when a faint glimmering pas­sed a small casement a little above it. He thought it might be fancy, yet in about two minutes saw it again; His resolution was now fixed; he resolved to enter the ab­bey directly; having returned to Edward, without commu­nicating his reason, he ordered him to open the gates immediately.

The poor fellow was astonished, and naturally supposed his master's head was again affected. "For heaven's sake, sir," said he, "do not attempt to enter such a drea­ry place at this time of night, and in the dark."

"Your light, Edward," returned his master, "will [...]erve me; therefore open the gates without delay."

The man reluctantly produced the keys: great exertion was required to turn the lock; it however, after some lit­tle-time, yielded to force, and they beheld themselves in the large paved court. Edward fastened the horses on the outside; at the front doors they were again detained on account of the fastenings being rusty; but after a little trouble they opened them, and discovered the large hall or entrance of the abbey: it was supported by columns of the ancient orders, and arched over in the Gothic style; at the farther end were a pair of heavy folding doors, which led to an extensive suite of apartments; on each side wa [...] [Page 44] a flight of stone stairs, which wound round to the different rooms on both sides of the building.

Grasville Abbey was an ancient structure, and had, in former times, been a place of religious worship. Some monks, at a time when Italy was involved in war, kept themselves concealed in this place, on account of atrocious crimes they had committed against the state, by keeping up a correspondence with the enemies of their country▪ they were all discovered except one, who secreted himself in an obscure part of the abbey, while his companions suf­fered the most severe punishment that could possibly be in­flicted on them. Their only aim was now to destroy the surviving one; they accordingly found means to mix a large quantity of poison in some food which he had con­cealed, and which they observed he partook of every day. The scheme succeeded, and he fell a sacrifice to their in­vention; for they found the victuals after that time were never touched. He died, however, in that part where he usually resided, for his body was not discovered till many years after; and the abbey from that time was called after his name.

The late count Maserini's father purchased the estate just before his marriage, and had the whole of the internal part repaired; from him it descended to his son, who re­sided in it the remainder of his life. Signor Maserini plainly perceived nothing had been moved in the hall, as every article was in the same order as if the place was in habited, and his father still the possessor of it▪ but the appearance of the furniture plainly told it had been taken no care of for some time. He began to ascend those stairs which led to the west tower.

Edward followed: but his master, after some little time, suddenly turned round, and desired he would wait below [Page 45] and take care of the horses. The man begged of him with tears, not to go alone. Signor Maserini was pleased with this mark of his fidelity, and hastily replied—"However strange, Edward, my conduct may appear to you at this time, believe me, I have the most weighty reasons to justify my behaviour; and, if I live to return, you shall be ac­quainted with them."

He then ran up stairs—and, strange as it may appear, was never seen again.

Edward stood for some time fixed with amazement—there was a mystery in his words and looks, which plainly told all was not right. He heard him ascend the stairs for some time, till the sound of his footsteps died away, and all was again silent: he then walked slowly across the court, and seated himself under the portico; the night was not by any means cold; he therefore chose that place in pre­ference to the inside of the abbey, as he was near the horses. Sleep in a short time overpowered him, and he did not wake till two in the morning:—he thought it strange his master was not returned, but waited another hour with some degree of impatience; at the expiration of it he was seriously alarmed; yet to enter the abbey without a light, would be madness; he ther [...]fore resolved to defer it till day-break.

Edward had heard of the abbey's being haunted, yet he always laughed at the idea; his natural courage and intre­pidity forbid his believing such fabulous reports: the only reason he could alledge for his master's stay, was, that the wind might have blown out the lamp when he was at some intricate part of the building; and in that case it would have been impossible for him to have found his way back, there being several suites of apartments which were never inhabited in the count's life-time, and which signor Mase­rini might hardly ever have seen.

[Page 46] As soon as it was light he again crossed the court, and ascended those stairs which his master had done before; he followed the marks of his feet up a considerable height, and then traced them through several rooms that led to the west tower: one of these, which was rather larger than the others, was covered with footsteps of different sizes; and in one part of it lay the picture of Clementina, which signor Mazerini always wore next his heart; the ribband to which it was tied seemed as if it had been torn by force, and the boards were stained with several spots of blood. There was not in any other apartment the least mark of a foot, nor any [...]igns of their having been opened.

Edward was astonished; he almost supposed himself in a dream; yet every object realized the scene. He knew not in what manner to act; to stop any longer in the abbey was of no use; yet to whom was he to apply!—He at length resolved to go immediately to the physician, and re­late to him the circumstance, as he would be the properest person to advise with concerning those measures they ought to take relative to signor Maserini's disappearance, as well as in what manner they should proceed in communicating the news to his wife and sister.

Edward took up the picture, and placed it carefully in his pocket; he then descended the stair-case, and closed the doors after him; but determined to lock neither them nor the outside gates. Having placed his master's horse in one of the stables belonging to the abbey, and mounting his own, he departed with the utmost speed towards the house of the physician.

CHAPTER XI.

EDWARD found himself at the end of his journey in a few hours. Fortunately, the good man was at home, and heard his recital with the utmost consternation and sur­prise; he by no means approved of either the wife or sis­ter being informed of this dreadful news, till it was more fully confirmed; and having, from the servant's account, obtained two officers of the civil power to thoroughly search the building, he resolved to attend them himself; and they set off in less than three hours after Edward's arrival.

The evening was advancing, when they beheld at a dis­tance the lofty towers of the abbey; they were there­fore obliged to defer their intention till the next morn­ing.

Neither Clementina nor Sisera expected signor Mase­rini's return till the evening following the day he left his lodgings. Edward, therefore, informed the physician they would not be unhappy though they should receive no intelligence from them. As soon as it was light they en­tered the abbey, attended by a workman who was able to remove any kind of intricate wood work which might tend to a discovery. They first examined all those apartments that led to the west tower, and which, by the marks of the footsteps, seemed as if signor Maserini had crossed them: they plainly perceived the spots of blood, but could disco­ver no other mark or clue to their wishes, in either of the rooms. They then searched each part on that side of the building; but their diligence proved unsuccessful: in short, every recess of the abbey was looked into with the most scrutinizing attention, yet not the least sign could be [Page 48] discovered that indicated a mortal to have been in the place, except [...]he footsteps and the blood. They were all at a loss what to suppose; and about evening they finished their search, and left the abbey more perplexed than when they entered it. Edward took his master's horse from the stable, and shut the gates, but determined to leave them, as before, unlocked.

After a hasty meal, the physician, two officers and Ed­ward, set off for the former's habitation: it was very late before they arrived there; the men were liberally reward­ed for their trouble. Edward then consulted what me­thod would be the most prudent, to inform the ladies of this mournful event; the old gentleman undertook him­self the disagreeable office of communicating it to them the next morning; it was therefore agreed that he should re­main at his house till the affair was over. They then took leave for the night, the one grieved for the loss of his young friend, whom he had loved and admired from his infancy; the other for an excellent master, whom he had revered and served from his cradle.

To describe the situation of Clementina and Sisera at the physician's recital, though he related the dreadful cir­cumstance by degrees, and with the utmost caution, would beggar description; it will therefore be necessary to draw a ve [...]l over this affecting scene; and suffice it to say, their grief was little short of distraction. The extraordinary manner of signor Maserini's disappearance left room for the most horrid suppositions, whilst the faint hope which the uncertainty of his dissolution inspired, served to make each cruel idea more terrible and lasting. Clementina's situa­tion was, if possible, more dreadful than her sister's, as she was in a strange country, and some time gone with child. The physician acted like a father to them both, and declar­ed, [Page 49] that while he lived they should never want a friend.

The wonderful event of signor Maserini's disapearance was soon spread over the country. Grasville Abbey was now become a place of much greater terror than before, as those suspicions of its being haunted seemed in all proba­bility to be confirmed; none of the peasants would go near it after dark; in short, every inhabitant was surprised and terrified.

Six weeks had not elapsed, before signor Maserini's uncle died; the fortune now devolved to his sister: a more lucky circumstance could not have happened, as she would have it in her power to support Clementina and herself in a gen­teel and comfortable manner, without remaining under the least obligation to any one in point of pecuniary aid; and the physician undertook to settle those affairs relative to the old gentleman's death.

In a little time, every thing was completed, and she found herself in possession of not only a moderate, but af­fluent income. Signora Maserini now determi [...]ed to make the life of her sister-in-law as agreeable as possible; she knew that Clementina wished much to return to her own country; nor had Sisera any desire to remain in Italy, where every object reminded her of her late misfortunes; she therefore resolved, after Clementina was brought to bed, to consult if some method could not be taken to clear her innocence in respect to Felicia's death, and a reconcilia­tion brought about with the lady abbess, so that they could, without impropriety, reside totally in France.

Clementina was delivered of twins, a boy and girl. For some time her life was despaired of, although the judg­ment of the physician and the tenderness of Sisera were equally exerted towards her recovery; but in six weeks, to [Page 50] the joy of both, she so far mended as to be pronounced out of danger.

Signora Maserini now resolved to ask the doctor's opinion concerning their appearance in France. He offered to go himself to the convent of N****, and, if possible, to settle with her ladyship those disagreeable circumstances that had caused her displeasure

Sisera returned him many thanks, and accepted his friendly assistance. They, however, resolved to let Cle­mentina know nothing of it, till the business was finished: an excuse was therefore made for his leaving Italy, and his journey to France said to be on account of family affairs, which he had to transact in that country.—He was so fortu­nate as to return in a very short time, with the agreeable intelligence, that Clementina's character was entirely clear­ed, respecting her sister's death, and all their affairs settled at the convent, in an amicable manner.—This gave Cle­mentina as much pleasure as it was possible for her to enjoy; every thing was ready in a few weeks; the parting with the physician was affecting on both sides; to speak of their obligations to him would, they knew, be the only way to make him repent of his goodness:—they were there­fore necessitated to express their gratitude in as few words as possible.

A house was prepared for them in a private part of Paris, and every thing made ready for their reception.—In this state they lived for some years, and enjoyed as much happi­ness as the remembrance of those misfortunes they had suffered, would permit.—The children were their greatest care; they served in some degree to dispel that melancholy which had taken so deep a root in their bosoms since signor Maserini's disappearance.

[Page 51] Grasville Abbey remained in the same condition, except the gradual and slow decay of the external part: it was taken no notice of by its owner, while fear and superstition prevented any interruption from those who resided near i [...].—Count D'Ollifont continued but a short time in Spain after the keys were returned; he made a tour to England, and, as it was supposed, intended to settle there.

About twelve years elapsed, and nothing particular hap­pened to distress signora Maserini or her sister-in-law, ex­cept the death of the phy [...]ician and Edward; when the former was taken ill with a violent sever, and lived but a week; during that time she was delirious, but had before settled her affairs in such a manner, as to leave Clementina the chief part of her fortune.

Alfred and Matilda were now obliged to exert their chil­dish abilities, to comfort their mother for the loss of her only friend; she had often made repeated solicitations to be admitted to her father's favour; but the marquis was obstinate, and complained of her elopement from the con­vent, as an excuse for his cruelty.—Her whole attention was, therefore, paid to her children; and through a fond yet mistaken notion, she impaired her income, by giving them an education far superior to any situation in life she could ever hope to procure them; they, however, rewarded her love in the tenderness of their conduct towards her, and the quickness of their capacity in receiving those instructions that were given them.

Alfred already showed a wish for the army; his mother determined not to check his inclinations, though she dreaded the dangers he might be exposed to:—she there­fore purchased a commission for him, and he soon after de­parted for Flanders, where the regiment was stationed.

Madame Maserini had never informed her children of the [Page 52] dreadful manner in which their father disappeared; she considered it might impress their young minds with a hor­ror which might cast a gloom over the brighter scenes of life; they were therefore always taught to believe signer Maserini was killed by a fall from his horse, when hunt­ing; nor was there any probability to suppose the real cause would ever be discovered to them, as neither Clementina nor Sisera had informed any one to the con­trary.

About six months after her son's departure, madame Maserini was taken ill; for some time it was thought only a slight disorder, but afterwards confirmed to be dange­rous.—The most eminent physicians were procured; but their exertions proved fruitless.—She now wished to com­municate to her son that which she had so studiously kept from him; she determined, however, not to relate it to Matilda, as the surprise and shock would be too great for her; this caused madame Maserini to wish so much to see Alfred, which was before mentioned; he did not, however, arrive till her dissolution.

CHAPTER XII. EMBARRASSMENT.

"FORTITUDE is one of the noblest virtues appertain­ing to human nature, and stamps upon those who possess [Page 53] it an unfading lustre, which does honour to the name of man. He who labours under the lash of adversity, and bears up against misfortune with a pious resignation, must be pleasing to the Supreme Being, while his conduct is universally admired by his fellow creatures."

This was Alfred's argument to his sister, as he tenderly conjured her to moderate her grief, and look upon him not only as a brother, but as a guardian and protector.

They both had just entered their twentieth year. Al­fred was in his person handsome and manly; Matilda beautiful and delicate. The former's disposition was generous and noble, his temper rather impetuous; yet he was always ready to forgive: there was, however, a kind of haughty pride in his character, which would sometimes cast a shade over his other virtues.

Matilda was amiable in the highest degree—to give a de­scription of her qualifications would be needless, when we say she was every thing a fond and tender parent could wish her to be. It was not till just before they retired to rest, that Matilda recollected the paper her mother had wrote on; she took it from the escritoire, and gave it to her [...]other, who wished to read it alone, and promised to in­form his sister of the contents the next morning. As soon as he entered his chamber, he eagerly opened it, and read the almost illegible words of his dying mother:—

Madame Maserini had wrote so far, when she dropped her pen, and expired.

Alfred was almost petrified with astonishment and hor­ror; the fatal name, so near being known, was not yet re­vealed: his mother's senses might [...] the time be deran­ged; but this idea entirely vanished, when he considered how much she had wished to see him, on account of relat­ing a circumstance she chose to communicate to no other person. He resolved for the present to conceal this from his sister; she had already suffered enough by her mo­ther's death: to inform her, therefore, of the contents of the writing, would only occasion new sorrow and distress.

The next morning Matilda eagerly inquired the purport of her mother's letter: she was shocked to see him look so ill, but naturally supposed he had not rested well. Alfred told her it was a memorandum relative to her fortune, [...] other matters; but she observed in him an uncommon agitation the whole evening, yet forbore to inquire further, though she was certain there was some disagreeable secret he did not choose to divulge.

Alfred gave orders for his mother's funeral, and had her handsomely interred. He then consulted with his sister in what manner she meant to proceed with the small sum she was now possessed of. Madame Maserini had equally divided her fortune between them, but always particularly recommended Matilda to her brother's care; he therefore generously determined to add half of his to his sister's in­come, [Page 55] but first wished to settle her in some genteel situa­tion before he returned to his regiment.

Alfred, after some persuasions, promised Matilda he would write to the marquis of ****, their grandfather, to inform him of his daughter's death, and her situation. She considered, as lady Eleanor had been dead some time, and his hopes concerning her marriage entirely at an end, that he might receive her with some degree of tenderness, though he never would look upon their mother.

The young soldier felt himself hurt, to write a letter of supplication to a man who had behaved so inhumanly to his own daughter, and slightingly to himself and sister; however, the idea of Matilda's welfare quenched those sparks of pride which had before kindled in his bo­som.

About a week after madame Maserini's funeral, he sent the following letter, in which might be observed a kind of inward disdain, not likely to move or gain upon the feel­ings of a man so utterly void of sensibility as the marquis.

This letter was dispatched as soon as possible, and the messenger ordered to wait for an answer. He returned the next day, and delivered Alfred a small packet, sealed up, Matilda's heart beat high with expectation; she eagerly watched her brother's looks while he read a few words which were written on the outside paper; but soon ob­served by his countenance there was nothing he hoped for from the marquis. She faintly asked what were the con­tents.—"Short and explicit!" he answered; while pride and contempt were visible in his features—"Read, (said he) and judge of it yourself, Matilda." He threw it on the table; she, trembling, took it up, and read the fol­lowing words:

"But what letter was that (asked Matilda) which was inclosed in this paper?"

Alfred showed it her; it was his own letter returned. They had heard that a priest was the constant companion of the marquis, and that it was supposed he would stand a chance for some part of his patron's wealth: but the messenger informed them that father Laurence entirely liv­ed at the castle, an [...] that the marquis had been heard to say, several times, that he should leave him the whole of his fortune.

The only person they now had to apply to, was a gen­tleman in England, a distant relation of their mother's: he had been sent over to this country by an uncle, on af­fairs relative to the family. The old gentleman died while he was in London, and left him a small fortune. After this event, he determined to settle in the city, and commenced business in the liquor trade: he first kept wine-vaults; from that rose a step higher, and was called a wine merchant; in this line he accumulated a considera­ble deal of money by importing foreign goods to this coun­try. To add to his good fortune, he one year received a prize of ten thousand pounds from the lottery; and in a­bout two years after married an heiress whose fortune a­mounted to three times that sum.

The friends of the lady were at first so displeased with the union, that for some months no notice was taken of her; but time soon brought about a reconciliation; they determined to make the best of her husband, that he might not in i [...] his present situation in life disgrace their name and family. His wife was a woman of fashion, and had [Page 59] to her name the additional title of lady; they therefore found means to get their new relation knighted; and he now was distinguished by the appellation of Sir Pet [...]r Pe­viquil. His brother-in-law died about two years after their marriage, and, having no family, left his sister an in­come of six hundred a year. They now thought proper to quit business entirely, and reside at the court end of the town. Their manner of living was, according to lady Peviquil's wishes, in the first style and taste: they were noted for giving the most superb and elegant entertain­ments of any in London▪ In short, sir Peter and lady Pe­viquil were allowed to be the first fashionable couple in the great metropolis.

CHAPTER XIII.

MADAME Maserini had received repeated solicitations from her relation to visit him in London; she, according­ly, a few months after Sisera's death, determined to see England, considering it might dispel the melancholy that event had occasioned her: the children she committed to the care of a faithful servant, during her stay, which was about two months. Mr. Peviquil had not then quit­ted business. She received the most polite and friend­ly attention both from him and his lady, and resided totally at their house while she remained in this country. She always since that time had spoken of them to Alfred and Matilda, as people well worthy their esteem, and had often regretted their living so far distant as to make their society impossible.

Since his mother's death, Alfred had received a letter of condolence from sir Peter, who had accidentally heard the [Page 60] news from a friend; this letter contained a kind and pres­sing invitation for them to spend a few months in Eng­land: which offer they were now resolved to accept, pro­vided Alfred could obtain leave of absence long enough, and permission to quit his country. This, through inte­rest, he accomplished, on condition he should be ready to return at a short notice.

Matilda, little used to the gaiety of the world, though she had nearly all her life resided in a city renowned for its luxury & dissipation, considered that if she was pleased with sir Peter's family, by paying a small gratuity she could reside with them without any inconvenience. This was, in some degree, Alfred's opinion; but he was much better ac­quainted with mankind, and the dangers that attended a fashionable life, to view this scheme in so pleasing a light as his sister. He well knew the dissipated life of intrigue, and other vices, so closely followed by most of the English circles; he had been necessitated, in some respects, to par­take of those follies in Paris, which he knew were daily practised in London; and his soul sickened at the thought of leaving Matilda exposed to such dangers, friendless and unprotected. Possessed of that nice sense of honour which is supposed to constitute the soldier and the gentleman, it in some respect served to make his life uncomfortable. Generous to a great degree, he was never so happy as when he could make others so; but a haughty and stubborn pride hurt him when he received an obligation. Ready to take an affront, and as ready to resent it, he was some­times disagreeable company; yet his person, behaviour, and character, procured him admittance to the first parties.

Matilda was totally unacquainted with the vices of the great; her mother had only kept up [...] society of a few friends since her return to France; yet her manners were [Page 61] elegant without affectation; her deportment graceful, yet easy; and her accomplishments by no means inferior to the first ranks of life. Yet her ideas of the world in gen­eral were entirely ill founded: she judged of others by herself, and had so little [...]otion of the villainy of mankind, as to be easily deceived by any one under the mask of flat­tery and dissimulation.

After some persuasions of his sister, Alfred determined to answer sir Peter's letter, with an acceptance of his kind invitation. The same day month was fixed for their de­parture; and that period of time was fi [...]led up with ne­cessary preparations for their journey.

Matilda was all expectation, yet a deep melancholy still clouded her future prospects; the loss of her mother prey­ed much on her spirits; and while her eye beamed plea­sure at the idea of seeing London and gay life, a watery gem would oft intrude, and dim its lustre, when she considered the distance she should be from the tomb of a parent whom she had so dearly loved, and whose memory she so much revered. Alfred was silent and thoughtful; his spirits were fled; the contents of the paper written by his mother served to perplex and distress him, while his anxie­ty for the welfare of his sister continually preyed upon his mind. As the time drew nearer for their leaving Paris, he became less pleased with the plan on which they were going to proceed. He had always heard his mother speak highly of the family; but their situation in life at that time was entirely different from the present.—Tho' in a capital [...] of business, they neither were considered, nor looked upon themselves▪ as people of fashion; their manner of living, as he now understood, was one continual scene of gaiety and dissipation. Those reports might be false; and [Page 62] on their being so, he entirely placed his hopes re­specting Matilda's making one of their family.

Sir Peter's letter was extremely friendly; to have refused what he so earnestly requested, would not only have been impolite behaviour, but would, without doubt, have offend­ed him.—This mode of reasoning, in some degree, lessen­ed his disquietude; yet he resolved within himself not to leave his sister in England, without being certain her situa­tion was strictly accordant both with propriety and honour.

The day of their departure at length arrived,—Matilda, as they passed through the gates of the city, bid a melan­choly adieu to her native country.—The recollection of those happy juvenile hours she had enjoyed with a parent whose tenderness and maternal fondness she never more could experience, added to her ideas of the friendless situa­tion and unprotected condition she would be left in when parted from her brother, entirely overcame that fortitude she had shewn at the beginning of their journey; and, almost convulsed with grief, she burst into an agony of tears.

Alfred raised his head from a reverie which he had been in from their first setting off; he conjured his sister to be composed, and once more tenderly assured her of his pro­tection.—A post carriage conveyed them from Paris to Calais; an elderly man attended them, who had lived in the capacity of a servant with their mother, since the death of Edward; he was by birth an Englishman, though he chiefly had resided in France.

They were necessitated to wait some time for the packet-boat; Matilda, therefore, who was much indisposed, re­tired to take a few hours' rest, while Alfred looked over some papers of his mother's, which were in a small trunk.

[Page 63] Matilda had not yet examined it, supposing it to be full of waste papers, which were of no consequence; she only brought it with her to hold a few articles of dress when she arrived in London.

After having removed a few of the upper papers, he dis­covered a miniature of his mother; it was the same which Edward found in the abbey, and had the identical piece of ribband hanging to the ring, the remaining part of which had seemingly been broken by force, or by a sudden shock. Alfred looked on the resemblance with attention; he con­templated the features of his departed mother, with a me­lancholy pleasure, and sighed at the idea that he never more should look on the original.—Close to it was the picture of his father.—Alfred had always been told he was extremely like him, and for the first time thought so himself.—Both he and his sister had often seen the miniatures before their mother's illness, and after her death every place was search­ed for them, but to no purpose; nor had they the least idea of their being placed in this trunk.

Alfred carefully looked over the papers, and found none of them worth notice, till he had nearly emptied them all out upon the table, when a roll of parchment, with the name of Sisera Maserini at the bottom, struck his eye. He immediately perused it, and found it was written by his aunt, about six months before her death.—It contained an account of their misfortunes, from his father's first seeing his mother at the convent, till their return to France, and every minute particular relative to signor Maserini's en­trance of Grasville Abbey, and his disappearance. She also at one part seemed to suspect his cousin, count D'Ollifont, to be privy to the affair, though he was then in Spain.

Alfred's emotion and astonishment were past description; he burnt with eager desire to see the inside of the abbey; [Page 64] but that would now be impossible, till he should return to France. He knew not how to revenge the loss of his fa­ther, as no proof could be brought to charge any one with the guilt;—yet, according to what he had read, he could not avoid supposing that the count was concerned: nor was there a doubt but his mother also intended to have written the same name.

He carefully placed the manuscript in a private drawer of his own, and determined not to inform his sister of the event, as her spirits were already agitated enough, without any new source for horror of distress.

When she rose, he agreeably surprised her by the discovery of the pictures, and informed her he had looked over the papers in the trunk, and could find none but frivolous frag­ments of no use or consequence.

They were obliged to remain at the place till the begin­ning of the next day; they then crossed over to Dover, and slept there that night. Matilda was yet much indisposed, partly occasioned by sea-sickness. The next evening, after a fatiguing day of post travelling, they found themselves at a principal inn at London.

CHAPTER XIV.

WHEN the soul is totally absorbed in melancholy re­flections on past misfortunes, we are too apt to encourage [Page 65] oppressive ideas, by taking a retrospect of the calamiti [...]s that may attend futurity.

These ideas sink our spirits under new horrors and dis­tress; imagination presents to the fancy troubles and sor­rows we are never likely to experience.

To be too confident of our success and abilities at the first out-set in life, naturally leads to extravagance and ne­glect; we are disappointed at our ambition's not being gratified so early as we expected, and consequently sicken of that employment which occasions our mortification and chagrin. Yet diffidence and timidity are far worse com­panions to struggle with through the rugged path of life: we continually stumble on dangers and vexations in our hazardous voyage; while they chiefly contribute to multi­ply adversity, and paint the events that may succeed, worse than those we have already suffered.

Fortitude forsakes the breast which is governed by ter­ror and self-interest; happiness is no more, the sun-shine of hope is eclipsed by the heavy clouds of despair, and we sink into that misery which, through courage and exertion, we might have overcome with honour and respect.

Matilda did not totally despair: and Alfred, by conver­sations of this nature, strove to dispel that melancholy which was settled in her features during the latter part of their journey. It was entirely through her persuasion that her brother undertook the affair; she was now sorry she had biassed his opinion; for she even regretted leaving Paris; and the nearer she arrived to London, her pleasure in seeing it gradually decreased.

Reflection had in a great degree lessened those expecta­tions she supposed would be gratified when she entered this city; and the romantic ideas she had formed of re­maining with sir Peter's family in England, seemed now to have many obstacles which she never before thought of.

[Page 66] It was about six o'clock, in a wet uncomfortable evening of February, when they arrived at the inn. After some little time, the chief part of their baggage was put into a hackney coach, and Leonard, who was tolerably well ac­quainted with London, dispatched in it to Grosvenor-square, with a polite message, saying his master and miss Maserini would pay their respects in person, in less than two hours.

Alfred and Matilda, having ordered coffee, remained till near eight; during which time they made some little alteration in their dress. They then stept into a hack, and ordered it also to drive to sir Peter Peviquil's, in Grosvenor-square.

Neither of them was under any embarrassment concern­ing the English language, as they both had been used to converse in it from their childhood, and pronounced it nearly as well as their own language.

On their arrival at the place to which they had ordered the coachman to drive, the square was full of carriages; nor did they observe more than one hackney-coach in the whole train: they stopped close to it, unable to proceed any farther for the crowd. Alfred looked out to see if there was any probability of their getting nearer to sir Pe­ter's house, which he was informed was on the opposite side of the square, when, to his inexpressible supprise, by the light of a footman's flambeau, who passed at the same time, he beheld Leonard in the coach he had before noti­ced, seated with the baggage in the same state as when he set out from the inn.

The man at the same moment recognized his master, and acquainted him that he found, from his first entrance in the square it would be impossible for him to get to the door of sir Peter's house, there being a grand entertainment [Page 67] there in honour of his daughter's birth-day; and that the gentlemen's carriages would not permit a common hack to draw up; he was afraid to go himself in search of it on account of the baggage he must have left behind; but he said he had sent several messages to the servants con­cerning his situation, but that he had received no answer.

Alfred was vexed, yet he could not help smiling, at the fellow's recital: they were now in a line of carriages lead­ing to the house: he knew it would be some time before they could arrive there; yet to walk would be almost im­possible on account of his sister, as the rain poured down with uncommon violence. They therefore determined to wait till the coach, in due course, should draw up to the door: in about twenty minutes they found themselves be­fore the entrance of sir Peter's mansion.

The coachman, by Alfred's order, knocked a single rap: a footman in a handsome livery appeared; he asked, in a surly manner, what was wanted? the man answered, a gentleman in a hackney coach wanted to see sir Peter Peviquil.

The footman replied with some insolence, "His master could not then be spoke with," and immediately shut the door.

Alfred's pride (who overheard this conversation), took fire;—he directly gave the coachman a card, and ordered him to knock a double rap at the door, and desire the ser­vant to deliver it to sir Peter.

The man at first hesitated, but at last complied with the request. In a short time he returned with a polite message from sir Peter, requesting they would make his house their home; and that he himself would, if possible, welcome them to England in less than an hour.

[Page 68] The servant was now all civility; both the coaches were discharged, and Leonard saw the baggage safe in the house, while Alfred and Matilda were conducted by sir Pe­ter's valet, through a noble hall, elegantly adorned with lamps, and lined with servants in waiting, to a handsome parlour. The house seemed in total confusion; and the number of fashionable company and nobility that was there was evident from their names being announced, as they ascended the great stairs leading to the rooms of reception. Sir Peter's genteel conduct in some degree compensated for the impertinence of his porter, and banished that anger from Alfred's bosom, which the insolence of the latter had occasioned. In about two hours the gentleman him­self appeared: he tenderly embraced them both, and ex­pressed, with the most pleasing affability, his happiness in seeing them in London: he regretted (he said) the eti­quette which prevented lady Peviquil and his daughter from leaving the rooms above, to perform the duties o [...] hospitality and politeness; but that he was sure they would impatiently wait fot the breakfast hour in the morning, to be introduced to their amiab [...] relations.

He, however, begged they would make themselves hap­py; order supper, and retire to rest [...] what time they thought proper, as chambers were prepared for them, and also proper accommodation for their servant. He then took his leave for the rest of the evening, and [...] the young travellers highly delighted with his courteous be­haviour.

They made but a short repast, though the table was spread with dainties elegantly served up; about [...] they de­sired to be conducted to their different apartments; but the noise of the house, and their own reflections, prevented either of them from enjoying repose.

CHAPTER XV.

THE noise and confusion in the house did not seem over before four in the morning;—Matilda heard the doors fastened half an hour after;—and about five, silence reign­ed through every part.

She once more strove to drive away uncomfortable reflec­tions, and fell into a disturbed slumber: distressing dreams harassed her imagination with horrid visions; the figure of her▪ the [...] was constantly before her eyes, reproaching her for entering a house remarkable for gaiety and dissipa­tion.

She awoke about t [...]n, but little re [...]reshed, and [...] up for fear of detaining the breakfast-table; but to her great surprise, as she descended the stair-case, a servant was but just opening the windows. She inquired at what hour the family assembled in the breakfast parlour; the man answered, generally at half past eleven, sometimes twelve.

Alfred had been up near an hour, and was equally aston­ished with his sister, at the servant's intelligence:—he proposed a walk round the square, [...] [...]he sitting-rooms were in order; which she gladly accepted.

Matilda seized the opportunity to ask her brother, con­sidering the little they had seen, how he liked their situa­tion; and also his opinion of sir Peter.

Alfred replied, from the short time he had been in com­pany of sir Peter Peviquil, he seemed to be a man who would interest any one in his favour, even at a first inter­view.

"But, Matilda," said he, "we must not depend too much on the smooth, well-timed speeches of a man of fashion; for though both he and the family in general were friendly and agreeable in every respect, yet their man­ner [Page 70] of living would kill you. Leonard informed me last night, that he had learnt from the servants, the family hardly ever retired to rest before three or four in the morn­ing; that they were never without company when at home, and that their rooms are filled with the first people of distinction and fashion. Even if their diss [...]ation did not effect your health, you certainly must consider how im­proper a situation this is, for a young woman whose for­tune is barely competent to support her.

Matilda acquiesced with his observation, yet was hurt at the idea of her own insignificance.

In about an hour they returned to the house; prepara­rations were made for breakfast, but the family had not as­sembled.

Sir Peter, in a short time, entered the room, and intro­duced his lady, daughter, and son.

Lady Peviquil was, in person, tall and elegant, her de­portment was graceful, and in her manner she was the wo­man of fashion; yet a haughty pride in her disposition was visible, even to a common beholder, at first sight; and cast a deep shade over those accomplishments which showed her a lady of rank. Miss Peviquil had the day before entered her nineteenth year; she was tall, genteel, lively, and good tempered; in the ornamental part of edu­cation she was accomplished, but, like her mother, a total stranger to domestic duties. In conversation, she was gay and witty, and accounted, by the connoisseurs of fashion­able manners, a tolerably smart, pretty girl.

Henry Peviquil was one-and-twenty; entirely free from pride, handsome in his person, and pleasing in his beha­viour and address; extremely dissipated, and fond of being thought so.

He had received the education of a gentleman, and was left a fortune of six hundred a year by an uncle of his [Page 71] mother's. He was shortly expected to set out on the grand tour, and only waited till a proper companion could be obtained.

The young travellers were treated in the most friendly manner by sir Peter. Lady Peviquil, her daughter, and Matilda, took an airing in the coach; while Henry drove his new friend round Hyde Park in his curricle.

Cards were delivered out to form a select party of friends in the evening, who were to be introduced to the young foreigners.

At their return, they dressed for dinner, which was serv­ed up by candle-light. The select party at night consisted of about thirty persons of fashion and distinction. The formal introduction to them all by her ladyship, was tire­some and disagreeable to Matilda: yet she returned the compliments of each individual with a grace which did honor even to the drawing-room of sir Peter Peviquil.

Alfred had been used to the gaieties of Paris, and being as well versed as his sister in the English language, found himself under no embarrassment in a London company.

The next day he declared his intention of taking lodg­ings for himself and servant; this was strongly opposed by sir Peter; but he persisted in his resolution, and beg­ged the assistance of Mr. Peviquil in the undertaking. Henry, with his usual good-nature, eagerly complied with the request, and declared, he knew of handsome apart­ments that were to be let in Bond-street; which was no great distance from Grosvenor-square, and made it the more agreeable, as sir Peter requested he would spend as much of his time as possible with him and his family.

The gentlemen viewed the rooms that morning, while the ladies attended a music-meeting. Alfred approved [...] o [...] their situation and convenience; he immediately [Page 72] engaged them, and was to take possession the next day.

Henry Peviquil was engaged for the beginning of the even­ing, and sir Peter rather indisposed with a cold; it was therefore agreed that Alfred should escort her ladyship, his sister, and miss Peviquil to the theatre; and a stage-box was accordingly retained for them.

Matilda was delighted with the tragedy, which was Hamlet: although her knowledge of the language would not permit her to understand every sentence, yet she could perfectly make out the plot and management of the piece; and was charmed with the ingenuity of the author. Her ladyship paid more attention to the company than to the stage; while her daughter was entirely taken up in ob­serving Alfred, whose attention was fixed on a lady in the opposite box. Her figure and manner charmed him; in short, the latter part of the evening he quite neglected the performance, in the notice he took of the fair incognita.

At the close of the entertainment, Alfred inquired of lady Peviquil the name of the young lady opposite them: her ladyship answered, "It was lady Caroline Albourn, daughter of lord Albourn, a nobleman renowned for his large fortune and good character; and, lady Caroline," con­tinued her ladyship, "is allowed to be a beautiful and ac­complished young lady." "My ideas, my lady." returned Alfred, "perfectly agree, in the former observation, with the opinion of the world."

"Lord, Mr. Maserini," said miss Peviquil, hurt at the compliment paid to another, "surely there are as hand­some women in the house as lady Caroline Albourn!"

"Pardon me, madam," replied Alfred, "all are hand­some; yet some more beautiful than others; nor can the remark be more fully exemplified, than when lady Caroline or miss Peviquil make their appearance."

[Page 73] This well turned compliment entirely stifled the resent­ment of the lady, and she immediately resumed her usual gaiety and good temper.

As they crossed the lobby, they were met by Henry Pevi­quil, who, after helping Alfred to assist the ladies to their coach, stopped him from following.

"Ladies," said he, "I must request you will dispense with the company of your knight-errant from conducting you home, as I arrest him for the remainder of the night. Therefore, my dear Maserini, take leave of the fair dam­sels, and follow me."

Alfred begged to be excused, and desired he would con­sider there were none but ladies in the coach.

"Oh!" returned Hen [...]y, "there is a footman behind, who is able to defend twice as many."

"I do not take it kind of you," said her ladyship, "to force Mr. Maserini from us, if you do not like to at­tend yourself."

Matilda was anxious her brother should return with them, and miss Peviquil afraid of losing the gallant con­versation of the young Frenchman: but it availed no­thing: Henry, after begging all their pardons, and declar­ing he would make it up with them in the morning, closed the coach door, and ordered the coachman to drive home.

He then said hold of Alfred's arm and told him he must now introduce him to a set of friends, whose names he did not chuse to mention before the ladies: "for though," said he, "I am not a gamester myself, yet I spend some of my time in the fashionable company of those who love play."

Alfred was rather displeased at his impetuous beha­viour; but considered it as the warmth of his friendship, [Page 74] and the consequence of his having partaken that evening rather too freely of the bottle.

They arrived, after some time, at a well known house in St. James's-street, and were conducted to the room of fashionable company.

Alfred was struck with their appearance: the horrid countenances of some, whom fortune had not so favoured that evening—the intoxicated joy of others who had emp­tied the pockets of their friends—and the extreme agita­tion of the whole assembly, whose expectations were all on the table, made it a scene of disagreeable reflection to those who had never been addicted to that destructive vice. Alfred plainly perceived his companion was well known to them; he was asked to play, but refused; and Alfred likewise begged to remain out, but was obliged to bet, that he might not seem particular, as all those who did not sit down, laid on the success of each player: but the stakes were not large at their part of the room.

In about an hour a table was vacant, and a party accor­dingly mustered to fill it. Alfred was over persuaded, and sat down with Henry Peviquil, who proposed no high play: this was unanimously agreed upon, and a small sum settled, to the satisfaction of every person. They broke up in about three hours, and Alfred found himself a win­ner of about a guinea. He was complim [...]ted on his judgment of the game, and invited for the next evening. Henry and Alfred both returned to Grosvenor-square, and arrived there about four in the morning.

When the family met the next day, Henry Peviquil made his peace with the ladies; but he found more difficulty in the undertaking than he expected: his mother and sister were seriously offended; nor could Matilda forgive him, though she was necessitated to say to the contrary.

[Page 75] Alfred was far from being displeased with the company he had seen; struck as he was at first with their appear­ance, the latter part of the time they seemed more agreea­able to him; and their ready acquiescence to play for a small sum, confirmed him in the mistaken opinion that they were not a common class of gamblers. He was not averse to meet them the following evening, nor did morning re­flection by any means alter his ideas concerning the transactions of the night.

Lady Peviquil informed them, she had summoned a nu­merous company for that evening, "and amongst the rest," added her ladyship, with a smile, which was well under­stood, "I expect lord Albourn and his daughter."

Alfred was struck with astonishment—he had engaged himself to the party in St. James's-street; but this obsta­cle to his wishes he determined to surmount, by begging Henry Peviquil to make his excuse, as he could not possibly be guilty of such impolite behaviour, as to absent himself from lady Peviquil's drawing-room, when she herself re­quested his company.—But he might have saved himself the trouble, as Henry intended to spend the fore-part of the evening in Grosvenor-square; yet he insisted on Al­fred's accompanying him there, after the rooms closed, which he supposed would not be very late.

CHAPTER XVI.

MATILDA took more pains than usual at the toilet: she understood from lady Peviquil that numbers of fashion­able people were to be there; she therefore considered it would be a compliment to her ladyship to make some few additions to her dress, which consisted of white satin. She [Page 76] wore the picture of her father suspended on her bosom, by a gold cross and chain; her appearance was beautiful, and she received no small compliments from sir Peter and his son. Lady Peviquil and her daughter were rather cool in their behaviour, and seemed envious of her superi­or beauty and elegance. The rooms began to fill at nine o'clock, and many persons of distinction were announced: among the rest the Spanish ambassador was ushered in, and begged to introduce to sir Peter and his lady, an inti­mate friend, who had accompanied him from Spain to England. The gentleman was a foreigner of note, rather in the decline of life; yet his person was handsome, and his manners elegant and accomplished: his excellency had not yet been made known to Alfred or Matilda; sir Peter therefore introduced them both at one time, the first as the Spanish ambassador, the second as count D'Ollifont.

Alfred was struck motionless with horror and surprise; the supposed murderer of his father stood before him: nor was the count's embarrassment less; for before sir Peter could mention the name of Maserini, he cast his eye on the picture of their father; his countenance immedi­ately turned pale, and he sh [...]wed the greatest emotion.

Matilda, though she had never heard her mother speak highly of the count, received him with politeness; but Alfred, after a few cold compliments, joined lord Albourn and his daughter at another part of the room.

The behaviour of both gentlemen was generally noticed: but each excused himself, by saying it was surprise at the sudden introduction to a relation almost unknown.

The count seemed struck with Matilda's figure and ad­dress; he chiefly attended her the whole evening; which caused great envy and uneasiness in the breasts of her fair friends; among these was miss Peviquil, who was ex­tremely hurt at being forsaken by Alfred Maserini, and [Page 77] more so at receiving such few compliments from the am­bassador and his friend.

Alfred dedicated the whole evening to lady Caroline, nor did she seem by any means displeased at the attention paid her by the young Frenchman; her father gave him a general invitation to Soho-square, as the friend and re­lation of sir Peter Peviquil.

The agreeable conversation he had with the young la­dy, in some measure made up for the surprise, horror, and dissatisfaction be felt at an introduction to the count.

The attention paid Matilda by her relation did not pass unnoticed by her brother; he determined next day to hint to his sister his dislike of him, without entering into a particular de [...]ail of circumstances, which would only dis­tress and perplex her.

The rooms began to be thin about twelve; and in a lit­tle time after, lord Albourn and his daughter took their leave; Alfred conducted the latter to her carriage, then joined Henry Peviquil, and proceeded to St. James's street.

The same company was assembled, with some additions: and one of the strangers was at the table where Henry and his friend were placed; they played higher than the night before, and Alfred, at the breaking up of the party about half past four in the morning, found himself a loser of thirty pounds; he paid the money without the least chagrin, and was promised his revenge the next evening. Henry Peviquil was also declared a debtor to the table, of twenty guineas. They parted a little way from the house; the latter for Grosvenor-square, the former for his new lodgings in Bond-street.

Matilda had taken notice of her brother at his intro­duction to the count, nor could she conceive a reason for his abrupt behaviour; her surprise, however, was greatly [Page 78] heightened at the slighting manner in which he spoke of him, when they were alone the following day. In vain she asked his meaning for the dislike he showed; the more they conversed on the subject, his conversation ap­peared the more strange and intricate. His ideas also seemed entirely changed concerning their residence in London; her fears of dissipation and bad hours he laugh­ed at; declared himself pleased with sir Peter's family; and would not permit her to mention a wish of leaving it.

Alfred was a constant attendant at lord Albourn's, the fore part of the day; the latter he generally spent in the gay family of sir Peter; and the night and beginning of the morning at the gaming table: he was now universal­ly known as a man of fashion, and his name familiar in the first circles, as the dissipated, lively, and handsome Frenchman.

His sister saw, with concern, the effects of their Lon­don journey; she could plainly observe her brother's for­tune would be soon exhausted, in the manner he lived: his character, as a gambler, was constantly made free with, and his midnight exploits and quarrels commonly mentioned in general conversations. Her own situation was also particularly disagreeable. Harrassed by the assi­duities of the count and many other admirers, she was continually plagued with their importunities and flattery. Lady Peviquil had entirely thrown off the few amiable qualities she seemed to possess; and being further ac­quainted with her circumstances and friendless situation, she treated her little better than a dependant on her bounty.

Miss Peviquil hated her for her beauty, and was hardly civil; in vain Matilda begged her brother to leave England, and return to France; he laughed at her com­plaints: [Page 79] she requested him only to conduct her there, and she would immediately place herself in a convent, and cause him no further trouble:—but her solicitations were vain; the destructive vice of gaming had already taken possession of him: every obstacle, difficulty, and interest, vanished before it; even the welfare of his sister, the ho­nour of his family, the treatment of his father, and the de­sire he had to see Grasville Abbey, were thought of no more, when the gaming table appeared; lady Caroline was almost forgot; in short, every sentiment of fortitude, courage, and humanity, with other virtues which stamped on him the name of a gentleman and a soldier, were al­most swallowed up in a cursed infatuation for a fashiona­ble vice.

Sir Peter, who was entirely governed by his lady, paid hardly any attention to his fair relation:—the whole fa­mily treated her with the utmost indifference, except Henry Peviquil:—his gallantry, like that of the count, was en­tirely disgusting; and the most villanious views appeared under the mask of friendly concern and pity for her situ­ation; he would often hint his knowledge of her circum­stances▪ and the extravagance of her brother; which ex­travagance he first introduced him to:—his discourse would then turn into violent protestations of his regard for her, and admiration of her beauty and accomplish­ments.

Before Alfred, he showed no further signs of particularity in his behaviour than what common politeness required. Affairs were in this state, when one evening, at a grand ball given by lady Peviquil, a stranger was introduced un­der the name of Milverne, an only son of a lord of that name: he was just arrived from Italy, where he had at­tended his father, who was in a declining state of health: [Page 80] his elegant figure and agreeable manners were universally noticed;—he was requested to open the entertainment with a minuet, and a lady was also fixed on for [...] pur­pose; but the latter being rather indisposed, declined the ceremony and [...] attending on single dancing: the young gentleman was therefore obliged to take another partner, and he immediately requested the hand of Matil­da: praises were whispered through every part of the room, at the elegance and grace of the young performers: nor did Mr. Milverne's attention end here; he continued among the crowd of her admirers the whole evening, and greatly interrupted the soft speeches of the count.

Alfred danced with lady Caroline: but he was by no means so great a favourite with his lordship as at their first interviews; nor did he seem pleased with his daugh­ter's resigning her hand to him as a partner: lady Caro­line herself appeared much attached to him; and Matilda thought she could perceive, in her eyes and manner, some­thing more than common regard; yet she never, in the se­veral visits and times she had seen her ladyship, which had brought on an intimacy between the young ladies, receiv­ed the least information to confirm the opinion her ideas had suggested.

The company broke up about five in the morning▪—Matilda, vexed with the impertinence of the count and Henry Peviquil, yet pleased with the conversation o [...] Mr. Milverne—her brother equally hurt at the cool manner and treatment of lord [...], but happy in finding his lordship's sentiments against him were not imbibed by his fair daughter.

CHAPTER XVII. REFLECTION.

THERE are a number of vicious and licentious vices, which will so far triumph over human nature, as to se­duce those from a track of virtue, that for years have been respected as valuable members of society. Yet we see few but what, at some time or other, feel the most severe pangs from remorse of conscience, and a retrospect of the fair character they once held in the world; contrasted with the scorn and slighting treatment they are necessitated to suffer from many who, at an early part of life, would have been proud of their esteem, yet had lived to behold their superiors reduced to the lowest state of penury and distress.

Reflection is never more poignant than when happy scenes once enjoyed are compared with the misery of a present state—which misery has been occasioned by ne­glect, indolence, or extravagance. The most abandoned ex­perience moments, when acute feelings assail them with redoubled force: yet these feelings in some measure serve only to harden them in their crimes, and drive them to acts of desperation. On others they take different effect; repentance, and shame for what is past, urge them to amend for the future; give them strength and inclination to disentangle themselves from those embarrassments they are plunged into, and make them more cautious and wary through the remainder of life.

[Page 82] Alfred, at serious intervals, was nearly distracted with the idea of his own conduct; yet he had no power to re­form: those resolutions of amendment made in a morning, were thought of no more when the gambling hour approached; his care for the welfare of his sister would sometimes make him thoughtful in the midst of dissipation, but he was laughed at by his gay companions, and suffered to be melancholy no more.

His pride was hurt at the behaviour of lord Albourn; yet he knew he merited it: and his love for lady Caroline still drew him to a house where he was received by its owner with little cordiality and politeness.

Nor did count D'Ollifont's attention to his sister alto­gether pass his notice: his natural jealousy made him believe she really liked his addresses, and he instantly mis­took common civility for returned affection.

His hatred against the count was the [...]me, yet he had seldom time to think of it: but he now resolved to give Matilda her aunt's manuscript, let the [...] it might oc [...]asion her be ever so distressing: she was accordingly told, a few days after, that her brother's servant requested to speak with her. She was glad of this opportunity to see Leonard alone; having wished much to question him con­cerning Alfred's manner of living: and though she felt herself hurt at causing the man to betray his master's affairs, yet she knew it to be an expedient absolutely necessary [...] present circumstances.

[...] poor fellow's countenance clearly told all was not right; Matilda was shocked at his appearance; she had seen him but once since he moved with his [...] to Bond-street; and the visible change in his person plainly discov­ered the effects of irregular hours.

[Page 83] He delivered to her the paper sealed up: and, after in­quiring her health, and telling her he was sorry he had troubled her, but that he was ordered to deliver it into her own hands, he would have departed:—Matilda stopped him, and begged to know if he had been ill.

The tear almost started from his eyes. "No, madam, I thank you"—was all he could answer.

"For heaven's sa [...] ▪ Leonard," continued Matilda, deeply affected with the mark of his attachment, "tell me from whence this un [...]ness proceeds; I am sure you are not well: perhaps my brother's house does not suit your constitution."

Leonard seemed hurt that he had gone so far, and, after stammering an excuse, would again have withdrawn; but she insisted on his sitting down and ordered some refresh­ment; that was however useless; his appetite was gone, and he seemed in the last stage of consumption. She then implored him, by the love he bore her family, and by the regard he had for his master and herself, to inform her of every circumstance relative to his affairs: "for I am cer­tain," continued Matilda, "they are in a disagreeable situ­ation; the expensive manner in which he lives, added to his fondness for play, confirms those reports which have been hinted to me by many, whom I know to be well ac­quainted with his proceedings.

The man seemed struck with astonishment at her know­ledge of those circumstances he had dreaded to communi­cate to her; and confessed, by the appearance and beha­viour of his master, the worst might be expected; that the hours he kept were unreasonable, and that his manner of­ten shewed him to be distracted. He also told her he kn [...]w he had drawn on monsieur La M [...]ie several times; "in short, my dear lady," continued Leonard, "he is quite an altered man, and he sometimes returns home in [Page 84] a morning, after I have been sitting up for him all night, in such ill temper, that it cuts me to the heart."

Matilda found herself incapable of bearing this inter­view any longer with fortitude; she therefore dismissed the faithful servant, with repeated assurances of her esteem for him, and a request that if any other circumstances should arise concerning her brother, he would immediate­ly repair to Grosvenor-square, and relate them to her. She directly retired to her chamber, and broke open the letter: signora Maserini's manuscript dropped from the cover, on which Alfred had wrote a few lines. He con­cluded with saying, he could plainly perceive by her man­ner, she had an attachment for count D'Ollifont, which gave him the greatest uneasiness; and though he had hi­therto kept the inclosed from her sight, through motives of tenderness, yet the common force of nature urged him to take every method in his power to prevent her forming a wretched alliance with a villain, the supposed murderer of their father.

The paper fell from her hand, and she fainted in the chair. Miss Peviquil at that moment opened the door: she was astonished to see Matilda in a fit, but immediate­ly rang the bell. A servant attended: water and harts-horn were procured, and she recovered in a short time. Both papers lay on the floor, but fortunately were not ob­served by either of the servants or Miss Peviquil, during their attendance on their fair patient; but, at the begin­ning of her recovery, they were taken up by her own wo­man, who was going to deliver them to her lady, not thinking Matilda able to take them: yet her ideas were not so deranged but a recollection of their contents struck her with the impropriety of their being seen by the fami­ly; she therefore exerted her utmost strength, and, though [...] able to speak, snatched them from the girl's [Page 85] hand, and hurried them into her pocket wi [...]h the utmost precipitation.

Miss Peviquil felt herself hurt at the disappointment her curiosity suffered by not seeing the letters which had caused such violent emotion in her friend: she directly suspected it to be a love affair, and maliciously determined to be revenged on her, by relating the whole story in com­pany. With these charitable resolutions she took leave, re­questing to see her in the drawing room, as Mr. Milverne and some other gentlemen had paid them a morning visit, and were inquiring after her health. Matilda returned her many thanks for her care and attention, and promised to join them in a few minutes.

Mr. Milverne had been a constant attendant at sir Peter's, since his first introduction at the ball: his particular po­liteness to Matilda plainly told she was the chief magnet which drew him to the house; and though lady Peviquil was not by any means pleased with this information, which was first hinted to her by her daughter, yet she knew not how to dismiss from her parties a young gentle­man of high birth, noble character, and elegant accom­plishments. Their only hope was, that he could not possibly entertain any serious ideas of an honourable connection, without his father's consent; which consent they were partly certain would never be granted, on account of the old gentleman's avaricious disposition.

Every one expressed their concern at the languid appear­ance of Matilda, when she entered the room: she excused herself by her having been rather indisposed that morning.

"Pardon me, miss Maserini," returned Mr. M [...]lverne. "your health seems on the decline [...]: and though I do not mean to alarm you, yet I think the country absolutely necessary to restore that bloom to your countenance, which, through fine feelings, has too often vanished at the en­trance [Page 86] of a sympathetic tear occasioned by a tale of woe, or a recital of the misfortunes of others."

Both lady Peviquil and her daughter smiled with con­tempt. Matilda thanked him, and said, she shortly in­tended to leave England, as she did not find the climate agree with her constitution.

He changed colour instantly;—his surprise and emotion were visible to all.—"To leave England, madam!" he replied.—Having recollected himself, he in a more com­po [...]ed manner asked her, if her resolution to that purpose was not very suddenly taken?

Miss Peviquil considered this would be a fit opportuni­ty to exercise her ill-nature, which was greatly heightened by Mr. Milverne's behaviour to Matilda, on the circum­stance of the letter; and immediately answered to that gentleman's question, by significant hints, that it was a dis­order in the heart, which was extremely difficult to be cur­ed:—she then, with the utmost irony and malice, rela­ted the affair in the most ridiculous terms, and concluded with a request to know the name of her admirer.

Mr. Milverne seemed petrified:—Matilda was struck with astonishment at her conversation; the insulting and malicious wit of miss Peviquil was more than she could support; nor had she power to utter a word, but burst into a flood of tears. Her brother at that moment was announced, and entered the drawing-room.

The embarrassment of the whole party was general: the gentlemen, who, except Mr. Milverne, were chiefly strangers, testified their approbation of Miss Peviquil's re­cital by laughing; but the idea that their mirth had drawn tears from a beautiful young woman, cast a gloom on their countenance, and gave them no very favourable opinion of her whose satirical talents had so much enter­tained them.

CHAPTER XVIII.

ALFRED Maserini was going to pay the compliments of the morning with more than usual gaiety, when the sight of Matilda, striving to conceal her tears, struck his eyes; her manner and peculiar situation prevented his ut­terance: reflection darted on his memory, and his late ill-treatment of her appeared in the most black and villa­nous colours: she had been insulted, he could perceive; friendless and unprotected, she had no one to take her part; their mother had always recommended Matilda to his care:—how had be fulfilled her request?—by cruel in­difference, when she was surrounded with seducers, danger and dissipation: in short, every part of his behaviour since their residence in London presented itself in the most shame­ful light; and the ideas of his own baseness kept him mo­tionless some time.

The silence was not broken till he himself, with the ut­most tenderness, asked his sister the cause of her tears.—She found he was hurt; and the recollection of his former kindness, contrasted with his present conduct, threw her in­to another agony of weeping.

He immediately turned, and, with the greatest indigna­tion in his looks, asked an explanation of his sister's unea­siness, which he said he supposed was occasioned by some affront she was unable to resent.—"If so," continued Al­fred—"I am arrived here in proper time, to afford that protection which by duty I am bound, and by inclination I am most willing, to give."

Mr. Milverne was the only gentlemen [...]e had any know­ledge of in the room; he had noticed that he in general paid particular attention to Matilda; his wild imagination [Page 88] instantly took fire, and whispered him he was the person who should answer for the injury [...] No sooner had this thought suggested itself, than, in a resolute tone, he insist­ed on his resolving the question.

Mr. Milverne started from a reverie, which the late conversation had thrown him into, and, with a manly composure, addressed the distracted Alfred: "Most wil­lingly, sir! My carriage is at the door:—if you will favour me with your company round the Park, I will inform you of the whole affair; and permit me to say, sir, had miss Maserini's brother been always as anxious after her wel­fare and happiness, there would have been no [...]ause for him to have requested information, or my assistance to have given it."

This just reproach struck the young Frenchman to the heart; he frowned, and they left the room together.

The gentlemen who remained soon after took their leave. Matilda found herself alone with lady Peviquil and her daughter. The situation was distressing; but she was soon relieved from it, as both retired to their dressing rooms, the latter making an aukward apology for the un­happiness she had occasioned.

Mr. Milverne in the most friendly terms informed Al­fred of the cruel treatment his sister had received, not on­ly that morning, but at many other times, when he him­self had in the same manner been witness to it. He con­jured him to remove her from sir Peter Peviquil's—re­minded him it was a house of dissipation, pride, and lux­ury—begged him to consider how dangerous many parts of the company were to a young lady but newly entered into the gaieties of life;—he even hinted his suspicions of Harry Peviquil, and count D'Ollifont.—This name touched Alfred to the soul; he made no answer, but heav­ed a convulsive sigh.

[Page 89] Mr. Milverne still continued: "My attention to your sister has, I own, Mr. Maserini, been particular; and I now in your presence avow that I love her; love her to distraction."

"Why not then, sir," returned Alfred,—"avow it to the world, and openly address her as a man of honor? Not, sir, that I wish for your alliance with her, more than that of any other gentleman; yet I conceive, when senti­ments of love and attachment are declared for a young woman, they [...]ound not with propriety till sanctioned by the open behaviour of an intended husband."

"And that, sir," replied Mr. Milverne, "should before now have been exemplified in me, had it not been for a whimsical father whose consent I must, if possible, obtain, for the sake of us both:—If this can be done, I shall be happy to make her my wife, and think myself blessed in the possession of such a treasure"

Alfred still remained thoughtful; reflections crowded on his mind, and they were almost too much for his senses.—Henry Peviquil, he was now informed, wore a mask of friendship to cover his villany: he had more than once thought ill of him, in his transactions at St. James's-street; yet he was a young man of the first fashion, the son of a person of distinction. But were these idle pompous orna­ments to make amends for the ruin of his sister, the dis­grace of his family, the curse of himself;—that sister de­livered to his care by a fond mother—that sister whom he was bound to protect by every tie of blood, love, and hon­our—that sister who herself foresaw danger, and wished to escape it, but was prevented by him—that sister whose regard for him he knew so be sincere—that sister who had been insulted yet had no one to defend her, but those who, under motives of charity, would expect a reward that must at once crush her to the lowest state of human nature▪—

[Page 90] "Accursed idea!" exclaimed he, in a voice hardly artic­ulate, pulled the check-string, and desired the coachman to stop.

There was a wildness in his look, which alarmed Mr. Milverne. "You are not going to leave me, Mr. Maserini?" said he: "I intended to ask you to take a friendly dinner with me."

"I thank you, sir!" returned Alfred, "but must bag to be excused." He leaped from the carriage, and darted across the Park towards Piccadilly.

He had arrived at the turnpike-gate when lord Albourn's post chariot drove through. Alfred just perceived his lord­ship and his daughter were in it. The young lady's eyes met his at the same moment;—they both bowed;—but her father did not observe him. He stopped the servant, who was on horseback paying the toll, and asked if his lordship was going a little excursion from London.

"He is going beyond a little excursion, sir," replied the man—"many miles from hence."

Alfred was struck with astonishment.—"Many miles!" returned he: "why, lady Caroline never informed me of at, although I saw her yesterday."

"Her ladyship," said the man, "did not know of it herself two hours before we set off, as it was a sudden whim of lord Albourn's."

The servant seemed in a hurry to overtake the chariot, which had got some little distance;—but Alfred still de­tained him, to inquire what place they were going to, and when they were to return.

The man answered, "He really could not tell to what part they were going; but the distance was near two hundred miles from town;—that his lord returned in a week, but that lady Caroline was to be left behind." He then spurred his horse, and left his hearer in a state little better than stupefaction.

[Page 91] That lord Albourn had taken his daughter from Lon­don merely to avoid any further intimacy with him, was certain; in short, the occurrences of the morning had overwhelmed him, with despair, and he found himself at his own lodgings, before his recollection had reminded him he was going that way. Leonard opened the door; this faithful servant plainly saw the agitation of his spirits.—Alfred strove to disguise his uneasiness, and asked, with some degree of composure, if any person had called since he left home? Leonard answered, "No one, except a mean-looking man, who had left a note for him, which lay in the dressing room."—He immediately repaired to it and read the contents; it was from his taylor, requesting the payment of seventy pounds on the next day—and, if disappointed, threatened an arrest. He had, a week be­fore, drawn upon his banker in France, for the last three hundred pounds of his fortune; this would not even pay his debts. Ruin and confusion learned to encircle him: where was now his pride—his honor—his character as a gentleman and a soldier? Where was his love for his sis­ter? In what manner was he to make good his word, of adding a part of his fortune to hers?—If he remained in England, disgrace and infamy must surround him;—nor could he fly, but like a mean and beggarly outcast of soci­ety, leaving behind him the name of a swindler and a vil­lain. Even in his own country, he must meet the re­proaches of those to whom he used to preach lessons of mo­rality, and by example enforced his doctrine. Matilda too, what was to become of her? Her fortune would not support her. "Must she," said he, "through my faults and follies, sink with me into destruction? Who is to protect her when I am in jail? That villain, count D'Ol­lifont, whom I suspect to be the murderer of my father, may seize on the moment to complete his accursed inten­tions, [Page 92] and, like the fiend of hell, laugh at those his mis­chief has hurled headlong into irremediable ruin. It is too much," exclaimed he, running to a part of the room where his sword hu [...]g: his despair overcame him;—he drew the blade from the scabbard in a kind of triumph, and uttered, in a voice of phren [...]y, "Now I defy them all; even hell itself is better than what may come to-mor­row."

The glittering steel trembled in his hand;—his arm wa [...] in the very motion to strike his heart, when he [...]ound it with-held by a person behind him. He turned, gasping with convulsive madness; the good old Leonard dropped before him on his knees:—"Merciful father," exclaimed he, "look on him with an eye of pity!"—then turning to Alfred with a stern aspect; "is this, sir," said he, "a time to appear before that God, to whom you have so much to answer for, and from whom so little to expect? Look, sir, in the mirror before you; and consider if your figure is in a proper state for a dying man; your countenance convulsed and agitated; your senses in a state of distrac­tion; the sword of your departed father lifted in your hand ready to supersede the power of your God, by put­ting an end to that existence he gave you, and consequent­ly has alone a right to extinguish."

The sword dropped from his hand; he sunk into a chair, and felt severely the just reproaches of his servant; "I thank you, Leonard," was all he could say; but he made a motion to be alone. Leonard first secured the weapon, and then left him to meditate on his rashness.

He continued for some time in a state of stupid insensi­bility, but by degrees recovered, and shuddered at the danger he had escaped. His resolution was fixed, never more to game; he swore by the most solemn oath, never to play but for a trifling sum, nor any m [...]re to hazard [Page 93] himself at a place where, to his cost, he had experienced the villany of mankind under the mask of friendship and kindness. With these resolutions Alfred staid at home the remainder of the day, thanked Leonard again for his care, and retired to rest with more composure and satis­faction than he had for months before.

Matilda was overpowered with misfortunes. The ac­count of her father's disappearance, and the suspicion which rested on the count, whom she had before disliked, but now even shuddered at his name, sunk her into new troubles and distress. The insults she had received from miss Peviquil, although they had confirmed her in the idea of possessing the esteem if not the love of Mr. Mil­verne, entirely settled her determination of leaving Eng­land. To accomplish this, she resolved to demand of her brother a small part of her fortune, to carry her over to France; and, immediately on her arrival in that country, to enter a convent, and totally seclude herself from a world where, young as she was, she could plainly per­ceive the interested and sordid views of mankind; and sickened at those gaieties of high life she once languished to enjoy.

CHAPTER XIX. THE MASQUERADE.

WHY was superior strength, fortitude, and courage, given to man? Why does he naturally inherit these bles­sings [Page 94] in a greater degree than woman? To protect the weak and defenceless from the gripe and cruelty of the wicked; to give succour to those who in their nature are less capable of bearing up against imposition; and who consequently require that aid, which, according to the laws of christianity, he is bound to afford them.

Who is the cause of this horrid downfal to infamy and shame? Man! he who in the book of nature was or­dained to bear the image of the Supreme Being, and crea­ted to take on him the godlike office of protector to the female part of the world; yet doth he blunt his feelings against every trait of humanity, and dares destroy that which the Almighty intended he should preserve. Of this description there are many: but it is to be hoped they are greatly overbalanced by the more noble and gen­erous part of mankind, who equally feel the effects of beauty, yet scorn to gratify their passions by villanous and deliberate schemes of seduction.

Count D'Ollifont was struck with Matilda's charms, the first evening he was at sir Peter's; and, in the few minutes' interval between seeing her and being introduced, he settled within his own mind, if possible, to seduce her.

The count was a man who experienced no disturbance from the intrusion of honor, conscience, or feeling; the milk of human kindness was not in a [...]y respect concerned, in softening his composition: the tear of compassion was never seen in his eye, nor could the most dismal tale or even sight of woe procure from him an accent of pity, or even a sympathetic sigh. The gratification of his pas­sions was his whole concern; nor did he stop at any thing to accomplish what his wishes prompted him to possess. He now enjoyed the whole estates and large fortune of count Maserini, grandfather to Alfred and Matilda; he could therefore well afford to live in the most splendid and elegant manner. On riches he chiefly depended to suc­ceed [Page 95] with the ladies; as he knew his age would almost give him the title of an elderly man.

He had just planned in what manner to make his at­tack on the beautiful young foreigner, when sir Peter Pe­viquil, as was before related, led him up, and introduced her under the name of Maserini. The picture of her fa­ther plainly confirmed who she was. A sudden horror overcame him; he felt a something strike his heart, which he had heard described as the touch of remorse; he, how­ever, [...]oon recovered, and resumed his natural gaiety and politeness. Yet the behaviour of Alfred did not go unno­ticed by him; and it seemed as if he had actually known those intentions the former had been weighing in his mind five minutes before.

Rest forsook the pillow of the count that night; his ideas of seduction received a check at the mention of the name; yet every circumstance coincided with his wishes, except her brother: him he feared. Mean and dastardly in his disposition, he was fearful even as a child, and would shrink like a wretched reptile from the just revenge of a man whom he had cringed to with meanness, for the purpose of destroying his happiness, and ruining his family.

He resolved not to be too hasty in the affair, but in eve­ry respect to make himself agreeable to Matilda, and wait for an opportunity, when, by some means or other, Alfred should be unable to afford that protection his sister would require.

That opportunity was now arrived; the tailor, who had threatened in a letter to arrest him, was the same that made the count's clothes; it was he who first persuaded the man to take that method; supposing that, not being able in so little a time to procure bail, he must be confin­ed at least for one night, and during that time he could by force (finding that none of his persuasive eloquence [Page 96] had any effect on Matilda) convey her to some secret spot, where he might, unmolested, take advantage of her situ­tion.

This diabolical scheme was, accordingly, with the great­est deliberation, put into execution; and the tailor in­formed the count in the evening, that he had not received his money; the latter then ordered the man, on pain of his displeasure, and entire loss of his custom, not to fail to put his threats in practice. To add greater force to this request, he presented him with a ten pound bank-note, over and above the bill he then paid him; and received a solemn promise, in return, that his wishes should be ac­complished with the greatest exactness.

Count D'Ollifont then proceeded to sir Peter Peviquil's; he plainly perceived there had been a misunderstanding between the ladies: but it did not in any respect alter his plan.

He presented the family with tickets for a grand mas­querade which was to be at the Pantheon the next even­ing, and also begged Mr. Milverne's acceptance of one, who entered the room soon after him.

Matilda at first declined going; but the count would take no refusal. She seemed particularly cool in her be­haviour towards him; but this did not in any respect damp his spirits in the plot he had undertaken.

In the course of conversation, he hinted that he should like Mr. Maserini to be of the party, and pretended he should likewise send him a ticket the following morning. He gave them to understand the manager of it was patron­ised by himself, and consequently he should exert his in­terest as much as possible in his behalf.

The count, Mr Milverne, and Henry Peviquil, escorted the ladies to a concert: they returned to supper. Mr. Milverne seemed unhappy; Matilda extremely dejected. [Page 97] She inquired how he left her brother; he did not wish to relate to her the manner in which Alfred flew from the carriage; but turned the conversation by saying, "He could not persuade him to take a dinner."—She would have continued, but was interrupted by the count's ask­ing in what characters they intended to appear. Matilda and Mr. Milverne resolved to go in dominos; Henry Pe­viquil declared he should assume the character of Don Quix­ote; sir Peter, a hermit; her ladyship, a nun; and miss Peviquil, a gipsy. The count said he did not think him­self able to support a character, and therefore should fol­low the example of his fair cousin, as he was pleased to style her, and appear in no particular dress. About one o'clock he took his leave, and promised to be with them the next evening. Mr. Milverne likewise appointed to call in Grosvenor-square at the same hour.

Matilda retired to her chamber, but not to sleep; she disliked even the sight of count D'Ollifont; yet she had con [...]nted to be conducted by him to a masquerade. It was an entertainment she had much wished to see; but had heard of its being a dangerous scene of amusement. She however resolved, if possible, to persuade her brother to accompany them, and for once be the cause of spending a dissipated evening: she should then consider herself safe in his presence, and have greater enjoyment of the enter­tainment.

Alfred Maserini arose in the morning, more composed than he had been for many weeks; having already resol­ved, immediately on receiving the sum he expected from M. Le Mercier, to discharge his debts, and retire with his sister to France. He sat down to breakfast, again thanked Leonard for his care, and told him of the alteration in his [Page 98] sentiments; he observed on the table a letter directed to him; having asked from whom it came, he was informed a man brought it early in the morning, and said it requir­ed no answer;—the contents of it were as follow:

Alfred's astonishment at reading this extraordinary epis­tle, may well be conceived. He showed it to Leonard, and asked his advice; the old man begged him to attend to its contents: "No one, sir," said he, "could have an interest in writing such a letter; and the bank-note fully confirms it to be no idle frolic." His ideas were the same as his master's, and they determined to exe­cute implicitly the directions given. The receiving of the money hurt him; but it was absolutely necessary [...]o discharge the debt, as he had none of his own, till that he had sent for arrived: he however resolved to find out, if possible, the person, and repay him with every acknow­ledgment, if the suspicions were well grounded.

Alfred determined, in the first place, not to see his sis­ter, and gave Leonard orders, if any of the servants should come from, Grosvenor-square, to send word back he was not at home.

About eleven o'clock, the tailor arrived, was introduced, and received his money. The man was astonished. Al­fred insisted on his taking a glass of wine, and made him a present for the trouble he had caused. He then related to him the scheme which he had heard was to be put in practice by the count and himself.

Surprise, guilt, and consternation, stopped the tailor's utterance: he believed it must be some supernatural pow­er that had informed him of it. Alfred argued with him for some time, explained the villainy of such proceedings, and the ruin that might have ensued. In short, he work­ed so much on the poor fellow's feelings, that he fell at his feet, asked ten thousand pardons, and begged to know [Page 100] if he could in any respect serve him, to recompence the injury he had intended to commit.

Alfred took him at his word, and informed him that the only way to make reparation, would be, to go imme­diately to the count, and say that every circumstance had succeeded to his wishes, for that Mr. Maserini was in close confinement. The man promised to be punctual in the message, and, after again thanking him for his generosity, departed.

As it was expected, a servant called from sir Peter's, to my that miss Maserini wished much to see her brother Leonard told him he was just gone out.

Alfred then sent to procure his dress with as much se­cre [...]y as possible: it was a plain domino, that he might not be observed.

In the course of the afternoon, the servant from Gros­venor-square arrived a second time; but was answered as before, that Mr. Maserini was not yet returned; he left a note from his sister, and desired it might be given him as soon as he came home. Alfred opened it: Matilda in­formed him how much against her inclination it was to ac­company the count to a masquerade; yet she could not decline the invitation without absolute rudeness. She re­quested her brother would be there, and concluded with saying, she supposed he had also received a ticket.

He resolved to take no notice of the letter, but as the anonymous epistle desired (the contents of which he had now every reason to believe authentic), to go himself, un­known to every one. He panted for the moment when he should detect the villain in the very act of injustice and cruelty he had long suspected him to be guilty of; and crush that monster to the earth, who dared attempt the honor of his family.

[Page 101] The wished-for hour of twelve was announced; when, having placed in his pocket a brace of pistols, he threw himself into a hackney coach, and ordered the coachman to drive to the Pantheon.

CHAPTER XX.

ALFRED ordered the coachman, when he stopped at the front doors in Oxford-road, to drive round and wait for him at the back entrance.

The Pantheon was crowded; the company were nume­rous and elegant; every one looked happy and pleased with each other. "I," said Alfred, "am the only per­son who seem unsociable and alone." Several characters passed, which he knew by their voices; but he could no­where trace those he wished to recognise; when on a sud­den a group of bacchanals rushed by him, and▪ among them he observed Don Quixote. Having addressed the figure in a feigned voice, by inquiring after his Dulcinea del Toboso, he immediately received a witty answer from a tongue which plainly confirmed it to be Henry Pevi­quil.

He now judged the rest of the party must be in the rooms, and accordingly continued his search.

In about a quarter of an hour he perceived the knight join his company; they were dressed exactly as the letter had described, except that he could observe only two do­minios, which he found were his sister and the count; but soon after heard them speak, as if they were surprised at not seeing Mr. Milverne

At supper the greater part of the company unmasked, [Page 102] and Alfred was confirmed that his conjectures on each of the characters were right. He still continued disguised, with his eye fixed on them: and it gave pleasure to see Matilda treat the count with the utmost coolness: but yet he thought he could perceive, in the countenance of the latter, a malicious smile occasioned by the hope of having her shortly in his power. These ideas made him re­double his vigilance; and he directly after the repast join­ed them almost close, but strove as much as possible to es­cape notice.

Henry Peviquil and his father seemed heated by the wine they had drank; miss Peviquil was chiefly taken up in gallanting with a gambling friend to her brother's; and her ladyship in paying compliments of her fashionable ac­quaintance. Count D'Ollifont attended to none but his fair relation; and the inattention she received from the others, gave him an opportunity of continuing his polite­ness. Alfred remarked a magician who followed also the steps of the count; his dress was, truly conformablo to the part he performed, and he held in one hand a wand, the emblem of his power. This figure gave him some chagrin, and he resolved to address it, by asking him in what manner he made use of his art: the magician an­swered, in a voice which he thought he had somewhere heard, "That he punished the guilty, and gave succour to the innocent. I know you, young man," said he: "and you are in a noble cause; be cautious how you execute it."

Alfred was staggered at this reply, but yet thought they might be words of chance, and begged an explanation of the incoherent sentence. The magician said, he would convince him of his knowledge; and immediately wrote on a card the following words. "Your name is Maseri­ni; your business at this place is to protect the honor of [Page 103] your family in the person of your sister: the time draws near: be diligent, and fail not."

By the time he had read these few words, the magician was gone; and the astonished Alfred stood for some time motionless: he seemed in a dream, and could hardly be­lieve his senses; yet he supposed this stranger must be the person who had sent him the letter. The count and his sister were nearly out of sight at a different part of the Rotunda, but he quickly made up to them; their party had entirely dispersed, and Matilda seemed extremely un­easy. The former in vain strove to give her comfort; she could hardly conceal her tears. It was about three o'clock, the time fixed for the horrid scheme, when Alfred observ­ed the count draw his sister to another room, under the idea of seeking their friends. He followed, and heard him inform her that he had been just told they waited for them in their carriages at the back entrance. He led her to the door; that being a place for chairs only, there were no coaches near. The count conducted Matilda down the street, and turned into a part where there was a cha­riot and one hackney coach waiting at a little distance.

Matilda, seeing no one in the carriage, refused to enter it: the count entreated, but she still continued obstinate, and seemed extremely alarmed. They were not within hearing of any person but [...]he hackney coachman and another man who stood with him. Alfred gasped for breath; his very soul was convulsed with rage. Count D'Ollifont with some vehemence again insisted on her complying with his request: she answered, she would die first, and burst into a flood of tears: he then began to force her into the carriage.

"Your brother, now, madam," said the count, "is [Page 104] not here to encourage your pride, or frustrate my wishes." She screamed, and fainted.

"Damnable villain!" exclaimed Alfred: "know thou art mistaken: for you now behold him ready to protect the honor of his house, by crushing to the earth that wretch who dare seduce his sister."

While he uttered these words, Matilda remained in the arms of one of the count's servants, insensible. Leonard, who had dreaded his master's violence of temper by the pistols he had taken in his pockets, determined to be near at the time, to assist his young lady▪ he accordingly waited with a hackney coach, the same that stood near the count's chariot. He immediately ran to the assis­tance of Matilda, forced her from the footman, and placed her in the vehicle he had hired.

During this time count D'Ollifont was struck motionless: he could hardly believe himself awake; but the figure of the enraged Frenchman, who had now unmasked, plainly confirmed the truth.

"I was only," said he with a smile, "going to con­duct your sister to sir Peter's."

"Liar I villain!" exclaimed Alfred, "thou wast going to take her to a place where, unprotected, she must have sunk beneath thy diabolical intentions; nay more," con­tinued he, in a low voice, "I strongly suspect thee to be the murderer of her father."

He started, stood about a minute in a thoughtful pos­ture, and then uttered with a curse—"Desperate causes require desperate rem [...]dies!"—pulled a pistol from his side pocket, and fired at his adversary:—owing to his agi­tation, the ball passed, and Alfred remained unhurt: but he instantly discharged one at the count, who fell, and every spark of life seemed extinguished. The coachman [Page 105] and the footman cried their master was murdered, and in­stantly secured the young foreigner, who made no resis­tance, but seemed buried in a reverie; till the magician, whom he had noticed in the rooms, came up.

"I see," said he, "there has been bloody work here; but punishment has fallen on the right person." He un­masked, and discovered the features of Mr. Milverne.

The men still kept their hold of Alfred: but no crowd had assembled, as they were some distance from the doors, and in a private street. Mr. Milverne took the part of his friend, soon disengaged him from confinement, and with the assistance of Leonard, who had by this time made himself known, forced him to the coach. They promise the man a large reward, if he would drive as fast as possible towards the first stage to Dover.

The horses, which had not been out in the day, travel­led with the utmost speed; and the driver, in hopes of the money, failed not to exert his abilities in keeping up their pace, insomuch that he brought them to an inn at Dartford by eight in the morning.

During the time of their journey, Matilda learnt from her brother the whole affair, and plainly perceived they must be plunged into new difficulties in consequence of the count's death.

Mr. Milverne might be suspected as the cause of it; and the idea that she should never see him more, added new pangs to those she already experienced.

Leonard informed them, when they had got some dis­tance from town, that a packet from France had been re­ceived by the people of the house where they lodged; who had neglected to give it till after his master had set off to the masquerade: he therefore, having no place to [Page 106] put it under lock and key, determined to bring it in his pocket.

This was a fortunate circumstance, as the direction con­firmed it to come from M. Le Mercier: on opening it, Al­fred received the money he had wrote for; it gave them some comfort, as it would support them with economy for some time. But this was of little consequence when he [...] his life must be sacrificed as soon as the count's death was made known in France; his interest being so great at court, as to prevent any de [...]ence from sav­ing the person who had deprived him of his existence.

He determined, however, rather to die than cowardly shrink from justice, and disgrace the name of a soldier. He related to his sister his resolution; but she conjured him not to risk his life, from a punctilio of honor.

"You are engaged in a just cause," continued Matilda, and need not be ashamed of your conduct being known to the world." She used many other arguments, and asked him, "To whom she was to look for protection, when he was no more."

"To God," he exclaimed; "for among mankind all honour is lost. I am sick of the world, Matilda, and care not how soon I leave it." "Surely," said she, "that fortitude, courage, and patience, which were the leading traits in your character, and which used to charm our departed mother, are vanished: have you no desire to see Grasville Abbey?" The name struck him to the heart. "Who can tell but it is ordained for you to unravel that mystery which has so long hung over our family, and been the ruin of our house? But heaven forbid, Alfred, that I should persuade you to act contrary to that honour which for years has been the boast of our forefathers▪— [Page 107] if, therefore, you resolve to make yourself known in France, I will cheerfully enter a convent, and take leave of a world in which I have little happiness to expect." Here she sighed deeply; her heart reminded her that the image of Mr. Milverne would often intrude amid those re­ligious duties she would then be bound to perform.

Alfred continued silent; his curiosity to see the [...] of his ancestors, the hopes of finding some clue to the mystic disappearance of his father, urged him to adopt the plans his sister had proposed; but his honour, his char­acter as an officer and a man, forbade it.

Every mile he found himself farther from London, his perplexity increased; nor was his determination by any means fixed, when the coach drove up to the principal inn at Dartford. Alfred handsomely rewarded the man, de­sired him to say nothing concerning the business he had been witness to, but give feigned answers to those who should wonder at seeing a hack so far from London. The coachman promised faithfully to obey his orders. They each took some refreshment, hired post horses, and set off again in less than an hour towards Dover.

Alfred during the journey informed his sister that his re­solutions were fixed to join his regiment, and throw him­self on the mercy of his countrymen. "I scorn," said he, "to fly ignobly from a punishment I flatter myself I do not justly deserve."

Matilda shed a flood of tears, but perfectly acquiesced in his wishes, and [...]he strove to think no more of Mr. Mil­verne; that was impossible, but yet she considered, the strict and awful ceremonies of a monastic life would, in a course of time, erase those thoughts from her bosom. Alfred in some respects was in a similar situation; his ac­quaintance with lady Caroline Albourn was first com­menced [Page 108] in the midst of dissipation, yet he felt many pangs at the idea of losing her for ever. In this career of folly he had persuaded himself that he was no farther interest­ed in the affair, than merely the idea of being intimate with a young lady of fashion, and having an opportunity of toasting a beautiful girl; but he now plainly perceived that he loved lady Caroline so far as to make his life un­comfortable without her. There was also another cause for uneasiness; his debts in London were unpaid to the name of murderer, the appellation of swindler must be ad­ded: a title he in some measure merited.

His silence plainly told the state of his mind; while his sister shed many tears at thoughts of their present mis­fortunes, and at the recollection of those happy hours she had experienced under the care of maternal tenderness, never, never, to return.

Leonard shared the sorrows of them both; yet he re­ceived some little comfort at the thoughts of returning to that country where he had spent the chief part of his life. They arrived rather late at Dover; Leonard was directly dispatched to inquire what time the packet would sail, and brought word back, not till the following evening. This intelligence was extremely disagreeable to them; as they might before that time be recognised, taken into custody, and conducted back to London. They were necessitated, however, to wait patienely the event; but Alfred reflect­ed, with some terror, on the horrors of a jail, in a strange country, and under laws he was equally a stranger to. Under these circumstances, they remained at the inn as private as possible.

About two hours before they intended to sail, a man ar­rived post from London; he asked if any travellers were in that house, who intended going to France, and was an­swered [Page 109] in the affirmative. Leonard, who by chance over­heard the conver [...]ation, ran to his master, and informed him of the affair; each conjectured it to be an officer of justice, and Alfred waited with fortitude and composure the event; when they were agreeably surprised, by seeing the innkeeper introduce Mr. Milverne's valet.

He delivered a letter, the first sentence of which contain­ed the following words:

"Count D'Ollifont is not yet dead."—"Thanks be to heaven!" exclaimed Alfred, and communicated the agree­able intelligence to his sister.

Mr. Milverne informed him, that he was kept in custody till late in the morning, when he procured bail; being then taken before a magistrate, he explained the whole af­fair, and was honourably cleared. He further informed him that the count's indisposition was very uncertain, and ad­vised him by no means to remain in England, or make himself known in France, as count D'Ollifont had many friends in that country, who, immediately as they knew of the event, would, through particular interest at court, place him in the Bastile for life, even if the former should recover of his wound.

In the latter part of the letter he mentioned Matilda with the utmost tenderness, pitied her situation, and en­treated Alfred by no means to run hazards, through false notions of honour, and leave his sister destitute of pro­tection. He concluded with saying, he thought they had better pass over as quick as possible to Italy, but requested he would send word what part they resolved to visit, as he himself hoped to join them in a few weeks.

Alfred wrote an answer, expressing his gratitude for the gentlemanlike and friendly treatment he had received; informed him that he at first resolved to throw himself on [Page 110] the laws of his country, although he knew them to be se­vere where a courtier or man of interest was concerned;—but that his letter had entirely altered his resolutions, and that he now intended to travel as fast and as privately as possible towards Italy: that the hope of seeing him there, and making proper apologies for the strange behaviour he had been guilty of towards him, would in a great measure alleviate the disagreeable manner of his journey. He concluded with his sister's thanks for his kind inquiries, and the equal pleasure she would enjoy with himself, on seeing Mr. Milverne in a short interval of time.

This letter was given to the valet, and he set off imme­diately. The vessel set sail a short time after, and Leo­nard informed his master, while they were crossing the Channel, that he had learned from Mr Milverne's servant, that the anonymous letter he had received was sent by that gentleman; for that he, the valet, was employed by his master to draw the plan of proceedings from the count's confidential servant, whom he contrived to intoxicate with liquor, and then communicated to Mr. Milverne the intel­ligence he had received.

Alfred was vexed that Leonard did not inform him of this circumstance sooner, that he might have returned the money he received, and acknowledged the obligation.

Matilda was still more attached to him: she was happy in the change of sentiments which his letter had caused in her brother, and looked forward with a considerable de­gree of pleasure for the time when he should join them abroad.

After a pleasant voyage of a few hours, they found them­selves landed in their native country; but in a far differ­ent situation from that they were in when they left it: [Page 111] then they were honoured and respected by all, and afraid of meeting no one: now they were under misfortunes and concealment, shrinking from the eyes of every beholder, like wretched outcasts of society, and terrified at being observed by every individual.

CHAPTER XXII. ADVENTURES.

WHEN men of honor, whose principles and dispositions are naturally just, fall under misfortunes, and experience adversity and disappointment, their feelings suffer a far greater shock than can be felt by those who, from child­hood, have been plunged in irregularites, and are well practised in the arts of meanness and deceit.

The sting of remorse seldom lasts longer than that pu­nishment which they bring upon themselves through perpe­tual indiscretion and deliberate schemes of villany;—while the man who has been merely led away by example or youthful follies, receives with redoubled force that blow which stabs at once his character and reputation. Nor can he, though the clouds of despair, which encompassed him, may be succeeded by the sunshine of prosperity, think [Page 112] of disagreeable events at a former part of life, but with anguish and distress.

Of the numberless griefs and afflictions to which human nature is subject, poverty is held up as one of a considera­ble magnitude; it generally procures contempt and ill­treatment from the haughty sons of wealth; and the opinion of the world in general is by no means favourable to those who are not possessors of riches and affluence. These mistaken and shameful ideas are almost too pre­dominant in every country; and the child of misery re­ceives great addition to his woes by the sneers and scandal of his neighbours. Equality, though a word of terror to the great, if taken in its true meaning, implies senti­ments of the most noble and generous kind; instead of pulling down laws, and levelling the whole class of man­kind, it would confirm unity, peace, and good order.

The rod of oppression too often falls upon that man who is unable, through misfortunes or peculiar circumstances, to raise himself against the weight; but crushed by its power, he sinks beneath the force of injustice, and is lost to his God, his family, and himself; whereas, in the time of his sorrows, had he received comfort, succour, or assis­tance, he might have continued to have proved a valuable member of society.

Alfred Maserini meditated with painful ideas on those distresses which had happened, through his own miscon­duct, during the time they had been in England. He not only beheld himself surrounded with difficulties, but his sister, who was innocent of the cause, equally involved, through his errors and vices. Young, beautiful, and ac­complished, she was but ill calculated to undergo the hard­ships of life; yet she submitted to them with resignation, and could even teach patience to him who had brought her [Page 113] to the present disquietude. This would cut him to the soul; and the scalding tear of repentance would often start from his eye, in defiance of the many efforts he made to conceal it.

He was impetuous, proud, and courageous in his dispo­sition; yet, in feelings he was a woman: nor was his pride of that nature to make him over-look affliction, al­though concealed in a hut of poverty and misery. But he laid too great a stress on the punctilios of honour and high birth; he valued the name he bore, with such ardour as to make him resent the least affront offered in the family to which it belonged.

Their arrival at Calais was attended with disagreeable and degrading circumstances, on account of their giving in their names, which were feigned ones, and the review of their baggage, which consisted of clothes and a few arti­cles which Matilda had received from Mr. Milverne's va­let; that gentleman having procured from sir Peter's what little goods she set a value on, and desired his servant to deliver them at Dover. Their travelling through France was in every respect extremely uncomfortable, and the dif­ficulties they met with in consequence of their endeavouring to conceal themselves from vulgar curiosity, extremely dis­tressing.

They had nearly arrived at the Alps, when they halted for the night at a small inn. The accommodation was ve­ry indifferent, and they were given to understand by the hostess that some English persons of distinction were then in the house, who took up the best rooms. They were therefore necessitated to put up with the inconvenience, and, after a scanty meal, retired to poor and desolate apart­ments. Both Alfred and Matilda, with Leonard, had, the last day's journey, rode on horses which the former pur­chased [Page 114] of a smuggler at a low price, considering that it would be the cheapest and most secret way of travelling. Leonard saw the cattle safely placed in a barn some dis­tance from the house; the stables being occupied by the horses and servants of the persons whom the landlady had mentioned: he then laid himself down on a small bed in one corner of the building.

Leonard had not been asleep above two hours, before he was awakened by a glare of light which darted right on his eyes through an opening on one side of the barn. He immediately started up, and looked out at the door, and perceived that the inn was in flames. He hurried on his clothes, and ran as fast as possible to the spot, in order to assist his master and young lady. By the time he got there, one part of the house was entirely burnt down, and the re­mainder surrounded with flames: he was happy however to see his master and Matilda safe; and the former deli­vered to him the trunks, which he took care to place in se­curity.

A number of peasants were assembled round, and each seemed to bewail the situation of a young lady and her fa­ther, who slept in those rooms which were on fire; but no one dared to go to their assistance, as the whole fabric was expected to fall in a few minutes. Nor was the general conjecture wrong, for in a very little time the front gave way, and fell; which discovered the internal part of the two rooms. They could see nothing of the gentleman; it was therefore supposed that he was suffocated, and had fallen among the ruins at the back part; but the eyes of the spectators experienced a most horrid sight in the other apartment: a young lady was standing in the middle of the flames. The agony such a situation must inspire, had made her insensible; her hands were [Page 115] clasped together, and her eyes lifted towards heaven. The people cried out to give her assistance; but none dar­ed try the experiment, till Alfred, touched with compassion for the unfortunate female, sprang forward with a ladder, and placed it against the part of the building which was yet standing: he had ascended above half way, when the part where the ladder rested against broke from his weight; but he had rose far enough to perceive, to his as­tonishment, that it was lady Caroline Albourne.

At this sight, Alfred forgot all danger, and resolved to die or save her: he accordingly, when he found the steps fall from under him, clasped a post which supported the story, and with an amazing agility sprang on the tottering floor of the room. He took her in his arms, but found no ladder set for his descent; the people were afraid to come near, on account of the falling in of the building, which, would bury them in the ruins. He called to them; but his cries were vain; till Leonard, who was returned from conducting Matilda to a house a little distance from the spot, seeing his master in such a situation, ran for the lad­der; but it was too late, for Alfred felt the place on which he stood, must sink with them, before he could get to the ground by that method: he therefore, with remarkable in­trepidity, jumped from the part with lady Caroline in his arms, and fell on a feather bed which by chance had been thrown out at the beginning of the fire.

They were immediatly dragged some distance off, and in one minute after, the whole fabric fell to the ground.

The situation of the unfortunate lady Caroline may be better imagined than described; for even when she had re­covered from the insensibility which the thoughts of her danger had caused, it was but to experience new misery. Her father, without doubt, was buried in the ruins; she [Page 116] had not yet seen her deliverer, nor knew of the heroic cou­rage that had been exerted in her behalf; for, from the moment the front of her chamber fell, she saw nor heard no more till her recovery in the house to which she had been conveyed. She was now attended by several persons, and her own woman servant, who had slept in the back room, and leapt from the window at the first alarm. At this period, while all were bewailing the loss of lord Al­bourne, he entered the room, supported by two servants. Lady Caroline fainted, and afterwards fell into hysterics, occasioned by the joy of seeing her father, whom she con­sidered as no more. He embraced her, and shed tears of paternal tenderness for the safety of his child.

His lordship, when awaked by the alarm of fire, knew it would be some time before he could enter his daughter's chamber, as she always bolted her door on the inside; and that the fright which so sudden an information might give her, would most likely prevent her from opening it at all; he therefore considered it would be best to get out at the back part as soon as possible, and fly to her assistance in the front. With this idea, he attempted to descend the stair-case, but found it in flames: this sight drove him dis­tracted. Without waiting for help, he jumped from the window, and was so hurt by the fall, that he lay insensible for some time, when one of his servants found him in that situation, and conducted him to the house which was occu­pied by the other sufferers.

Alfred Maserini, his sister, and Leonard, were in another apartment; they neither of them judged it expedient to appear before lord Albourne, his daughter, or any of the servants, for fear a sudden exclamation of their name should discover them to those who were about. They resol­ved, therefore, to remain private till morning, and then [Page 117] have an interview with his lordship. The fire being part­ly extinguished, the people dispersed, and quiet was in some measure restored.

At breakfast his lordship inquired in what manner his daughter escaped death. They were both informed of the circumstances relative to the behaviour of the young gen­tleman who had so valiantly undertaken to rescue her; and heard not the repeated praises of the rusties unconcern­ed. Lord Albourne's heart, as well as his daughter's, overflowed with gratitude, and they both requested to see him as soon as possible. The woman of the house said she would call him directly, for that he had desired to be alone the remainder of the night. She left her noble guests, and repaired to the room where Alfred slept. Having knocked several times without receiving any answer, she opened the door, and, to her astonishment, found it empty. She immediately entered the chamber of his sister, and saw that was also deserted. The stables and loft where Leo­nard slept, were also searched; but neither cattle nor man could be seen.

In Alfred's deserted apartment, they observed a note which lay on the table; it was directed to lord Albourne: he received it, and the intelligence that the writer could no-where be found. His lordship read the following words:

If lord Albourne was astonished at the elopement of lady Caroline's preserver, he was, if possible, far more surprised at the contents of this note; and although he [...] the same obligation to him as to any other individual, yet he would rather have had lady Caroline's life saved by any other person. He concluded Alfred was in debt, and was there­fore obliged to keep concealed. Lord Albourne was a no­bleman of the nicest honour, and most generous sentiments; he could not therefore consider himself happy in being obliged to a man whose ill qualities he had only known, and, as a stranger to his real character, detested his princi­ples. He strictly observed what was mentioned in the note, and made an excuse for the gentleman's sudden de­parture.

In private he acquainted his daughter with the [...] She shed tears; his lordship started: "I hope, Caroline," said he with some warmth, "you encourage not a partial­ity for a man to whom I have many times declared a total dislike."

"Your lordship, surely, cannot blame these few marks of sensibility for one who has saved my life, and by that, I flatter myself, deserves, your gratitude as well as your daughter's."

"My most sincere gratitude he certainly deserves▪ re­plied his lordship: "but yet I would rather he [...] have any recompense in the world than the affections [...] my child. You well know, Caroline, pride was never a [...] trait in my character: I have never attempted to [...] [Page 119] your inclinations respecting the choice of a husband, al­though you have had many noble offers. I therefore think I may reasonably require your compliance in one point, which is, never to marry a gamster: of this des­cription Mr. Maserini is known to be; and by that title I never could own him as a son-in-law."

Lady Caroline sighed; her understanding told her his lordship's arguments were just; but her heart informed her she must suffer in the acquiescence to them.

Lord Albourne remained near six weeks at that place, till he was quite recovered, and then pursued his journey slowly towards Italy.

CHAPTER XXI.

LORD Albourne had observed, from the first evening of his daughter's introduction at Sir Peter Peviquil's, a growing partiality on her side towards the young French­man: and particular assiduities in his manner which seem­ed calculated to gain the affection▪ of any young lady [...] whom they were addressed.

His lordship when [...]orougly convinced that these conjec­tures were well founded, determined to inquire more close­ly into the character and principles of his new acquain­tance; he had received hints from several persons, that he was a man of no fortune; but wealth was the least object of lord Albourne's consideration; his own income was [...] and noble, having, as an only son, [...] the whole estate and title of his father: he therefore wisely conceived that his child might find more substantial hap­piness in a good man, though with only a small patrimo­ny, [Page 120] than by receiving a higher name and additional lux­uries, as the wife of a dissipated man of quality.

Under these ideas his lordship scrutinized the conduct of Alfred Maserini. He heeded not the envious tongue of calumny, but determined to be himself a spectator of those vices that should render him unfit for an alliance with lady Caroline. But he found the general voice to be too true, and more than once saw him seated among notorious shar­pers at a gaming-table Disgusted at the sight, he resolved never to admit him into his family. Having informed his daughter of the resolution he had taken, he could perceive, by the manner of her receiving the declaration, that Love had on

Lord Albourne was now seriously alarmed, and resolved on a sudden scheme, to break off at once the connection.

He had received advice to travel, on account of his health, which had been in a declining state for some months. He considered this as a good opportunity to comply with the wishes of his friends; and by taking lady Caroline with him, the novelties of other countries, distance, and se­paration, might break an acquaintance which threatened her happiness for ever.

He accordingly ordered the servants to deny their young lady, whenever Mr. Maserini should call that day; and then gave immediate directions for a long journey, which [Page 121] he intended to take the next morning, having business of importance to transact in the country.

Lady Caroline was astonished, when she was requested by her father to accompany him, and prepare her ward­robe in as little time as possible.

"Your lordship I suppose means to make no great stay: consequently, I shall have little occasion for many dresses."

"If I find, Caroline," returned lord Albourne, "that the air agrees with me, I may perhaps remain there some weeks, if not months; and, in that case, shall without doubt wish for your company. You had, therefore, better order the chief part of your clothes to be packed up: even your writing and drawing implements I would advise you to take with you."

The young lady was still more surprised and vexed at the stay her father intended to make; but even to wish not to go with him, was, in her ideas, cruelty to a parent who had always been so tenderly attached to her.

The next day they took leave of London. Lady Caro­line did not mention the circumstance of seeing Alfred at the turnpike gate. At a late hour in the evening they en­tered D [...]ver, and slept there that night. During supper, his lordship opened his mind to his daughter; acquainted her with his motives for so suddenly leaving town, and his intentions of travelling through France and Italy, as he hoped change of climate would both benefit his health and drive from [...] a man unworthy of her esteem.

"You might, my dear Caroline," concluded his lord­ship, "have [...] to reproach me, had I listened to the tales of [...] but I had the evidence of my own senses, and therefore could not be mistaken, in observing Mr. Maserini to be a person [...] would in a course of time being his wife to [...]"

[Page 122] Lady Caroline made no answer; but her looks showed she thought her father's proceedings right, although they were entirely against her own inclinations. The next morning they crossed over to Calais, and travelled slowly towards the Alps, when they stopped at that inn where our young adventurers arrived a few hours after.

It was not a wonder that lord Albourne should be cha­grined at the note he received; when it informed him that the very man who had given him so much uneasiness, and on whose account he left England, had in a few days' time overtaken them, and, by a noble act of courage and generosity, bound himself by the strongest ties, to the grat­itude of both his daughter and himself.

His lordship, however, was soon convinced that his sup­position on the cause of Alfred's departure was ill founded; but his knowledge of the actual reason of it served, if pos­sible, to hurt him more than ever in that nobleman's opinion.

It will be now necessary to acquaint the reader with those circumstances that occasioned the young travellers precipitate elopement from the inn.

Leonard was a second time going to retire to his bed, which was no better than a heap of straw placed by the side of his horses, when a large paper, stuck on the door of the stable, met his eye. Fatigued as he was, curiosity prompted him to hold up the lanthorn which he had in his hand, in order to read the contents; when, to his astonishment and horror, he preceived it to be an order for apprehending Alfred Maserini, as a deserter from his regi­ment, and a large reward to be given to any one who would produce him.

Astonished and alarmed at this intelligence, he stood [Page 123] some moments motionless. Having in some degree recov­ered, he ran back to the houso; fortunately the entrance was not fastened, and he arrived, without difficulty, at his master's chamber. He knocked, and Alfred answered: Leonard begged to be admitted. No sooner had he entered the room, than he informed him of the advertisment which he had seen, and entreated his master to set off again im­mediately. "I am perfectly well acquainted, sir, with a way across the Alps, and will be bound to conduct you safe into Italy."

This information was the most severe trial Alfred had ever yet experienced; he now saw his character and hon­our ruined, his name branded as that of a coward, and even publicly exposed as a villain, by a reward to be given for his person. "Leonard," said he, half frantic "take care of my sister, and I will this moment fly and deliver myself up to my country; then I will explain my motives for my present behaviour, and die in a manner that shall not disgrace my family."

"Alas, sir," answered Leonard, "consider my young lady. I am a poor man, and little able to afford her that protection you request: not but that I would die in her defence; yet I am afraid my exertions in her behalf would be only looked on with contempt."

Alfred was tortured with contending passions:—one mo­ment, his honour made him resolve to give himself up a victim to the sentence of a deserter; but then his sister▪ in the power of count D'Ollifont, (who might recover) pre­sented herself to his fancy, nor was the idea of lady Caro­line absent from his mind. A hope, a distant hope, seem­ed to inspire him with a wish to fly once more ignobly from pursuit, and try his fortune in that part where his parents had experienced the most poignant distresses.

[Page 124] Leonard was overjoyed at this resolution, and directly crept down s [...]airs to the stable in order to prepare th [...] horses; and Alfred promised to follow in a little time. Having knocked at the door of his sister's apartment, he requested in a low voice that she would rise immediately, dress herself, take every thing out of the room that belong­ed to her, and come to his chamber.

Matilda was astonished; but it was not a time for inqui­ries; she accordingly did as he desired, as soon as possible. In the mean time he wrote with a pencil those few lines that were delivered to lord Albourne Being joined by his sister, he took their trunk, and led her to the stable; when, being placed on her horse, they departed with as much expedition as the darkness of the morning would permit.

There was not a doubt but that an order from France for Alfred's return to his regiment, at a very short notice, had been sent a few hours after he left his lodgings; but [...] to advertise him as a deserter, was a method equally strange and uncommon.—In short, count D'Ollifont's in­terference seemed to appear in the affair; and they greatly suspected it was through his friends, some of whom were superior officers, and others in great favour at court, that such cruel proceedings were occasioned.

Alfred remained in a deep reverie; and it was from Leo­nard that his sister learnt the reason for so sudden and un­accountable a flight. They wore some miles from the house by day-light, and halted at a small cottage for some refreshment, before they began their journey on the Alps. They had here, fortunately, an opportunity of changing the three horses for two mules and a kind of carriage which would be more convenient and safe for Matilda to travel in; and also prevent remarks, which the sight of [Page 125] other animals might have occasioned among the peasants. In about an hour they again set off, and Leonard acted as driver the chief part of the way.

Nothing particular occurred during their journey across the Alps, which was extremely difficult and tedious, ex­cept a visible alteration in Alfred's health for the worse, and a settled deep melancholy in his sister, which threat­ened a total decline in her constitution. Leonard in vain strove to point out to them the beauties of the country and the romantic scenery which surrounded them; their own misfortunes engrossed every idea; and the cloud of misery, which had so long been gathering over their heads, seemed now ready to burst with full force and horror.—Their ar­rival in Italy was productive of little joy or comfort, as they had every reason to suppose the same papers had been published through that country. They secreted themselves as well as possible at every place where they stopped, using the nicest economy for fear of exhausting their little store; which, although it might last them a considerable time with frugality, yet, with extravagance, could be but of short duration.

Alfred had resolved in his own mind, from their first setting off from Dover, to visit Grasville Abbey; he now considered it would be a place of great service in point of secreting them from their enemies, as there was little doubt but superstition had kept it entirely free from inhabitants or curious visitors. But these intentions he determined to keep from the knowledge of Matilda; for he well knew the idea of residing there would add greatly to those suffer­ings she already experienced: and the circumstances of the light in the west tower, the noise which was heard by their father, and his remarkable disappearance, were subjects which his sister dwelt on with horror, whenever she read [Page 126] the manuscript of her aunt. But he hoped to pursuade her to remain there for some little time, and then con­sidered that she would soon become comfortable in it, even as a place of abode.

Leonard well knew the roads that led to the Abbey, as he had often seen it when young, and could well remem­ber the hospitality and goodness of the old count Maserini. To him Alfred privately conveyed his intentions, and re­quested him to bring them to the mansion on a sudden, and unknown to Matilda. The man seemed hurt on ac­count of his young lady, and begged leave to remind him that it would be cruel to distress her, when she needed no more occasions for terror or alarm.

"I thank you for the caution," returned Alfred coolly; "but am not yet so great a villain as to behave in the manner you suppose."

Leonard looked confused; his master [...]ontinued—

"I will not even propose a favourable argument to keep her there against her own inclination. But you must agree, that if Matilda could divest herself of idle terrors, and ac­quiesce in the plan, it would in every respect be particu­larly fortunate, both in preserving our little property, and concealing us from the eye of malice or contempt."

With these intentions they rode some leagues each day, and, on the fifth morning from their first entering Italy, found themselves within six hours' travelling of Grasville Abbey. The clouds seemed to indicate an approaching storm; rain fell in large drops, and several claps of thun­der were heard at a distance. Matilda was alarmed, and begged they might alight at some place where they might find shelter till the tempest should in some degree abate. In vain they looked round for a cottage or hovel to answer their purpose; no such place could be seen; when their [Page 127] attention was called off by the sight of a young girl, seem­ingly about sixteen. Her hands were clasped, and her eyes lifted towards heaven. Her appearance showed both terror and distress. Leonard drove to the spot where she stood, and Alfred offered the shelter of their vehicle, which she accepted with joy; and by her thanks for their kindness they perceived she was a native of France. Matilda in­quired to what part she was going. She answered, with an unaffected simplicity, "Any where." They were both astonished at the reply, but restrained their curiosity and desired Leonard to drive on.

The storm had now blown over, though the clouds were still gloomy and unsettled; but the latter part of the day they again joined, and seemed to foretel another war of elements. Vivid flashes of white lightning darted on the ground, and loud claps of thunder (which was now much nearer) burst over their heads. Matilda declared she would rather put up with any situation, than travel while it last­ed; and Agnes (which was the name of the young girl) was extremely terrified. At that moment they perceived the turrets of Grasville Abbey rise above the trees which surrounded it. Alfred ordered Leonard to drive immedi­ately to it.

Matilda [...]shuddered, yet was ashamed to confess her fears. It was now nearly dark, and they entered a grove of anci­ent cedars that led to the front gate. The lightning was horrid, and the thunder seemed to shake even the centre of the earth: both Agnes and Matilda were nearly insensi­ble when the carriage stopped before the Abbey. One wing seemed entirely in ruins, but they had no time for observations. Leonard had not quitted the mule he rode on two minutes before the animal was struck dead at his feet, and each expected the same fate. Alfred flew to the [Page 128] gates, and being assisted by his servant, after some efforts, they yielded to their strength, and burst open, being un­locked.

Leonard drove the carriage into the court; having push­ed against the heavy folding doors that led to the internal part, they easily opened, but with a considerable noise, that confirmed no one had entered this dreary mansion for many years. Agnes and Matilda were carried into the hall, and the mules and vehicle put under a piazza.

Leonard having kindled a fire on the pavement with some faggots, by the help of a tinder-box which he had in his pocket, the [...] were in some measure recovered, and looked with horror [...] the gloomy and desolate appearance of the place that gave them shelter.

CHAPTER XXIII. TERROR.

SUPERSTITION (though greatly encouraged by idle conversation and fabulous tales) is natural to mankind, and often inhabits the breasts of those whose valour and in­trepidity in other respects have been equally known and experienced.

It produces terrors of all others the most to be dreaded and strove against; for although they cannot be entirely overcome, yet, by giving the least way to them, life is at once made uncomfortable and disagreeable.

From childhood we are taught to believe in the reality of preternatural apparitions, by the prattle and simple sto­ries of those who, in general, abuse their care of chil­dren, by instilling into their young minds terrific and hor­rid ideas. As age advances they are more likely to in­crease than decline; and the number of relations, seem­ingly authentic, which are continually in circulation, serve greatly to confirm the horrors of imagination. Whether [Page 130] such histories proceed from the visionary remorse of guilty consciencees; from affectation, or the tongue of falsehood; from insanity, weakness, or oppression of spirits; from nervous disorders, or romantic thoughts and contrivances; is equally difficult to be ascertained, as whether some of them are not actually true, and the works of a Supreme Deity, for wise and unknown ends. Many men of great learning and genius have differed widely on this point: and though even the immortal Addison could not positively give a decisive opinion on those topics, yet his words on the subject will ever be remembered and admired:

"I know of but one way of fortifying my soul against these gloomy presages and terrors of mind; and that is, by securing to myself the friendship and protection of that Being, who disposes of events, and governs futurity. He [...] at one view the whole thread of my existence, not only that part of it which I have already passed through, but that which runs forward into all the depths of eternity. When I lay me down to sleep, I recommend myself to his care; when I awake I give myself up to his direction. Amidst all the evils that threaten me, I will look up to him for help, and question not but he will either avert them, or turn them to my advantage. Though I know neither the time nor the manner of the death I am to die, I am not at all solicitous about it; because I am sure that he knows them both, and that he will not fail to comfort and support me under them."

Grasville Abbey was situated near Montserrat in Italy, and but a little distance from the Gulph of Genoa; its lofty turrets on one sido, commanded a view of Piedmont, and the prospect was bounded by the towering and majestic summits of the Alps: the other wing looked over the per­spective [Page 131] scenery of Parm [...], Placenza, Mirandola, and the river Po; while at the extremity of the prospect, in an oblique view, Venice might just be observed. The back front looked over Valentia, Casal, and Vercelli, and ter­minated in a distant sight of Savoy.

But none of these countries could be seen but from the top casements of the two towers; the lower part of the Abbey being entirely surrounded by thick foliage, pines and cypress trees, with many ancient cedars.

The building was in every respect calculated to inspire awe and solemnity, both in the external and internal ap­pearance. After the death of the count Maserini, many strange accounts were talked of by the peasants; and D'Ollifont's sudden departure from it, at the funeral of his uncle, seemed to confirm those reports that had before been circulated through the surrounding country. From that time it was shut up, without any of the furniture be­ing removed; and no one had been known to enter it till signor Maserini, son to the late count, and father to Alfred and Matilda. His sudden and remarkable disappearance raised the horror of the place, if possible, more than ever; even those who had before laughed at the superstition of their neighbours, were extremely alarmed at so dreadful and uncommon an occurrence. No person ever walked be­yond the entrance of the grove that led to the gates; and the only human habitation that stood near it was a cell which contained an old hermit, who had lived there ever since the Abbey had been forsaken, and subsisted on the charity of the neighbouring cottagers.

The travellers remained in the hall till day light, when the storm abated, and they began to wish for some repose. Leonard pulled two arm chairs, which stood in the recess, towards the fire, and Agnes and Matilda strove to sleep in [Page 132] them; while Alfred and his servant laid themselves down on an old bench that stood near the spot. After some hours they awoke and found themselves much refresh­ed. Leonard was immediately dispatched to see that the gates were close in the same manner as they were before, to prevent suspicion of any one having passed them.

They then opened their portmanteau, and found they had provisions for that day: this circumstance was ex­tremely fortunate, as they could have time to contrive some method of replenishing their store. Leonard had also got victuals for his surviving mule. They had now an op­portunity to take a more particular account of their situa­tion; and Alfred smilingly asked his sister if she had any objection to explore with him the apartments by day-light: she cheerfully consented; but Agnes was terrified at the idea of attending them, and equally afraid of remaining in the hall by herself, but at last resolved on the former.

The hall was of ancient architecture, but extremely no­ble, though heavy in the design. It was supported by large Gothic columns; the capitals were chiefly decayed; the shafts were composed of stained marble; and though of a considerable height, the diameters were greater than the strict rules of that kind of architecture would admit. The top opened in a large dome and gallery, the walls of which had exhibited beautiful paintings, that were now nearly destroyed; a large painted sky-light terminated the height; and additional light was received from four elevated casements on different fides of the hall. Pilasters of the same dimensions upwards stood opposite the pillars, between each of which were niches that held statues larger than life; these were in some preservation, as the count had them placed when he first came to the estate.

Two large fire-places stood at each and, which seemed to show that hospitality and the comforts of life had once [Page 133] been enjoyed in this dreary and melancholy abode. The pavement was of black and white marble, the stones of which were of a considerable size. In the [...] stood a large pair of heavy folding doors, that led to the apart­ments on the east and west wings of the abbey. Two stone stair-cases appeared on each side, which wound to the chambers above. Alfred resolved first to examine the lower apartments, and accordingly opened the folding doors, which discovered a small passage, supported by Tuscan pillars; at the further part of it was a descent of several steps, which were in many parts broken and decay­ed; at the bottom of them was a pair of large iron gates, through which th [...]y perceived the remains of an extensive and noble chapel; this part they supposed had stood near­ly in the same state from the first foundation of the build­ing, as then intended for a place of religious worship. They re-ascended the steps, and discovered in the passage two large openings, which seemed to lead to different suites of apartments. They first entered those of the west wing. The furniture in the first room had been extremely elegant, though antique; it was in tolerable preservation, considering the number of years it had [...] there without care; many noble paintings were yet hanging, but so decayed by damps that it was impossible to make out the subjects. The second room was rather larger than the first, but in far worse condition; the tapestry was en­tirely destroyed, and both the casements and shutters broke nearly to pieces; the columns which supported it seemed also rotten and decayed.

From this apartment they walked through many others that were in the same condition, and showed no signs of having contained any mortal in them for many years. In [Page 134] the last room there was a strong door, which they perceiv­ed, by a window, opened into a court or terrace.

Having returned to the hall, they entered the apartments of the cast wing. They were smaller though more in number than those they had left; and by the plainness of the internal part, they supposed them to have been offices for servants. At the extent of them there was a door of the same size with that they had observed on she other side, and which opened also to the other end of the terrace.

"The situation of this place," said Alfred, "shows that the inhabitants left it on a sudden; but yet it is amazing that so noble a building, and such elegant furni­ture, should have been left to perish by the ravages of time and neglect."

"I cannot say I am altogether so astonished at that," answered Matilda: "for after such circumstances happen­ing in it, for heaven's sake who would willingly choose it for a habitation?"—Her brother smiled; and having again returned to the hall, they ascended one of the stair-cases, but soon perceived that they both terminated in one land­ing. The Abbey here was not divided; the chambers were consequently far more intricate: the apartments were spa­cious, and had been nobly furnished; the beds were heavy and antique; but all nearly destroyed. They however, after some trouble, contrived to change one thing with another, till they made up three tolerable beds. Two of them were in a large chamber, and the other closely adjoin­ing▪ They deferred, however, finishing their search till the next day▪ on account of airing what they were to lie on at night. Leonard accordingly made a good fire in the hall, and the clothes were placed before it immediately. After another repast, Matilda begged Agnes to relate to them those occurrences that caused her to be exposed to the fury [Page 135] of so terrible a storm. "Alas! Mademoiselle," returned Agnes, "I should even before this have related to you my little story, had I not been afraid you would have con­demned my conduct; but at least," continued the poor girl, with tears in her eyes, "you shall never have reason to reproach me with ingratitude for the favours I have re­ceived from you."

Both Alfred and Matilda desired her, if the relation would bring fresh grief to her memory, to decline it, as in that case they would willingly suspend their curiosity.

Agnes declared that, though it might raise in her mind many sorrows, yet it would in the end give her pleasure to make them acquainted wi [...]h her little narritive. The party having seated themselves by the sire, listened with atten­tion to their artless orator.

CHAPTER XXIV.
AGNES'S TALE.

"MY grandfather and his wife were natives of France, and resided near Moulins. His cottage was situated in the deep descent of a beautiful valley, and his name was La Faril."

Alfred here looked at his sister; they both recollected the name in their aunt's manuscript, where he was spoken [Page 136] of in the highest terms, as one who preserved them, at the hazard of his own life, in a cave near his house, from the officers of justice. They did not, however, interrupt [...] fair speaker.

"They supported themselves comfortably by their in­dustry and economy, and were respected not only by the inhabitants of their little vale, but by all that knew them even at a distance from it.

"They had a son and a daughter; the former was the eldest, but it was to the latter they looked up for comfort and consolation in their old age. Leolin had manifested from his birth a proud and haughty disposition, which made him rebel against all controul, and be ashamed to own his parents, on account of their inferior condition in life. Both tried in vain, by inculcating honest and indust­rious ideas, to [...]rase from his bosom those dangerous and infamous principles which seemed natural to him. All was however useless: he refused to be a peasant, and determined to go to [...]aris, and seek his fortune in that city.

"He there entered into the service of a dissipated noble­man, as valet de chambre. In this situation he was in­troduced to scenes of luxury, villainy, and dishonour; while every trait in his character, which had when a child only appeared at intervals (though enough to alarm his parents) now blazed forth with redoubled vigour, and des­troyed those few good qualities he had shown in his youth: in short, he was both a gamester and a swindler. His fa­ther received but one letter from him during three years; but reports of his misconduct were continually in circula­tion in that part of the country, although so extremely re­tired. The health of both his parents was much injured by these accounts; and their only comfort was the litt [...]e [Page 137] Sabina. About four years after Leolin had left his home, he returned to it, for the first time, one night, at an unu­sual hour, but greatly altered, not with the healthful bloom of youth upon his cheek, but feeble, emaciated, and an old man in constitution, though only twenty-one years of age.

"His father and mother were greatly shocked at the sight of him, but far more so when he demanded to be con­cealed in a cave that was at the bottom of the garden; they however lost no time in complying with his desire, as he said he expected to be followed by the officers of justice in less than two hours, on account of a robbery he had committed: nor was his conjecture wrong; for early in the morning the cottage was surrounded by several men; but their search proved ineffectual; for the cave was so closely concealed as to prevent any discovery. He remain­ed at home some little time, but shortly returned to those vices which had already taken too fast hold on his inclina­tions, to suffer him to relinquish them, while he had health or strength to follow their pursuits.

"The next news they heard of him was about six months after, when his father was conducted to Provence, where Leolin lay at the point of death, encompassed with misery, wretchedness and want; eaten up with disease, his soul torn with remorse for past crimes, and sinking into eternity with a conscience racked by the contending passions of horror and dismay. He, however, survived long enough to receive a parent's blessing, who would, even then, have sacrificed his own life to have saved that of a profligate and undutiful son.

"After seeing Leolin decently interred, the good old man returnéd to his cottage overwhelmed with grief, yet with some hope of enjoying a few years of tranquillity, [Page 138] which might make him a recompense for past misfortun [...]. But how vain is the foresight of mortals! in a very little time he lost the beloved partner of his heart, who had struggled with him through the early part of life, and been equally a partaker in his adversity and pleasures.

"His health and spirits suffered now a greater shock than ever, and every week visibly altered him for the worse. His daughter Sabina had for some months received offers of marriage from Cyril, the son of a neighbouring cottager; and the ceremony was shortly to have taken place, had not the sudden death of her mother put it aside. But after some time they were joined together in the holy bands of wedlock; and La Faril still remained with his child, whose attendance and affection he now needed more than ever.

"I was born about twelve months after their marriage, and was greatly beloved by my parents and grandfather. I had just attained my thirteenth year when my father's father died, and though every person had supposed him to be a man possessed of some little property, yet even his son was astonished to find himself heir to a considerable for­tune. After the funeral, we were surprised to find my fa­ther intended to leave his native valley and cottage, to en­joy the luxuries of Paris. This news was like a thunder­bolt to my mother, who knew it would break her parent's heart to leave that place, where he had been born, brought up, and continued so many years; and she was certain it would equally distress him to be robbed of her company and attendance. In vain she advised her husband to give up all ideas of abandoning their cottage for dissipation and vice; but to purchase some land in that part, which would then be doubly dear to them.

[Page 139] "My father was deaf to all intreaties, and declared his intentions of setting off in a short time. Our only hope was now that the solicitations of the good La Faril would have more effect on him:—but alas! he was too weak, and too much shocked, to make any exertion in the affair; and his prayers failed like those of his daughter. The poor old man was consequently obliged to be removed to the house of a neighbour, while his beloved child was forced from him by a cruel husband, whose ambition was kindled by the possession of a little wealth. The cottage and goods being disposed of, with many tears on the part of my mo­ther and me, we took leave of my grandfather and our na­tive vale. At the expiration of a day we found ourselves in the gay city of Paris: and being settled in handsome lodgings, the first news we received was, the death of La Faril, who survived but a very short time after his daugh­ter's departure. It will be needless to enlarge on the grief that both my mother and I felt on the occasion; we even thought we could trace some signs of remorse and sorrow in the breast of my father.

We were shortly introduced to those gaities and vices which are supposed to constitute genteel life. Having been settled about six months in our apartments, my mothe [...] candidly asked my father what trade or profession he in­tended to follow, or in what manner he designed to turn his fortune to the best advantage: but he told us to enjoy our present blessings, without troubling ourselves with painful ideas of what might happen on the morrow. These pernicious principles were certainly, in one respect, the ruin of us; for he heeded not the advice of his wife or real friends, but plunged into every extravagance that seemed to gratify his wishes.

[Page 140] "He, however, took some little care of my education, and I was instructed in every branch of useful learning.

"Matters continued in this situation for three years; during which time my father purchased a handsome villa, and our house was constantly crowded with company. His wife most earnestly entreated him to contract his expenses; but her prayers were useless, and he still answered in the same careless manner, 'Let to-morrow take care for itself.' We, nevertheless, saw him at times dist [...]essed and unhap­py, and he would return home in an evening, from spend­ing the day abroad, nearly in a state of destraction. My mother had sometimes hinted to me, the cause of this strange behaviour was gambling; and we were thoroughly convinced of it, when a man, one night, brought a note directed to him, and desired an answer to it immediately. Having opened it, we found it contained an appointment to a gaming-house that evening.

"I need not describe to you the fresh anxiety this infor­mation gave us, nor the rage of my father at the discovery of it: but we could now plainly tell when he was a favour­ite of fortune, and when not, by the different turns of his temper. Among the most intimate of his friends was a Monsieur Le Selet. This man was a well known gambler, and withal a dangerous character in point of gallantry (as he styled it) among the ladies. He was a constant visitor; and we seldom sat down to table but he was one of the party. Monsieur Le Selet, more than once, offended both my mother and myself by his behaviour to us in private, and we complained of it to my father; but he only [...]allied us on our prudery as he called it; and declared him to be a man who had his interest at heart.

"These gloomy sits, which had only appeared at inter­vale, now returned more and frequently, insomuch [Page 141] that we really thought his brain was affected, and entreat­ed him to have some advice. But he would then fly into a violent passion: nor was it till three months after, that he confessed the cause of it was the entire loss of his fortune; and not only that, but he was a debtor to Monsieur to a very considerable amount.

"At the time of this confession, Le S [...]l [...]t entered the room and requested to speak with my father in private▪ we accordingly retired to an apartment some distance from that we left. In about two hours, while we were wonder­ing at their long conferrence, we were very much alarmed by hearing the bell in that room ring violently. Soon af­ter, we heard the servants in a kind of confusion, and were just going to leave the chamber in order to inquire the rea­son for such proceedings, when we were met by the house­keeper. 'My master! my master!' was all she could say. In vain we asked her to explain her meaning; she could utter no other words.

"We were therefore obliged to run to the parlour we had before left—when, judge our feelings at seeing my father and Monsieur Le Selet both weltering in their blood. We ran to the former: he had just recovered from a fainting fit, and languidly looked up. We knelt by him and wept; he seemed affected; and those eyes which were half closed by death, shed tears of sorrow and repentance when it was too late.

"My wife! my child!' he cried in a voice scarcely ar­ticulate, 'I have injured you much: I have taken you from the peaceful habitation of innocence, to be surround­ed by vice and villainy, to experience poverty, distress and oppression. Oh! my God!' he exclaimed with fervency, 'look down upon them; shield them with thy mercy from [Page 142] the iron rod of tyranny and injustice; nor condemn them for the wickedness of him who now implores thy aid.'

"His voice sailed him; he fell into convulsions, and expired. Greatly as we had to complain of his conduct, yet our grief was excessive▪ A surgeon had been sent for, but all medical aid was useless. The wound he received, as we afterwards understood, was by his own hand [...] a servant had, from the hall, overheard the conversation. Monsieur Le Selet had called upon him that day for the payment of the sum he owed. My father begged the in­terval of a week to discharge it; this the former absolutely refused, but told him the whole might on one condition be forgiven. He asked with eagerness by what method he should cancel the obligation; when Le Selet gave him a paper: this paper a servant had snatched from the floor, and presented to us: it was a bond by which my father was to resign his child to the arms of a villain, without any ceremony or articles of marriage. The horror he con­ceived at this proposal was too much for him to support, and he gave way at once to the passions of revenge and des­pair: he seized a dagger, and plunged it into the breast of the infamous Le Selet; then rang the bell violently, and afterwards, with the same hand, struck the bloody steel to his own heart. Monsieur Le Selet was removed to ano­ther chamber, but no hopes entertained of his recovery.

"The wound, however, we were informed, seemed more favourable after a few days; and we requested that [...] might be taken from the house as soon as a removal would not endanger his life. My father's affairs were greatly in­volved: but we had the happiness to find that, after the villa and goods with other effects were sold, there would not only be enough to pay his debts, but a small su [...] re­maining. We now determined to return to our native val­ley, [Page 143] and accordingly took leave of Paris, and soon found ourselves before that cottage which we had once called our own, and where the remembrance of past felicity made our present misfortunes more poignant.

"We were obliged to the charity of a neighbour for a lodging, till we purchased a lit [...]le hovel for a residence. I then opened a small school, and had the greater part of the children in the place. By this employment we gained a comfortable living.

"Among the neighbouring villagers was one of the name of Oliver. His character was without reproach, and he asked my hand in marriage.

"Neither his friends nor my mother had any objection to this match, though the latter would frequently say, she thought my person might command a richer husband. On the evening before that day which was to have united us, as we were sitting before our cottage, sometimes joining in the rustic dance, we were suddenly stopped in our amuse­ment by the arrival of a gentleman and his servant. The former advanced with a corteous air: but judge of my astonishment and horror, when I perceived it to be Mon­sieur Le Selet. He seemed perfectly recovered, and request­ed to speak with my mother alone.

"I trembled at the result of their discourse, which con­tinued some time: but all my miseri [...]s were complete, when my mother informed me, that monsieur, having thoroughly repented of his former ill conduct and beha­viour, now offered, as an atonement, to make me his wife. He sprang to embrace me, but I shrunk from his arms, and fainted away. On my recovery they were each stand­ing by me and entreated me to discard my present lover; while the artful Le Selet talked in so insinuating a manner, as to bring over my mother entirely to his favour; for she [Page 144] supposed it would secure a handsome independence for her child. But this conversation had no effect on me, and they each retired with anger, and I with grief and distress. But I determined that night to leave them all. Whether you will blame my conduct, I know not, mademoiselle; but I was certain that monsieur was by no means the re­pentant person he seemed to be; and [...]ven if he had been, I never could have liked him for a husband. I was also sure that my mother could get a living in the same employ­ment as myself; for it had been agreed that she should take my school after I was married. With these ideas I packed up a few clothes, wi [...]h a little money, in a bundle, and left the cottage as soon as I thought my mother was asleep. I had not yet, however, resolved to what part I should go, but determined to apply to a carrier whom I had known for some time. He was to set out on a long journey early in the morning, and he lived about a mile distant. By the time I arrived there, he was just going to set off. The man's surprise was excessive to see me, who he supposed was to have been made a wife that day. I explained to him the reasons for my visit, and threw my­self on his protection: he readily granted it, and told me he was going to Italy. This information gave me great pleasure, as I thought I might there get employment, and conceal my real name and family.

"We had not entered this country above two days, be­fore Basil (the carrier's name) was taken ill; his disorder proved violent, and in less than a week he was no more. I was necessitated to sell his cart and the whole of his goods to pay the expenses of his funeral and illness. I now found myself in a strange place, without money or friends. The people, however, at the house where [...] [Page 145] had died, informed me there was a family a few miles dis­tant who wanted a domestic. I accordingly applied: but how great was my disappointment to find they were just provided with one! I found the whole of my little proper­ty would support me but three days longer, and began seriously to repent leaving my cottage, when I was over­taken by that violent storm, which proved one of the hap­piest incidents of my life, by introducing me to your friendship, care, and generosity; to which I most certainly owe my existence." Here the poor girl burst into a flood of tears, and concluded her story.

CHAPTER XXV. SECRESY.

BOTH Alfred and Matilda thanked Agnes for the reci­tal of her narrative: they pitied her misfortunes, and pro­mised to protect her as long as it was in their power. Not only their own feelings at the time prompted them to this, but gratitude for the assistance their parents had received from her family. After some further conversation, the [Page 146] bed furniture was carried to the rooms above; and, having partook of a slight supper, they retired to their apartments. The chambers, however, seemed extremely cold, and [...] begged Leonard would make up a little fire of fag­gots in each of them.

This was accordingly done; and Agnes having lighted a wax taper, which she placed on a large marble flab, they took leave of Alfred for the night, who, with his faithful servant, entered the room adjoining.

"Before we go to rest," said Matilda, "I will take a more particular survey of this chamber."

Agnes trembled; Matilda took the taper and walked round it. The apartment was not so large as many, but had equally the same gloomy appearance. The bed had formerly been noble and elegant, but was now partly de­cayed; the high and heavy cornice of it seemed rotted by time; the furniture, they could just perceive, had been of crimson velvet; but the curtains were now, in many parts, entirely threadbare. An old-fashioned cabinet and dres­sing-table, both of which had been ornamented with gilded figures, and stood in a gothic recess, by the dim light seemed in form to represent a tomb. Matilda in vain strove [...]o open the former; it was locked, nor could she find any key. The wainscotting was hung round with large pic­tures; but, except one, they were all nearly destroyed, so as to make it impossible to discover the subjects. That which was in some preservation was the portrait of a man, in an Italian [...], at full length. He seemed of middle size, and elegant figure; but the countenance was melan­choly and dejected, while he rested with one arm on the fragment of a grave-stone. Matilda gazed on it for a considerable time; it was extremely like the miniature of her father, which she wore in her bosom. She stood in [Page 147] such a situation that the eyes seemed to look full at her. Painful and horrid ideas now arose in her mind; she al­most fancied she saw the features move: the thought over­came her: she shuddered, sunk in a chair, and burst into a flood of tears. Agnes had attentively observed her, and now joined her tears with those of Matilda; yet, with un­affected simplicity, strove to give her comfort and consola­tion. Her efforts at last succeeded; and, drying her tears, the former retired to a restless pillow.

It was a considerable time before Matilda could close her eyes; the misfortunes that encompassed her appeared now more terrible than ever. Agnes was in a serene sleep; all was silent and gloomy: her eyes wandered over the deso­late chamber; and she could still see by the sudden light of the wood fire, which was dying away, but now and then blazed at intervals, the face of the picture, which still seemed to look at her. The ember was at last entirely extinguished, and the room was left in total darkness, ex­cept from the flame of the wax taper. At length, tired out with melancholy and terrific recollections, she fell into a [...] slumber.

Horrid visions and ghastly figures now floated on her brain. Her father approached, covered with blood, and with an angry tone, called on her to revenge his murder She started, turned, and again composed herself to rest but it was impossible. She now saw herself in an apart­ment of the abbey that was hung with black; in the mid­dle of which lay a corpse in state: she walked up to [...] coffin: a voice whispered her it was her grandfather. [...] countenance was black; and it struck her he was poisone [...] At that moment count D'Ollifont appeared; he attempte [...] to force her from the spot; but, at the apparition of her father, which then ascended, with an [...] paleness, and [Page 148] disfigured with wounds, he fled, and Matilda, in the strug­gle of horror and affliction, again awoke. In short, dur­ing the whole night her mind was so entirely disordered by uneasy slumbers, that she arose in the morning with a considerable degree of fever, and by no means refreshed. It was remarkably fine, and she ventured to open the hea­vy casement of her chamber. There was no danger of being observed; the high trees that surrounded the build­ing made it impossible she could be perceived but by those in the inner part. The air refreshed her, but the languor of her spirits still continued.

The breakfast, which Agnes had prepared with the ut­most neatness, was served in the first apartment next the hall. Leonard had got up very early, and cleaned it out; and the room now wore a far more comfortable appear­ance than it had done [...] day before. Alfred noticed the pale looks of his sister▪ and asked, with a smile, if she had been disturbed by any of the ghosts. She declared she had not been in the least alarmed; and each answering in the same manner, their fears of supernatural intrusion partly vanished.

They now consulted the best method to procure provi­sions, which must be done that day, with several other articles: at last it was agreed that Leonard should take a basket, and go out of the abbey so as to be seen by no one in the way to it: and that he should mix with other per­sons in the public market, where he could purchase what he wanted, and perhaps gain some intelligence concerning their residence, and other circumstances relative to the count▪ but Alfred desired him by no means to force the conversation, as it might raise curiosity in the peasantry to know who and what he was. This matter being settled, [Page 149] Leonard was shortly equipped, and sallied forth with the utmost caution.

Alfred now proposed to his sister to examine those apart­ments they had not had time to look at the night before. Agnes said she now had courage enough to stay in the great hall, which she had much rather do, and employ herself in preparing the dinner.

Alfred and Matilda accordingly ascended the stair-case, and walked through the suite of rooms they had before seen. They then crossed several others, larger and far more heavy. These terminated in a passage supported by small columns, and arched over in the Gothic style. This place was extremely dark; they, however, with some difficulty, passed it, and entered, by a pair of folding doors, a more spacious apartment then they had yet seen, and, if possible, more gloomy. It had been entirely hung with black, and, from every appearance, had contained a corpse that had lain there in state at some former period. Several pieces of tapers were still standing in black glasses; and in the mid­dle stood bearers for the purpose of supporting a coffin; but there was now only the remains of a large plume of black feathers.

Matilda thought of her dream, and trembled. Alfred himself seemed at first struck with awe, but presently reco­vering himself, laughed at his sister, and strove to keep up his own spirits by [...]allying Matilda on her fears. She en­treated him to return; the gloomy horror of this chamber overcame her, and she found herself extremely faint. He placed her on a kind of couch, that had also been covered with black velvet, and made several efforts to open the windows: this was, however, to no purpose; but after some trouble h [...] pulled down a part of the broken shutters, [Page 150] and consequently received more light, which had before only entered from an opening at the top.

Matilda in a few minutes recovered, but declared she would proceed no further. Alfred persuaded her to ascend the stairs that wound round the west tower; but she po­sitively refused.

He wished much to see the apartment which, by his aunt's manuscript he was informed, terminated, as was supposed, the search of his father. But his sister absolutely refusing to go any further, they returned to the hall. Ag­nes noticed the dejected looks of Matilda, but did not in­quire the cause. Alfred resolved within himself to exa­mine the west tower the following day, and satisfy his curiosity concerning the mystery of that extraordinary chamber.

Agnes was in far better spirits than she had been in since their meeting, and tried every way to comfort and entertain her dejected friends. Both felt the kindness of her intention, and acquainted her with most of the cir­cumstances relative to their misfortunes: there were, how­ever, some events they thought proper to conceal.

Lady Caroline Albourne was, however, still one of the chief objects of Alfred's thoughts. He loved her, yet was conscious he had not even merited her esteem. By her manner, just before he left England, he flattered himself he could perceive innocent traits of a confession of more than a common regard for him. But even though his conjectures should prove right, her prudence, her under­standing, must have told her to tear from her heart a man who, by the conduct he then pursued, must bring her to wretchedness, want and misery. But there was yet even a greater misfortune to strike him with remorse. His name, his character, were tarnished with dishonour. That name [Page 151] which, he had been proud to say, had not shamed the fa­mily it belonged to, and that nicety of honour which is had been his utmost pride to preserve, were now, through folly and extravagance, ruined by the slanderous tongue o [...] calumny, both in England and his own country. In the former it was most likely he would receive the appellation of an assassin and a swind [...]er; in the latter he would be branded as a base, mean, cowardly deserter from the ser­vice of his country; a disgrace to France and the noble profession he had been brought up to—the defence of his country's rights.

"Damned ideas!" he would exclaim, in a voice of frantic rage. His sister and Agnes were alarmed. He beg­ged their pardon:—it was the recollection of former dis­tress that crossed his brain at that moment. Matilda plainly peeceived his impetuosity of temper broke out at every interval when the re [...]ollection of his folly, and the misery it had brought them to, intruded on his memory. She therefore studiously avoided to mention any topic in discourse that might lead to a remembrance of disagreeable circumstances.

Her griefs were consequently buried in her own bosom; yet they were not less poignant than those of her brother. She loved Mr. Milverne; but every hope of seeing him again appeared almost impossible. His letter, which they received at Dover, mentioned that he would join them as soon as possible in Italy; but they had little thought of an occurrence happening that obliged them to keep more con­cealed in this place, than their situation might have requir­ed them to have done, had they remained in England. Nor was it likely Mr. Milverne should even have an idea that they were inhabitants of Grasville Abbey. The more she thought on those sufferings she had experienced since [Page 152] her mother's death, the more she was surprised how sh [...] had survived [...]uch a series of misfortunes; but it fully con­vinced her that the Supreme Being constantly support those who trust in him, though they may for a time be or­dained to bear a load of adversity and sorrow.

Leonard returned in about two hours, laden with th [...] purchases he had made. He acquainted them that he ha [...] been taken no particular notice of; but, mingling with other persons, had bought commodities without receiving any disagreeable questions. This was pleasing intelligence, and they sat down to dinner with some degree of cheerful­ness. But yet there was something in Leonard's counte­nance which showed he had been greatly chagrined, and that he had heard more than he chose to communicate. At the latter part of the day he requested to speak with his master alone.

Alfred immediately granted his request, and they ascend­ed to their chamber.

Matilda was a silent spectator of this mysterious beha­viour. Agnes was extremely alarmed; she was certain, she said, from Leonard's behaviour, that he must have re­ceived some very dreadful intelligence; and in all pro­bability he thought it of too terrible a nature for them to be informed of.

Matilda smiled, and strove to dispel her fears, but was herself very much hurt. Agnes's conjecture was by [...] means unlikely; yet she felt herself slighted at not being made a confidant in the affair. Their conference laste [...] near two hours. When they returned to the parlour Leo­nard's countenance was still more gloomy, while Alfred strove to assume a gaiety foreign to his heart. Their sup­per was a silent meal; each seemed absorbed in melancho­ly reflections; and, after some little time, they retired [...] their apartments.

CHAPTER XXVI.

ANOTHER sleepless night was passed by Matilda; and Agnes requested she would take her breakfast before she arose for the day. She therefore acquainted Alfred with his sister's indisposition. He was extremely concerned, and far more so to observe her dejected manner and pale countenance, when she joined them at dinner. Leonard seemed rather more cheerful than he had been the night before; but his master still retained a gloomy sadness, that showed some cause of distress lay heavy at his heart. Both surveyed Matilda with a scrutinising eye, and Alfred after some little time asked, with a pretended air of indifference, if she had rested as free from disturbance as the night before.

It would not have been difficult for a common person to have perceived he paused with unusual anxiety for an answer, though he strove as much as possible to conceal that emotion which was visible to all. She told him she had. This reply seemed to give him considerable plea­sure; and on her returning the question, he also answered in the affirmative. The alteration in his manner continu­ed but a few moments, and he again relapsed into his for­mer melacholy. He new mentioned his intention of exa­mining the rooms in the west tower, and asked Leonard to accompany him in his researches. Matilda said, languidly, that she also meant to be of the party; at which declara­tion her brother looked very much chagrined.

"I rather think, Matilda," said he, "you had [...] decline it; the coldness and damps of those deserted cham­bers [Page 154] will not agree with your health and spirits; particu­larly now you are so much indisposed."

She thought it might amuse her, and was certain the walk would be of service. Agnes attended; and they opened the large heavy door that showed the winding stone stair-case of the west tower. They found it very disagree­able to ascend; the place having been so long forsaken, that large webs of dust and dirt almost impeded their pas­sage. They at length, however, arrived at the first land­ing-place, where two apartments appeared—the one to th [...] right, the other to the left. They entered the former. I was a small square room, lighter than many they had see [...] in the abbey, but entirely clear from furniture; that [...] [...]he left was of the same size, but contained several imple­ments of war, among which were swords, shields, spears and a few fire-arms, a trumpet and drum, with other in­struments of martial music: but all of them were in [...] repair.

They again ascended the continuation of the stone stai [...] case, and found themselves on the second landing. [...] apartments on this floor were of the same dimensions; those below, but had been far better furnished. That [...] the right side was where their father had so mysteriousl [...] vanished. It was hung round with tapestry, which [...] now nearly decayed. The furniture was all Gothic, and greatly damaged; while the elevated narrow casement [...] placed at a considerable height from the floor, gave [...] room a most dreary and solitary appearance: in short, greatly resembled, and had▪ they supposed, in [...] times, been used as a place of confinement for some unfor­tunate prisoner. Leonard examined the boards; and the [...] could plainly perceive those spots of blood which had been observed before by Edward and the physician. In all pro­bability [Page 155] this blood was their father's! the idea struck each of them. Agnes was greatly sh [...]cked and terrified; Leo­nard conversed with considerable emotion in private with his master for some minutes, while Matilda, unable to bear her own feelings, burst into a flood of tears. After an hysteric fit of weeping, she found herself much better; and, having closed the apartments, they descended to the [...]arlour.

Some hours were again spent by Alfred and Leonard in a private conference above. Both still retained a settled me­lancholy on their features; while Agnes was more astonish­ed, and Matilda more alarmed, than ever. The reason of her brother's secresy she could by no means discover; hitherto she had been made acquainted with every circum­stance concerning their situation; but Alfred was now silent even on general topics, and only put confidence in his servant. Her pride forbade her to ask questions, yet her curiosity prompted her to the humiliation, as being the only means of gratifying it. Evening approached: their supper was again a silent meal, and they retired without any conversation having passed.

Agnes was soon in a profound sleep; but Matilda's thoughts on her brother's behaviour robbed her of repose. It was now the last hour of night, and she strove again to compose herself to rest, when she thought she heard her brother's voice; yet she considered she must be deceived, as both Leonard and he had been in their apartments near two hours. The wind was extremely high; Matilda how­ever still listened, and found she was not mistaken. A listener she detested; but she thought her present situation took every stigma from the character. She was, however, still irresolute in what manner to act, when a loud word [Page 156] from her brother made her determined to hear more. Having accordingly thrown over her a night-gown, she crept to the door. All was silent again for some time: but after an in­terval of many minutes, she heard her brother check Leo­nard for talking so loud; "Matilda," said he, "may not yet be asleep." They then continued so low that she could not even understand one word. After another inter­val, Leonard answered to a question which Alfred asked him, that "It was not the time."

"If I die in the attempt," said Alfred "I will unravel this mystery: and if once—"

Here a violent gust of wind rattled through the chambers, and she was unable to distinguish their discourse, though they still continued talking. At length, however, she heard Leonard say, "I will be very careful, sir: you may depend upon my fidelity."

"For heaven's sake," continued Alfred, "follow it to [...]he utmost: but at all events do not discover—"

Here again the wind drowned their voices; and shortly after, she heard them retire for the night.

Matilda, chilled with horror and uncertainty, returned to her bed, and fell into a disturbed slumber. In the morn­ing she appeared at breakfast, though her looks plainly told the state of her mind.

"Leonard," said her brother, "is this morning going again to the public market." Matilda was astonished; she knew they were in want of no provision. Alfred wish­ed to procure some wine, an article he was certain they were all in need of.

"But surely," answered his sister, "Leonard purchased enough when he was last there."

"True," said he "but we have had an accident, and broke nearly all the bottles which were full."

[Page 157] Although such an accident was not impossible, yet Ma­tilda greatly doubted the truth of this assertion; and in her brother's manner she thought she could perceive an em­barrassment, which showed it was merely an excuse to keep from her the real cause of Leonard's errand. He, how­ever, set off in a little time, equipped the same as when he before left the Abbey, and using the like caution at leav­ing it.

After his departure they walked on the terrace which ex­tended from the east to the west end of the building. Ag­nes was some distance from them▪ when Matilda consider­ed that this would be a good opportunity to mention to her brother the great alteration she had noticed in him, since his long and secret conference with Leonard. Alfred at first seemed only to laugh at her fears, and wished to per­suade her she was mistaken; but she urged the matter so close that he at last confessed Leonard's information that night had given him considerable uneasiness and dis­tress.

"Then," said Matilda with quickness, "let me share in that distress; which will be far better than to remain in this horrid suspense."

"That is impossible," returned Alfred; "you cannot, must not, be acquainted with the affair."

His vehemence alarmed her.

"Is then the circumstance of so secret a nature, that I, who have hitherto been made a partner in the knowledge of all those misfortunes that have befallen us, must not now know that which your servant is privy to, and which may concern me equally with yourself?"

"Be not offended, Matilda, if I tell you again it is im­possible that in this case I should gratify your wish: but be assured every method I take will be for your good and safe­ty; [Page 158] nor must you be surprised at any remarkable behaviour in me at different intervals, or terrify yourself at any un­common occurences in this Abbey, as our residence here is now more necessary than ever."

"Have you then seen any thing more than common?" said his sister, with great emotion.

"With respect to this, too, you must excuse me," answer­ed Alfred. "At all events, however, we have one consola­tion; that those who trust in the Supreme Being need never fear the interruption of deceased persons."

Agnes at this moment overtook them, and he hurried from his sister with considerable precipitation into the hall.

Matilda stood motionless for some minutes.

"I am sure madam," said Agnes, "signor Maserini has been saying something very dreadful; for I watched you all the time, and, though at a distance, could perceive your countenance change several times." Matilda wished to keep the last equivocal words of her brother from Agnes, as she knew she was, if possible, more timid than herself; but her looks contradicted her speech, and little used to say untruths, even the questions of the innocent Agnes puzzled and perplexed her. They returned to Alfred in the hall. He was more melancholy than ever, and Matilda was sorry she had spoken to him on the subject.

After some time Leonard returned, and produced plenty of wine, with part of a French newspaper, which he told them he had by chance laid hold of. One of the paragraphs mentioned the death of count D'Ollifont, and that, by the account of the physicians, he was murdered by a wound given him at a masquerade by his relation, the chevalier Maserini, who had fled to France; but that strict [Page 159] [...]earch was now making after him, both in that country and Italy.

"At all events, then," said Alfred, "we must re­main here till either justice brings my cause to a proper crisis, or till I am crushed by arbitrary power and match­less villainy."

He seemed much affected, yet bore the news with unu­sual fortitude. Leonard requested to speak to him a­lone, and they retired to their apartment. Agnes again wondered at these private conferences, and Matilda was yet silent,

In about an hour and a half they returned to the par­lour. Leonard still continued gloomy: but there was a considerable alteration in his master—he was now as full of spirits as he had been before melancholy; but yet they seemed forced, and it appeared more like a madman's mirth, than the regular sensations of joy. He laughed, talked immoderately, but yet often sighed.

Matilda observed him with anxiety and terror; while Agnes and Leonard were silent spectators of his strange be­haviour. Supper-time at length arrived; when the little group formed an expressive scene. Alfred at one end of the table, first in an excessive fit of merriment, then looking round him with horror, hardly able to suppress the rising tear. His sister was seated next him; her colour entirely faded through distress, while her fine eyes were fixed on him with a look of misery that well showed the inward workings of her soul. Agnes wept, and looked up to Ma­tilda for consolation, who was now unable to give it.

The good old Leonard was seated at a little distance from them, surveying each with attention, and often wiping from his aged eye the watery drop of sympathetic tender­ness. "Give us more light," said Alfred; "we will [Page 160] make a jovial night of it; and set on another bottle of the last wine."

Leonard obeyed; two more candles were lighted, and the bottle placed before him.

"You do not consider," said Matilda, "that it grows late, and we have already had the usual quantity."

"I care not," he answered: "the Tuscan grape revives me."

His sister perceived it had already taken great effect on his spirits. The night now began to grow extremely stor­my, and the thunder rolled over the building with consi­derable noise. The room being very large, the further part from where they sat was entirely dark; but even this space was at intervals illumined by the flashes of lightning which darted through the windows in that part, the shut­ters being entirely decayed. Matilda and Agnes once more begged him to retire to rest; but he was obstinate, declar­ed he would not, and ordered another bottle, having drank the chief part of the former one. In short, he took bumper after bumper for some time, while every moment he be­came more frantic, and the avidity with which he drank confirmed him to be distracted. His behaviour also show­ed him to be intoxicated; and the walls of Grasville Ab­bey, which had so long remained in silence, now rung again with his exclamations and noise. Yet his voice was often drowned by the repeated claps of thunder, while the light­ning became more and more dreadful. Matilda, Agnes, and Leonard, were all silent spectators of this scene. It was now midnight, and they gave up all idea of persuad­ing him to retire to rest

"Fill your glasses!" he cried "I am going to give you a noble health." He rose from his seat, and sighed hea­vily, [Page 161] then holding up the sparkling goblet, he exclaimed, "Lady Caroline Albourne!"

A most tremendous clap of thunder!

Each looked with horror: Alfred stood in the same pos­ture as when he uttered the health; nor had he been able even to put his lips to the glass; but, after the noise entirely died away, seemed to be listening with a degree of terror, as if he then heard it. In a few minutes he recov­ered himself.

"This is a dreadful night," said he to his sister.

"It is indeed," answered Matilda. For "heaven's sake, Alfred, let us retire to rest: I assure you I can hardly sup­port myself."

"Another health!" he cried, relapsing into his former manner; "another I must drink. Leonard, replenish the goblet."

"You forget, sir, that it is now full."

"True, true," he cried, "I had forgot. Here then," said he, laughing, "is to the old ghost that inhabits this Abbey."

A violent crash!

All started from their seats. Agnes shrieked; Matilda looked wild; Leonard ran to their assistance; while Al­fred was still unable to put the goblet to him mouth, but stood half stupefied with wine, horror and astonishment. The noise seemed to come from an apartment which open­ed by a pair of folding doors into the dark part of the room where they were now standing.

Before any one could speak, a violent clap of thunder [...]ollowed, and several flashes of lightning. The first per­son who broke silence was Leonard. "Be not frighten­ed," said he to Matilda and Agnes: but his tong [...]e [Page 162] [...]aultered, and showed he was equally terrified with them­selves.

"This is a terrible night," continued Leonard; "but I will protect you to the last drop of my blood."

"And so will I," cried Alfred, staggering from his seat; "I will protect you too."

"Talk not of protecting us, Alfred," answered Ma­tilda: for if the spirit of our father at this time walks in these apartments, it is but to reproach you for your present disgraceful situation.—Come, Agnes, we will go to bed."

"Oh! no indeed, mademoiselle! I dare not," said Ag­nes: "I cannot move."

Matilda's reproach seemed to have some effect on her brother. "My father!" he exclaimed.

A deep groan.

"Hark! hark! he answers me: it is from that room: I'll see him, if I die."

"Not for worlds," said Leonard, holding him. "There may be treachery in this business, sir; pray stay where you are."

Another groan!

"Hark again!" he exclaimed, "I will go; by heavens, I will be satisfied." At that moment he disengaged him­self from Leonard, who, catching up a sword, followed him. They both rushed to the dark part of the room. Al­fred was first▪ he pushed open the folding doors. An a­mazing flash of lightning illumined the apartment they entered Alfred, in a tone of horror, exclaimed, "There!"

The object caught Leonard's eye. "In the name of the Holy Virgin," said the old man, "who art thou?"

"'Tis gone, 'tis vanished," answered Alfred. He was right; there was nothing now to be seen. They returned [Page 163] to the parlour; Matilda and Agnes, who had been entire­ly forgotten by them, were lying on the couch, nearly senseless; but the former had heard the words that passed, distinctly. Alfred had in a great degree regained his rea­son. Matilda and Agnes after some little time recovered, and, with assistance, arrived at their chamber: here they parted for the night; and thus ended an adventure which seemed in a great measure to confirm all the terrific reports concerning Grasville Abbey.

CHAPTER XXVII. THE HERMIT.

WHILE in the midst of business or employment, we often suppose, on account of many disagreeable circumstan­ces that are apt to impede our passage through life, that we could with pleasure relinquish all commerce with mankind, and live after the manner of a misanthrope, totally seclud­ed from our fellow creatures. However these ideas may intrude at certain intervals, yet it is improbable they should continue: when once brought to the trial, we should, like the inhabitants of Grasville Abbey, languish after so­ciety, though our situation might totally preclude such a wish from being gratified.

[Page 165] The agitation of Matilda's spirits, and her loss of rest the few preceding nights, combined to throw her into a profound slumber; and though she was still harassed with uncomfortable and terrific dreams, yet she enjoyed some repose; but the little benefit she received from it was en­tirely destroyed when she awoke in the morning, by a re­collection of the late strange and uncommon circumstances. Her brother's behaviour was as incomprehensible as the violent crash and dismal groans which had been heard in the apartment adjoining the parlour. There was also ano­ther mystery to be explained, that is, what the appearance was which had drawn from Alfred and his servant those exclamations of horror that she had heard. This was a point of curiosity, with respect to which she in particular wished to be satisfied; but at all events she resolved to re­quest no further communication from her brother. Leo­nard, therefore, was the only person she could question on the subject; and to him she determined to apply at a pro­per opportunity.

At a very late hour they assembled to breakfast. Alfred, seemed buried in melancholy reflections, but made an apo­logy for his late frantic behaviour.

Matilda looked extremely ill: Agnes seemed by no means recovered from her terror; while Leonard's counte­nance was still sorrowful and gloomy. Matilda under­stood, at the latter part of the morning, that Leonard was again going to the public market; but it caused no surprise, as they were in want of provision. He accordingly, in a little time, set off for the purpose of procuring some.

Alfred, after his departure, retired to his chamber, and took pen, ink, and paper with him. Agnes cooked the dinner, and Matilda took up a book. The former now began to converse on the events of the night before. "It [Page 166] does not signify, mademoiselle," continued Agnes, in a harangue of some length; "but there is something very unaccountable in this abbey. I am sure I shall now be afraid even to remain in this parlour by myself. The holy Virgin protect us! but I should not wonder if we were all to be carried away one of these days by the hobgoblins that haunt the place."

"Rather one of these nights," answered Matilda, willing to put off the discourse with a jest.

"Indeed, mademoiselle, but father Dunstan used to say such things have been seen, even when the sun shined."

Matilda could not help laughing; but Agnes looked more serious, and declared father Dunstan was a man who had often conversed with them, and knew their tricks as well as they did themselves.

"For heaven's sake, Agnes," replied Matilda, "do not encourage these silly ideas, or you will make your life a scene of uncomfortable apprehension and terror."

"It is a misfortune, mademoiselle; and you must pity instead of blaming me. Yet," continued Agnes, with an arch look, "I rather think you only talk in this indifferent manner to me, with the kind intent of dispelling my fears: I thank you; but you must give me leave to say, I think your thoughts are far different from your words."

This remark was just; and Matilda's hesitating manner and blush confirmed Agnes that she was right. After some time, Alfred returned from his chamber. He spoke but little, and seemed to wait with a degree of impatience for Leonard's return. He, however, stopped longer than usual; and they had nearly finished their dinner when he entered. He brought with him a good stock of provisions; but the information he had received was by no means agreeable. The people, he said, talked much of the death of count [Page 167] [...]'Ollifont, and the large reward that was offered for the chevalier Maserini, his relation; "and though the general voice is much in favour of you, sir," continued Leonard, "yet we must not trust to that, and forget the temptation the money will excite;" an observation which they all agreed was very just. In a short time he requested a private conference with his master: and they returned to the par­lour in about an hour.

Alfred was then more composed than he had been for some time, and Leonard rather more chearful. After sup­per the latter informed them that he had heard, among other things concerning the abbey, that an old hermit re­sided in a cave near it, which had been his habitation for a number of years.

"I wonder," said Alfred, "if it would be possible to pay him a visit without being observed by any other per­son."

"Nothing more easy, sir," answered Leonard. "His cave is at the bottom of the long walk of cypresses, on the west side to this building. The situation is so retired, and withal so near the abbey, that it is never intruded on by any of the vilagers."

"I should wish much to see him," said Alfred: "he may give me information of considerable importance."

"It is not at all unlikely, sir; for people say he knows more about the story of Grasville Abbey than any one in this part; though he is always silent on the subject."

"To-morrow, then, I will visit him," answered Alfred; "first as an indifferent person: but, if I find him a man of piety, and inclined to prove my friend, I will make him acquainted with the whole state of my affairs."

"But I hope you will first," said Matilda, "be perfectly satisfied he deserves your confidence."

[Page 168] "That you may depend on; but I can see no objection to you and Agnes being of the party; and you will then, Matilda, be able to judge of my conduct."

Matilda was pleased with the proposal, and said she was certain the air would he of service to her. In short, this scheme seemed to meet with the approbation of all; and the evening was spent with more sociality than they had enjoyed since the second night of their residence in the abbey.

At an early hour they retired to rest; and as Agnes and and Matilda left the parlour, each gave a side look at the [...]olding doors on the further end, and trembled as they ad­vanced to their chamber.

Matilda rested better than she had for some weeks, and rose with more than common spirits. She contrived to get down stairs before her brother, purposely to obtain an op­portunity of speaking to Leonard alone. According to her wishes, he was in the parlour setting the breakfast-table, while Agnes was preparing it in the hall. She immedi­ately opened the subject, and begged him to disclose to her those circumstances which had occasioned such mysterious behaviour.

Leonard looked chagrined. "Alas! mademoiselle," he answered, "it is impossible excuse me; but I cannot sa­tisfy you."

Matilda was displeased.

"It cuts me to the heart," continued he, "it does in­deed, mademoiselle, to refuse your request: but I am bound by a sacred tie."

"I would not have you break it, then▪" replied Main da: "yet, though you are much older than I, Leonard, I must caution you not to be too precipitate in entering into every scheme my brother proposes to you. He is [...]ash; no, [Page 169] do I, from his behaviour the night before last, think his sense [...] are in a right state at certain times▪"

"Heaven forbid they should be deranged," answered this faithful servant: "for then I am sure—" here he stopped short, and was silent.

Matilda considered it as cruel to attempt to draw from [...]im that which he had solemnly promised to keep secrets and turned the discourse to the circumstance of his master's entering the apartment with him, from whence they heard the groan [...] ▪ She asked him to explain what he had seen to occasion chose exclamations which she had heard uttered [...] great emotion. Leonard seemed greatly agitated and surprised: he had no idea how me could have heard those words, when both she and Agnes were to all appearance senseless at the time.

Matilda repeated the question. He was going to answer, [...] hesitated. She begged him not to keep her in sus­pens [...]. He again began to speak, when Alfred entered the room.

Matilda was vexed and disappointed; Leonard seemed happy at the intrusion▪ and Alfred looked surprised to see [...] up so early. He, however, cast a significant look at Leonard, which showed he could partly discover the pur­port of the conversation. Agnes brought in the breakfast, and the discourse became general. It was resolved they should walk to the hermit in the fore part of the morning, that they should tell him they resided near, and that curi­osity brought them to his retreat.

Being all equipped for the journey, they set off, walked round the west side of the abbey, and from thence proceed­ed through a quantity of thick foliage, to the grove of cy­press, which, as they supposed, led to the cave. After some time they came to a spot entire [...]y surrounded with [Page 170] trees; and here they observed an opening to a cavity which seemed to be formed out of a mountain that rose a consider­able height above it. They stood some moments consider­ing whether they should enter: but curiosity overcame their scruples, and they stepped softly forward. After hav­ing gone a few yards, they found the passage wound to the left, and could see at some distance a lamp which gave but a dim light, and seemed to hang down from the roof. Ag­nes and Matilda again stopped; but Alfred laughed at their fears, and they continued to walk in silence. As they came nearer, the passage widened, and they could just per­ceive a table covered with cloth, on which lay a human scull and bones, with a large book and hour-glass. Ma­tilda trembled, and Agnes involuntarily turned round Alfred, however, by a motion, begged them to be silent. They listened, and heard the voice of a person praying.

Their fears were now in some measure dispelled; and they walked a little further, when a reverend form caught their eye, in a long gown, which was fastened round him by a belt: he knelt, with his back to them, before a cruci­fix. Struck with a sacred awe, they stood in silent admira­tion, and listened to the hermit's prayer.

"Father of mercy," he exclaimed, "hear the petition of thy servant! cleanse him of those sins and wickednesses he has been guilty of in the sight of thee, and pour into his breast that balm of comfort and consolation thou only c [...]nst give. Strengthen him with thy grace; and, though immured in this recess, grant him power, O Lord! while on earth, to be of service to his fellow-creatures; that by good example and advice he may turn the hearts of the un­righteous to a sense of thy goodness and mercy."

Here a [...] of tears, which started from his aged eyes, prevented him from proceeding: he turned from the [...] [Page 171] before him, and at that moment, lifting up his head, be­held the intruders on his privacy. He gazed at Alfred, ut­tered a faint groan, and fell senseless on the ground. A­larmed at the emotion they had caused, each ran to his assistance, and strove to recover him from so alarming an insensibility. Their efforts, however, for some time proved ineffectual; but he at last showed some signs of returning life.

"Forgive us, father," said Alfred: "we come not with an intent to alarm you: the fame of your pious character raised in us a desire to see so venerable a person. But be assured, if we had known the effects our entering in so sud­den a manner would have occasioned, our wishes should have remained ungratified."

The hermit still [...]ept his eyes fixed with a wild look, and was silent.

"Indeed, father," said Matilda, "we regret that you have suffered so much on our account."

"Ah! and are you there?" ex [...]laimed he: "I think I know you both."

Each turned aside: a thought struck them that the her­mit might have some knowledge of them; and they were in their turn greatly alarmed. Their fears, however, soon vanished, when in a more composed manner he asked who they were.

"We live not for distant," returned Alfred, "and, as I before told you, were tempted, by the reports of your piety and goodness, to pay you a visit."

"You are very young," answered the hermit, "to covet she company of so old a man. I have been extremely ill, and, at present, am but saint: pray all be seated. For­give me, if I do not observe the laws of hospitality, as I [Page 172] am so little used to company, and am not quite recovered from my indisposition."

They refused his offer, with thanks for his kindness, and promised to return at the same hour the next day. "You will not, I suppose, father," said Alfred, "have any other visitors."

"None, my son," replied the hermit: "alas! I seldom see a soul in this retired spot. The dread of passing yon­der abbey totally precludes me from strangers. I am, how­ever glad that there are some, whom report has not so far intimidated with idle fears."

"Adieu, father!" said they, as they came forth to the entrance.

"Adieu, my children!" answered he: "the Holy La­dy guide you!"

Here they parted. Father Peter (for such was the her­mit's name) returned to his cell, and his visitors hurried to the abbey as soon as possible.

Their conversation at dinner was chiefly on their new acquaintance. None could account for the effect which their presence had on him, or the particular emotion he showed when by chance he turned his eyes towards Alfred, There was something mysterious in these circumstances, which made them rather dubious of performing their promise the next morning. They, however, at last resolved to risque, it, and trust the external appearance of this man, in which were combined benevolence, humanity, and re­ligion. Matilda, also, particularly noticed in his prayer the mention of the sins and wickednesses he had been guil­ty of. This again raised their suspicions; but Alfred ob­served, that to humble ourselves before the Supreme Deity, is a duty incumbent on every christian; "and," continued he, "such was, no doubt, the idea of Father Peter."

[Page 173] Here the discourse dropped, and Alfred and Leonard, after dinner, had another private conference.

Matilda declared she found herself much better for the walk. This evening was again spent with some degree of comfort, and they retired to their chambers rather at a late hour. Agnes was soon undressed; but Matilda seated her­self in the seat of one of the Gothic windows, and viewed, with a mixture of pleasure and awe, [...]he gloomy prospect before her. The clouds were low and heavy: yet it was moonlight; and the dark shadows of the surrounding trees, which terminated the prospect, spread over that space which remained uncovered in the court.

In an angle she could just observe the mouldering, decayed side of the west tower, and the two where casements were to be perceived. The wind was high and tempestuous, and seemed to threaten an approaching storm.

Matilda's spirits were uncommonly low; she wept abun­dantly. "Alas!" thought she, "could I have known the sorrows, the sufferings, I was to have experienced, gladly would I have welcomed death, and sunk into an early grave, without even a wish to survive. But I was then happy, cherished by a tender mother, surrounded with friends, beloved by all, and knew not the duplicity of man­kind, or the misfortunes human nature is subject to. Mer­ciful Father," exclaimed she with fervency, "forgive my murmuring at thy will: strengthen me to support those scenes of adversity I am destined to go through; and give me fortitude enough to bear that fate it is ordained I should experience."

She found herself more composed, yet did not seem in­clined to sleep, but continued watching the different chan­ges of the sky. Her eyes wandered over the wild scene of [Page 174] foliage, which was in a continual motion by the impulse of the wind. She thought it lightened twice, and was turning from the window, when her eye caught the casement in the west tower, and a strong glare of light at that moment darted from within it. Matilda could not move: she was motionless with surprise and horror, but still kept looking at the object, which continued illumined. In about three minutes a hand seemed to wave from one side. At that moment the light vanished, and all was again in perfect darkness. Matilda, scarcely able to support herself, stag­gered to the bed, sunk on it, closed her eyes through fear, and, after a considerable time, fell into a slumber.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

AGNES was astonished, when she awoke in the morn­ing, to perceive Matilda was not undressed, and immedi­ately inquired the cause: the latter, who had already de­termined on an answer, told her, that, having sat up lon­ger than usual to finish a book, she sell asleep for the night. Agnes doubted not her veracity, and cheerfully went to prepare breakfast.

Matilda was perplexed to know in what manner to act concerning the light in the west tower. The strange circumstances which seemed to encompass this abbey with a mist of doubtful horror, every day became more un­comfortable and disagreable. It was true, the good sense and instructions of her mother had brought her up to de­spise superstition, and laugh at the folly of those who lis­tened to uncommon reports. But the occurrences she had lately been witness to, gave her strong reasons to believe in supernatural existence. The crash and groans in the apart­ment, she had herself heard distinctly, and was certain both her brother and Leonard must have seen something more than common, to have uttered such exclamations of surprise and horror. Her aunt's manuscript gave a parti­cular account of a light being seen in the west tower, not only by her father and his servant, but by more than one of the villagers. An interval from that time had now pas­sed, [Page 2] of near one and twenty years; yet she had again seen a light in the same building, which had most probably never been inhabited even when the late count Maserini resided in the abbey. Such strange and mysterious events staggered all the fortitude she had derived from the lessons of her parent, and both alarmed and terrified her. She re­solved, however, to keep the knowledge of the light to her­self for the present, and watch again at the same hour, when she might possibly make some further discovery.

With these resolutions she descended to the parlour. Her brother was already up, and the breakfast waited for her. In about two hours they were ready to walk to the hermit, and left the abbey accordingly. Father Peter re­ceived them [...] the entrance of his cell, and conducted them to the inner part, where he begged they would be seated. They discoursed on several subjects; Father Peter showed himself to be a man of great understanding, and quick ima­gination; these gifts of nature seemed also to have been cherished by an excellent education. His manners were elegant and polished, while his whole deportment com­manded respect and admiration. There was, however, a settled gloom which overspread his countenance, that show­ed he had a heavy sorrow at heart, which he was unable to overcome. Alfred, at the latter part of their visit, mentioned the terror which people in general suffered concerning Grasville Abbey.

"'Tis a misfortune from birth, my son," replied the her­mit, "which is greatly increased by the errors of edu­cation."

"Yet surely such terrors are natural," said Matilda; "and in every situation we should be subject to their influence."

"True;" answered Father Peter; "yet they are greatly encouraged by tales of horror, and terrific recitals, which [Page 3] curiosity prompts us to listen to, and which so far win on our fancy, as to make us anxious after such entertainment."

"Your observations, father, are just," said Alfred; "yet there may, sometimes, circumstances happen to us of a strange nature, that to all human probability would confirm the appearance of supernatural beings."

Here he looked at Leonard, whose countenance changed, while he seemed to shudder at the ideas his master's words had occasioned. None, except Matilda, observed it; but she had lately watched every look of both her brother and Leonard. Father Peter appeared also disturbed: he hesi­tated some time before he answered; at length, however, he gave a short reply, and the conversation took another turn.

After a little time they took their leave, and again walked to the abbey. Alfred, when dinner was finished, had a conference of some time with Leonard; and the lat­ter immediately after walked out. Matilda, with surprise, asked where he was gone; Alfred answered her with some confusion, that he had sent him to try if he could, by any stratagem, find if there were letters directed to him at the post-house. This she knew to be entirely evasive: but she said no more; and her brother soon after retired to his chamber.

Agnes, the moment he was gone, began talking, as usual, of the room that was next to that they were now in, and declared [...]he expected every instant some hobgoblin would start through the large heavy folding doors before them. Matilda asked if she knew whether her brother or Leonard had examined the apartment.

"Oh yes, made [...]iselle, the other morning before you was up."

"And, pray, did they see any thing particular?"

[Page 4] "Nothing then," answered Agnes: "but they did that dreadful night: for you must know, had the curiosity to listen to their discourse while they were searching the place; and though they spoke very low, I could just make out, mademoiselle, they had seen a ghost."

"I am determined to have a view of this room," said Ma­tilda, walking to that end of the parlour.

"Oh! for heaven's sake, mademoiselle, do not enter for the world."

"Ridiculous!" replied Matilda, and immediately pushed against the doors with all her strength, when they imme­diately flew open.

The apartment was spacious, and one of those they had examined at their first coming to the abbey. The furni­ture was in better order than most of the others; but, the shutters being closed, the only light came from an opening at the top. She walked entirely round, and could per­ceive no alteration whatever. Agnes stood at the door, and at intervals attempted to peep in, but directly shrunk back, and retired. Matilda, having satisfied herself, closed the doors, while Agnes impatiently inquired if she had seen any thing extraordinary. Matilda smiled at the earnest­ness with which she asked the question, and told her she had nothing to fear. Agnes, however, was by no means divested of her terrors; and after the strange occurrences that had already happened, and those which followed, it is not to be wondered at that they greatly increased.

In about two hours, Alfred descended to the parlour, and shortly after Leonard returned: he brought some arti­cles with him; but they were carried to the chambers a­bove, and Matilda had no opportunity of knowing what they were. Supper-time arrived; when both Leonard and [Page 5] his master seemed, in some measure, to have regained their usual spirits: yet Alfred was impatient to retire to rest; at an early hour they therefore parted for the night. Ma­tilda took up a book: Agnes, after being undressed, wished her good repose, and was presently in a profound sleep.

Matilda now seated herself in the window, impatiently waiting the hour of midnight, yet dreading a repetition of the circumstance she had already seen. He brother and Leonard, she could hear, continued in close discourse for some time; the purport of it, however, it was impossible for her to make out, as they spoke in a low tone of voice. At length the expected time arrived, and she kept watching with a palpitating heart the casement in the west tower.

The night was extremely gloomy; the moon at intervals gave a light; but heavy clouds continued frequently to eclipse it, and thunder rolled at a distance, while flashes of strong lightning darted from an illumined part of the hea­vens, which seemed to form a mountain of fire. Matilda kill kept her eye fixed on the tower; but no light appear­ed, except that from above, which fell on its grey decayed walls, overgrown with ivy, and slowly tumbling to the ground through the ravages of time.

She was just going to quit her situation when she thought she perceived something move in the court below. A few minutes before, she had heard, as she supposed, her brother's chamber-door open softly, and a step cautiously descend the stair-case to the hall. At the time she conceived it to be only [...]; but her ideas were now different. A strong flash of lightning gave her an opportunity to discover a figure walk slowly with a dark lantern across the court to­wards the outer gates. It was closely wrapped up; but by the height it seemed like Leonard.

[Page 6] He now disappeared among some trees, but she still saw the light through the foliage. Matilda, more and more agitated, remained at the window. In about five minutes, the light again moved towards the abbey; and the moon at that moment suddenly appearing from a heavy cloud, she could plainly perceive two men follow the person who held the lantern. Both, by their dress, seemed Italians: but their cloaks were entirely fastened round them, and their hats flapped over their faces so as to conceal the counte­nance.

Astonished at such an unexpected sight, and ready to sink with terror, she knew not in what manner to act. Leonard might be a villain! She checked herself at so uncharitable a supposition; yet, why should he leave his bed at such an hour, and admit two strangers into the abbey, where her brother had, in all probability, preserved his life through the secrecy of his habitation.

This unaccountable adventure had so strange and dreadful an appearance, that she resolved to apprise him of the visi­tors, as she had every reason to believe he was asleep when Leonard left the chamber: at the moment, however, she was going to execute this resolution, she heard the latter enter, and softly accost Alfred in a low voice, saying, "They are come, sir;" and immediately they both de­scended, as she supposed, to the parlour.

The idea of the light in the west tower now vanished from her mind, and she was entirely taken up with the occurrence that had just past.

It was plain to her that Alfred had expecte [...] [...] men, as he could not be even undressed by his directly leaving the room when Leonard came up with the information of their arrival: yet what business he could have with them, was an entire mystery; and the most tormenting suspicions, [Page 7] which she blushed to encourage, at different intervals agita­ted her mind. She resolved, at all events, to watch their departure, which did not happen for nearly an hour and a half; when Leonard, with his lantern, again conducted them across the court. Soon after Alfred and himself entered their chamber, and, as she supposed, retired to rest. Matilda, harassed out and perplexed with the scene she had been witness to, undressed herself, and lay down on a sleep­less pillow.

The conduct of her brother was so equivocal and secret, that she was greatly at a loss to assign even one single rea­son for his late behaviour, since that period when Leonard returned from his first journey to the market, and desired to speak with him alone. The intelligence he received that day was certainly the cause of his strange manner of conduct since, let it be of what nature it would. Though she had laughed at Agnes's fears concerning the apartment next the parlour, yet something had been seen to cause a­larm and terror: for the countenances both of Leonard and his master, which she even then took notice of, confirmed her they had been greatly shocked.

The [...] in the west tower had not appeared again as she expected; and she might have been rather doubtful of being deceived by the lightning, had she not seen an arm move within it at the same time. At length, wearied with reflection, she strove to compose herself to rest, and fell into a disturbed slumber.

They assembled to breakfast at a very late hour the next day, [...] (except Agnes) by no means refreshed by the little rest they had enjoyed. They deferred visiting the hermit till the afternoon. Matilda took particular notice of her brother, but could perceive no alteration in his man­ner from the day before.

[Page 8] Having walked to Father Peter's cave, he received them at the entrance with his usual cordiality, and set before them some fruits for refreshment.

"I had them," said the old man, "from a peasant in the village, whom I often visit, and have known for many years, but never could persuade him to come near my ha­bitation: for being once frightened at passing Grasville Ab­bey, he has never dared to venture near it since, not even in the day time!"

All laughed at the man's simplicity, as they called it, yet were all conscious they were a prey to similar fears.

"Indeed, father," said Alfred, "I have heard so much talk of this abbey, that I intend to enter it myself, and sa­tisfy that curiosity which has been raised by the different stories I have heard concerning it."

The hermit's countenance changed at Alfred's words; and he in vain strove to conceal that agitation which work­ed in his heart.

"By no means fulfil such a resolution, my son: the at­tempt may be dangerous. I am an old man, and know more of that abbey than you do. You must promise you will give up all idea of it."

Alfred fixed his eyes on Father Peter; Leonard looked chagrined; Matilda listened with attention, and Agnes trembled with emotion.

"Excuse me," said Alfred, who was the first that broke silence: "but you forget yourself, father, and in a great degree contradict the usual tenor of your discourse▪"

The hermit raised his eyes, and was offended [...] the re­mark.

"I did but warn you, signor," answered he: "but fol­low your own inclination; do not, however, accuse me of dissimulation."

Alfred felt the rebuke, and made an apology.

[Page 9] Soon after, they took their leave, and returned to the abbey.

Father Peter's behaviour appeared now more strange than ever; and Alfred determined not yet to trust him with the history of his affairs. They took an early supper, and re­tired soon after.

CHAPTER XXIX. TERRIFIC SENSATIONS.

IF, at the beginning of life, mankind in general were to be made acquainted with the misfortunes they must suffer in a series of years, the greater number would welcome death, and willingly escape miseries they would suppose themselves unable to support. But when the trials we are subject to appear one by one, and we, in regular gradation, get the better of each of them, the last distress gives us for­titude to go through the succeeding one; and by that forti­tude we struggle through the world, and thus arrive at a state of calm serenity, in the decline of existence.

Matilda had suffered too much for want of rest the two latter nights, to have any idea of again watching the west tower, or the unknown visitors to the abbey; she therefore immediately undressed, and was presently in a profound sleep.

[Page 10] The next morning she was much refreshed, and, entering the parlour, she once more, according to her wishes, found Leonard alone. She directly opened the subject of her for­mer discourse, and now requested him to give that account which was so critically interrupted by her brother.

Leonard seemed prepared, and answered with firmness, that he hoped she would not be offended, but he could not.

"Cannot, Leonard!" exclaimed Matilda.

"No, mademoiselle, indeed I cannot; my master suspected the question when we were last together, and gave me the most positive orders to be silent with respect to every thing relative to that night."

Matilda, though possessed of the nicest sensibility, and finest feelings, yet had a warmth in her temper something similar to her brother; and though not quite so quick to imagine an affront, she was equally [...] in resenting an insult to her pride. Leonard had hardly ever seen her so hurt; he looked distressed, yet appeared in every respect firm and resolved to keep his word. Matilda continued some moments in a haughty silence; but at length thus ad­dressed him:

"The cause of the slighting behaviour I have received since our residence here, I am at a loss to divine, Leonard; and heaven only knows how I have deserved it. Every question I have asked, though probably of no less importance to me than to my brother, has been answered with equivo­cation and reserve; while the strange behaviour of Alfred, and the melancholy continually fixed on your countenance, gives every reason for suspicion and apprehension.

"These circumstances, added to the several occurrences that I myself have lately been witness to in this desolate abbey, make it to me a most disgusting and unpleasant a­bode. [Page 11] In short, though I have been taught to despise su­perstition, yet I have every reason to believe all is not right in the gloomy chambers of the west tower; while the words which I plainly heard you repeat on entering yonder room, confirm to me that you saw something of a dreadful nature: and, continued Matilda in a voice of displeasure, yet both firm and determined, these reasons added toge­ther have made me resolve to quit this place immediately and forever."

Had a th [...]nderbolt at that moment fallen at Leonard's feet, he could not have started with more surprise and hor­ror.

"Leave the abbey, mademoiselle! leave the abbey! good heavens! you will not surely leave us!"

"Before two more days are past, you may depend upon it, Leonard; during which time I shall be able to consider what method will be the most secret for my departure, on my brother's account; for, unless I am actually detained a prisoner here, I intend going to France, and becoming a nun in the convent of N*****, where my mother and aunt were both placed in the beginning of life."

"The Holy Lady protect us!" exclaimed Leonard. "Do not encourage these ideas; they will drive my poor master distracted."

"You must impart the intelligence to him, and request he will contrive some method for my conveyance."

Leonard was again going to reply; but Agnes brought in the breakfast, and Alfred presently entered. Directly after breakfast was over, Leonard requested to speak with his master; and Matilda had no doubt concerning the subject of this conference.

When Agnes and Matilda were alone, the latter men­tioned her resolution of leaving the abbey.

[Page 12] Agnes's surprise was not less than Leonard's, but of a very different kind: joy appeared in her countenance, and she declared, of all things in the world, it was what she most wished for—"I can then still attend you, mademoi­selle, and yet leave this dreadful place."

"But will your wishes lead you to attend me to the place where I intend going?"

"Any where, mademoiselle!" exclaimed Agnes, her eyes beaming with love and gratitude—"even to the end of the world, with pleasure."

Matilda shed tears; she was greatly affected with the honest simplicity and good heart of this girl.

"But I am going to the convent of N*****, in France, Agnes, and intend positively to take the veil immediately."

Agnes turned pale.

"To the convent of N*****, mademoiselle! and take the veil! but I will [...]ollow you there too."

Here she burst into a flood of tears; for in that case all hopes of a union with Oliver, whom she still loved, must have ended.

Matilda guessed her thoughts, and pitied her situation. She knew not how to proceed: the little money which they had brought over from England, and which, as was before related, was the last Alfred had to receive of his fortune, being now nearly half expended: and on this account it was that she generously determined (should it be possible to be done without discovering her brother) to make over to him all that she was possessed of by her mo­ther's death; as she would, after once becoming a member of the holy community, be no more in want of money to support her. At all events, however, she resolved, if it was not agreeable for Agnes to retire with her to the con­vent, to make her a handsome present, and, if in her [Page 13] power, see her comfortably settled. This proposal she ac­quainted her with; but to part with Matilda was nearly as distressing to the poor girl as to lose Oliver forever; yet she must consent to one or the other. In vain she strove to persuade Matilda, by every argument she could think of, to give up the idea of going to a convent, and live retired in France: and little did she suppose, while it was repelled with a steady fortitude, that Matilda had the same tie as herself to make a retreat from the world miserable; yet, with the most elevated and noble sentiments, she sacrificed her own happiness for the sake of a brother.

Agnes still wavered, sighed, and wept, but was unable to come to any resolution.

After some time Alfred and Leonard entered the parlour: both appeared distressed, and the former requested to speak with his sister alone. They retired to a chamber above. He informed her, Leonard had been telling him of her in­tention to quit the abbey, and retire to the convent of N*****.

Matilda answered that the information was right, and that such was positively her determination.

He entreated her not to take so rash a step, but well to consider a monastic life, before she entered into it.

That, she said, she had already done; for the many ad­versities she had gone through since her mother's death, had sickened her of the world, and—

"Hold, Matilda!" exclaimed Alfred: "is there not one person in this world, which you are so disgusted with, whom you may think of with a sigh of tenderness, and that sigh bring a wish that you had never been immured within the walls of a convent?"

Matilda felt herself hurt at the the question.

[Page 14] "Let my ideas or remembrances be whatever they may, my resolution is fixed; nor can my situation be worse than that I am now involved in."

"Do you accuse me of unkindness, Matilda?"

"In some respects I do. But this discourse is ridicu­lous; let us consider in what manner I shall escape with­out injuring you."

"Surely you do not actually intend leaving us?"

"After what I have said, do you suppose I jest?"

"You must not, cannot go," he exclaimed, raising his voice.

"And pray, sir," answered Matilda, her pride piqued; "by what right will you detain me?"

He seemed chagrined.

"Indeed, Matilda, you must think better of this affair. Give up the idea, and consider it as romantic."

"Without I am detained by force," answered Matilda with firmness, "I am determined to leave this abbey be­fore—"

"Hold," said Alfred, "and inform me for what reason you have thus suddenly taken so strange a resolution,"

"For various reasons, all of which combined together show that it is positively necessary for my own happiness. Represent to yourself my situation, confined within the walls of this awful, gloomy and melancholy abode, the ex­ternal part of which, added to the stories that have been circulated concerning it▪ terrify people even from the place where it stands; while the mysterious and strange circum­stances that have happened since our residence in it, con­firm in a great measure those reports; yourself and Leo­nard involved in a deep melancholy, the cause of which you both refuse to impart, though by your behaviour you give [Page 15] encouragement to the most horrid and dismal suppositions. The innocent Agnes continually terrifies herself and me by those fears which are certainly caused by the most powerful reasons, and which prey the more on my spirits, by my being obliged to support hers, and to talk lightly of those ideas I feel myself with equal terror. But I will confess my intention was hastened by Leonard's refusal to give that information I required relative to your entrance into that room next the parlour on the dreadful night of the storm. When I first requested the explanation, we were interrupted by you; and he now tells me, that, suspecting the purport of our discourse, you forbid him to answer the question. Neither would you give any satisfactory reply during our conversation on the terrace, but left me to think the worst in a state of uncertainty. In short, there is an arbitrary principle reigns through the whole tenor of your conduct, which I am resolved no longer to put up with."

Here her countenance glowed with anger and contempt: she was going to leave the chamber, when Alfred stopped her.

"Hear me in some measure vindicate myself," exclaim­ed he, "though I cannot at present satisfy your curiosity. In the first place, you complain of your residence in this abbey; but consider for a moment, Matilda, and you will find that it was my exertion in the preservation of your honour, and the punishment I gave the villain who dared to insult you, that obliged me to fly hither, and ignobly conceal myself from pursuit, while double infamy was poured upon my name, and by hellish contrivance I was proved a deserter unknown to myself. You well know, when at Dover, I had resolved to give up my person to my country, and stand my trial for the crime; but Mr. Mil­verne's [Page 16] letter altered this resoution, when he informed me that the count wa [...] not dead, but that arbitrary power would be certain to overcome justice in any case in which the wretch D'Ollifont was concerned. Setting this argu­ment aside, I confess you have had some cause for resent­ment for the concealment of what I know it would be im­proper to communicate; and I beg you to remember, how­ever diffic [...]lt it may appear to account for my actions, I ever have your happiness in view. Only make me one promise, that you will remain a fortnight longer; and then, if a part of my conduct is not explained, I swear I will adopt some method for you departure."

"This I agree to," answered Matilda; "and to show you that I have a just sense of the part you took with re­spect to the count, it is my intention, when once I arrive at the convent, to make over the whol [...] of the little property I am possessed of entirely to you."

"Alas! Matilda," answered Alfred, "that will be of little service; for if some one does not appear, to make you alter your resolution before the stated time, I shall have far less occasion for it than yourself"

He sighed heavily; Matilda looked astonished, and left the chamber.

"Generous girl!" he exclaimed, "could I but once see thee happy, and forget the object of my love, life would have no charms to detain me; and the world should im­mediately know that Alfred Maserini could laugh at its malice, and make tyranny blush at the exertion of its own power."

CHAPTER. XXX.

AGNES and Leonard were soon made acquainted with the agreement that had passed between the brother and the sister; and it gave both of them pleasure that the time of Matilda's departure was deferred. Agnes thought she might possibly, in this interval, bring herself to follow so bright an example, and renounce the world for ever; and all were rather more cheerful than usual at dinner. Alfred afterwards proposed a walk to the hermit; but when they arrived at the cave, the place was deserted; and they therefore supposed Father Peter was gone his round among the villagers. Having returned, Alfred read some poetry aloud, which amused them till near supper-time; and, soon after a light repast, they retired to their respective chambers.

Matilda determined to watch again for the strangers and the light in the west tower. She accordingly took up a book, which occasioned the same excuse as before to the innocent and unsuspecting Agnes, who was soon in a profound sleep. The night was serene and beautiful: not a breeze of wind disturbed the surrounding foliage: all was silent, tranquil, and solitary; while the heavens, covered with stars, and il­lumined by a full moon, gave the eye a more clear view of the dark groves of cypress, and the heavy ruins of the west tower.

Matilda watched with a palpitating heart the upper case­ment, till near midnight, when a strong glare of light, as before, appeared: but in less than a minute all was again dark.

[Page 18] In a little time after, she heard Leonard creep softly out of his room, descend the stair-case, and cross the court. In about five minutes he returned, accompanied by two other persons, whose figures she now saw more plainly; and she judged them to be the same who paid the last visit. Alfred joined them in the parlour. They did not remain in the abbey so long as at the former time; but Leonard, as before, conducted them to the outer gates.

Just as they got into the middle of the court, the light in the west tower again appeared; and it was immediately noticed by one of the strangers, who seemed to utter an exclamation of suprise. Both his companion and Leonard immediately looked up; and all seemed struck with the utmost astonishment. The casement had been illuminated about three minutes, when a figure advanced, and stood in the front of the window. Matilda shuddered, and those below seemed greatly alarmed.

The form looked to be that of a man; but she could not possibly make out either its dress or countenance. It con­tinued visible but a very short time, when it appeared to sink down by degrees, till it was entirely lost; and the light immediately vanished.

Leonard and the strangers clasped their hands in sign of wonder; the former attended them to the gates, and then returned to the abbey: but neither he nor Alfred re- entered their chamber till near half an hour after.

Matilda, fatigued, and terrified with what she had seen, retired to her bed, but not to sleep. Her mind wandered over such strange events; and the more she thought of them, the more she was perplexed. Mystery seemed to follow mystery, and every succeeding one appeared more horrid than the former.

[Page 19] The gloomy look of her chamber encouraged the most dismal ideas; and her eyes, as if by impulse, were con­tinually fixed on the picture before mentioned, and which Matilda was so struck with the first night she [...]lep [...] in the room. Directly opposite her bed was placed [...] pier glass of uncommon size, and surrounded by a heavy gilt frame. This piece of furniture had lately been added to the cham­ber, it having before stood in one of the apartments below. A small lighted taper was near it, and the dim, uncertain light which it gave, showed but faintly the reflection of the objects in the glass. Matilda, unable to rest, and tired with the continual sight of the painting, turned her eyes towards the glass; it showed the bed and the recess on each side: but the back ground of the reflection was nearly dark. She was perfectly awake, and sighed at those ideas she was unable to repress.

The sigh was answered.

She trembled, thought it might be Agnes, but was con­vinced she was mistaken. She heard it again: she thought it certainly could not be fancy.

It was repeated a third time.

At that moment she perceived a light through the glass, and the same figure she had before seen in the west tower advance, bearing in the same manner a lamp.

Matilda saw no more▪ she screamed, and closed her eyes. In about a minute she opened them again; but the appear­ance had vanished. Agnes, however, awoke, and requested to know if she was ill; while her brother knocked at her door, and asked the same question. She answered both that she was well, out had been dreaming: and it being a natural supposition that this might be the reason of her terror, no further inquiry was made. Matilda could not be composed: [Page 20] and the more she strove to persuade herself it was merely the effects of a disturbed brain, the more her own senses con­firmed the contrary. By her fight of the figure in the glass, it seemed to come forward from the left hand side of her bed. There was no opening in the room for the admittance of any human being, except by the door of the chamber; and that was bolted on the inside. She was entirely free from sleep, nor had heard the least noise since she had first entered the apartment in the beginning of the night.

She determined to inform her brother of this circumstance, the first opportunity on the following morning, as it was of too horrid a nature to be passed over in silence. She again strove to rest, but it was impossible; and, fearful of even lifting her head above the bed-clothes, she suffered the most tormenting and terrific sensations.

Morning at length broke in upon the room, and the sun with glowing splendour darted through the thick soliage of the trees, till with majestic grandeur he rose above them, and seemed to change the face of nature to life and joy. Matilda hailed the morning with a hymn to that Supreme Deity who caused the change, and at whose nod the same darkness and horror could in a moment be returned. Agnes soon rose. She perceived Matilda was unwell, and begged she would not get up to breakfast: but the latter was cer­tain this would be of no service to her, and she accordingly, after some little time, joined them in the parlour. [...] inquired if she was ill; she faintly answered, "No;" but her manner contradicted the reply. After breakfast she requested to speak with him alone.

Poor Agnes had every day more and more cause for won­der, and now declared to Leonard she was afraid Mademoi­selle was going [...] the same way as he and his master.

[Page 21] Matilda and Alfred ascended to the chamber of the for­mer, and she related to him the events of the last night.

Her recital of them was so clear and perfect, and her man­ner of delivery so steady and free from every appearance of a flighty imagination, that, however improbable the tale might seem, Alfred was staggered at the answers she gave to the arguments by which he attempted to persuade her to think no more of it, and at last became a convert to her opinion: nor is it so much to be wondered at that he so readily acquiesced in a belief of the fact, since he himself had once been witness to a light in the west tower, and seen an object which made a great impression on him on entering the room next the parlour, and had heard Leo­nard, the night before the present morning, relate that he had (as also those that were with him) seen a light and figure in the same casement of the tower.

These circumstances, with some others of a like nature, following each other in due order, were certainly in a [...] degree sufficient reasons for his belief of a fact which he otherwise would have laughed at and disregarded.

After a pause of silence for a considerable time, during which the countenances of both brother and sister were expressive of affliction, distress, and horror; Alfred declar­ed an intention, which both alarmed and terrified Matilda, but which he seemed ob [...]tinately bent on executing: it was, to watch himself for one night in the west tower.

"Leonard," said he, "shall sleep in my room as usual▪ but by no means acquaint Agnes with this resolution."

"For heaven's sake, Alfred," answered Matilda, "do not admit such a thought: I would sooner suffer any thing than you should expose yourself to such a risk."

Alfred smiled.

[Page 22] "Why surely, Matilda," said he, "we have nothing to fear from supernatural beings."

She still, however, urged and entreated him to think no more of it. But he continued firm to his plan; and it was in vain his sister used every persuasive argument she could think of, to make him give up such a dreadful deter­mination.

"Who knows," said he, "Matilda, but one night may unravel mysteries that have been concealed for years? who knows but by the exertion of a little fortitude, by banish­ing idle fears, and showing some degree of spirit, we may defy our enemies, my conduct may be made clear to the world, and a series of happy years be a reward for adver­sities at the beginning of life? what would I not suffer," exclaimed he, "for such blessings and happiness! O merci­ful father! if the injured spirit of my sire walks in this de­serted abbey, and seeks the presence of his son▪ should I not strive for the interview, though it might chill my na­ture at the time?"

"Go!" pronounced a voice, followed by a dismal groan.

Matilda sunk into a chair. Alfred held her arm, and trembled.

"In the name of our Holy Virgin," said he, "answer me, who and what thou art."

"Go, go, go!" repeated the voice, three times; and then with another groan it seemed to ascend and die away.

"Surely," said Alfred, "heaven interferes in my behalf, and tells me to proceed! Now, Matilda, you can urge no objection,"

She sighed deeply.

"But you are ill: we had better go down to the parlour immediately."

[Page 23] "I am indeed," she answered, "hardly able to stand."

Her brother partly carried her down the stairs, and placed her on a sofa; she directly fell into strong hysteric fits, which lasted a considerable time; every method was taken for her recovery; and they were greatly alarmed. At length, however, she seemed more composed, and, after some hours, found herself much better, though extremely weak.

Leonard, who had hitherto been made acquainted with every extraordinary circumstance, was now in his turn a wondering spectator; and Agnes, still more distressed and terrified, declared it would be the happiest moment of her life, when she once found herself at some distance from so dismal and horrid an abode. Alfred mused in melancholy silence on the strange voice he had heard [...] nor had he now a single doubt of a supernatural being haunting the cham­bers of the abbey. "Surely," though he, "that room, where it is likely my father lost his life, is the most proba­ble place to be visited by his disturbed spirit. Yet, may not my senses▪ be so far overcome by seeing the departed shade of a parent whom I never knew, but who was sup­posed to have been basely murdered, as to prevent my utter­ance at the critical moment of its, appearance?"

Matilda was silent and melancholy: she considered it would now be ridiculous to strive to prevent Alfred from watching in the west tower, since so strange an occurrence had strengthened that resolution which [...] had before ta­ken; yet fears for his safety harassed her [...]magination, and almost threw her into a state of insanity.

Only one method she could think of, that would in any degree alleviate her anxiety; which was, to propose his having Leonard to attend [...] whole [...] but then [Page 24] she shrunk with terror from the thought of sleeping at such a distance from any one but Agnes, and feared again she might see the figure in her chamber. Her regard, however, for her brother made her resolve to sacrifice her own feel­ings, and at least make the proposal to him.

After dinner they contrived to send Agnes into the hall for a few minutes; and Leonard was then made acquain­ted with the events of the morning, and with the determi­nation his master had taken of watching himself that night in the tower.

Leonard turned pale.

"For heaven's sake, sir," said he, "do not attempt it!"

"But consider," replied Alfred, "the words which the voice repeated."

Leonard could make no answer, but turned away with horror and surprise.

"At all events," said Alfred, "Agnes must not know of this affair, nor of my visit to the deserted chamber. We must therefore contrive to make every thing ready without her knowledge, and in such a manner that I may first go into my own room, as if to retire to rest, and after some little time steal to the west tower."

Matilda and Leonard shuddered at the idea of what might happen there; yet neither, after what had happened, could attempt, at least they [...]new it would be of no avail to at­tempt, to persuade him to relinquish his intention. Agnes now entered. Alfred and Leonard immediately ascended to their chamber, and conveyed a table, with some books, wine, and provision, to the apartment before mentioned, where those spots of blood were to be seen, which, in all human probability, was that of Alfred's father.

[Page 25] Leonard also laid a wood sire, and made the room as com­fortable as possible.

Having done this, they returned to the parlour, and Ma­tilda soon found an opportunity to request he would let Leonard remain with him the whole night; but her brother positively refused it, though he at last agreed Leonard should accompany him to the tower, but then return direct­ly. Alfred proposed a walk to the hermit; but Matilda appeared too ill to undertake it; they therefore postponed it till the next day. Supper-time at length arrived, and anxiety was marked on the features of all: Alfred was oc­cupied by the thoughts of what he might be witness to in the short space of a few hours; and Matilda, alarmed for his welfare, and terrified at even entering her chamber, dreaded lest the midnight hour should again show her the phantom. Leonard weighed in his mind the difference of their situation: when possessed of a tender parent, they knew no unhappiness, except for the misfortunes and sor­rows of others, which they were ever ready to pity and as­sist. Agnes was almost afraid to turn her head, for fear of seeing some hideous spectre.

All wished to delay retiring to rest, and they talked some time after supper on indifferent subjects, but with heavy hearts; till at length Alfred arose. They ascended the great stair-case, and parted for the night.

CHAPTER XXXI. MYSTERIOUS EVENTS.

WHEN an opinion is once formed, every succeeding circumstances seems to confirm what our ideas have before suggested; and though of a far different nature, every ob­ject is referred to the same point of view.

Thus it was with Matilda; she no longer doubted, and a dreadful certainly took place: she did not now hesitate whether such things might be, but she fervently believed such things were; and consequently every trivial event strengthened this imagination.

Agnes, as usual, was soon in bed; but Matilda resolved to watch the casement of the tower. "My brother," thought she, "will shortly be there; and if will be some lit­tle comfort to see the dim light that proceeds from his lamp."

A book was her excuse for not undressing, and Agnes in about a quarter of an hour was asleep.

Alfred and Leonard remained in their chamber some time. It was near midnight when Matilda heard them leave it; her heart palpitated for their situation, and she shrunk with horror from her own. Neither was now near! the shadow of the preceding night presented itself to her [Page 27] fancy, and her blood was chilled at the very thought. Thunder rolled over the abbey, and pale flashes of light­ning darted on the mouldering ruins. Matilda could not yet discern a light; she conceived they must be a considera­ble time ascending, while her fears and anxiety made her forget that they had first to go down the great stairs, and afterwards up those of the west tower.

At length a faint glimmering appeared, which was a kind of signal to her that they had entered the chamber.

The thunder became more awful, and awoke Agnes.

"Good heavens, mademoiselle, are you up yet? What a dreadful night!"

"It is rather stormy," replied Matilda, striving to be composed.

"Rather stormy, mademoiselle! why the thunder is hor­rid, and the lightning too is extremely bad: you had bet­ter move from the window; it is very dangerous to stand so near it."

Matilda took her advice. The lightning became much worse; she sat down by the side of the bed, and requested Agnes to compose herself to rest.

"But are you not going to give up reading for the night?"

"I have just finished the book," answered Matilda, "and then shall go to rest."

There being now a little interval in the storm, Agnes was soon in a slumber.

By this time she expected Leonard would have returned to his chamber; but she had not yet heard him enter it. The light still continued in the casement; but the storm was so very violent as to prevent her being continually at the window.

[Page 28] Near a quarter of an hour elapsed, and she heard nothing of Leonard. Seated on the bed, she dared not turn herself towards the glass, but kept her eyes fixed on the ground, terrified at the idea of even looking round the room. At last a noise, which seemed to proceed from the court be­low, made her rise, and go the window. She could see no one, yet heard a kind of knocking, at the outer gates. Who or what it could be, she was at a loss to imagine; and, the noise increasing, she became more uneasy and astonished. She was equally unable also to account for Leonard's stay, and conceived something very extraordinary must have hap­pened.

The noise now ceased for some little time, but afterwards became more clamorous; and at last, by the sound, the gates seemed to burst open. A thought struck Matilda, that they might be discovered, and that the officers of justice were come for her brother. She trembled at the supposition, but still remained at the casement.

After a short period, she perceived four men armed ap­proach the abbey: two of them had lanterns, and the others followed directly after. Matilda was nearly distracted; she knew not in what manner to act. Leonard might be returned, though she had not heard him. She tapped at the door, but received no answer. She knocked louder: all was silent: she entered the chamber, but it was entirely deserted. Having listened at the top of the stair-case, and heard them enter the hall, from which they proceeded to the parlour, all fears of supernatural appearances vanished from her mind, and the preservation of Alfred employed every faculty. She determined to descend, and strive to make out, unperceived, the occasion of their visit.

[Page 29] But then, if Agnes should awake, and find no one near, what would be her situation? Matilda hesitated a little, but at last resolved to run the hazard for the sake of her brother. She therefore took the lamp, and softly stepped down to the hall, which having crossed towards the door of the parlour, she stopped, and through the crevice could see that they were all seated round the supper table, which had been left standing in the same place, and on which was some wine: this they were making free with, and seemed in high mirth.

Ready to sink with anxiety, she supported herself against a column; and the door not being quite closed, she had a view of each of their countenances, at different times, as they turned round to speak to each other. By their dress and language she found they were Italians.

"Push the bottle about!" cried one, who seemed to be a kind of superior, and whose visage was, if possible, fier­cer than those of his comrades: "nobody loves good wine better than I do, particularly when it is got cheap.

Here was a loud laugh, and a boisterous chorus of a song used by banditti. At last silence was in some measure restored; and one who sat on the right side of him that spoke, reminded him not to make too free with the bottle, and forget the business they came upon.

"True! true! answered he: "I thank you for your caution, for faith there is great danger of it, as you say, when we are seated at such a table as this. But now to business; come, in the first [...], we are to contrive in what manner to find him; for my own part I propose to—"

Here a loud clap of thunder rolled over the abbey; and she was unable to distinguish what followed.

After some time she heard the voice of the third.

[Page 30] "It is very true," says he, "that might do well; but I have reason to think he is in the west tower to-night, by the light I saw in the casement."

"Pish!" answered the first, "that place is haunted; I have often seen a light in it, when not a soul inhabited the abbey."

Matilda trembled violently.

"Ah! that I know very well, signor: but by what—"

Here again the thunder interrupted the distracted listener, and she lost the remainder of the sentence. At length all was once more silent.

"Well, well," said the first, "if that is the case, why we must directly make our road to the west tower: but the devil take me if I know which is the way to it."

"Nor I," exclaimed each of the others, rising.

"Never mind," answered the first: "I'll warrant we will find it."

This was enough for Matilda;—she heard no more, but immediately departed towards the stair-case that led to the tower, with an intent to acquaint her brother with the arrival of the unwelcome visitors. Had she been told, half an hour before, that she could have had the courage to proceed alone at midnight to the west tower, she would posi­tively have declared it would have been impossible: but now, though a great degree of terror was left, yet the chief part was obliterated in the idea of preserving her brother's life.

She hurried across the hall, but, in her agitation, mistook the turning to the stairs, and found herself before the heavy grate-work gates of the chapel. She stopped a moment to fetch breath. While her eyes were vacantly fixed on the ruins of this ancient place of worship, a faint glimmering seemed to move on one side of the aisles; and, in about a [Page 31] minute, a figure with a lamp glided along the body of the chapel. This brought Matilda, to a recollection of her situation; her tottering limbs almost refused to do their office: she partly staggered from the gates, and returned to find the opening to the stair-case. This she fortunately found, and began to ascend the narrow stone stairs; while every few minutes she stopped, and thought she heard a footstep behind her; then looked back, but all was quiet, except the thunder, which still continued with equal vio­lence. Matilda, faint and breathless, at length arrived at the first landing. Here she halted, and seated herself for a moment under a casement.

The lightning darted through into the opposite apart­ment, which was that which contained the few implements of war, and martial instruments, and showed the gloomy appearance of the room. One flash, greater than the rest, illumined the whole space; and, at the same instant, a figure stalked across, and seemed to vanish at the further end. Matilda gave a faint shriek, and hurried up the re­mainder of the stairs; and, when arrived at the top, burst into the fatal chamber of the west tower, and there perceiv­ed her brother sitting alone at the table, his hand on his sword, his eyes fixed on a particular part of the room, with a wild look of horror and agony, while his whole frame shook with convulsive terror.

"Alfred!" exclaimed Matilda, sinking on a chair.

He turned his eyes towards her, and started.

"Ah! who and what art thou, that appearest to me in the shape—"

Matilda fell into a fainting sit. When she recovered, she found her brother standing over her, and administering some wine and water. His haggard countenance met here [Page 32] when she opened her eyes, and with a look of distraction he asked her what brought her there.

"Anxiety for your safety," answered she; and immedi­ately related to him, in as few words as possible, the scene she had been witness to, concerning the men who were now in the abbey.

"Merciful father!" he exclaimed, "how much longer shall I be harassed with horror and misfortunes, which follow each other so quickly, that I am not able to extri­cate myself from one, before it is succeeded by a greater, which seems at once to overwhelm me with ruin and des­pair? What am I saying?" continued he: "dare I to question the Almighty, wretch that I am, and repine at those adversities he has ordained I should experience?"

"Stand not here," said Matilda, "but leave this part of the building. They will, I am afraid, begin to ascend the stair-case before we can get down. Pray make haste. If you can but evade them so as to attain the great stair-case, you may conceal yourself in some of the further apartments beyond our chambers, while they are searching here."

They now began to descend (Alfred having put out the lamp in the chamber) and fortunately found themselves at the bottom, without any interruption, but heard some voices at the further end of the passage, next the chapel by the great gates. They stopped not to listen, but immedi­ately ran up the principal stairs. At the top they discover­ed Leonard.

"For heaven's sake, Leonard," exclaimed both brother and sister, "where have you been?"

"Faith," returned Leonard, "that I can hardly tell; but, by some means or other, I turned wrong on the stair­case of the west tower when I left my master to come back to my chamber. It led me into a small passage, and I [Page 33] there found some stone steps. Thinking that this was on­ly an angle, and that it would lead me to the same spot as if I had continued right, I descended them, but soon sound my error, and discovered myself among the ruins of the chapel. These I crossed, to read a stone which was erected to the memory of the late count."

This explained to Matilda the figure which she had seen as she was going to her brother; she did not however in­terrupt him; and Leonard told them that he soon found his way to the hall, but had also heard strange voices of persons who seemed to be searching the abbey; on which account he had called Agnes, who had greatly alarmed herself and him when they found Matilda was absent.

They were now joined by Agnes, who flew into the arms of her fair friend, who, her imagination had told her, was run away with by the ghosts. The party now began to proceed towards the further chambers, Agnes supported by Leonard, and Matilda by her brother.

CHAPTER. XXXII.

WITH solitary and silent steps they crossed several a­partments, till they came to the passage which was before described, and which led to the gloomy chamber that, it was supposed, had formerly contained a corpse lying in state. Matilda dreaded to enter it; she well remembered the appearance of it, when with her brother she examined those rooms.

But there was now no alternative: it ended the suite, and therefore it was the most likely one to conceal them.

[Page 34] After crossing the passage they arrived at the folding doors: Matilda and Alfred were foremost; the latter push­ed against them, and they flew open. The chamber was illuminated. All started back with astonishment and hor­ror. Agnes faintly screamed; and it was some minutes before they proceeded. At length, however, they advan­ced, and perceived that the pieces of wax tapers in the black glasses, which they had before observed, were now lighted, and served to show the dismal, terrific scene a­round them. In every other respect the apartment was exactly the same, nor could the trace of any foot-step he discovered. Both were silent: their own reflections were sufficient. Alfred had witnessed so much in the abbey, that he found it impossible to turn off the subject with jest, or even reasoning. Having seated his sister and Agnes, he stood by them with his arms folded, and his eyes fixed on the floor; Leonard was in the same posture, on the other side.

They had not remained in this situation above ten mi­nutes, when a loud clap of thunder rolled over the building. It was followed by a convulsive shock of nature, which seemed to take effect on the part where they stood; and at that moment the Corinthian capital of a large column, greatly decayed, fell to the ground with a most tremendous noise.

Both Matilda and Agnes were nearly insensible; Leo­nard was stupefied with horror, and Alfred distracted. Some moments after, when the latter perceived something raised above the shaft of the pillar, his curiosity led him to go near: he did so, and to his surprise found it was a mar­ble hand, holding a length of silver chain, at the bottom of which was a gold and bloody key. He called his sister, Agnes, and Leonard, to look at it, then clasped hold of it, [Page 35] and disentangled the chain from the hand. A flash of lightning, and a clap of thunder, again called their atten­tion; when, turning from the column, the figure and its lamp again stood before them, lifted up its arms in token of pleasure, and vanished through the floor from their sight.

Agnes screamed and fell into strong hysterics, while Ma­tilda, supported by her brother, sainted away.

It was near an hour before they recovered. The storm had now in some measure abated: and Alfred, thinking he had heard during the latter part of the time a noise like the closing of the abbey gates, desired Leonard to look first from the great stairs, and then proceed down, and search the lower part of the building.

Leonard having left them, Alfred began to give as much consolation as was in his power to Agnes and his sister: but his words faultered, as he attempted to use arguments of comfort, while ideas of misery and distress came too forcibly to admit the bright and cheering ray of hope. Leonard returned with the agreeable intelligence that the unwelcome visitors had left the abbey. They therefore, after the lights were put out, made their way to their chambers, and retired; yet though their harassed minds received, in some degree, the oblivion of sleep, it was of that kind which occasioned tormenting and horrid flights of fancy.

Matilda appeared extremely ill at breakfast; Alfred pro­duced the key which in so wonderful a manner he had ob­tained possession of. They were at a loss to know to what it belonged, when Matilda recollected the cabinet in her chamber; and, according to the size, it seemed to be de­signed for that lock. They deferred, however, trying it, till another opportunity, as they intended visiting Father [Page 36] Peter before dinner. They were soon equipped for their little journey, and proceeded for the cave.

Father Peter was seated at a table, in a melancholy pos­ture. On one side of him was his crucifix, and before him several papers, which he put away immediately as they entered.

Having testified great pleasure at seeing them, the con­versation became general, and they found that their sup­position was right, concerning his being on a visit to some peasants, when they found him absent from his habitation.

They had been in the cave about an hour, when Father Peter, while talking with unusual cheerfulness, was sud­denly taken ill, and fainted away in Alfred's arms.

Matilda and Agnes administered some cordials which they found near, while Leonard unbuttoned his vest, in or­der to give him air; when they beheld suspended on his breast an elegant miniature of a lady, set in gold, and a­dorned with pearls. But how great was Alfred's astonish­ment, to behold the exact resemblance of lady Caroline Al­bourne! No notice was, however, taken: for all except him were too much engaged to observe the likeness.

Father Peter by degrees recovered, and thanked them for their attention. He said he was subject to such sits, and expected to pay the debt of nature, at the approach of each of them: "But oh! my God!" he exclaimed, "spare me a little longer, till a mighty work is effected! and then I die in peace."

They now took their leave, and returned to the abbey. Alfred mentioned his observation on the miniature, and it was the cause of reflections the most uncomfortable and distressing. The sight of a picture which resembled in so striking a manner the countenance of a beloved object, brought to his memory scenes of happiness he had once [Page 37] hoped to have enjoyed, but which were now, to all human probability, for ever blasted.

The charming lady Caroline he supposed to be hundreds of miles distant: and he considered it as by no means an improbable supposition that she might now be in the arms of another. He informed his sister and Leonard that he again intended to watch in the west tower that night; but determinedly refused to accept of even Leonard's attend­ance in the chamber, that he might be in readiness to con­duct her and Agnes to the other part of the abbey, should they again be disturbed by the visitors of the night before. After dinner, Leonard said he was going to the public market: but Matilda knew this was the usual excuse. Al­fred advised his sister to examine the cabinet after Agnes was asleep: this was agreed on, and he delivered her the key.

Leonard returned in about two hours, and had a private conference with his master. Both seemed much pleased with some information they had received. Supper-time arrived; and after a short repast they retired to their apart­ments.

Alfred, in about half an hour after, took a lamp, softly left his chamber, and proceeded to that of the west tower. Agnes was not asleep so soon as usual: she talked of the horrors they had experienced, and trembled for fear of a repetition of them in her dreams. At length, however, she fell under the influence of the heavy god; and Matil­da with a palpitating heart, applied the gold key to the cabinet, when, after a little difficulty, the folding doors flew open.

It was elegantly adorned with gilt Italian figures, of con­siderable size, in the habits of former times. The first three drawers which Matilda opened, contained coins of gold [Page 38] and silver to a great amount. The sight of the treasure though it for a moment elevated her, caused, after a little reflection, but a small degree of pleasure; it was none of their property, nor had they any proof to the right of pos­sessing it. The fourth and fifth drawers contained jewels, the most beautiful she had ever seen, carefully preserved in gold caskets. The sixth drawer was full of papers; some of which were letters that had passed between the old count Maserini and his lady, in their youth, before their marriage; and several after, when the count was on business at the court of Spain. In one of these be mentioned his intention of purchasing Grasville Abbey, and in the next his having done it, and taken possession of the title to that estate. He concluded with ho [...]es that his son Percival Maserini ought live to enjoy it after him. There were a few fragments of memorandums, which formed the contents of the sixth drawer.

In the seventh drawer she found four miniature paintings, elegantly mounted with pearls, gold, and jewels of great value. Two of them represented a lady and gentleman in the prime of life, whom Matilda supposed to be the count and his lady; the other two were children, one of whom resembled her own picture of her father; and [...]s companion was, she had little doubt, intended for his sister Sisera Maserini. The remaining part of the drawer was filled with ornaments for women in former times.

Matilda now drew [...] the eighth and last drawer, when the only articles it contained were a peice of ribband, one end of which showed its remainder had been parted by force; and a small roll of parchment which was filled with writing, and, though in some measure defaced by time, with some little [...]ns it was easily to be read. The lan­guage was French; but what were Matilda's sensations, [Page 39] when she beheld her father's name at the bottom! A sud­den faintness seized her, and she sunk into an arm chair. A flood of tears, however, fortunately, gave relief, and she found herself able to peruse the manuscript, which contain­ed the following words, and showed plainly the distracted state of mind the writer laboured under:

"Oh! father of mercy, where—where, Oh! my God, is thy thunder, to crush to the earth those who disgrace thy heavenly image? My wife! my sister!—I see ye—I clasp ye [...]—Ah! my soul! they are but figures sent by hell to aid my tormentors, and burst my very heart-strings with grief!

"Count D'Oillfont, where are you? Dare me to single combat! use any means but treachery.—Damnable villain!—dragged from all my heart held most dear, immured in a horrid confinement, with the dreadful expectation of an ignominious death!

"Clementina Sisera! where are ye?—Oh! my father, if thou art permitted to look down from thy blessed abode in heaven, on the miseries of thy son—will not tears, such as angles weep, burst forth, and thy frame, though immor­tal, receive a shock of horror?

My wife! my sister!—I am sick at heart—appear to me—give me some comfort within these gloomy walls!—Oh, D'Ollifont; D'Ollifont! thou a [...] planning a horrid deed;—Thou thirstest for my blood!—why not take thy fill at once, and end this life of torture?—why shrink?—why stay the murderous dagger from my breast—when thy coward heart must know I am wholly in thy power, unable to re­sist the tyrannic rod of oppression?

[Page 40] "Father Peter! I know I have thy pity:—but thou art entangled in the snares of a wretch, and unable to extricate thyself from the hellish bondage.—Thou knowest all, and thou wilt know my end.—To thee then must I look for reparation. On thee must it depend, to be an instrument of almighty justice, and give blood for blood!

"Hark! the tormentors will soon be here; one little hour, and this injured frame is levelled with the dust.—Oh! my God, forgive my enemies, protect my poor deserted wise, and the offspring of our love, if yet in this world of woe.—My sister too! defend her from the enemies of our house.—All's dark, all's cheerless; must I not have one ray of light to ease the pang of dissolution?—Must no wife, no sister, no friend, nor even charitable stranger, give one sigh or parting look of pity, ere these eyes are closed for ever!—Must none but murderers, grinning at their soul-done deed, receive the quivering last-drawn breath of life?—Poison or daggers is the choice!—It matters not: each tends to the same great end.—Hark! hark! I hear them coming. The bell strikes one! The hour well suits the horrid act.—Almighty father! thy influence spreads around me—and rays of blessed hope give warmth to my every faculty.—I am light as air: all misery vanishes: I die with pleasure. Ye murderers, appear! I am now prepared to receive you, even with e [...]stasy.—Terror, distress, and horror, are no more.—Hell sinks before me.—The dark and gloomy va­pours of despair are dispelled by the glorious light of hea­ven, and the refulgent beams of a merciful redeemer.

"I see—Oh! my God! my God! I mount; I fly;—nature itself seems gone.—The world's a mass of matter, now to me no more!"

CHAPTER. XXXIII. MIDNIGHT TRANSACTIONS.

"UNFORTUNATE parent! heaven will surely avenge thy wrongs: the wrath of the Almighty must at a fu­ture time fall on him who, with fiend-like malice, could plunge the innocent into misery, wretchedness, and des­pair."

These were the words of Matilda, as she dropped the manuscript from her hands, and burst into a flood of tears. Such affecting, mournful complaints, such a picture of hor­ror and distress would have greatly shocked her, had they proceeded from one not bound to her by the ties of rela­tionship, or even those of friendship; but the idea of a fa­ther undergoing those sufferings, contributed [...] to in­crease that grief and melancholy which [...]e at present ex­perienced.

Having wept for a considerable time, she found herself in some degree recovered. But she was entirely at a loss to know in what manner to act with respect to the informa­tion she should give to her brother relative to the manu­script. [Page 42] Matilda well knew [...]s natural warmth of temper would not permit him to use discretion in his inquiries of Father Peter; and the strange, mysterious behaviour of this man had prevented them from even trusting him with their situation. It was true the paper she had found spoke well of him; but how easily might her poor father have been deceived by artful professions of friendship to hide the lurk­ing villany of his soul, and make his punctuality to the count's orders appear in less infamous and horrid colours. Now, should this man be still kept by D'Ollifont as a spy upon the abbey, her brother's impetuosity might cause him to throw himself in Father Peter's power, without first knowing either his character or inclination to serve them.

Matilda was perfectly convinced these considerations were just, and wished to procure herself an explanation from the hermit: but to visit him alone, undiscovered, was an expedient she was entirely ignorant how to contrive any means to effect: yet it was actually necessary Father Peter should be consulted, and that immediately.

After some study a thought struck her that she might see him at night, after her brother, Leonard, and Agnes, had retired to rest; but then she shrunk from the idea of walk­ing to the cave at so late an hour. Second reflection, how­ever, seemed to tell her she had nothing to fear; and that would be the only method she could take to obtain an in­terview without the knowledge of any other person. At length she came to a determination to try her project the following night; and by the time this resolution was for­med, day-light darted through the casement of her cham­ber, and seemed to enliven nature with its cheering rays.

She had not yet heard Alfred enter his room: but when­ever she had looked towards the west tower, as she had done several times in the course of the night, the light [Page 43] seemed to continue in the same place. This trifling ob­servation gave her some degree of comfort, as she supposed every thing remained quiet.

Some little time after, she heard Alfred open his cham­ber door, and speak to Leonard. Matilda felt considerable happiness at his safety, and, as she was now perfectly satisfied in that respect, she desired Agnes, when she arose, not to wait breakfast for her; as, having received but lit­tle rest during the night, she intended now to compose her­self to sleep.

She arose at a late hour, and found her brother, Leo­nard, and Agnes, in the parlour. The former was read­ing; and though his countenance was extremely pale, yet she thought she could perceive an inward satisfaction and serenity she had lately been seldom witness to.

Alfred soon requested to speak with her alone, and, with considerable eagerness, asked her if she had found any thing of consequence in the cabinet. Matilda acquainted him with every article, except the manuscript; he seemed in some measure disappointed, but showed great pleasure at the idea of the money.

Matilda was rather surprised. "That money," said she, "Alfred, we have no right to; nor do I know, in our situa­tion, that it would be of any material service, were it our own."

"We must at all events make free with it, Matilda; I have the strongest reason to suppose that it does belong to us; and besides we are now in the greatest want of it."

"How so?" replied his sister, still more astonished. "You told me the other day we had enough to support us for some time at least."

"True," answered Alfred: "but I have now other uses for wealth; in short, Matilda, this night had disco­vered [Page 44] to me circumstances of a most wonderful nature; and the horrid mystery of this dreadful abbey is at length unravelled. Perhaps we may remain here a short time longer: but I hope you will soon see these gloomy scenes of adversity and sorrow transformed to days and years of tranquillity, happiness and comfort."

Matilda stood the image of amazement; and for a mo­ment she thought her brother insane; but the glow of plea­sure which overspread his face confirmed that his words were true; and his features once more appeared the same, as when in former times she had seen him, with his own hands, relieve the shivering, famished, beggar, and, his countenance glowing with compassion and benevolence, watch the poor wretch recover vital warmth and strength from the nourishment he had administered. Matilda catched the heart-felt joy; but on her it took a different effect, and she burst into tears. Nor was Agnes's joy less, when she was informed of the good intelligence. She wept with pleasure at the idea of leaving the abbey, and still remaining with her dear young lady.

The good old Leonard too was seen to wipe his eyes, and heave a sigh of ecstacy, at this unexpected turn of for­tune.

Alfred, however, would give no satisfactory answer to their inquiries concerning what he had seen in the west tower: he only told them that the abbey must be still their habitation for a short period; but the time would pass a­way with far more comfort than it had hitherto done.

Dinner-time arrived: but the intelligence had cloyed every appetite; and it was removed almost without being tasted. Alfred, about half an hour after, left the abbey, and said he should return towards evening.

[Page 45] Matilda had now time to consider whether, after what she had heard, it would be proper to conceal the manu­script from her brother; and, though many reasons promp­ted her to give it to him immediately, yet a little reflection told her that the same ill consequence she had before con­ceived, might arise from it. He might not yet be acquain­ted with the sufferings of his father, nor with the know­ledge the hermit had of his distress and death. In short, she resolved to act as she had before determined, and pay Father Peter a visit at midnight. But she wished not to leave Agnes without speaking; an excuse might serve, that she had left some books in the parlour which she wished to look over, and which might take her some time to procure.

Alfred returned at the time he mentioned, and informed them he did not intend to watch in the tower that night. The evening was spent with some degree of com­fort, and at an early hour they retired to rest. Agnes was soon asleep, and Matilda read till near midnight. During that time she often looked at the casement of the west tower, but no light nor figure appeared. Having awaked Agnes, she informed her she was going to look for a book she had left in the parlour. Agnes did not by any means like the idea of being left alone in the chamber; but Ma­tilda reminded her that her brother and Leonard were within call, in the next room; but she requested her to make no noise without there was actually a necessity. She waited a little time, and had the pleasure to find Agnes asleep before she left the apartment.

Matilda took the lamp, and, having softly descended the great stairs, proceeded through the hall, and from that to the first court, which soon, brought her to the outer one.

She now began to tremble and feel her situation. To be entirely alone at such an hour of the night, was an idea [Page 46] in many respects terrific. The pale and half-obscured moon gave but an imperfect light; and that light was often eclipsed by dark, heavy clouds, which seemed to rise from the south, and form a gloomy mountain of dark mist to­wards the west; while vivid flashes of lightning darted from the hoizon, and illumined the gathered clouds on the south with uncommon strength.

Matilda viewed the awful scene with emotion, and was several times going to turn back; but she chid herself for want of fortitude, and attempted to laugh at those fears which now almost prevented her from supporting herself.

She had, however, arrived nearly half way to the cave, when a sound of human voices struck her ear at some distance.

Matilda listened—thought it might only be a soft breeze which waved the thick groves of cypress that surrounded her. But she heard it again, and was convinced she was right: it seemed like a chorus, or the chanting of a fune­ral hymn for the soul of a deceased person.

She stopped, and leaning against a broken pedestal which had formerly borne a statue, listened with some degree of pleasure to the solemn dirge. But the voices seemed now to approach much nearer; and she perceived a glare of light at some distance above the foliage, which informed her the persons whom she had heard were near. Terror at being discovered, now overcame every other consideration, and with eager eye she scrutinised each side of the grove, to find a place of concealment. At length she fortunately found a small opening in one part, which, by putting back the boughs, with some little trouble, admitted and closed her from view. She now conceived herself to be safe from observation, though there was a part through which she could plainly discover whatever passed on the other side.

[Page 47] Five minutes did not elapse before a procession of men entered the path, still singing in the same solemn manner. A priest of holy orders proceeded first; but how greatly was she astonished to see him followed by about twelve men, who had every appearance of banditti in dress and figure! The first six carried torches; the other half follow­ed after, with slow and melancholy steps. These were succeeded by six more, bearing a coffin on their shoulders, which was covered with a black velvet pall, and adorned with trophies.

Matilda could hardly suppose herself awake; yet by the pale moon every figure seemed perfect, and she thought she could, in the faces of the last four, discover the visitors to the abbey on a former night. The whole company halted at the pedestal, when, to the amazement of Matilda, two of them removed a large stone, which formed the cap, and part of a Corinthian base. The pedestal then parted, and was let down, which discovered the entrance to a large vault. The funeral service was then read by the priest, who walked first, after which the coffin was carried down by four of the bearers. Another dirge was then sung, and the pedestal was closed, the cap, &c. being replaced. The procession having turned, proceeded back in the same man­ner, till she lost sight of them at the extremity of the grove.

Though elated at the idea of having escaped discovery, she felt considerable awe at the solemn scene. In short, the sight of this midnight funeral, added to the strange dresses of the mourners, impressed on her mind a degree of terror which she was unable to overcome. Having left her secret place of retirement, she passed hastily the strange sepulchre, and, with burried and trembling steps, breathless with agitation, arrived a [...] the cave of father Peter. His lamp was burning, and at a distance she could perceive him [Page 48] at his midnight devotions. His aged, reverend figure was in the same posture as when they first discovered him; and his crucifix, books, and hour-glass, as usual, stood be­fore him.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

MATILDA stopped a few moments to collect herself, before she discovered to the inhabitant of this recluse cell his midnight visitor. But while she was contemplating his aged form, bent on the earth, his hands clasped, and eyes lifted towards heaven with a fervency of devotion she had hardly ever observed, ideas struck her that by no means contributed to inspire that fortitude she so much wished at this critical hour to possess.

That very figure which she now so much admired, nay almost revered and loved, might have been an assistant in taking away the life of her father!—and those very hands which she saw extended in the pious action of prayer, might have inflicted tortures on her parent!

"Horrid ideas!—uncharitable consideration!" exclaimed a voice which seemed to pass by her in a whisper.

Matilda started at the rebuke: but she had not even breathed her thoughts: she was therefore certain it must be something more than mortal. Heaven itself had chid her for the supposition.

Trembling at the thought, she supported herself, against the side of the cave, and stood an object of distress and ter­ror. At length, being in some degree recovered, she step­ped forward, and gasping with anxiety, appeared before the astonished hermit. His surprise may be well conceived; [Page 49] and with [...] o [...] astonishment, nor by any means free from horror [...] asked [...] business at this unusual hour. Matilda had now partly recovered her scattered senses, and, with a dignity and fortitude of air peculiar to herself, re­quested his pardon for disturbing him at his devotions, and then begged him to listen with attention to a few circum­stances she had to relate.

Father Peter looked at her with a piercing eye. Both being seated, and the hermit having trimmed his lamp, Ma­tilda thus addressed him:

"Picture to yourself, father, a daughter, who never ex­perienced the embrace of paternal love, but who was yet taught to revere the name of a parent, though her eyes were never blessed with one glance of rapture on his coun­tenance.

"Brought up with all the tenderness a fond mother can conceive for her fatherless children, their unprotected state still more endearing them to her maternal bosom, she [...] but little the loss she had sustained, in the comfort and happiness of this remaining tie of duty and parental affec­tion. Now then," continued Matilda, bursting into tears, "change this scene of earthly bliss, and observe her on the couch of sickness, clasping the hand of her child with looks—Oh! merciful God! such looks as I cannot describe, nor you conceive."

She turned towards her aged auditor: the drops of sym­pathy trickled down his faded cheeks, while he begged her to be composed, and continue her narrative.

"Her countenance, raised towards heaven, brightened at the very thought of those glorious realms; and a christian's expectation beamed in her eye; yet when she turned to­wards her daughter, tears would again burst forth, and she would clasp to her heaving breast the weeping child, as if [Page 50] afraid to leave her in a world encircled with horrid guilt, and eternal destruction. She doubted not the goodness of her God; her faith was great, but yet her feelings could not be subdued. She died; and, if a good life procures a place of grace, wafted by heavenly angels, she reached the bosom of a merciful Redeemer.

"Now, father, behold the clouds of adversity gathering over the heads of her offspring; the brother petitions a no­ble relation of his mother to receive a sister to his care, for no pecuniary advantage, but to shield her from insults to which her age and sex, added to the unprotected state she was left in, every day subjected her. The only answer they obtain is a direct denial from an artful priest, who by his perfidious arguments had poisoned his patron's mind against the childrer of a daughter whom he had be­fore forsaken when he had no advise but a bad heart.

"They leave their native country, to accept the invita­tion of a distant relation in a foreign clime, where an asy­lum was yet hoped to be gained for the female wanderer, while her brother fought against the enemies of his country. Arrived at the principal city of England, they are plunged into dissipation, surrounded by temptation, and forsaken by those who should have protected them against oppression. Picture to yourself a villain, a dastardly villain, taking ad­vantage of the neglect shown to the female relation of his friend, and at a moment when he thought himself free from molestation employing even force to crush her to the earth, and blast her future days with shame and sorrow never to be erased. Her brother, witness to the sufferings and usage of a sister, who, he knew, had no other friend to guard her from a wretch unworthy to bear the image of his creator, seizes the villain, who attempts to take his life; but the rash, though, excusable, injured youth strikes him so the [Page 51] ground, weltering in his blood, and momentarily, expecting to pay that debt of nature, at the receival of which he had nothing to hope, but much to fear. They fly from the laws of England, return to their native land, shrinking from notice, fearful that the power of their oppressor may overtake them even there. Another heavy misfortune now surrounds them; through the cursed contrivance of their enemies, the young officer is proved a deserter, by not at­tending to an order which was sent to him the night he left London, and of which consequently he was entirely ignorant. By the death of him whom he had wounded, it is rendered impossible for him to clear himself of this stig­ma. Concealed in a desolate habitation, they discover the murder—ah! and the murderer, of their father."

Matilda turned towards the hermit. His colour changed, and he gazed at her with silent awe and astonishment.

She continued—"Yet a witness must be sound to authen­ticate the horrid deed, and give justice to the children of the deceased."

"And is such a person living?" asked father Peter.

"He is," returned Matilda.—"Were you in his situation, would you not promote that justice which God and nature require? or would you still screen the wretch, and suffer the innocent victims of his cruelty to languish in distress and affliction?"

"Surely you cannot doubt my answer," said the hermit. "I would even part with life itself to procure justice for the sufferers you mention."

"There is no need of such a sacrifice," answered Ma­tilda. "But now, father, I put your virtue to the trial. I come to demand reparation for the murder of a father, and that father the rightful heir of Orlando count Mase­rini."

[Page 52] Father Peter, though in a great degree astonished, was not actually so surprised as might have been expected. He asked an explanation.

"The account is brief. In short, Percival Maserini was a prisoner in yonder abbey: yon pitied him, yet were privy to the deed."

Father Peter seemed at a loss to reply. At length he told her that at an early hour he would wait on her at the abbey.

"You know my residence then?" said Matilda.

"Perfectly," answered he. "Believe me, you shall have no cause to repent this visit; and give me leave to foretel that the brightest scenes of happiness, with the Al­mighty's permission, now await you."

"There is comfort in your words, father," answered Matilda: "heaven send they may prove true! But the clouds of adversity have so long eclipsed the cheering rays of hope, that I hardly feel myself able to admit them to my breast."

Father Peter wished to see Matilda to the abbey-gates: but she positively refused his offer, and parted with him at the entrance of the cave.

The idea of the funeral again entered her imagination; and she felt a kind of dread at passing the sepulchre, which almost made her repent that she had refused the good old man's attendance.

When she had arrived within a few yards of it, she per­ceived a glare of light which seemed to spread around the part, and soon observed several torches, the same as she had before seen, stuck in the ground: the pedestal was also parted, and laid on the earth.

Matilda's agitation and surprise was greater than before; and she stopped unable to resolve whether to pass quickly [Page 53] by or remain where she was. While in this state of suspense, she saw two men ascend from the vault, followed by a third whose figure excited in her still greater astonishment. He was elegantly formed, and his clothes were entirely of the English fashion, but seemed strangely put on: his hair was dishevelled, and his whole frame seemed greatly disorder­ed.

After some little time they closed the pedestal, and, tak­ing up the torches, took that path which immediately led to the abbey.

Matilda was again at a loss in what manner to act; but followed them, though at a distance, with flow and cautious steps. At length she traced them to the gates of the abbey. Here they halted; and Matilda, with a palpitating heart, stopped also to observe their motions.

They continued in conversation some little time, when, to her amazement, they opened the outer gates, and entered.

Matilda, still more alarmed, proceeded on, and ventured to pass into the first court: she here perceived no one; but having entered the hall, she thought she heard voices in the parlour. Nor was her conjecture wrong: for having half ascended the great stairs, she listened for a moment, and heard a conversation carried on, though in a very low tone: she however could plainly discover the speech of Leonard and her brother; her fears therefore of a discovery being at an end, her curiosity did not prompt her to stay any longer, being much fatigued, and in want of rest. She therefore directly proceeded to her chamber, and was happy [...] [...]d Agnes still under the influence of the sleepy god.

CHAPTER XXXV. MYSTERIES ELUCIDATED.

"FATHER of light! Almighty God Supreme, who, with an all-seeing eye, surveyest the transactions of thy creatures here on earth, look down on one unworthy of thy goodness, though humbly soliciting thy aid—who craves thy support to see those mysteries explained, the elucida­tion of which may strike her soul with horror; but let thy heavenly assistance inspire her with fortitude and resignation, to listen to the dictates of thy will!"

Such was the conclusion of Matilda's prayer, as she retir­ed to her pillow.

She enjoyed a calm and serene repose till a late hour in the morning, and found herself much refreshed. Having descended to the parlour, neither Leonard, Agnes, nor her brother, had breakfasted.

"I am sorry" said she, "to have made you wait: but this morning I have been uncommonly lazy."

"We have not waited for you alone," answered Alfred cheerfully: "there is another person our guest to-day. In short, you no doubt recollect that, when you mentioned leaving the abbey, I told you a stranger would soon appear, to make you alter your resolution. The time is now arri­ved [Page 55] that my prophecy is to be fulfilled, and the mysterious behaviour I have been guilty of, I hope, in some measure excused. Look at those folding doors, Matilda: the sight of them has at a former time occasioned sensations of the utmost terror: do not, therefore, expect the entrance of a ghost, but a being of flesh and blood.—Come forth!" cried he.

Matilda expected to see the venerable figure of father Peter.

The doors hastily flew open, when, instead of the aged sage, an elegant young man sprang forth, and caught her in his arms. Matilda started back, and instantly exclaimed, "Mr. Milverne!

"Not so," said Alfred: "he does, I must confess, greatly resemble that gentleman; but you now see before you Archibald lord Milverne."

"Do not believe him, charming miss Maserini," answer­ed the stranger. "I deny the title; let me only be known to you under the plain name of Milverne—happy appella­tion, under which I first became acquainted with the most charming of her sex!"

Matilda was above the little arts of female coquetry, practised by the sex in general; she did not discourage either his lordship's hopes or addresses; and, after some little time spent in mutual inquiries, they seated themselves at the breakfast-table.

Leonard and Agnes wished to have taken their meal af­terwards, out of respect to lord Milverne; but his noble soul scorned the empty title he possessed, and considered it of no other consequence than a more than usual call upon him to act through life with honour and integrity, as an example to those in a lower sphere, who had never recei­ved the advantages of a good education, or the rudiments of virtue from honest and respectable parents.

[Page 56] He insisted that no unusual ceremony should be observed on his account; and his request was complied with. Ma­tilda received the pleasing intelligence that count D'Olli­font was yet living, and that the news they had received of his death was merely of his own contrivance, executed by his creatures in France; and that there was not a doubt but the cruel proceeding of proving Alfred Maserini a de­serter, was also effected by schemes of villany from the same quarter.

Lord Milverne acquainted them that the last intelligence he received of the count, was, that he had been some little time at Paris, but that his popularity in that city was greatly decreased, on the discovery of an assassination he was proved to be the author of, and which he must certainly have suffered for, had he not been screened by royal power.

"I shall now," continued his lordship, "acquaint you with my adventures since you left England, till a certain event happened, which will close my narrative, and give room for one to be related by my friend here" (pointing to Alfred) "who will then have an opportunity of clear­ing up his own conduct so as entirely to obliterate every suspicion of unkindness to a sister who has shown the most noble heart and affection for her brother, in her forti­tude and generous behaviour through his misfortune."

Here he bowed to Matilda.

"On the night of the masquerade I had not long forced Mr. Maserini into the coach, when a crowd of people be­gan to assemble, collected by the repeated cries of murder, from the count's servants, who kept me in hold. I was immediately delivered into the hands of the watchmen and two constables, who had by this time arrived, charged with having favoured the escape of the murderer. I was [Page 57] directly taken to a watch-house near, but was soon admit­ted to find bail for my appearance, when they were in­formed who I was.

"The next morning I appeared before a magistrate: my person and name were soon recognised by that gentleman, who had been acquainted with my family. To him, and the persons assembled, I related the whole affair, and made it clear that the second pistol was fired fo [...] defence, as the count first discharged his. In short, D'Ollifont's conduct appeared in the most black and infamous colours, and I was honourably discharged. He continued for some time in a dangerous state: at times he was insane; and when those fits came on, it was his desire, in his lucid intervals, that no one should attend him but his confidential servant and steward, R [...]bourn.

"The news of this shameful, ungenerous transaction of the count's was the general talk of the town; and most people allowed that punishment had fallen on the right person.

"As soon as I had settled some business of consequence in London, I immediately set off for France, on my way towards Italy; two strong reasons urging me to take the journey—one to see a dying father, who I understood by letters laboured under a severe indisposition which increas­ed upon him daily;—the other, the hopes of finding some exiled friends, whose situation I greatly pitied and lamented.

"The first news I heard when I arrived at Paris, was the death of my parent, and that Mr. Maserini was declar­ed a deserter, for not attending to an order left at his lodgings the very night he departed from London. I made it my business to obtain an immediate audience with two of his majesty's ministers; and though I clearly explained the mistake, was unable to procure any redress. It was [Page 58] an order (they said) by the royal command, and could not be rescinded.

"Finding it was in vain to take any more trouble at court, I proceeded directly towards the Alps, and stopped at the very house where lady Caroline Albourne had been saved from the fire, as I supposed by you. I immediately crossed the mountains, and soon found myself in this coun­try. I directly proceeded to the residence of my late fa­ther, which was now inhabited by a friend who had ac­companied him hither, and his domestics. His will was produced; and I found myself possessed of eight thousand a year, except a few legacies, a genteel annuity settled on the person before mentioned, and handsome presents to all his servants.

"All my affairs being settled in a short space of time, I made every cautious inquiry concerning you; but all pro­ved abortive; and I was still more perplexed, as you men­tioned no particular place you intended to travel to, in an­swer to the letter I sent to Dover, though it was my earnest request. This, however, I considered as the effect of the hurry and distress you were then in. An idea at last struck me, that I had heard say Grasville Abbey was the residence of your ancestors. I had often heard talk of the venerable pile, when in Italy before, and now deter­mined to visit it, conceiving that you might be there con­cealed. I immediately set out for Mont [...]errat, taking with me only one servant; and, after two days' journey, we found ourselves near this gothic mansion. It grew dark; but I resolved to see the external part before I stept: we at length entered the thick wood on the left side of the building. Its lofty towers began to appear above the gloo­my, dark foliage, and the rising moon shone in full splen­dour on its grey, decayed walls. I stood still for some [Page 59] time to admire the awful and beautiful scene before me: after which I resolved to have a nearer view of the abbey. My servant now attempted to dissuade me from my reso­lution."

"My lord," said he, 'we were told at the inn we last stopped at that this wood was infested by banditti:—for heaven's sake do not venture farther.'

"I laughed at the poor fellow's fears, and considered the report as merely the consequence of no person daring to go near the abbey. I therefore insisted on riding for­ward; and we proceeded into the very heart of the wood, when I began to be rather alarmed myself: for the moon being obscured by heavy clouds, its intricacies became so great, that I could not find the path we had first followed.

"We had not continued in this situation above a quarter of an hour, when we perceived two men approach, whose appearance gave some reasons for apprehension. They were armed, and we also had weapons of defence. At length they accosted us; and by the manner of their ad­dress, we found they were robbers. Having asked a few frivolous questions, they began to use rough language, and told us we must go no further, for that we were their pri­soners. But our number being equal, I resolved not tamely to submit; and giving my man the hint, he engaged with one, while I undertook the other. Each of the party fired a pistol, but not one fell; when one of the men whistled aloud, and in less than three minutes we were surrounded by a party of the banditti. Having disarmed us, and taken all our money, they led us in a kind of triumph still further into the wood, till we arrived at the opening of a large cave.

"The robbers having knocked at a heavy door almost concealed by trees, it was opened by a youth, seemingly [Page 60] not above fourteen, who conducted us, by the light of a lamp, down a steep descent, which gradually became wider, and terminated in a large space partitioned into several a­partments. In one of the largest a cloth was spread for supper, and an elderly man stood cooking of it in another room. 'Joscelin,' said the leader of the party, 'secure these prisoners; but mind that they are used well, and give them a hot supper.' 'Signor,' continued he, turn­ing to me, 'your situation is not so bad as you may suppose: if you are not refractory, we shall be moderate.' Joscelin conducted us to the further part of the cave, and placed us in a small but clean chamber, in which was a good bed. Felix, my servant, now began to rub his hands with pleasure, and strove to communicate that comfort to me which he derived from the idea of having a good lodging and supper, instead of a speedy death. But my distress was not so easily to be alleviated. I was now confined, I knew not for how long, from the sight of all I held most dear;" (His lordship here looked most tenderly at Matilda) "and I considered that death itself would have been more wel­come than such an untimely delay. I could, however, blame nothing but my own rashness, and consequently en­deavoured to support my mischance with as much philo­sophy as possible.

"Supper was brought us, and, although I had no appe­tite, I tasted of it: But Felix took care to make up for my deficiency in point of eating.

"I had but little sleep that night, and rose in the morn­ing very unwell. Breakfast was brought us early; and while I was expecting what would be the issue of this strange treatment from men whose behaviour I expected to find quite different, our attendant, after a few hems, thus addressed us.

[Page 61] "As you are two persons whose courage and manners I much admire, I shall entirely deviate from the regular rules of our society, and even put myself in your power, by ac­quainting you with circumstances, which were it known I related, death must be my reward.'

"Having thanked him as well as my surprise would let me, he continued:

"One moon has nearly passed, since we lost two brothers of our order, which accordingly now wants that number to make it complete. It is our usual custom, after such e­vents, to seize on the first travellers who fall in our way; and that lot has happened to you; and you are in conse­quence now treated in our customary manner, which I am sure you have no reason to complain of. An offer is always made to the persons thus taken, to accept the vacant places of our society, and live with us after the usual method of the brotherhood. You will both of you shortly receive such proposals: and though no compulsion may appear in them, yet, mark me, certain death is the consequence of a refusal. We never chuse to enter any one actually against his will, as treachery may be the result of such a choice. If it is therefore found that your inclinations are not agreeable to our wishes, you are both certain to fall victims. Do not discover the information I have given you of our proceed­ings, as in that case I must, as I before told you, become a sacrifice to my good-will to you. Be cautious, therefore; maturely deliberate on your situation; profit by the intelli­gence I have communicated; nor idly throw away your lives, when you have it in your power to preserve them.'

"Picture to yourselves my situation, after having heard the information of the friendly robber; forced, as I may say, either to follow a life of depredation and villany, or fall a sacrifice to a set of wretches, who, I had now every [Page 62] reason to suppose, were destitute of even the common feel­ings of humanity. I had hardly time for this reflection, before the captain of the banditti entered, and presented me with the proposals, the contents of which I knew too well; and, having desired me to peruse them, left us alone, yet not without mentioning that he should call again in the evening to receive our answers to the offers which we should find set before us.

"I was unable to read the detested paper; but after some little time Felix rehearsed it aloud, and I listened with attention. It declared that we should share equally in the profits arising from adventures, though every one must take his share in the danger, and pay implicit obedi­ence to the captain or leader of the company.

"Never," I exclaimed, "will I submit to the infamous measures of this shameful crew; instantaneous death is far preferable to the languishing life of misery I must here endure, frustrated in all those schemes of happiness I had planned to enjoy within a few weeks.'

"Alas! sir,' answered Felix, 'I have always been taught, that disappointments are for our good: and if we really consider them as the acts of a Supreme Being, how can they be bad? Why should we then throw away our lives, and yield them up to men whom we despise, when we may per­haps, by retaining them, recover our liberties, with th [...]se blessings we before had in contemplation?'

"I must confess, the argument of the poor humble Felix brought a blush into the face of his master. 'That man,' thought I, 'without the advantages of a refined or liberal education, can give instruction to me, who have had every advantage in point of learning; as well as an example, to teach me fortitude, philosophy, and resignation to the divine will.' His words made such an impression on [Page 63] my disordered imagination, that I resolved at once to sub­mit to the terms of the banditti, in such a manner as should give them no room to doubt of my attachment to their cause; as in this case more opportunities might offer, to release us from so horrid a confinement. The captain at night again visited us: and both Felix and myself testi­fied the greatest happiness to accept of the offer; and the better to give reasons for our readiness to comply, we gave him to understand we were men of desperate character, who knew no way of living, but by the aid of the riches of others: 'and for those purposes,' said I, 'we take it by turns to act as servant, and through this means have accom­plished many schemes productive of profit, which at some other time I will relate to you.' Garbardo (for that was the leader's name) seemed highly pleased with our willing­ness, and the account we gave him of our characters; in short, he determined that we should be entered into the order that very evening. Accordingly, the whole party were called to assemble; and, after undergoing the usual forms, we received the dress and arms of the two deceased robbers; we were then congratulated, under the feigned names we had given them, as brothers of the society.

"We soon found the good effects of conforming to their will with a seeming degree of pleasure; for they so far re­laxed from their usual methods, as to permit us to sleep to­gether. One rule, however, they strictly adhered to; for we were not suffered to go out of the cave together up­on any occasion, and were given to understand that he who remained behind was a kind of hostage for the other.

"It was a general custom for three to go together to purchase provision, which was procured from a man who kept a kind of shop on the skirts of the wood. He was well acquainted with the gang, and proved grateful for their [Page 64] custom, by providing them with the best food, and keep­ing their situation an entire secret. The place was hardly ever intruded upon by any but the banditti: so retired was the spot where it stood.

"It came to Felix's turn to go first to the victualling booth; nothing, however, offered, to improve the liberty of leaving the cave; and he was accompanied by two staunch friends to the society. Nor did my journey prove more successful; and I returned in some measure in despair of ever finding means to escape.

"Felix was again my comforter, and inspired me with hopes that at another time we might meet with more for­tunate circumstances, which might enable us to obtain a release from these heavy chains of slavery.

"The next day when Felix walked to the wood, he returned with a pleasure in his countenance, which, I could plainly perceive, showed he had met with some pleasant adventure; nor was my conjecture wrong: for when I eagerly inquired of him, the first opportunity, if he had any good news, he informed me, to my great satisfac­tion, it was no other than that he had seen Leonard at the place where he had been. 'Nor did either of us,' continued Felix, 'foolishly discover our joy at meeting one another, as you might have supposed; but he, seeing in what com­pany I was, acted with the greatest caution. I, however, found means to whisper to him, unseen, that on such a day he would see you at the same place.' This relation, though for the moment it inspired me with a kind of joy, yet was but a poor preface to any ideas of liberty. I determined, however, to make the most of it; and accord­ingly, during the interval of time, I wrote, in a letter, a detail of the circumstances that had involved me in a situation of which I gave the description. This I sealed [Page 65] up, and put in my pocket, ready to slip into Leonard's hand, when I saw him.

"I visited, as usual, the place, attended by two men, and, in one corner of the shop, saw Leonard, as I expected. I found means to convey the paper unperceived into his hand, and thus returned with some degree of comfort to the cave.

"I must now," continued his lordship, "give up my narrative, and resign, as I before informed you, the task to Mr. Maserini."

CHAPTER XXXVI.

TO lord Milverne's concluding words Alfred replied—"I own, my lord, I feel considerable pleasure in undertaking the task you have imposed on me, as I shall now have an opportunity of explaining to Matilda my reasons for that mysterious behaviour which carried in it a strong resem­blance to unkindness, though I had her interest and hap­piness in view.

"I shall therefore begin from the first appearance of that gloom and uneasiness which seemed almost to crush every pleasing quality, and give a kind of morose turn to my tem­per and manners, doubtless disgusting.

"It was, I believe, the second day after our arrival at the abbey, that Leonard was dispatched to procure provision from the public market, and set off accordingly. At his return, you, no doubt, recollect, he desired to speak with me alone. The subject he had to communicate, was, his having seen Felix at the place where he had stopped which [Page 66] was (as he described it) extremely retired, and consequent­ly suited well his purpose on that account. He gave a de­scription of the persons who were with him, and of the dresses they wore, which confirmed them in my opinion to be banditti.

"What to make of this adventure, I knew not, and was still more astonished when Leonard informed me Felix had whispered in his ear, that, if he attended at the place the next day but one, he would see his master there. This in­telligence, as you may suppose, caused in me the greatest alarm for the fate of Mr. Milverne. By the accounts I had heard before of the banditti in these parts, I conjectured he was confined by them, as he really was. To the uncom­fortable sensation which this information gave me before, the next moment was added another cause of horror, amaze­ment, and, I may say, distress. The casement in my cham­ber above stands opposite my bed; as I lay upon it, I could plainly perceive part of the west lower, nor had I retired above an hour, before I observed a strong light in one of the windows; and awaking Leonard, he plainly saw it as well as myself. I determined, however to mention no­thing of this circumstance, or that relative to Mr. Mil­verne; and he had my orders accordingly.

"Can you, Matilda, blame me for this secresy? I well knew the situation of your heart, and was certain the infor­mation of either of these circumstances must have consi­derably heightened that anxiety and misery which you then laboured under. This may account for my melancholy the next day. The uneasiness you no doubt observed, when you proposed being of the party to search the rooms in the west tower, and also on our conference together afterwards, when we consulted how we should act concerning Mr. Milverne, We also, after having retired to our chamber, [Page 67] spent the best part of the night in conversation on that, and the light we had seen."

Matilda well recollected that night, which was the same when she listened at her brother's chamber door, and was so alarmed at the incoherent sentences she heard. She forbore, however, to interrupt her brother.

"We also watched again for the light, and saw it; when, who can express our astonishment at plainly perceiving a figure pass backwards and forwards, which at last seemed to vanish with it?

"Leonard, according to the appointment he had received from Felix, set off again for the market, as we informed you, to procure wine, the bottles we had before being bro­ken while he was gone. You questioned me on the strange alteration in my spirits and behaviour, and wished much to be acquainted with the cause of the change; which infor­mation I refused, though I told you I had reasons for the greatest uneasiness.

"Leonard returned, and (as you no doubt well recol­lect) with the news of count D'Ollifont's death, and the search that was making after me, both in France and Italy. Leonard then asked to speak with me alone; he informed me he had really seen Mr. Milverne and two other persons, all dressed in the same manner as the former ones, and that Mr. Milverne, had slipped a letter into his hand unperceived. This he gave to me, and I eagerly opened and read it. All my fears for Mr. Milverne were realised; and I four [...] his situation, by his own description, to be just what I expected. In short, this intelligence, ad­ded to what I had seen the night before—the idea of the count's death, and my own situation—drove me almost to distraction, as my behaviour plainly showed. I drank freely at supper; and you must remember my frantic expressions, [Page 68] occasioned by the fumes of wine, and a distressed ima­gination.

"We heard a groan from those folding doors: I imme­diately ran to them: Leonard was unable to hold me back, but followed me. I pushed them open, and saw, by the means of a flash of lightning, a figure, of a deadly pale, stand in the centre of the apartment. The sight of it was but momentary; for all again being dark, except from the lights in this room, it seemed to vanish at the further end. Leonard, who was close to me, likewise saw the same; and it was this which occasioned those exclamations of horror, which we thought your insensibility had prevented you from hearing.

"I found myself, however, greatly mistaken, when Leonard informed me, the next day but one, that you had questioned him on the subject. I now told him, if you made any further inquiries, to say that I had given him positive orders to be silent on the topic. Lord Milverne had mentioned in his letter, that, through a fortunate and unforeseen cirumstance, Felix would be again at the same place the next day: he also hinted he had faint hopes of gaining over two of the banditti to his interest.

"Accordingly the following day, in the afternoon, the time appointed, Leonard set off, and found Felix, as he expected, with two others. They exchanged notes with­out being perceived; but Leonard could observe the mas­ter of the shop, and the two men, by their looks, seemed to wonder at seeing him just at the time of their arrival. I had ordered him to read the letter before he returned to the abbey, that if it was necessary to procure any articles more than we had got, he might purchase them, and bring them with him: he did so, and they were carried uno­pened to my chamber. I was surprised to find a dark lan­tern, [Page 69] some wine, and eatables. The letter, however, which he gave me, soon explained this: his lordship informed me in it, that he had brought over two of the men entirely to his wishes, who had led that way of life but a short time, and who entered into it as the only means to avoid starv­ing. Being informed by him, it was in his power to make them comfortable for life, could they aid his escape, they had both sworn to serve him to the utmost of their power. He added, that one of these men and Felix would be at the abbey gates a little before midnight; Felix being, for the first time, suffered to go out in search of adventures with this man. The meaning of this visit was, to consult on the most likely scheme of escaping from the robbers, as too frequent attendance at the market might excite their sus­picion.

"I must own I was not by any means pleased with this plan: I considered that these two men might act in this manner merely to fathom the inclinations of their new brother; and, in that case, our residence would be disco­vered to the villains also. There was now, however, no alternative; and Leonard attended at the outside gates exactly at the time."

Matilda here well recollected the surprise and terror she had suffered at seeing them enter the court, while she was watching for the light in the west tower.

"He having conducted them to the parlour, I descended; and we began a consultation on the most probable means of effecting lord Milverne's escape from the banditti. Nothing that was proposed seemed to carry with it hopes of success owing to the vigilance of the robbers, who, as was before observed, detained one as a hostage for the return of the other. In short, we were not able to come to any determi­nation; and our little party broke up without having agreed [Page 70] on any plan whatever. Leonard again conducted them out of the abbey, and we retired to our beds.

"The following day but one, you questioned Leonard again; and, according to my orders, he gave no satisfac­tory answer, but was greatly suprised to hear your deter­mination of leaving the abbey. This he communicated to me; and you, no doubt, well remember our conversation on the subject, which ended with your consenting to con­tinue a fortnight longer: and, if the mysteries were not explained in that interval, you were immediately to repair to the convent of N**** in France. I mentioned the appearance of another person, to make you alter your reso­lution, hoping by that time to have invented some contri­vance for the release of lord Milverne.

"Leonard had, during this time, brought me word that the same visit would be repeated at the abbey again at mid­night. They were punctual at the hour; and he accord­ingly conducted them to the parlour, where I again at­tended.

"The only method that could now be thought of, was by the application of an herb, which, if taken to a certain quantity, would oc [...]asion a death-like sleep, and was simi­lar to the Turkish poppies, though the juice was not of so dangerous a nature. This idea was suggested by Uloff, the robber who accompanied Felix. He observed the root might be easily procured, and that, by the help of a little art, and this properly applied, the robbers might be led to believe lord Milverne dead; which would at once effect his escape; for it was a general rule among the banditti, to in­ter one another immediately in a vault which stood near their cave—from which he might with ease extricate him­self, the coffins never being fastened down.

[Page 71] "Strange as this thought was, there seemed no other more likely to succeed; and I found that his lordship had agreed to carry this plan into execution, provided it met with our approbation, and Leonard could procure the herb.

"As Leonard was conducting them across the court when leaving the abbey, the figure again appeared in the west tower; which greatly astonished them all.

"The next morning you informed me of the human form and lamp which you had seen reflected in the glass that stood in your chamber. This account, added to the strange voice which we both heard, made me resolve to watch in the west tower; which I accordingly did.

"The same night, Felix and three others of the banditti (they having brought over one more to their interest) came to the abbey, unknown to either Leonard or me, to see if we had got the herb, as they were in hopes the next day to have a good opportunity of carrying their scheme into exe­cution. They knocked at the outer gate, then burst it open, and proceeded directly to the parlour. These were the persons whom we mistook for the officers of justice, as their arrival was entirely unexpected, and neither Leonard nor myself had a sight of them. Their intentions, therefore, proved fruitless; and they left the abbey, unable to find us.

"The next day Leonard attended at the place of ren­dezvous, and found Felix, who communicated to him their adventures the night before; and, having given him the herb, Leonard understood they intended yesterday for the trial of its effect.

"This was accordingly done; and by the effects of it, and the help of Felix and his assistants, his lordship was shown to the whole of the banditti, as a corpse. A coffin was therefore prepared, and in the evening he was convey­ed [Page 72] to the pedestal, and buried with the usual ceremony; one of the robbers being habited like a monk."

The mystery of the strange funeral which Matilda saw was now entirely elucidated.—Her brother continued—

"After the interment, the company returned to the cave; but Felix and one of the robbers were fixed on to go in search of adventures. They immediately, therefore, re­paired to the vault, and conducted lord Milverne here; af­ter which both joined their comrades as usual. But his lordship means to go to-day to a principal magistrate some few miles from hence, and give an account of these depre­dators on the public. The whole of them will consequent­ly be seized: when Felix and the three converts to their cause will be selected from the banditti, and the remainder left to take the due course of the law."

Thus Alfred Maserini ended his narrative. But, though Matilda had heard many circumstances of a strange nature explained, which had caused her considerable uneasiness, yet nothing had been said to clear up, in a satisfactory manner, those astonishing events which seemed in every de­gree to confirm the report of the abbey being haunted.

These ideas had not crossed her mind but a few minutes, before Alfred informed her that there was yet another tale to be related by one whom he expected every moment: "And I am certain," continued he, "that his story will clear away every mist of doubtful horror concerning this building, and obliterate every superstitious thought, by a clear elucidation of the mysteries that encompass it."

In about a quarter of an hour the folding doors again opened, and Father Peter stood before them. Agnes, Ma­tilda, and even Leonard and lord Milverne, were astonished how he could enter from that part.

[Page 73] "According to my promise last night," said the hermit, addressing himself to Matilda, "I now, as you perceive, at­tend you here, fair lady."

Alfred's countenance was now transformed to the gaze of surprise. "I find," said he smiling to his sister, "we have also to expect explanations from you, Matilda."

"Indeed," answered she, "the task is soon performed."

She then related to them her finding the manuscript, and her journey on that account to Father Peter's cave, with the reasons for not giving it her brother the next morning.

Alfred's and the hermit's countenances glowed with pleasure at the mention of such a paper having been found.

"No doubt," exclaimed the latter, "this will be a prin­cipal proof against the murderer of your father."

Matilda immediately produced it, and it was read by lord Milverne aloud. It is impossible to describe the emo­tions of Alfred Maserini, as he listened to the distracted words of his wretched parent: suffice it to say, they were equal to his sister's at her first perusal of the parchment.

The party being in some measure composed, Father Peter was requested by Alfred to relate those circumstances con­cerning Grasville Abbey, which had for years occasioned the most horrid reports to be spread, and worked with terrific sensations on the feelings even of those whose good sense had before taught them to despise every superstitious idea.

"I shall, by your leave," answered the old man, "begin from the most early period of my life, and proceed gra­dually through every event; which will all tend to now, that, however strange the ways of Providence may appear to mortal eyes, yet in a due course of time they [...] be productive of the greatest happiness and good to those who are deserving the protection of the Supreme [...]ing,"

All, being seated, listened with attention [...] venera [...] speaker.

CHAPTER. XXXVII. ELUCIDATIONS CONTINUED.
THE HERMIT'S TALE.

"BORN to a splendid fortune, and brought up in all the elegance of an Italian noble, I attained my nineteenth year. My father, the baron Sampieno, was advised to send me to Madrid, not only to finish a particular part of my education, but for change of air, my health being in that state which gave them serious alarm.

"At the seminary to which I was sent, another young Italian, of my own age, was also placed by his friends. His name was D'Ollifont: and our manners being greatly alike, gay, volatile, and dissipated, it was not to be won­dered at, that a considerable intimacy took place between us:—in short, we plunged together into every folly and vice which that gay and voluptuous city offered to our view; and, neither of us being under the strict rules ob­served by the general scholars, we had greater opportunities to follow every wild inclination, and gratify every wish we could form.

[Page 75] "The consequence of our rash behaviour was, a com­plaint of the governor to each of our parents, which gave them the greatest alarm and uneasiness—A consider­able decrease was, in consequence, made in our allowances, and a severe reprimand sent us, for conduct which threaten­ed, in some degree, to bring disgrace on our family. The reproof, though to both exceedingly mortifying, was not so distressing to us as the curtailment of our salaries, which would prevent our appearing among the extravagant society we had become acquainted with, as we must be ridiculed by those who had more to expend in the luxuries of the place.

"As I was sitting, the day after I had received this in­formation from Italy, meditating on my uncomfortable situation, D'Ollifont entered, and told me of his having re­ceived similar intelligence.

"Do not give way to despair,' said he; 'but let us take some method to overcome the misfortune.'

"I at first conceived he intended to write conciliatory letters of repentance; and, I must own, my proud soul did not altogether approve such a manner of proceeding; I therefore remained silent. But he soon convinced me I had mistaken his ideas, by informing me, in plain terms, he intended to commence gambler, and persuading me to follow the same course. 'I have not a doubt,' he conti­nued, 'but I shall amply make amends for what I have lost in my quarterly allowance.'

"If I disliked the idea of making concession, how much more did I abhor the thought of entering into so mean and despicable a profession as D'Ollifont had proposed! I was, indeed, greatly shocked to find that he had such intentions.—I expostulated with him, on the disgrace, the infamy, of such a character, and attempted, to the utmost of my [Page 76] ability, to paint in their true colours the mean and pitiful shifts they were obliged to have recourse to on many occa­sions. I was, however, disappointed in my endeavours to alarm his pride, and make him give up so disgraceful a determination. In short, we parted in enmity.

"He soon after began this direct course to destruction, and in a little time became connected with a gang who were well known for the defrauds of which they had been guilty. Necessity, for the sake of my own reputation, now obliged me to shun one whose principles and morals were universally known and condemned. The sacrifice was greater than I expected; but at length, with some resolu­tion, I got the better of my feelings, and enjoyed conside­rable happiness in the thought of the danger I had escaped.

"My disposition became now more settled, and my manners entirely changed, from the wild career of youth to the more thoughtful deportment of manhood. The con­sequence of this alteration was a thorough reconciliation with my friends, and a greater supply of money than I had ever received before.

"It is from this only that I can account for the deadly hate which took possession of D'Ollifont, against one whom he had at a former period called his friend, and who still would have done any thing in his power to have reclaimed him from so contemptible a mode of living—which it might now be properly called; his father having died, and left him but a small legacy: the bulk of his fortune he dis­posed of to a distant relation.

"Not long after this event, I had the misfortune to lose my parent, and, by his death, found myself in possession of his title, and the whole of his property, which amounted to a considerable sum—there being no other children, and his wife having died when I was very young.

[Page 77] "My affections had for some time been fixed on a lovely object, who had resided with her mother, near the academy where I was placed Beauty was her least ornament; an amiable disposition, added to an excellent understanding, made her, in my eyes, an object worthy to be the wife of a man even in a higher situation than myself, though she had no fortune.

"After an interval of a few months from my father's death, I had the exquisite happiness to receive my charm­ing Cassandra as my own. Spain was her native country; and, being unwilling to quit it, I resolved to acquiesce with her desire of settling there, as I had now no particular friends or relations in Italy. Seventeen years were spent in a round of happiness, which no mortal could enjoy in a greater degree than myself. One girl and two boys were the fruits of our constant love; both of the latter died when infants, and the care of the education of the former was mine and my Cassandra's chief employment. I need not tell you how we loved her—your own ideas must paint to you that affection which possessed our breasts for this re­maining pledge of our felicity—when we saw in her every grace, and every virtue which could adorn a female. Alas! those scenes of bliss were not to last for ever, but after this period were soon to be changed for misery, anguish, and a series of years clouded with glooms of sorrow and adversi­ty, never to be erased."

The hermit shed a few tears at the recollection, and was under the necessity of pausing for some minutes, to com­pose himself.

"I had never seen D'Ollifont from some little time be­fore my marriage till the time I am speaking of. An inter­val of near eighteen years had elapsed: but yet his features were well known to me, though the greatest alteration was [Page 78] visible in his whole person. I now beheld him in the ut­most distress, having, as he said, been obliged to fly from that part of Spain, where he had remained for a considera­ble time in the utmost disgrace, and in a state little better than starving. He related to me how truly he repented of the vicious life he had led, and that his only wish was now to procure, in some way, an honest subsistence by his own industry. I immediately offered him my house, as an asy­lum for the present, which he thankfully received, and lived with us after the manner of my own family. Dur­ing this time he behaved in a most pleasing and insinuative manner to all; and there was not even one in the family but greatly respected and admired D'Ollifont.

"I rejoiced much in the reformation that had been ef­fected in him, and determined to spare no expense or in­terest in the procurement of an office for him, on the emo­luments of which he might live comfortable and happy.

"Circumstances continued in this situation for some lit­tle time; nor had any place become vacant, which I thought worthy to present to him: he, however, still re­mained in my house, and every day gained more general esteem.

"One evening, having walked in my garden rather later than usual, I cut across an unfrequented path to my house: on one side of it was a thick grove of trees, the foliage of which entirely prevented any thing from being seen be­hind. It was a spot seldom intruded upon, insomuch that in some parts it was nearly impassable. I had got about the middle of this place, when I heard D'Ollifont's voice mention with vehemence the name of my daughter. Though rather surprised at his manner, yet it awakened in me no suspicion; and I was just going to hail him, when words of a dreadful nature caught my ear.

[Page 79] "This night,' said he to the person who was with him (a man of infamous character, and who had formerly been his servant) 'must she be secured.—You are sure you well know the place?'

"Oh!' returned the other, 'let me alone for that!—and, egad! you have found out an excellent spot; for, were the lady Lucretia's cries to be as loud as the town-bell, the devil take me if any one can hear her but those who are with you! You will excuse me though, signor: but I think your manner of proceeding is ridiculous: why not marry her? for then, some time or other, you may stand a chance to come in for some of the baron's money.'

"Curses on himself and money!' exclaimed the vil­lain: 'I could have plundered him of that long ago; but the loss of it, as I told you before, would not make him half miserable enough: it is revenge I thirst for, not gain; nor have I so long played the hypocrite with him, but to invent some scheme that may at once blast his happiness. My hatred commenced against him when he shrunk from the proposals I made, and turned sage moralist: but it has, if possible, increased tenfold since I have seen him flourish for years in prosperity and honour, while I am doomed to live on the narrow limits of a small income. You may say he acts nobly now, and he has it in his power to be of considerable service to me; but my proud soul is rea­dy to burst every hour I am looked at as a dependent on his bounty; and I am continually become more anxious to work his downfal.'

"I heard no more, but trembled with the emotions of horror and passion. A wretch, whom I had sheltered un­der my roof with the truest friendship—to plan the disho­nour of my child, was too much—I unfortunately had a loaded pistol in my belt; and, having torn away the [Page 80] boughs which parted us, I stood before the astonished rop­tile.

"He trembled, and turned pale, as did Eburne, who was with him; but the recollection of the former still re­mained, to invent one of the most damnable contrivances man could be the author of.

"Villain!' I exclaimed, and held the pistol to his breast, 'dost thou not deserve to receive death at the hands of one whom, having the greatest obligations to him, thou wouldst crush to the earth and, fiend-like, grin at the misery thou hadst brought upon himself and family?'

"During the time I uttered these words, a servant from the house appeared in sight, though not near enough to hear what passed.

"I mean not,' I continued, seeing him shrink from me, 'to assassinate you. Doubtless, you have weapons, stand, therefore, and defend yourself.'

"I have none,' he cried: 'my life is in your power.'

"Dastardly wretch!' exclaimed I.

"At that moment the servant came up: he was sent from the house to seek me.—Unfortunately, the last few words of D'Ollifont, with my answer, was the only part of the conversation he heard. When, how was I astonished, to hear D'Ollifont exclaim, 'I will die soon than commit such a defraud!' at the same instant producing a forged note on the bank of Venice. 'Here is a man' (said he to the servant, pointing to Eburne) 'who can witness that your master just now threatened my life, unless I consent­ed to be a partner with him in passing these false notes.'

"It is difficult to say which stood the greatest statue of surprise and horror, the servant or myself; and it is proba­ble, had I not been prevented by him, I should have taken away my own life.

[Page 81] "Being at length more composed, I reproached D'Olli­font in the bitterest terms for his perfidy, and walked for­ward to my house; but had not entered it above an hour before I found myself arrested on his accusation, and was that night, though all my friends interfered, dragged from my wife and child, to experience the miseries of a gaol.

"Picture to yourself my situation: the night was spent in distracted ravings, and the morning brought a visit from my Cassandra and her daughter, which in some measure restored my scattered senses; but it was only to experience pangs the most poignant and severe.

"D'Ollifont, and the wretch who was with him, swore to my having stopped the former in the private walk of my own garden, when by himself; Eburne being then at some distance, though near enough to observe all that passed: that first, with fair words, I strove to persuade him to be an accomplice with myself in a forgery on the bank of Venice, and gave him a false bill, informing him that I had many more of the same sort; but that, finding him con­tinue obstinate in his refusal, I had proceeded to extremi­ties, and, placing a pistol to his breast, threatened to de­prive him of life, should he refuse; that my intentions were frustrated by Eburne, who, hearing these words, immedi­ately came forward.

"My own servant was examined, and confessed, that when at some distance, he saw me hold a pistol to D'Olli­font's breast; and, at his arrival at the spot, heard him say he was unarmed; and that I only answered, 'Dastardly wretch!'

"It was now the general conjecture that this affair would touch my life; at all events I was doomed to a pub­lic trial. It was in vain I pleaded my own tale, and the [Page 82] reasons for my behaviour: to every one, except those to whom I was very well known, it carried in it something romantic that D'Ollifont should wish to debauch my daughter, which was sure to end in his ruin, without even one chance to be benefited by the crime.

"During the interval between my imprisonment and the day of trial, D'Ollifont was sent for to his relation, the count Maserini, in Italy, whose health was in such a state that his life was even despaired of, owing to the false re­port of his children's death. He returned, however, at the time my trial was expected to be brought on, the possessor of his uncle's estates and wealth.

"In the time of his absence from Spain, a number of false bills, the same as D'Ollifont had produced, were found, by the information of one of my own servants, bu­ried in a small chest, near a spot I used much to frequent in my garden: this fresh proof, which I had every reason to suppose to be planned by some scheme in which the vil­lain Eburne was concerned, and who, I have no doubt, bribed my servant, added greatly to the horrid accusation against me. I had, therefore, entirely made up my mind to expect no mercy, and resolved to prepare myself in that manner which would give me a degree of fortitude in my last moments, that should impress every one with some ideas of my innocence.

"The night preceding the awful day which was to de­cide my fate, my prison-doors flew open, and count D'Olli­font stood before me. He started back some steps, at my wretched appearance; and a convulsive trembling showed that his conscience touched him to the soul.

"I fixed my eyes on him with a look which seemed to add to his confusion, and was going to upbraid him, when he interrupted me. 'Hold!' he cried: 'I have even a [Page 83] greater power over you than you suppose. Last night your daughter attempted to plunge a poignard in my breast; and there is little doubt that a similar sentence to that which passes death upon you, will do the same by Lucretia.'

"I heard no more, but fainted before him. The keeper of the prison was called, and after some little time I re­covered. We were again left alone.

"D'Ollifont now told me there was yet one way to save both myself and child. The conditions he proposed were for me to go to Italy, and by a sacred oath promise to per­form some services he should have occasion for. 'And I.' he continued, 'will swear, in the same manner, that your family shall go with you, and your fortune in every respect be secured.'

"Was it true that my daughter had made an attempt upon his life, I was certain the laws of Spain must condemn her to death. Had my own existence been only at stake, it is probable I should have scorned the villain's offer; knowing my Cassandra and her child were provided for by money I had placed in the hands of a friend, so as to keep them above the frowns of fortune, in point of pecuniary concerns. But the idea of my Lucretia being cut off by an ignominious death, occasioned most probably by love for me, in her revenge against my bitterest enemy, cut me to the soul; and almost any alternative would have been ac­cepted to save her. I demanded, however, the nature of those services, conceiving it might be some crime he dared not to undertake himself, and therefore had pitched on me to be the perpetrator of the deed.

"He swore, by the most sacred oath, that my conjectures were ill founded. Still my soul revolted at the idea of submitting to the villain in so despicable a manner, which would in the general opinion give testimony of my guilt. [Page 84] I refused the offer, and he left the apartment in a rage. The next object which presented itself was my wife in a state of distraction; my child—my Lucretia—was in the same prison, and sure to fall a victim to her rashness.

"My situation was little short of madness: I raved, but it was useless, and could not save her. Yet a way had been shown me to preserve her; and I had refused it. The keeper was called; I sent him to D'Ollifont; the wretch appeared, and received, with a contemptuous smile, my acquiescence to his proposals."

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

"THE proceedings, against me and Lucretia," conti­nued the hermit, "were now immediately stopped. I took the oath required: no one was found to appear against us on the day of trial: and the same night I embraced my wife and daughter in my own house.

"But my joy at the event was considerably damped by the general behaviour of my acquaintance, who seemed to shun both myself and family: in short, it was plain the method I had taken to evade public investigation, was in some degree known; and, as I had before conceived, it was, in the common opinion, a confirmation of my conscious guilt. This, at least, reconciled me to one circumstance, which I was bound to perform—that of leaving Spain immediately.

"Alas! this country (where I had spent years of felicity—where I had been universally respected and esteemed by [Page 85] every rank of people) was now become hateful to me; since almost every countenance seemed to look towards me with a gloomy eye of suspicion, even where I had before been welcomed, whenever I appeared, with smiles of friendship and confidence. My God! what were my sen­sations! Sensible of my own innocence, ten thousand deaths (could I myself alone have suffered) would have been less torturing to me than the present ignominy. But when I saw Lucretia bow to a young lady in the street where we lived, as she pensively sat in the window between myself and wife, and saw the salute contemptuously smiled at, and passed without being returned (while she and her mother would burst into tears, and move from the spot)—then would I utter to myself—'Better, had I seen my child executed with me, in the view of a gazing multitude, declaring my innocence, than thus to be doomed to shrink under the wounds of blasted fame and supposed infamy.'

"My affairs were very soon settled; and, with my wife and daughter (attended by one man and a woman-servant) I set out for Genoa, where, according to appointment, I was to meet the author of all my miseries. Our journey was necessarily slow, on account of the ill health of my Cassandra, who had suffered so severe a shock from our late misfortunes, that I was under the greatest alarm for her life.

"After some little time we arrived at the place of our temporary destination, and applying to a person to whom I had a recommendation, he informed me count D'Ollifont had been waiting for me two days, and that I might see him that night ar a certain place to which he would con­duct me. 'It is not publicly known,' said he, 'that he is in this country; consequently secresy is required.'

[Page 86] "At my return to the inn I found my wife had been taken more violently ill than usual, insomuch that Lucretia had sent for a physician, who had just entered the house. I asked his opinion on leaving the chamber: he declared her disorder to be a total decline, but did not then appre­hend any danger. Towards the latter part of the day she grew better: but I resolved not to mention my intended visit; and I contrived an excuse, therefore, for my depar­ture at the hour I had fixed.

"It was some time after the close of the evening, and nearly dark, when I met the man whom I had before seen in the morning. He told me to follow him. I rather hesitated. 'You have no reason for alarm,' said he, ob­serving me attentively.

"I had a brace of pistols in my pocket; and, after a few moments of consideration, did as he desired.

"He first led me down a passage of considerable length, at the bottom of which he halted. Having produced a large key, he opened a small door, which discovered a gloomy Gothic hall, lighted by a lamp, which was suspen­ded from the top. It was supported by heavy Tuscan co­lumns; and, in different niches, were placed in order se­veral suits of armour. At the further end was a flight of steps, on the top of which were a heavy pair of folding doors, arched over in the antique style above, and secured in front by a grate-work of iron.

"My guide, when he got to the centre of this place, seemed to fall back a few paces, as if thoughtful; and then, holding up the lantern he had in his hand, looked me full in the face. This behaviour I did not by any means like: it had the appearance of assassination, and the gloom of the hall encouraged the idea. I immediately [Page 87] drew one of my pistols from my pocket. 'No treachery!' I exclaimed; 'or, by heavens, you die!'

"He seemed disconcerted. 'By all that's sacred, I mean none; but only wished to be certain I was right in the person I am conducting.'

"'Tis well!' I answered: 'proceed.'

"He did so and led me up the steps; then, taking from his pocket another key, he applied it to the lock of the iron grating. It required great exertions to turn it; but it at length yielded to the force, and divided in the middle, The door now only remained.

"Put up your pistol, signor:' said he: 'you have no­thing to fear.'

"This request I positively refused. He then blew a small horn, which he had in his belt; when the folding doors immediately flew open, and two blacks with drawn fabres stood before us.

"A voice from the inner part now uttered—'Admit.' They directly drew back, and we passed through the en­trance. The doors instantly closed, with some noise; and the blacks resumed their station before them.

"My guide walked forward, and I followed with the pistol still in my hand.

"It was a spacious apartment, though gloomy; and fit­ted up with some degree [...]el [...]ance. A few wax tapers were placed round the walls; but the light they gave was dim and uncertain. In the middle was a long table, co­vered with green cloth; and on it were spread various pa­pers, pens, ink, and a few books. A company of persons were seated round it, of about twelve or thirteen, and one at the head of the table seemed a kind of president in the assembly. Their cloaks were all muffled round them; and a black feather, which each wore in his hat, hung over [Page 88] their faces, and added to the solemnity of their dark, leng­thened visages. He at the head, I however observed, wore a white one.

"As I advanced, this person spoke; and I recognised the wretch D'Ollifont. He asked why I measured my steps so cautiously.

"Because,' I answered in a firm tone, 'I am afraid of treachery.'

"Surely the fear is needless,' said he: have I not sworn—?'

"I interrupted him—'Mention it not, D'Ollofont; you have sworn too much.'

"He seemed rather confused; and I could perceive his gloomy countenance frown for the moment, though he wished to smile. 'Take a [...] he cried: we are all friends. Nerone, help the signor to a glass of wine.'

"This man, who was in waiting, directly ran to a large side-board, covered with [...] and wines. He handed the glass: I refused it. D'Ollifont e [...]reated me to take it: I determinately answered, 'No'.

"To business,' said he.

"With all my heart,' I answered. 'But, mark no count! strictly adhere to the oath I have taken'; no [...] in your request infringe on the la [...]s of general honestly, mo­rality, or humanity; for on these conditions only will I agree,'

"I mean no otherwise,' said D'Ollifont: 'be judge yourself. I have an estate situated near Montferrat; and on it stands the residence of my [...] uncle, Orlando count Maserini. The building is well known by the name of Grasville Abbey. This, among other properties, was be­queathed to me as his sole [...] his two children having died in France. Now the country people round this spot [Page 89] for many miles, have encouraged ideas, from the gloomy appearance and Gothic structure of this ancient pile, that it is haunted; and it is actually necessary, for the preservation of the furniture, papers, and other valuables, of considerable amount, that these suspicions should be kept alive; which will more effectually prevent intrusion or robbery than any other method we can put into execution; the peasants of that part being a wild, untractable kind of people, and little better than general depredators on the public.

"You perhaps may wonder why we do not remove these articles; but my uncle's will particularly requests every individual atom that was at his death, in the abbey, should remain there, and only be taken from it as my necessity may require. Now there are various deeds and memoran­dums, relative to his different possessions, that we may never have the least occasion to disturb; and which, con­sequently, will be open to the violence of any one whose curiosity or villany may prompt him to use force in enter­ing the abbey. The service that I have to request from you is, the performance of some trifling ceremony, with a lamp, in the external part of the building, at night, either by passing the casements with it in your hand, or fixing it for short periods of time at the different windows. This will be an innocent means of preventing invasion; and, by constantly visiting the abbey, your scruples will be sa­tisfied i [...] point of the extent of your oath.

"Your fortune will support you so as to enjoy the super­fluities of life; and your residence may be [...] at any part near the abbey. But one condition, continued he, goes further—that if at any time, though many years hence, you discover persons to enter the abbey, and reside there, without notice from me, you shall immediately take every means in your power to raise in them alarms of su­pernatural [Page 90] appearances, and by that means drive them from the spot. For your better convenience, there is a cave on one side of the wood which surrounds the abbey, that is never intruded upon, nor indeed hardly known by any one in the place:—you may go to it of an evening; and from thence proceed, through a subterraneous passage, to the building. If, after two years' constant performance of these injunctions, no interruption is perceived, you will not then be confined to the usual ceremony; but yet it is requested that a continual watch shall be kept upon it; and, as I before observed, if intruded on, even fifty years to come, and both of us living, every means is to be used in the above-mentioned manner, to terrify all visitors to a removal.'

"I must confess, this request, strange as it was, seemed far more agreeable to me than what I expected; and I conceived that, were there any villany lurking under it, I might discover the source, and, without going from my oath, be of considerable service to the injured; and, one time or other, have it in my power to retaliate on D'Olli­font. I requested that the agreement should be drawn up, on paper, that I might adhere to it, in time to come, with­out an idea of having forgotten its tendency.

"This was agreed to, and in the course of an hour it was finished. I carefully read the paper, and found it exactly corresponded with what D'Ollifont had said, and then again swore, as I had before promised to do, that I would punctually fulfil it. As we were some miles from Montferrat, it was settled I should meet one of the com­pany at a certain spot near the abbey, that day fortnight, who was to conduct me to it through the passage before mentioned, show the cave, &c. and give a [...] instructions I wished to receive. D'Ollifont mentioned that [...] [Page 91] leave Italy on the next day, and return to Spain. As I was leaving the apartment, following my guide, he uttered, as if in some measure affected, "Adieu!'

"I immediately turned round, and, with a piercing look of horror and contempt, answered, 'Adieu! I hope, for ever.'

"He seemed chagrined, and looked as if suprised I was not more in awe at such a place. He again seated himself. We passed the blacks—the door closed after us—and my guide locked the grates. We then left the hall; and, that door being also locked, I soon found myself at the end of the place where we entered:—my companion then wished me a good night, and we parted.

"A heavy load now seemed to have fallen from me; for the expectation of what D'Ollifont's request might be, had driven me almost to madness; and though even now I detested the meanness I had submitted to, yet, in some degree, I was reconciled, when recollection whispered me that I had saved the life of my Lucretia, the beloved child of my heart.

"Pleased with the ideas of the pleasure I should convey to Cassandra in relating the service I was to perform (her dread of it having been equal to my own) I shortly found myself at the inn where we resided. I soon made my way to our apartments, in one of which I found the woman­servant, Stella, in tears, mixing a draught: I involuntarily exclaimed, 'How is your lady?'

"Her answer hardly articulate, pronounced 'Dying my lord.'

"I heard to more, but flew, half frantic, to her cham­ber, where (oh! sight of woe!) on the [...]ed was laid my [...] just [...] [...]nting sit, her [...] by Lucretia, and [...] physician [...] [Page 92] melancholy posture) on the other side. I entered time enough to receive her last breath; and, dropping on my knees, I clasped her hands, while tears flowed in abun­dance. She knew me (though she had been insensible for nearly an hour) and exclaimed, 'My husband, the Al­mighty aid thee!' Then, turning her eyes towards her daughter, she seemed inwardly to supplicate heaven in her behalf; and, heaving a soft sigh, expired in my arms. Lucretia fainted, and was supported by Stella, who had just brought the draught, while I remained lost for some time in gloomy sorrow and stupidity.

"At length, turning to the physician, I desired to know why he had flattered me with hopes that she might live for a length of time. He only answered by shaking his head, and saying the disorder had come to a crisis sooner than he expected. He left the inn, and I (having ordered my daughter to be put to bed, and committed the care of the funeral to my confidential servant Jasper) retired to my own room, overwhelmed with the most poignant grief.

"It is impossible to describe the anguish suffered by myself and child on this mournful event: I shall there­fore draw a veil over the scene, a recollection of which is even now almost too much for me."

The hermit here was constrained to make a pause of some few minutes, while he paid a tributary tear to the memory of so beloved a wife.

"Suffice it to say," continued he, "in the course of a week she was interred near the place where we then resided, and I tore myself from the spot after a few days, with the two servants, and my now only remaining comfort, my dear Lucretia.

"After a long day's journey, a prey to the deepest melancholy, we arrived at Montferrat, and stopped at a [Page 93] tolerably-built cottage; the owner of which, fortunately, had an inclination, and also convenience, to accommodate us with board and lodging for some weeks. The situation suited me for the present, as it was extremely retired.

"On the night and hour appointed, accompanied by Jasper, whom I was permitted to acquaint with the cir­cumstances I was involved in, I attended the place of ren­dezvous, where I was to be met by the person deputed by D'Ollifont.

"We were both punctual; and, as I was still fearful of treachery from so vile a character, both myself and servant were armed. He was alone: his figure, which I could now more fully observe, was noble and majestic; his coun­tenance very handsome, though there was a fierceness in his eyes, added to the turn of his dark brows, which made it in some respects terrific.

"Follow me,' said he, 'and I will conduct you to the place you have before heard of.'

"He led us to the cave I now inhabit. We entered, and he showed me the parts which you have already seen; but after some little time he opened a concealed door, that discovered a small room. From hence we de­scended, by a trap artfully jointed to the floor, a number of steps, at the bottom of which was an arched subterrane­our passage, entirely dark: our guide, however, was pro­vided with a lamp, by which he lighted another place against the wall. We followed him along this place for so considerable a length of time that I knew not how far he might have taken us, and halted at the idea.

"Continue your [...]ace,' said he, 'and we shall soon be at the end of our journey.'

"His word [...] were true; for, after a few windings, it terminated at a small door, hardly large enough to admit [Page 94] one person: this we passed, and ascended a flight of stone­stairs. At the top we entered a small subterraneous room, in which was a stool, a table, some eatables and wine; with a bed, which showed (though empty now) it was daily occupied. Our guide pressed against a spring, in a manner which he particularly explained; and, by a kind of mechanism, aided by clock-work placed at the further part of the apartment, a square of about five feet of the cieling above gradually fell within two feet of the floor on which we stood: this I jumped upon, and, by a second pressure of the foot on a certain part, it rose in the same manner that it fell, and closed with equal nicety; by which means I found myself in that room opposite to the one we are now in.

"The night was exceeding gloomy: considerable claps of thunder followed each other (though they seemed at a distance) and faint flashes of lightning darted on the case­ments. Both my servant and conductor were soon with me, by the same means that I had ascended; and we all three proceeded through this room to the hall, where we were met by a mean, meagre-looking fellow with also a lamp in his hand, that reflected on a countenance I did not by any means approve.

"It was now late, and a more than common oppression seemed to weigh on my spirits. Our guide saluted this man. 'Enuchio,' said he, 'has there been any interrup­tion since the count last saw you?

"None, signor,' he answered, 'and I have regularly performed my duty with this lamp every night.'

"That's well,' returned the other; 'lead us to the west 'ower.'

"Jasper now whispered to me, 'Be careful, my lord: we know not who may be concealed there.'

[Page 95] "I strove to quiet his apprehensions by a nod of confi­dence, though I felt considerable alarm myself. There was, however, no alternative, and we followed in silence. I understood from the conversation of Enuchio and the other, as we were proceeding to the west tower, that the former had attended at the close of every evening, to per­form the ceremony now invested on me.

"In passing through one of the chambers, Jasper (who was behind, and partly in the dark) ran against a suit of ar­mour that was placed there, with several implements of war, some of which are now in one of the rooms under the upper apartments. The crash it made in falling was hor­rible; and it had nearly destroyed my faithful attendant; he, however, fortunately escaped, without any material blow.

"Enuchio said, when we entered the chamber above that he thought he could see, through one of the casements, by the frequent flashes of lightning, some person on that side of the building. He accordingly showed his light, and, after a few minutes, passed the casement with the lamp, in his hand. Having looked over his room, we de­scended to the lower part, where we heard several blows a­gainst the outer gates, and many efforts made to force them open."

It is natural to suppose that this was the very night [...] which the late Percival Maserini, father of Alfred and Ma­tilda, first discovered a light and figure in the abbey; which made him at the time (distracted with his own ideas) attempt, by force, to enter the building.

CHAPTER. XXXIX.

"WE were all surprised at the noise: at length signor Ranolpho (which I now found was the name of our guide) said he supposed it proceeded from the curiosity of some travellers who were passing that way.—I cannot say I was by any means well satisfied with this conjecture; but I made no answer.

"After having received many instructions from him, concerning the different pieces of mechanism contrived in this building, I remarked, with a look of some astonish­ment, that it was to me amazing, count D'Ollifont should have put himself to such expense and trouble, when the ex­ertions of the civil power, under just claims, might have answered the purposes he wished to accomplish.

"Ranolpho seemed confused: after a pause he answer­ed, 'Your observation is just; but were the application made to the superior power of Italy, the curiosity of the peasantry would be still more considerably heightened; and I have doubts whether the vigilance of the most scrutini­sing persons could protect this place from their invasion. It also would gain count D'Ollifont a bad name, which might, through their ignorance, occasion suspicions and re­marks the most injurious to his character. Besides,' he continued, 'the chief part of these articles of machinery were erected many years back, when this structure was in­habited by the monks, they made use of them to terrify persons of different sentiments in religious points to their own way of thinking, whom the chance of war had made their prisoners, and who accordingly were confined in their own abbey. By these arts, the victims of their supersti­tion [Page 97] were taught to believe the holy fathers worked mira­cles by their faith.'

"There was a kind of equivocation in this speech, which I by no means liked, though I forbore to make any reply. What he said, however, concerning several of the traps, &c. being formed at a distant period of time, I found to be true, by the general appearance of the age of the workman­ship; though there was not a doubt but they had lately been repaired and put in order.

"After a little time we all left the abbey, and proceed­ed to the cave, where it was settled that I should meet Enu­chio at that spot, and at the same hour, the following night. Ranolpho said he should leave Montferrat the next morn­ing, and make the best of his way immediately after D'Ol­lifont to Spain.

"We then parted. Jasper and myself soon arrived at the cottage, after some conversation on the strange events we had witnessed.

"I acquainted Lucretia with every circumstance relative to the abbey; and, though she expressed a considerable anxiety for my safety, yet, like myself, she was happy to find the request of D'Ollifont was no worse. I, however, made her still more easy, by assuring her I never intended to visit the building, unaccompanied by Jasper.

"In less than a month I hired a house, very little distant from the cottage: it was not large, though neat and ele­gant; and, there being only my daughter and myself, a few domestics were sufficient to form our household. I did not, however, intend to live by any means private or retired, though my own wishes prompted me to it. I trembled for the health of my child: it had been on the decline ever since the commencement of our misfortunes; and the poignant grief she suffered for the loss of her mo­ther, [Page 98] now seemed settled to a deep melancholy, which I dreaded to observe, and which my own health and spirits, I conceived, helped to increase.

"It was for these reasons, therefore, that I punished myself, in receiving and paying visits to persons of distinc­tion, for some miles round; and I could perceive, in some degree, it contributed to lessen that weight of oppression which seemed to lie so heavy on her soul.

"A month had not elapsed after my removal to my new dwelling, before a confused report was spread that Percival Maserini and his sister were yet living, and in Italy.

"This intelligence seemed, in some respects, to unravel a part of the mysterious manner and request of D'Ollifont: but I must own, the elucidations I pictured to myself were by no means favourable to him; and dark schemes of vil­lany seemed to unfold themselves to my view. But still I could do nothing; I was bound by my oath; and suspi­cions were of no avail. I and Jasper visited the abbey eve­ry night; and, on those occasions, I made every search that was possible, to find a clue to D'Ollifont's conduct, which I supposed might be concealed in some part of the building: my endeavours, however, proved unsuccessful Enuchio still continued near the place: and I could not but suspect that he was a kind of watch upon my conduct. His very looks seemed to indicate the blackest thoughts; and his manners confirmed the idea.

"About this period, among the many foreigners who frequented my villa as they passed through Montferrat, was lord Albourne, a young Englishman of rank and considera­ble fortune."

Matilda and Alfred started at the name; but they for­bore to interrupt the hermit, who accordingly proceeded—

[Page 99] "His manner pleased both myself and daughter; in short, there was a kind of noble sincerity in his disposition, which on a little further acquaintance charmed me.—I must allow I felt a considerable happiness, on observing a mutu­al affection take place between my Lucretia and this noble­man.—His character, I understood from correspondents whom I could depend upon in England, was unblemished; and I knew I could bestow on my child a fortune worthy of such a husband. Suffice it to say, he declared his senti­ments; and she, above the little arts of female coquetry, confessed she loved him. But still there were some obsta­cles to the marriage. Lord Albourne had not yet been ac­quainted with my misfortunes, or with Lucretia's attempt on D'Ollifont's life. To Lucretia there was also another impediment: she must part with me for some time; his lordship had promised, after settling his affairs in England, he would return with her, and consent to remain in Mont­ferrat during my life time. But it would, at least, take twelve months to transact these affairs. These twelve months' absence seemed to her a century, and darkened every prospect of felicity she might have hoped to have en­joyed. At length, however, these obstacles were overcome; lord Albourne was, by me, informed of the sufferings I had undergone, and of Lucretia's impetuosity, in attempting to assassinate the author of my misfortunes. His lordship sympathised with me in my distresses, and admired the he­roic love of my child, though he was sorry she had thrown herself into the power of such a wretch.

"The latter objection was at length over-ruled by him and, I may say, considerably lessened by D'Ollifont, from whom at this period I received a letter in terms of the warm­est friendship, and breathing, in some degree, a regret for the anguish he had caused. The contents of it informed [Page 100] me, that (it having been hinted to him that my health was in a precarious state, and that travelling would, very pro­bably, prove of infinite service) he would undertake that some one should perform my part in the abbey, if I chose to take a journey for two months to re-establish my consti­tution. D'Ollifont's character was now too well known to me for me to conceive one favourable trait in his dispo­sition; otherwise, this deception might have passed for an act of kindness and repentance. I strangely suspected some soul deeds were to be executed in my absence, and at first resolved not to accept the offer: but, at length, overcome by the tears of Lucretia, and the persuasions of lord Al­bourne, I consented to accompany them to France, but de­termined to return at least a fortnight before the limited time.

"My situation was critical; I dared not communicate my suspicions to any one, except Jasper: my oath for­bade it. My surprise, however, was considerably increased by finding that Percival Maserini and his sister were actual­ly in Italy; and that the former, by the authority of the king of Sardinia, had sent to Spain, to demand the keys of Grasville Abbey from count D'Ollifont, that the building might be searched, to find if another will could be produc­ed of the late count Maserini, in favour of his children be­fore his nephew.

"An idea now struck me, which I considered would at once give me an opportunity of discovering the dark machi­nations of D'Ollifont respecting the abbey, though absent from Montferrat.

"I therefore wrote a short answer to his letter, saying I should accept the vacation he offered me. At the same time I determined to leave Jasper at my house, concealed, that they might suppose he was also with me. I kn [...]w I [Page 101] could depend on his fidelity, courage, and understanding. To him, therefore, I related the forebodings of my own mind, and gave him instructions accordingly, with a par­ticular caution, that, should he find any one was confined there, or any treacherous schemes whatever going forward, he should immediately write to me, and (on the receipt of this token) I should come post, and incognito, to my villa.

"Lord Albourne and Lucretia were shortly united, after an acquaintance of only six months; and, as soon as the ceremony was performed, we set off for France. Our journey was pleasant; and if ever I enjoyed one gleam of comfort after my misfortunes in Spain, and the loss of my Cassandra, it was in this short period. A gloom, however, still hung over the countenance of Lucretia; the idea of leaving me proved a continual drawback on her felicity; and the distressing day was somewhat hastened by a letter from Jasper, requesting me to return immediately.

"That fortitude, however, which I conceived I should exert when I parted with the only prop of my existence, failed me entirely at the afflicting moment; and (instead of being able to support her through the trial) I found I in a great measure added to her grief, by the pangs I suf­fered myself, which were too acute to be concealed. Lord Albourne seemed to share the sorrows of us both; and (after shedding tears on my head) he removed his wife from my arms, that insensibly held her to my breast, and hur­ried her, in a fainting fit, to the carriage, which with cruel, swiftness soon bore her from my sight.

"Alas! every beam of pleasure seemed now vanished, and the melancholy prospects of my mind received another tint of darkness, horror, and misery. But a few months back, I had been the happiest of mortals—the father of a lovely, amiable child, the husband of an angelic wife, [Page 102] the possessor of an unblemished reputation: now was I an exile, though in my native country; bereft of wife, child, and even reputation, in the eyes of the world; labouring under a stigma of shattered fame, never to be recovered.

"Tormented with those ideas, I set out on my return to Italy; but, unfortunately, was detained, through many incidents on the road, for near three days. I, immediately on my arrival at my villa, had a private conference with Jasper.

"His countenance showed he had much to tell, and that of a dreadful nature. He informed me that, after my departure, he kept himself as secret as possible, according to my orders, and only went out by night, and then con­cealed himself at a place near the cave. The second time of his watching, he perceived Enuchi [...] and three others, whom he did not by any means like, cautiously enter it about midnight, and, some time after, he saw a light pass one of the casements in the west tower of the abbey; but though he remained at the same place till near day­break, he never saw them return. He attended again the next evening at an early hour, but saw no one go that way, though a light and the figure of a man moved several times, in the course of three, hours, before the different windows. He therefore concluded that those whom he had seen the night before had taken up their habitation en­tirely in the abbey. He still, however, continued to keep a watchful eye on the building.

"On the eighth day some confusion was experienced among the peasantry. A signor Balvolio, a physician, with officers of justice, and a servant of Percival Maserini ar­rived at Montferrat, to search for him. He had the night before, according to the servant's account, entered the ab­bey, while the man waited for him without; who fell a­sleep [Page 103] sleep, and did not awake till morning: he then entered to look after his master, but his exertions proved fruitless; he was no where to be found. His footsteps were traced to an apartment in the west tower; where also a picture, which he wore next his heart, was found, the ribbon of which seemed [...]orn by force; but from this room no other signs of him could be traced.

"Jasper was equally astonished and alarmed at this in­telligence. He had omitted to attend at the usual place the night before, having been extremely ill; he, however, contrived to be among those who entered with the strangers to search the building, and with them examined that very apartment of the west tower, where with me he had oft­times performed the usual ceremonies with the lamp. He then, with the rest, left the abbey, and heard it agreed on, between the physician and officers, that the doors and out­er gates should be left unlocked.

"On his return home he directly sent off a letter to me, acquainting me with these proceedings; but, unfortunate­ly, I had, the day before the arrival of it at the place it was directed to, set off for another part of France; and Jas­per, after some time, had [...]he mortification to receive it a­gain unopened.

"In this interval he was, however, by no means idle, and he determined, let the hazard be what it would, to go over the abbey himself at midnight. He at the same time resolved to enter from the principal gates, being aware, did he attempt to pass the secret passage, there was hardly a doubt but he should be interrupted.

"This scheme he carried into execution, and proceeded, well armed, with a dark lantern, to the hall. He had not remained, in an obscure part of it, above five minutes, be­fore Enuchio and two others came forth from that apart­ment; [Page 104] which proved they must have been in the subterra­neous chamber, and consequently had ascended by means of the trap. These men had, all three, lamps, and shortly after they were followed by a figure of noble mien, muf­fled up in his cloak, and his hat, in which was a white feather, flapped over his eyes. But how was Jasper asto­nished, when, by the light of one of their lamps, which glar­ed on his countenance, he discovered the features of D'Ol­lifont!

"Being now more fully convinced that the most horrid treachery and villany was going forward, though every moment in danger of being discovered, he persisted in fol­lowing them at some little distance. They proceeded slow­ly through the iron gate that leads to the ruins of a once magnificent place of worship, and walked to the centre, on which part stands a tomb to the memory of a monk, who in former times was a superior of this abbey.

"One of the men having put down a small basket, co­vered lightly over with a cloth, which seemed to contain some provision, they all four entered the tomb. But it was impossible for Jasper to follow them here also; as the size would hardly have admitted five persons to keep far enough apart in it to prevent discovery.

"He heard a kind of noise which plainly told they were opening a large trap, and it seemed to require the exertions, of three of them. He heard D'Ollifont speak: 'Take down the provisions; I will remain here. Leave the bas­ket, and say nothing.' Jasper supposed they did so; for, after some little time, he heard them replace the trap; and they passed by him as they returned to the apartment from whence they came.

"He immediately, by the same method he had entered, quitted the abbey, shocked at what he had been witness to [Page 105] and entirely at a loss in what manner to act. He knew himself to be entangled by a promise of secresy, similar to that of mine, on which terms only I had been suffered to make him my confidant; but yet he was certain, as well as myself, that it did not prevent our aid or assistance to any one distressed or confined in the building; or our exertions to frustrate any plans of wickedness or cruelty which the count might form, provided we did not discover those cir­cumstances in which we were involved relative to the light, &c. Our situations were both extremely delicate; and though we would have risked our lives in the service of the unfortunate, yet we could not but recollect with horror the forfeiture incurred by the breach of an awful oath.

CHAPTER XL.

"JASPER at length fixed on a scheme, which effectual­ly confirmed his wishes to serve the unfortunate, by the courage and ingenuity he displayed in the execution of it. He determined to let the much injured Percival Maserini know (if such a person there was in the abbey—a circum­stance of which he had little if any doubt) that there was one who was acquainted with his unhappy situation, and pitied him—nay, would run all hazards to assist him to es­cape, if he could contrive any stratagem that carried in it the least prospect of success. Words to this purpose he wrote on a sheet of paper, at the same time mentioning he would attend in the tomb the next night, at an early hour, before the usual attendance of D'Ollifont and his assistants; [Page 106] a feeble hope inducing him to think they might converse together, though with difficulty.

"A sudden idea now struck him, which had nearly over­ruled his present determination. Why not immediately apply to the civil power, whom he could at once lead to the place of confinement; and, by proof, crush D'Ollifont and the wretches concerned? The pen dropped from his hand: he rose with joy at the thought. Hesitation and reflection again stopped him: he knew not how I would have acted in this case. Strong as were his suspicions, they were as yet but suspicions. Should he make them publicly known, and, at this crisis, should they fail, (which, though entirely improbable, was not actually an impossi­bility) it was uncertain in what state he might involve both himself and me. But this might, at least, be done at the last extremity, and in two days more he expected I should return.

"In short, he proceeded as he had before intended, and accordingly finished his note—not without, however, men­tioning, at the latter part, hints of the disagreeable ties that entangled him with D'Ollifont. Another consideration now interrupted him: he wished to sign a name, but not either his own or mine; that, in case the letter should be discovered, it might not, at the first instant, be apparent who was the author of it. After some little time he wrote at the bottom, 'Father Peter,' that it might be supposed to be some holy man, who, disdaining the idle talk relative to the abbey, had made it a place for his meditations, and had consequently discovered what was going forward.

"Jasper, at night, attended at a particular spot in the chapel. In a short time he heard them enter, but could not perceive D'Ollifont. One of them, whom he had no­ticed the night before, he now discovered to be Eburne.— [Page 107] They immediately walked to the tomb, and followed each other in; the basket, as on the former night, was slightly covered with a cloth, and put down on the outside of the door, while they removed the trap. Jasper now saw the opportunity he wished to make use of; and, while they were busily employed, he advanced, turned the cloth on one side from the top of the basket, thrust the paper down among the provision, and replaced the covering as he found it. In less than a minute after he had returned to his hid­ing place, one of them came forth, and took it away: he soon after heard the trap closed; and, again passing him, they returned, as he supposed, to the subterraneous room, while he left the abbey, elated, in some degree, with the success of his scheme.

"The next night arrived; and Jasper, with another let­ter, repaired, as soon as it was dark, to the chapel, with a palpitating heart for the issue of his undertaking. He en­tered the tomb, put his mouth to the trap, which, with some trouble, he found; then called several times, but received no answer: he repeated the name of Maserini still louder, till he was afraid he had discovered himself to D'Ol­lifont's party. Soon after, he thought he heard a kind of groaning from below; but it was indistinct and faint: in short, he was now certain the cell was so low, it was im­possible to exchange words with any one beneath. His dis­appointment, however, did not abate his perseverance; and he now waited to place his note, in which he had re­lated the regret he felt at not being able to hear him; and, after begging him to support himself with fortitude, he de­clared his intending, if every scheme failed, to apply to the magistracy of the place.

"The men, as usual, approached; but D'Ollifont was again absent. One of them carried the basket: unfortu­nately [Page 108] he did not place it before the door, but took it with him into the tomb; in consequence of which, Jasper was unable to send the paper he had got ready. After they left the chapel, he departed from the abbey, overwhelmed with chagrin and distress at the failure of his enterprise. The next morning brought the letter which he had wrote to me, back again, with information that no such person could be found at the place where it was directed. He immediately dispatched another, which found me at B***.

"One more night he resolved to try if Fortune would favour him; and he determined, should she not, to run all hazards, and apply for justice the following day.

"He was just going to leave the house, when he observ­ed three men lurking about it, as if watching it; he there­fore waited some little time before he set off. About half an hour after, he perceived they were gone; and ac­cordingly walked towards the abbey. He had but just arrived at one of the solitary avenues leading to the principal gate, when the same three men, as he supposed. rushed from behind some thick foliage of cedar, and de­manded his money. They, however, waited for no answer, but knocked him down: they then rifled his pockets; and, after giving him several blows on the head, and stabs with a dagger in the side and breast, left him, doubtless with an idea that he was dead.

"In this state he continued till morning, when he in some degree recovered his senses, though unable to move, and almost to speak. His situation was dreadful: there was little chance of any one passing that way, it being so near the abbey; and he seemed to be in such a state that he could not possibly survive many hours.

"Providentially, however, after a considerable length of time, a peasant ventured into the path, after a strayed [Page 109] mule; he at first attemped to run at the sight of Jasper's figure, conceiving him to be something supernatural; but his feeble voice soon convinced the man, who stood at a little distance, that he was a mortal. He immediately came up to him; but the exertion he had used in striving to make him hear, had now rendered him speechless. The poor fellow, who saw and pitied him, directly ran for ano­ther man to help; and they carried him between them to the peasant's cottage. After some little time he was re­cognised, and they sent to the servants at the villa, to ac­quaint them with the accident.

"Proper assistance was procured: in about eight hours he recovered his speech; but yet the physician gave no hopes of his life. In the course of four days his wounds appeared more favourable, and his fever considerably abat­ed, yet still he continued delirious at intervals. In the course of six more days, he recovered his senses entirely, and was pronounced out of danger. He now sat up some hours every day, and seemed to gain strength as fast as could be wished; and the following week, which was the time of my return, he left his chamber, though extremely low.

"In this state I found him, and heard from him the events which had happened in my absence. I leave you to judge of my feelings and my situation. There was not a doubt, in my opinion, but that the villains who robbed and so cruelly used Jasper, were some of D'Ollifont's gang, who knew of his intrusion in [...] the abbey, and determined to keep him away for some time, if not to murder him. I therefore resolved, however hazardous it might be, to go to the abbey that night, though Jasper was unable to accompa­ny me: this resolution, I must own, was rash: but I [Page 110] thought not on the danger; my passions were worked up to the highest pitch.

"Soon after it was dark, I repaired to the cave; nothing was altered since my last visit. I proceeded along the sub­terraneous passage: all was silent, and gloomy. In the same manner I ascended to the room; not an article ap­peared to be moved. I rose from the trap to these apart­ments: I could hear nor see nothing; every thing seemed to show not a soul had entered it since myself: I, at length, even began to conceive doubts whether Jasper's tale did not proceed from a disordered imagination. I walked slowly to the gates of the chapel; and, stopping a few moments, shuddered involuntarily at [...] own ideas. The horridly desolate aspect of every thing around me encou­raged the dismal train of thoughts that struck on my mind. I shook off this weakness, and walked directly to the tomb; where I was soon convinced of the truth of Jasper's report, by finding the trap, which answered every description he had given me. I was, however, incapable to lift it up, and having fully satisfied myself that the place was now clear, returned home.

"The next day, I acquainted Jasper with my visit; and we both conceived there was not a shadow of doubt but the unfortunate Percival Maserini had been made away with, during the illness of Jasper.

"In the course of a week Jasper was able to attend me to the abbey, and we proceeded together to the tomb. We both exerted our strength, and soon opened the trap, which discovered a flight of narrow stone steps, by which we de­scended to a considerable depth, and at the bottom entered a small square cell, arched over at top. This place was en­tirely clear, nor could any signs of murder be discovered, till Jasper (as we were leaving of it) by chance stumbled [Page 111] over a dagger, clotted with blood, partly dried, and in some few places begun to rust. This I resolved should for the present remain where it was; and, after we had performed the ceremony with the lamp in the west tower (according to my oath, which I strictly adhered to) we returned, shocked at our efforts being frustrated, relative to discovering the manner in which Percival Maserini had been treated.

"For about a month I was undetermined in my con­jectures on these circumstances, and considerations in what manner to act. Every [...] of nature and justice, however, seemed to demand I should if possible, make what intel­ligence I had received known, and bring D'Ollifont to ac­count, on the charge of Jasper.

"My resolution to this purpose had not been fixed above a day, when the poor fellow was taken ill with a relapse of the fever that had before been caused by his wounds; and one of these wounds which he received on the breast, and which he had taken less account of than the rest, now showed signs of mortification. Advice from every part near was sent for; but their consultations proved of no avail; for, in less than a week, I saw him breathe his last, in a state of insanity.

"Every idea of bringing D'Ollifont to justice now va­nished; and the death of this faithful servant preyed on my spirits (which, though bad at the time of my leaving Spain, had gradually grown worse ever since) insomuch that, at this period, it almost affected my senses at certain times. Still it was a kind of melancholy madness, which was of short duration in its intervals; and, consequently, could not be discovered, but by the few persons who were continually with me; and they took no notice of it, as they apprehended no ill consequences from it on my beha­viour, which was neither frantic nor outrageous

[Page 112] "Seven months elapsed under these circumstances; during which time I received two letters from my daugh­ter, who informed me of the tenderness and affection of her husband, of his settling his affairs as soon as possible, to return with her to me in Italy (a period she most sin­cerely longed for) though she supposed it would be defer­red, on account of an addition to their party, in the person of a near relation to myself.

"This intelligence, at two different times, gave me the most sincere pleasure and happiness. Like a poor ship­wrecked mariner, I looked forward through a gloomy pro­spect to a little glimpse of returning comfort. Alas! that glimpse was soon extinguished; and I arrived at the crisis of my misfortunes. At the end of near five months' ex­pectation after the last letter I had received, another came from his lordship, who, in the most soothing manner, (though himself, by the appearance of his writing, nearly distracted) informed me of the death of my Lucretia, in child-birth; the infant, which was a girl, having survived.

"Excuse these tears," said the old man.

After a pause of some minutes, while he seemed stifled with grief, "Look on them," said he, "not as the effects of womanish ideas, or a superannuated mind; but consider them as indicating one worn down by the rod of adversity, till fortitude itself seems to forsake him, and remembrance even yet fills his eyes with drops of anguish—of regret."

CHAPTER. XLI.

"ALFRED, lord Milverne, and Matilda, venerated the grief of the hermit too much to interrupt his sorrow, which, after a few minutes' indulgence, he overcame, and conti­nued his narrative.

"This intelligence, as I before observed, brought me to the very crisis of my misfortunes; and the delirious fits I laboured under became more frequent, though not more violent. My ideas were tinctured with a kind of misan­thropy, which every day increased, and served to encou­rage horrid thoughts that had never before gained the least ascendancy over me: and the result of what I felt was a wish (though I shrunk from it with affright) to put an end to my own existence. But the gloom of my mind becom­ing each day more terrible, worked up every evil influence with double strength. Pernicious arguments floated in my brain; they seemed to say I could not do wrong in ridding myself of a burdensome life. In short, in less than three months, I came to the dreadful determination of drinking poison.

"I had seen no company whatever since the last news from England, but a reverend father belonging to a neigh­bouring monastery, with whom I spent some hours when perfectly collected; but I had, for the last month before I took this resolution, seldom even seen him. My heated imagination prompted me to ask him to dine with me the very day I resolved to commit the crime. In my victuals at that meal, I intended to mix a quantity of the poison­ous drug I had already procured. It is necessary, however, [Page 114] to inform you, that, at this period, I was partly insane, though possessed in some degree of recollection.

"The day arrived; and Father Phineas, by appointment, waited on me. We began dinner, and (I even now trem­ble at the idea) before it was finished, I executed the dread­ful project, and took, with a seeming calmness, the tinctured food. I immediately turned our discourse on the subject of religion; knowing I had only a few hours to live, I wished to be satisfied in some points which my disordered intellects had latterly made me doubt.

"The good man answered my questions with solemnity and truth. In the course of his observations, he treated on suicide: I involuntarily shuddered. With a steady firmness, which I shall never forget, he spoke on the horrid act, and the eternal punishment that awaited it. I turned pale; my lips trembled with convulsive terror at the idea of what I had done, and drops of perspiration fell from my face. Father Phineas observed these emotions, and inquired if I was ill. The greatest alarm prevailed over his features; he guessed the cause; but delicacy forbade him to men­tion it, for fear his conjectures should be wrong. After a few moments I burst into an agony of tears, and confessed myself guilty of the deed, that would (as he had clearly ex­plained) produce everlasting destruction.

"He hardly heard the confession, but darted like light­ning from the room. In less than ten minutes he return­ed with a medicine which he had procured at a relation's of his, who resided near. I immediately took it; but there was great doubt whether it would take the wished for effect, as I had swallowed the poison some time. The ago­ny I suffered, in doubtful suspense and horror for half an hour, could not be balanced by all my griefs put together; momentarily expecting dissolution with no hope of forgive­ness hereafter.

[Page 115] "At length I brought from my stomach the dreadful poi­son: the operation was violent; and, when over, I found myself unable to stand; the servants were therefore inform­ed by Father Phineas, that I had suddenly been taken ill. I was accordingly conveyed to my bed; nor was any one ever acquainted with the real nature of the case, he having made an excuse even in procuring the medicine.

"In the morning, after some hours' sleep, I found the good man at my bed-side; his manner was now severe, and I received from him a sharp though affecting rebuke; when, after having joined with me in a thanksgiving for my es­cape, he departed and I remained alone the remainder of the day.

"An inclination which I had before imbibed at inter­vals, now assailed me with redoubled force; it was a wish to retire entirely from the world, and live secluded and un­known, in the cave which led to Grasville Abbey: by this I should at once gratify my own desire and (if possible) more strictly adhere to my oath, which I now more and more, as my health became impaired, considered as a duty to my God.

"The next day I communicated the thought to father Phineas, who at first attempted to dissuade me from it, but at last agreed that it was a resolution in some degree necessa­ry, as a penance for the crime I had been guilty of. I de­termined that no one, except himself, should know of my retirement; and between us the following scheme was therefore contrived.

"I gave it out among my household, that I intended to travel again to France, on account of my health; and, if I found the climate agree with me, might perhaps continue there some years, or entirely settle for the remainder of my life. My domestics were therefore ordered away of ascer­tain [Page 116] time. I [...] as was supposed, left the country; and my villa was sold by Father Phineas. At different times of the night he had conveyed for me various utensils and conveni­ences, to form the necessary articles of life, to the cave: he likewise procured the dress, &c. of a hermit; and I took possession of my now abode, giving the whole amount that my villa and furniture sold for, to father Phineas, to distri­bute in charitable uses, besides a very handsome present for himself.

"My sudden departure, and the melancholy state I had so long been in, was talked of for some time, after which I was partly forgotten, and seldom mentioned.

"But it was necessary ou [...] proceedings should not stop here: and, in the course of six months, Father Phineas, (who visited me daily) by my desire, spread the report of my death at Paris, and wrote a letter to D'Ollifont, who was then in Spain, to the same purport; mentioning it was my request, when living, that, after my decease informa­tion of it should be sent him.

"Whether he believed the account, I know not: but it is certain he might have been convinced to the contra­ry, had he taken the trouble to send and make inquiries in that city. But, conceiving▪ I suppose, that there were al­ready alarms enough concerning the abbey, to keep it free from intrusion, and that the principal person to contend with him was, by his diabolical arts, no more; knowing that, even if it was searched, no material proofs could be brought against him, he thought my death rather a release than a misfortune, on account of the thorough knowledge I had of his character.

"But, as if Providence favoured his villany, I could not bring me to disregard the oath I had taken, so that his wishes still continued to be fulfilled. You may, per­haps, [Page 117] wonder at my strict adherence to it: but you must consider my situation; every trifle swelled in my imagina­tion, which had now nothing to relax it; and my ferven­cy of religion, in respect to repenting of the crime I had been guilty of in an attempt to take away my own life, every day became more violent; insomuch that my horror and misery increased, instead of lessening, the more I thought of its fatal tendency.

"The good father constantly visited me during the re­mainder of his life, and regularly brought me food; but he has now been dead twelve years. After that period I was necessitated to go to the public market, and upon this account took the name of Father Peter, recollecting the signature which Jasper put to the letter he sent to Percival Maserini. Time, and the disguise I was in, totally pre­vented me from being know. I have, since my appear­ance at the town, received visits from some of the peasan­try, who have been more courageous and more curious than their companions.

"I had now but one wish to be gratified, which was, to see lord Albourne and his child, if living. The good fa­ther had, by my desire, wrote to his lordship, some time after my retirement: but we received no answer. He wrote again; but this letter proved as fruitless as the for­mer. His illness and death prevented a third from being sent: the only conjecture I could form, to make me sup­pose both letters had miscarried, [...]as, that, in case of his lordship's death, I should have received an answer to them by some one invested with the management of his affairs. Father Phineas had transmitted all my money to a very respectable relation of his in France, an eminent banker, under a feigned name; and with this gentleman was also placed my will, wherein I had bequeathed the whole of my [Page 118] fortune to lord Albourne and his child, if living, if not, to be divided equally among six convents in France, and a considerable sum to be given to the poor.

"Lord Albourne, his child, and the recollection of al­most every one that had been dear to me, in a great mea­sure vanished from my mind, in the space of ten years. Wholly absorbed in an enthusiastic mode of living, I be­came indifferent to every thing in the world, and obtained a serenity to which I had before been a stranger. I kept a constant watch upon the abbey, though I did not enter it for sometimes six months together: yet at these times I could see no one had intruded there since my last visit.

"I remained in this state for near twenty years, when, the second night, as I suppose, that you were at the abbey, walking rather later than usual, meditating on the events of my past life, which seemed like a fleeting dream to my imagination, my reverie was suddenly interrupted by a glare of light from one of the windows on the east side of the building. I stopped involuntarily; and a kind of horror, I had long been a stranger to, crept through every vein. I stood some minutes, as if fixed to the earth: but, knowing I could do nothing then, I made the best of my way to the cave, though unable to sleep the remainder of the night, from the ideas that tormented me.

"In the morning I rose, harassed and distressed. I first determined, if possible, to seek out who and what the inhabitants were, as I could more easily find out the best methods to terrify them from it, according to my oath, which I still resolved strictly to adhere to. I went through the subterraneous passage to the room, and from thence as­cended to the apartment above, the next to this, in which you were all four assembled.

[Page 119] "I could not perceive the features of any person, but found you had taken up your residence here only two nights. I determined to begin my operations without hesitation, and accordingly, the latter part of the evening of the same day, repaired to the west tower, and at mid­night, in one of the casements, exhibited the lamp. This ceremony I performed the next night, and passed the win­dow in a manner which I was certain must cause alarm, if I was seen. Having done this, I returned to my cave, with scarcely a doubt but I had frightened the visitors from their abode.

"I found myself, however, mistaken; for the next morning, in the subterraneous room, I heard voices, but did not then ascend to the upper apartment. I attended rather earlier than usual at night, and found you had not re­tired to rest, but were at supper. I placed my lamp be­low, and waited above, though unable to observe any one, the folding doors being quite closed.

"The night was stormy, (you no doubt, well recollect it) and I afterwards regretted the uneasiness I had caused the female part of the company. The behaviour of Mr. Maserini appeared strange and boisterous: in short, I im­mediately conjectured he had been drinking freely. The conception was, I believe, right; and I must confess, at that time, it gave me no high opinion of his character. In consequence of this idea, I did what I should otherwise, perhaps, have omitted.

"On my first entrance, I heard him call for lights. His sister in vain persuaded him to retire to rest; he swallow­ed several bumpers of wine after each other, with the avi­dity of a madman: at length he called a name which struck me almost senseless. I uttered an exclamation of horror, which was drowned by a very loud clap of thunder that [Page 120] burst over the abbey at that time. My flighty imagination, wounded by a degree of returning insanity, urged me to think that the name of my daughter was mentioned to hurt my feelings; and this vague thought spurred me to terrify the author of it with more than usual inclination. The armour that had been thrown down by Jasper at the time we were viewing the abbey with signor Ranolpho, had been gathered together, and placed in the subterraneous room. I descended, and soon heard him drink to the 'old ghost that inhabited the abbey;' upon which I directly pushed against the pile with all my force: it fell to the ground, and, as it did before, made a most violent crash.

"I immediately ascended to hear what emotions it had caused. I heard all in confusion: every one seemed by the noise to have removed from their seats; upon which I immediately placed myself upon the trap, ready to sink on a sudden, if required.

"Mr. Maserini uttered the name of his father—I groaned.

"He heard it, and declared he would find from whence it came: but some one seemed to hold him. I repeated the groan.

"Two persons approached the folding doors; they flew open: I stopped just time enough to be seen, and then vanished.

"Thus ended a night, no doubt, to you, of the greatest horror and distress—to me of the keenest anguish and re­flection; which, weighing on my mind, prevented the refreshment of sleep: in short, the next day I was unable to leave my bed, or take any account of the abbey.

"The following morning, as I was at my prayers, you all entered on me rather suddenly. I, as usual, prayed for the forgiveness of the sin I had been guilty of, in the at­tempt to deprive myself of existence. I had an uncommon [Page 121] oppression on my spirits; and tears, which I could not stifle, flowed at the recollection of events in the early part of life. I turned my head, and observed four persons as­sembled round, two of whom bore so strong a resemblance to the picture of the late count Orlando Maserini, that, weak with indisposition, and overcome by my own ideas, I fell senseless on the floor. Even on my recovery from this fit, I did not, I believe, rightly recover my scattered senses. You took your leave, and promised to visit me the next day.

"I supposed you were inhabitants of the abbey, and had but little doubt of your near relationship to the family of Maserini. My very soul seemed to cling to you: but my oath again came to my imagination, and I dreaded even the very thought of breaking it. I considered, if I could but adhere to that, and still be of service to you, I might yet die with some degree of happiness. At night, as usual, I displayed the light in the west tower, and afterwards re­turned to my cave.

"According to promise, you were with me in the morn­ing. We discoursed on several subjects: Mr. Maserini mentioned Grasville Abbey: I found myself confused, and thought I could also perceive symptoms of embarrassment and terror in the countenances of all. Indisposition again prevented me from attending with the light in the west tower at night. In the afternoon of the next day you visited me again, and, no doubt, well remember our conversation.

"I advised you not to enter the abbey. Mr. Maserini answered me rather warmly, and I found myself hurt: he immediately apologised, and we parted. I was again, at night, necessitated to defer the ceremony of the light, by an unexpected event, which I shall hereafter make known.

[Page 122] "The next day you visited my cave; but I was absent on the business of the preceding evening. At midnight, however, I displayed the light in the west tower, and could plainly perceive some one move with a lantern in the court below. Supposing by this that you were none of you then retired to rest, I conceived, that, in a little time, I might venture through the apartment where you slept" (turning to Matilda) "to one which I have distinguished by the name of the state-chamber, which contains the beavers, feathers, &c. and which was formerly hung with black, to receive the corpse of Orlando count Maserini, for the short interval of time before he was interred.

"There is a door artfully concealed on one side of Miss Maserini's bed, which cannot possibly be discovered, on ac­count of the tapestry that covers it: this opening leads to a private passage that communicates immediately with the stairs of the west tower; for I wished to get to the state­chamber, without appearing on the ground-floor of the ab­bey, where I naturally conceived you all were. This door I softly unclosed. I thought I heard a sigh, and my own feelings prompted me to answer it twice: yet I ventured further, till I supposed the reflection of my figure with the lamp was seen in a large pier glass directly opposite to where I stood. I heard a violent shriek, and hastily retired.

"I knew the key of the cabinet in this room was placed by myself on the remains of a decayed column in the state­chamber. I had fixed the silver chain, which was hung to it, to a marble hand, which I found by chance among the broken ornaments that lay about the different apart­ments; the cap of the pillar, however, entirely concealed it from view. I had examined this cabinet, and knew there was money, jewels, &c. in it, but never saw the manuscript. The only account I can give for its being concealed there [Page 123] is, that it must have been found by one of the assassins in the abbey, who (not knowing the contents, by its being wrote, perhaps, in a different language from his own) carelessly placed it in an obscure drawer of the cabinet; and was prevented, probably, from robbing the other parts of it, by the dread of count D'Ollifont's resentment, or from haste in not examining any further than where he placed the pa­per. Suffice it to say, that, after Jasper's death, I found the key of it in the west tower; and, taking only a superfi­cial view of what it contained, fixed it in the manner and place I have before mentioned. I wished to put you in possession of it, that without violating my oath, I might in some respects assist you. It was for this purpose I was go­ing to the state-chamber, with an intention of moving it into Mr. Maserini's room. Being fully convinced that all were retired to rest, I left the abbey, determining to put this scheme in execution the next morning.

"I accordingly attended at an early hour, and walked directly to the concealed door; when, stopping a moment, to listen, I heard Mr. Maserini and his sister in conversa­tion, and found he resolved to watch in the west tower that night. I, at a particular part of his observations, in­terrupted him, by pronouncing three times, with an ener­getic voice, 'Go!' to the inexpressible horror of both.

"A thought now entered my imagination, that I might bring every thing relative to the abbey partly to a crisis, and still adhere to the vow I had made. I resolved to let the key of the cabinet remain in the same place, and at night appear to Mr. Maserini, in the apartment of the west tower: conceiving that if his resolution failed him in point of seizing me and discovering the deception, I [...] means to lead him to the state-chamber, and there disco­ver to him the key. This, though at first it may seen [Page 124] equivocal, I was certain would in no degree infringe on the general tendency of my oath.

"I entered the abbey at midnight, but stopped at least an hour in the lower rooms of the tower, before I made my appearance in the upper one. At length, however, I as­cended to it, by means of one of the same sort of traps which are contrived in the upper part of the building.

"I stood before him about a minute; but hearing some one on the stair-case, immediately, by the same means, va­nished from his sight.

"My scheme, in some measure, being frustrated, I made the best of my way to the state-chamber, through the private passage I have before mentioned: wishing to regain the key of the cabinet, I wanted more light than my lamp, and accordingly lighted those tapers that were placed in the different glasses. I had no sooner done this, than I heard some footsteps approach the door: I immediately concealed myself behind the column that contained what I have before mentioned. The voices, I found, were those of the inhabitants of the abbey. The night was exceed­ingly stormy; and a kind of shock, similar to that of an earthquake, seemed to take effect on the room where we stood. I availed myself of this circumstance, and immedi­ately pushed the cap of the column down, which directly discovered the marble hand, and key suspended from it. Mr. Maserini by these means procured it. I then came forward and stood on the trap, clasped my hands with ec­stasy, and descended through the floor.

"The next morning you all visited me: I was looking over some papers, of infinite consequence to your welfare; but it was not then a time for discovery. I was, if you recollect, suddenly taken ill, with a kind of fit I have for years been subject to: I prayed that my life might be pro­longed [Page 125] till a mighty work was effected, which was to pro­cure justice for the murder of Percival Maserini, and re­store his children to their rights.

"I had no doubt but Mr. Maserini would again watch in the west tower that night; and I accordingly appeared there in the same manner as before. His behaviour answer­ed my purpose; he seized me, and discovered my person: secresy, in my ideas, was now at an end: an explanation took place: I, however, put off a regular detail of events till another period, but gave him hopes of once more be­ing restored to the world and happiness, in a manner that would at once wipe off every stigma that had so long de­famed his character.

"He visited me the next afternoon, but did not stop long, and only received from me further proofs that I had power and will to serve him. I received another visit from miss Maserini alone, at midnight. My surprise may well be conceived: the interview was occasioned by her finding of the manuscript. I promised to wait on her in the morning, and explain every circumstance, as far as I was capable. This promise I have now fulfilled, by rela­ting every principal event of my past life, which has been chequered with scenes of happiness contrasted with those of the most poignant misery and distress."

Thus ended the hermit's tale, who, for an act of the greatest generosity to a villain, fell under the lash of the severest misfortunes.

A total inconsistency of conduct, however, may be ob­served through the latter part of his life, occasioned, most probably, by a nervous constitution, entirely broken by adversity; for it was certainly strange that a man of en­lightened understanding, and refined education, should so closely adhere to an oath, tyrannically (as it may be said) [Page 126] forced on him by an act of the blackest ingratitude and in­justice; and at the same time reconcile himself to a pre­meditated plot of discovering his person; which he knew must consequently develope every transaction.

CHAPTER. XLII. MISCELLANEOUS OCCURRENCES.

THE mist of doubtful horror, which had so long brooded over the apartments of Grasville Abbey, was now totally dispersed, and the gloom of superstitious weakness dispelled by the bright ray of truth and reason. The inhabitants, in some degree, wondered at the fears that had assailed them; and could not, even for a moment, reflect on them, but with a mixture of contempt and vexation at their want of fortitude to withstand the shock of mere visionary terrors.

The baron Sampieno received the united thanks of the whole company for his recital; Matilda and Agnes drop­ped a tear at the misfortunes of the venerable orator. A sensation, however, they had long been strangers to, of de­light and comfort, ran through the whole assembly. Every mystery, every supernatural idea, was elucidated to their satisfaction, and at once relieved them from that load of anxiety and distress they had so long encouraged by gloomy [Page 127] apprehensions. In the course of the conversation, Matilda also understood that the answer she supposed to be given to her thoughts the night before, as she entered the cave, was nothing more than an involuntary exclamation of the hermit's which (by the construction of the place) echoed to the part where she stood, in a kind of whisper.

After having taken some refreshments, lord Milverne de­clared his intention of setting off to the residence of the magistrate, as the critical situation of Felix demanded that the banditti should be immediately apprehended. It was resolved that Leonard should attend him, as, in some parts of the information, he might be useful. They accordingly departed, and were not expected to return till the evening, as they would be necessitated to accompany the guards to the spot, and afterwards be present at the examination.

The baron now began, to Alfred and his sister, another narrative, which, though shorter, gave them nearly as much surprise and pleasure as the former.

One night, which he mentioned, neglecting to show the light in the west tower, he was, at an early hour, called by a voice that he had somewhere heard, and which seemed to come from the outer part of the cave. He immediately re­paired to the spot, and perceived a man whose counte­nance he directly knew: he was a peasant that had some­times visited him, but who had latterly not so often atten­ded, on account of the indisposition of a relation. The man's features carried in them the utmost horror and af­fright, occasioned by three causes: first, his relation was dying, as he supposed; secondly, though he had often called upon the hermit by day-light, he had never before ventured near his habitation after dark, on account of the path leading directly to the abbey, consequently was under considerable alarm; and, thirdly, that alarm was heighten­ed [Page 128] beyond measure, by seeing a light in one of the case­ments of that building, which occasioned his calling on the hermit's name, being unable to proceed any further.

With breathless agitation the poor fellow related what he had seen, and then requested Father Peter would ac­company him to his cot, as he was woefully afraid some­thing lay heavy on the mind of the sick man that was there, who had expressed a wish to see a confessor: none, however, being there to be found, he thought of Father Peter, and had even ventured, at that hour, to procure him.

The baron, after some hesitation, consented to go with him; and they accordingly walked to this man's home, where he was conducted to a room, in which, on a miser­able, bed, lay an emaciated figure extended, and seemingly in the last state of consumption. His face was of a deadly paleness; his cheeks, sunk to the very bone, were covered with a shrivelled skin; while those parts of his eyes which had once been white were turned to a kind of pale yellow: his nose and mouth, which had been no bad features, now appeared predominant ones, owing to the thinness of his face; while in his whole person was painted anguish and remorse in the extreme, and a gloom at intervals, which showed all joy, all hope, had forsaken his soul. What were the sensations of the baron, when this change, great as it was, did not prevent him from recognising the wretch Eburne! Ah! and what were the sensations of that E­burne, when he beheld and recollected, under the garb of a hermit, the much-injured baron Sampieno! He shrieked aloud, and hid his face below the bed-clothes. The cotta­gers were astonished: the baron desired they would leave the room; which they accordingly did.

After a few minutes, hearing every thing quiet, the wretched man raised himself; but the delirious fit he ha [...] [Page 129] laboured under for some days before, now returned with violence. His black shaggy hair, discomposed by the ef­forts he had made to hide from his sight the figure before him, gave a double horror to his ghastly looks, which car­ried in them every appearance of insanity. He raved, cal­led on the names of count Maserini and his children—then the baron Sampieno—wept, and, clenching his hands to­gether, sunk on the bed, exhausted and fatigued. The ba­ron well knew it was useless to attempt to speak while this fit of a guilty conscience remained: he was therefore a si­lent spectator of the scence, and greatly affected.

After the violent ravings of Eburne had ceased, he lay panting on the bed, with his eyes fixed on a vacant part of the chamber. The baron conceived this would be a good opportunity to address him: he therefore drew near the bed; but Eburne again shrunk from him, and put out his hand, as if struck with horror at his approach. The good man spoke in the mildest terms, and begged he would be composed: again the languishing eyes of the culprit were raised towards the venerable comforter; and again he shrunk back, as if the figure brought to his mind ideas that rent his very soul.

Two hours elapsed, during which time the baron ad­dressed him on several topics relative to religion; and his disordered intellects gradually became more connected and regular, though he, almost every five minutes, gave a con­vulsive shudder, and a loud sigh of anguish and regret.

At length the baron promised to call on him the next day, and left the chamber. He desired the cottager not to disturb his relation; but, at day-break, to send for the most eminent physician they could procure; and he would make up to them the expense. With many thanks, they promised to do as he desired. He accordingly left the cot­tage; [Page 130] and, it being considerably past the time of illumi­nating the tower, immediately on his return to to the cave, retired to rest.

The remainder of the night was spent in a train of me­lancholy reflections on this strange accident. The sight of this man brought to his mind those scenes of felicity and happiness which he and his diabolical master had forever blasted: yet, after the state in which he had beheld the miserable wretch, pity, in opposition to those reflections, entered his bosom; and those very scenes, as they more confirmed his wickedness, seemed to draw from the bene­volent heart of the baron greater concern and sorrow for his dreadful situation. It was necessary, however, if Eburne survived till morning (which seemed rather doubtful) that he should be got into as composed a state as possible, and that by persuasion (if persuasion should be found necessary) he should do what justice he could to the offspring of that family which he most probably had aided to destroy. The baron considered that he might be acquainted with the whole of D'Ollifont's transactions; if, therefore, he could he brought to give an explanation of them, his words might be taken down in writing; and such a confession (if it could be proved by respectable witnesses who could answer for his being in a state of sanity) would nearly tend to answer every wished-for purpose.

Such were the baron's thoughts; and at an early hour he repaired to the cottage. A physician of some eminence was already arrived: he gave but little hopes of the pa­tient, but said he might probably survive a few days. E­burne had enjoyed considerable sleep for some hours, and seemed perfectly calm. The physician departed, after promising to call again in the evening.

[Page 131] The baron now took the man who belonged to the cot­tage, on one side, and requested to know what relation E­burne was to him. The man answered, he was a cousin of his wife's; they had always understood he led a very wick­ed life; nor had any acquaintance been kept up between them for many years, till about six months past, when he came to their cottage, very much distressed in mind, and labouring under every symptom of a decline. He fully confessed to them that he had been a most abandoned cha­racter, and claimed their pity. The cottager and his wife accordingly admitted him into their house; but, as his health gradually grew worse, his melancholy increased. He, however, made his will, and left them the whole of the little property he was possessed of.

"Last night," continued the man, "he was suddenly taken much worse than we had ever before seen him (though he has at times been deranged in his intellects for some days past) and begged I would bring him a confessor: I accordingly set off for Father Leolin; but I found he was some miles from Montferrat. I then thought your pre­sence would answer the same purpose."

The baron desired the cottager to go into the chamber of the sick man, and mildly inform him that Father Peter had called to see him; that he would give him no uneasi­ness, but rather comfort and consolation.

The man did as he was desired, and in about five mi­nutes returned. "Eburne," said, he, "is perfectly sensible, and wishes to see you: but I am sure there is something strange about him; for, when I only mentioned your name, he started, as if afraid of being murdered."

The baron entered the room alone. Eburne again con­vulsively shook at the sight of him; but, being addressed by the mild and condoling voice of the visitor, he so far re­covered [Page 132] as to look on him, and listen to what he said, with­out any violent emotions.

The baron, after an hour's conversation with him, which seemed entirely to compose his mind, conceived he might venture on a topic it was before impossible for him to men­tion, concerning the murder of Percival Maserini, and also of those doubts, relative to the count his father. He opened the subject with such caution and mildness, that, though the remembrance might be seen to work in every feature of Eburne's face, he did not fall into any fits of in­sanity, but continued perfectly collected during the whole of the interrogation.

At the close of it, he heaved a sigh of the most acute an­guish and horror, and in some measure relieved his bursting soul by a flood of tears. At length he recovered so far as to speak, and declared that Orlando count Maserini was poi­soned; and that Percival Maserini, his son, was assassinat­ed in Grasville Abbey, after having been kept there a pri­soner some little time: "and however," said he, "I may break the oath I have taken, I can no longer conceal the murderer: it was my late master, the count D'Ollifont. But," continued the unhappy man, "I am equally culpa­ble with him. I was privy to both transactions, and to every plot of villany he was concerned in, particularly that by which you were so great a sufferer. Oh, my God!" he exclaimed, clasping his hands in agony, "thou only knowest what are my sufferings. It is thou only canst con­ceive the pangs which drive me to madness."

He was near fainting: but the baron administered a cor­dial, which soon recovered him. He now informed Eburne that there was one essential way of atoning for his guilt; and that was to do justice to the descendants of the deceas­ed; for this purpose it was necessary, as his wife was uncer­tain, [Page 133] that a paper should be drawn up, declaring the facts relative to both murders, which in a court of justice would be certain to crush the wretch that was the cause of them, and give to the children of the injured those possessions they had so long unlawfully been deprived of. Eburne gladly and immediately consented to the proposal, and the more particularly so, when it was explained to him that the breaking of an oath in such a case could not be deemed an act of wickedness, or be disapproved of by the Supreme. The baron then drew up a paper containing all the cir­cumstances which were related to him by Eburne, before Father Leolin, who was now arrived, and acquainted with the affair.

In the evening the physician arrived; and before him and the cottager, Eburne signed the paper; declaring it on oath to be the truth of every transaction it contained. E­burne seemed considerably better, and after some little time the whole company departed; the baron taking pos­session of the paper, which was the same he was looking over when visited by the inhabitants of the abbey.

The confession it held forth was partly as follows:—That he was taken into the service of D'Ollifont when very young, shortly after that gentleman commenced gam­bler in Spain. He was soon distinguished as his confiden­tial servant, and assisted him in most of his defrauds—that they led that kind of life till his master's character was well known in those parts, where he resided for some time—that they were necessitated to fly to the place where the baron Sampieno and his family resided, and, knowing his riches, determined, if possible, to make him a dupe to their artifice; insinuating himself into the baron's family, though he bore a deadly hatred to that nobleman: This hatred he resolved to gratify by a diabolical scheme of ma­lice [Page 134] and villany. He determined to take away by force Lucretia, the baron's only daughter; and, by ruining her honour, to make a public disgrace and ignominy fall upon her father, which he knew would more effectually blast his happiness than any pecuniary fraud he could invent. This scheme was frustrated by the baron's over-hearing a conversation which he and his master had on that subject; but which gave rise to another opportunity for D'Ollifont to execute a second fiend-like contrivance, which tended to the same horrid purpose, and which, if possible, exceed­ed the former one in ingenuity and contrivance.

The manner and issue of this horrid plot against the ba­ron was related by himself, and the success of it answered but too well.

Eburne confessed in the testimony, that he was the per­son who found means to bury some of the false notes in the baron's garden, and who, by D'Ollifont's orders, brib­ed one of his servants to their interest. He attended his master to Italy, where the old count Maserini was extreme­ly alarmed, on account of a report which had been spread concerning his children, who had been some time in France. He had been informed that Percival, his son, had contrived to rob the convent of N***** of a young lady of family and distinction, and that both, with his sister, had fled.—This report seemed the more to be credited, as an interval of some time had passed since the count had heard from them.

The old gentleman was extremely ill on the arrival of his nephew, but testified great pleasure at seeing him, hav­ing never heard of his misconduct. He slowly recovered; and D'Ollifont was dispatched to procure some further in­telligence of his children. It was during this journey that he made Eburne acquainted with his intentions, and pro­mised [Page 135] him large rewards if he succeeded. They returned to the abbey with a feigned letter, which gave information that Percival Maserini and his sister were no more; that the former fell by the hand of an officer who was going to secure them, and that the latter, in a fit of insanity, had poisoned herself. The letter concluded with saying that lady Clementina was confined in the Bastile, on a suspicion of having murdered her sister, who was found dead in her bed the morning after the elopement from the convent.

The grief of the count was excessive, and brought on a relapse of his former disorder; and this, added to a slow poison, which Eburne, procured, and which D'Ollifont mixed with every small quantity of food he partook of, put an end to his existence, without any signs of murder being committed. The count made a will about two days be­fore he died, in which he bequeathed the whole of his estates and property, except a few legacies, to his nephew. Eburne, by his master's order, gave it out the abbey was haunted, and, the better to make this believed, D'Ollifont himself left it suddenly in the night, after the funeral of his uncle. He returned immediately to Spain, and left or­ders that nothing should be moved from the abbey.

Eburne, however, was left behind, though it was suppos­ed round the country that the abbey was entirely free from inhabitants. He each night showed the light in the west tower, and secretly employed three mechanics to put the traps and machinery in order. These works he superinten­ded; and finding one of these men, whose name was Enu­chio, fit for his purpose, retained him, by D'Ollifont's de­sire, to reside in the subterraneous chamber, and show the light, while Eburne departed for Spain, to come forward on the trial of baron Sampieno.

Eburne also confessed that the passage which formed a com­munication between the abbey and the cave, the traps, &c. [Page 136] were found out by himself, and the secrets conveyed directly to his master, from whom he received a considera­ble present.

The paper next contained an account of the terms to which the baron consented, to save the life of himself and daughter, which the reader has before been acquainted with; also an account of D'Ollifont's entering into a soci­ety of depredators while in Italy, whose birth and situation in life were all above the common rank, and whose defrauds were carried to the most considerable amount on people of rank. It was at one of their places of rendezvous, at Genoa, where the baron was introduced to D'Ollifont, at the time he took his oath. After that conference, the latter depart­ed to Spain; but Eburne still remained concealed, as his agent in Montferrat, a watch upon the baron, and every circumstance which concerned the abbey. He sent him in­formation that Percival Maserini was actually arrived though, by D'Ollifont's orders, several men were placed on the roads to assassinate him.

Immediately that the keys were delivered in Spain, he set off from that country, and secretly arrived at Montferrat, where he kept concealed in the subterraneous room, with Eburne, Enuchio, and three men whom he had hired. It has before been mentioned that the baron was absent many miles; which answered every wish of D'Ollifont: but he did not know that Jasper was left behind. The resolution of this party was, to seize Percival Maserini and his servant, should they search the abbey alone; which it was rather expected they would. Enuchio and the three men were dispatched in the day time, about three miles round the spot, each taking different roads, and met at the cave at an appointed hour at dark.

It was about the fifth night, when, after one of these ex­cursions, Enuchio brought word that Percival Maserini, [Page 137] whom he personally knew, with his servant, had just cal­led at an inn for some refreshment; and, by their manner, he judged they were coming to the abbey, as they did not seem inclined to stop, as it was now late.

Every thing, therefore, was prepared; Enuchio and two of the men were planted in the west tower. Eburne and another man were concealed in the hall; and the count himself waited the issue of the scheme, in the tomb, in which the unhappy victim was to be shut up. He entered the abbey, agreeably to their expectations, even unattend­ed by his servant; and crossed the hall without any inter­ruption. Eburne being now certain he was within their power, he and his companion joined the count, while the unfortunate Percival ascended to the west tower.

On his entrance, he was immediately seized by the ruffi­ans: in the struggle, a picture of his wife was torn by force from his bosom, with a part of the ribbon; and several drops of blood, proceeding from a blow which he received in the face, stained the floor: these were discovered by Ed­ward, his man, when he made a search after his master in the morning; and also by signor Balvolio, the officers of justice, and other persons who attended the abbey for the same purpose afterwards. Percival Maserini was convey­ed down to the cell described by the baron, and discovered by Jasper; and a short allowance of food was given him each night.

A few days after, Jasper was discovered to be left be­hind in Montferrat; and it was determined he should be made away with, or at least so far hurt as to prevent any interruption from him. Eburne and two of the men as­saulted him in one of the private avenues leading to the front gates, and left him for dead.

The next night it was resolved between Eburne and his master, that a period should be put to the life of their [Page 138] wretched prisoner, for fear of the baron's return. D'Olli­font, however, did not wish any one of the men to be privy to the actual commitment of the murder: Enuchio and the others were therefore discharged with large presents, and, by his desire, departed to Spain: there they were seized, through the agency of an alguasil with whom he was con­nected, put a-board a ship of war, and fell in the first en­gagement.

At midnight D'Ollifont, with his own hand, stubbed his cousin Percival Maserini; Eburne being unable to per­petrate this last deed of darkness, though [...]e assisted poison was at first offered the unhappy man; but, on re­fusing to take it, he received the wound which at once re­leased him from a wretched existence.

Eburne and his diabolical employer buried the body near the tomb, in a grave which had been prepared in the day; and then, placing every thing in the abbey as it was be­fore they came, departed, and in disguise returned to Spain.

Here Eburne received a considerable sum from D'Olli­font, and remained in his service about six months: when he was one night suddenly seized, and carr [...] on hoard a similar ship to that in which his companions, were convey­ed; but, fortunately, did not meet with the same fate. He escaped from the crew, after twelve months, and en­tered into service in France; being [...] from making what he knew public relative to the count, on the idea of the strong oath he had taken to the contrary. [...] not a doubt but it was through his means, he was, by force taken from Spain; and his very soul recoiled against him, for those very schemes he had aided him in executing.

He was driven from France by nearing of D'Ollifont's arrival there, and crossed over to England, torn with re­morse, [Page 139] and harassed by a guilty conscience. He was often tempted, in defiance of the oath he had taken, to impeach his late master; but the doubt how such an accusation might be received from him, against one who was every day growing more popular in Paris, prevented this act of justice. He resided in England some years, as servant to a private gentleman; but was again necessitated to fly, on being informed that D'Ollifont was there likewise, dread­ing the power and inclination he had to rid the world of one who [...] privy to so many of his crimes. He there­fore made the best of his way back to France, and from thence soon returned to Italy, where he made himself known to his relations, and claimed their pity; [...]ding his health totally dec [...]ined, and his mind loaded with hor­ror, anxiety, and bitter remorse.

To this purport was the paper which the baron now de­livered to Alfred Maserini [...] it was a precious gift; for it would most likely tend, with correspondent evidence, to subdue the inveterate and malicious for [...] their family, while it procured them that comfort and affluence which they had so long been deprived of.

CHAPTER. XLIII.

THE baron further informed them that Eburne in the course of two days so far recovered at to be able to sit up for some hours; but, after his confession, he seemed to ex­press such an impatience for his dissolution, as indicated his mind was in some degree disordered; and, on the third [Page 140] morning after, he was discovered hanging by a cord, which he had found means to procure from a part of his bed, and fixed to a hook in the ceiling; thus adding another crime to the many that he had already committed, by an act of suicide.

The conclusion of this man's life held forth a striking lesson of villany and cruelty; his destroying of that ex­istence which he had every reason to suppose had nearly run its course, confirmed at once how much he suffered from the horrors of a guilty conscience, and the effects of a truly vicious mind.

As there was now no doubt but the abbey, with all the possessions and estates belonging to it, was the sole and lawful [...]ight of Alfred and his sister, no scruples of honour could prevent them from making use of the money and other valuables that were in the cabinet: but as the baron considered that the whole business must go under a regular course of inspection before the government, and count D'Ollifont be brought in the face of his country to answer for those crimes which could now be partly proved against him (though the facts did not actually amount to demon­stration) they conceived it would be better to let every article remain in the same place.

The baron insisted on their receiving from him supplies necessary for their present demands. It was, he said, his intention, if possible, publicly to clear that part of his character, which had for so many years remained under the aspersions of a villain; and bring his accusations against D'Ollifont on the foundation of Eburne's manuscript, which explained events relative to that affair with as much accuracy as it did the circumstances respecting count Mase­rini and his children.

[Page 141] The baron wrote to his banker in Paris, who was pos­sessed of his property, for remittances; giving him notice, at the same time, that he should shortly appear in person, to demand the whole of his fortune. The old gentleman consented to the entreaties of Alfred and his sister to re­main in the abbey, as they could easily have a bed made up for him in a chamber next to Alfred's.

In the latter part of the day, lord Milverne returned with Leonard and Felix: his lordship informed them that the banditti were taken, the men who had assisted him were singled out, released, and received from him a handsome reward, while the others were reserved for a public trial. Lord Milverne had spoken to the magistrate (whose polite­ness was extreme) concerning Alfred Maserini's affairs; he appointed to see him, with his lordship, the next morning, and promised to take every method in his power, to reco­ver for them their just and lawful right.

His lordship was much surprised and pleased to hear the account of Eburne, and the manuscript they had got in their possession. He congratulated them on the hopes of a very speedy end to their misfortunes: nor was the baron less pleased to hear that his son-in-law lord Albourne, and the daughter of his one beloved Lucretia, were both known to Alfred and Matilda. Pleasure beamed in his counte­nance, whe [...] [...] former spoke of her with the rapturous praises of a lover.

Leonard on his return was dispatched with the letter.—In it the baron requested of his banker to remit him the sun [...] for which he wrote by the speediest conveyance. Lord Milverne partook of Alfred's bed; another was made up for [...]he baron, and a third [...] below for Leonard and Felix.

[Page 142] The happy party assembled at breakfast at an early hour the next morning; after which they employed themselves in taking a regular survey of the abbey; and the baron ex­plained to them those pieces of mechanism it contained, which now fully accounted for the strange things they had been witness to. They also descended to the subterrane­ous room, and from thence walked to the cave, from which all the articles that the baron wished to preserve, were carri­ed to the abbey by Leonard and Felix.

Alfred, lord Milverne and the baron now set off for the magistrate, attended by Leonard. Matilda and Agnes dined alone: and though the latter would sometimes sur­vey the gothic structure of the room, it was with that de­gree of pleasure and confidence, which confirmed how well she was satisfied that every fear she had before encouraged was groundless.

"I am now, mademoiselle," said she to Matilda, "hap­py indeed; and I may truly say that this happiness is in­creased by seeing all around me so: in short, I know no­thing that could add to my present felicity, but...." Here she stammered; the blush of true innocence glowed on her cheek, and heightened that pleasing simplicity which grac­ed every feature.

Matilda guessed the cause of this embarrassment, and archly reminded her of Oliver.

The poor girl burst into tears—

"Indeed, mademoiselle, though I own I love Oliver, yet even the presence of my poor mother, however she may in some respects have treated me, would add to my present joy."

Matilda was struck with her gratitude, and commen­ded it.

[Page 143] "Both your wishes, Agnes," said she, "shall, if in my power, be gratified. Your mother shall be reconciled to your marriage with Oliver, by my making him a present that shall give him importance enough to gain her good will."

"A thousand blessings on you, mademoiselle! I know not how to thank you, unless you will look on these tears as in some degree an acknowledgment for your goodness."

Felix now entered the room to take away the dinner things; which put an end to the conversation.

The latter part of the day, Alfred and his friends return­ed. They brought with them two Italian women servants. One of the lower apartments was fixed for their kitchen, and they slept in a small room next to Matilda's chamber. The magistrate had given them every hope of a speedy issue to their cause. By their orders he was the next day to send off an arrest against count D'Ollifont, to detain his person wherever found, on three several charges—first, for the mur­der of his uncle the count Orlando Maserini—second, for the murder of his cousin Percival Maserini and unlawfully detaining the property of his heirs to his own use.

The third charge was in the name of the baron Sampie­no, for false accusations, and defamation of character.

The magistrate informed them that the count's power in France was no more: he had offended the royal party by an attempt to assassinate one of their class, and in short was in every respect no more than a prisoner in the country, be­ing afraid to leave it, though by no means wishing to re­main there.

This gentleman's politeness was extreme: he offered the services of himself and lady to introduce them into pub­lic, under their proper names; which was now in many respects absolutely necessary. The next day was appoin­ted [Page 144] for Matilda to visit them. The fore part of the follow­ing morning the baron proposed a walk to the cottage of Eburne's relations, as he conceived both Alfred and Matil­da should be made known to them, as well as to the phy­sician and father Leolin. They accordingly visited those persons; and all of them declared their readiness to come forward in their behalf.

After this walk they set off for signor Salvarino's, the magistrate's. Agnes, however, declined the invitation to attend them, as it was her intention to see some things put in order by the servants, necessary for the reception of a large party, which Alfred had resolved to entertain before he left the abbey.

They were received by signor Salvarino and his lady with the utmost politeness; some of the principal persons of the place were assembled, purposely to be introduced to the ba­ron and the young recluses; and all testified their joy that the right heirs of the Maserini family were now likely to be restored to the possessions of their ancestors. Alfred was informed that dispatches against D'Ollifont were already sent off, and a regular process in their behalf commenced against him. In the evening they attended a public place of entertainment, and received considerable applause from the audience; for their story had already spread through the principal part of Montferrat.

The following day was fixed on by signor Salvarino, the baron, and Alfred, for the settlement of some necessary cir­cumstances relative to the suit in hand. He waited on them at the abbey, and was taken all over it. Every con­trivance was explained to him; and he showed the greatest astonishment at what he saw. The remainder of the day was dedicated closely to business. Lord Milverne was absent on some of his own affairs. In the evening signor [Page 145] Salvarino took his leave, with an invitation to himself and lady, with most of the persons who were present at his house, to spend the next day at the abbey. The whole party accordingly met at the dinner hour: they surveyed the building, and received an elucidation to every mystery. Agnes undertook to manage the entertainment; and it was conducted in a manner that did her infinite credit.

They now began to make preparations for leaving Italy, as their presence would shortly be absolutely necessary in France. It was agreed that lord Milverne should cross over from that country to England, as he had some con­cerns to settle; and, at the same time, make inquiries if lord Albourne and his daughter were in London, as they all conceived it probable he might return immediately after the accident of the fire at the inn. Signor Salvarino procured them an elderly man and woman to look after the abbey, and reside there in their absence; and in the course of a fortnight they set off on their journey, with the two Italian servants whom they had hired.

Before their departure the baron received the sum he had wrote for from his banker, with a polite invitation to his house on their arrival at Paris. They had also information that the arrest was executed against count D'Ollifont, and that he was now a prisoner in his own house.

They travelled slowly, and arrived in France without any particular accident. They engaged handsome apartments. Lord Milverne remained with them but three days, and then tore himself from the happy party; not, however, without obtaining a promise from Matilda, to become his immediately on his return. They also understood that D'Ollifont had been confined to his bed some time, and had totally lost the royal favour. Since his arrest he had often shown fits of insanity; and it was doubted by the [Page 146] physician whether he would survive to take his trial. Signor Salvarino had given them letters of introduction to many persons of fashion and distinction in France; and those, added to their being known before, procured them admittance to the first parties.

Before their arrival, they were informed that the charge against Alfred was rescinded, even previous to the arrest against D'Ollifont. They visited the baron's banker, who introduced them to the whole of his friends.

They had been in Paris about a week, when they one evening attended the theatre: in leaving of it, as they pas­sed through one of the passages, a gentleman before them, seemingly intoxicated in a small degree, was addressing himself to a young lady rather against her will, though per­sonally he appeared to be known to her. She had an el­derly lady with her: they were, however, before Alfred and the baron; consequently, their faces could not be ob­served.

His importunities at length seemed to become exceeding disagreeable, and his remarks carried in them some impro­priety. Alfred advanced, and declared the lady should not by insulted! The gentleman turned round, and ex­claimed with the utmost surprise, "Mr. Maserini!" no [...] was Alfred's astonishment less to behold Henry Peviquil. The young lady turned pale at the name of Maserini, and sat down on a seat near; which gave Alfred an opportuni­ty to recognise lady Caroline Albourne, and the baron the picture of his departed wife and daughter, in the person of his grandchild.

Alfred, disengaging himself from the levity of Peviquil ran to her assistance: but, before he could catch her in his arms, she had fainted in those of the lady who was with her, and who was totally unknown to both Alfred and his sister.

[Page 147] The baron and Matilda now advanced. The former clasped the hand of the inanimate yet beautiful form, with ecstasy; but that ecstasy caused a tear to flow at the re­collection of her mother. A considerable crowd of persons were now assembled round: a gentleman, who stood by, invited them into a room in the interior part of the theatre; which offer they gladly accepted. Henry Peviquil, eleva­ted with wine, yet haggard with dissipation, attempted to follow: but Alfred politely requested he would desist: this he at last agreed to; but requested his address, that he might call and congratulate him on his return to France.—They accordingly exchanged cards, and he directly left the place.

Matilda privately entreated the baron that he would not discover himself to lady Caroline that night, as the pre­sent alarm had so greatly overcome her spirits.

Alfred hung over the charming invalid with a mixture of joy and concern. Her countenance was much altered since he had last seen her: though her beauty was not greatly diminished, yet it was of that delicate and languish­ing kind which plainly told she had suffered the most heart­felt and poignant uneasiness. He knew, from Caroline Albourne's sincere and artless conduct, that she once loved him; but he also knew his character had suffered the sever­est shock in the opinion of her father. She might now be the wife of another! The thought no sooner darted on his brain, than its effects might be observed in every feature. Lady Caroline recovered, and looked round with some sur­prise on the little party near her. She clasped the offered hand of Matilda with pleasure: and her eyes spoke to­wards Alfred, more than she dared to utter.

She had accompanied her father, after the accident of the fire, into Italy; but remained there a very short time. [Page 148] They then returned to France, as his lordship conceived the climate to agree with his constitution, which still seem­ed on the decline. The elderly lady, who was with her, had resided in France all her life, and was a distant relation of lord Albourne's, at whose house his lordship now resided with his daughter. They had heard of Alfred's arrival at Paris, with the information that the charge against him was withdrawn, and another of a very high and criminal nature brought by him against D'Ollifont. But lord Al­bourne was now by no means satisfied with that part of his character which he had formerly been a witness to, in point of gambling: nor did he give his daughter the least hopes of a favourable alteration in his sentiments towards the young Frenchman. Alfred wished them to permit him to attend them home; but this was absolutely refused, as they had their visitors and two servants in waiting.

Alfred, therefore, had only the consolation of finding that she was still unmarried, and declaring, as he handed her to the carriage, that in a very short time the whole of his con­duct would, he hoped, be explained to lord Albourne satis­factorily, and himself made the happiest of men, by being permitted to solicit of her that, the very thought of which had supported him through every misfortune.

The baron requested of the old lady his lordship's ad­dress, having business, as he informed her, of great impor­tance with him the following day; and, after a rather con­fused farewell, the whole company parted with still more confused ideas.

CHAPTER. XLIV. VARIOUS INTERVIEWS.

SENSATIONS of pleasure oft-times produce a train of reflections that bring with them the recollection of past scenes of happiness, and present to us former objects in which our very soul appeared entwined in one common ex­istence, and the parting of which seems almost to separate ourselves.

So it was with the baron Sampieno, at the sight of lady Caroline. He felt that enthusiastic glow of rapture which swells the veins of a parent at the recovery of a long-lost and beloved child; but reflection soon whispered that she was neither that beloved daughter nor wife whose figure still floated in his brain. Every feature, every look of each of them, shone forth in the beautiful representative he had seen; and the idea of what they were followed, and cal­led up those trivial scenes of endearment, which opened wounds that for a time had been healed by the balm of a re­ligious frenzy.

Immediately on his return home, he apologised to Alfred and Matilda, hurried to his chamber, and gave vent to those passions he had struggled to conceal. The baron was posses­sed of a degree of fortitude by no means inconsiderable: he had courage and resolution, a refined education and un­derstanding and a noble heart. Yet there was a constitu­tional weakness, a something in his disposition, which, by [Page 150] the generality of mankind, might be called a womanish de­fect, but by others would be looked upon as one of the ex­cellencies of human nature. The regret, however, for the loss of his wife and daughter, did not lessen the tie which drew him towards his grandchild: he suffered that which can only be conceived by a person in a similar situation.

Alfred and his sister met him the next morning at break­fast. His countenance was serene, yet melancholy: still, however, they could perceive he anticipated the pleasure of clasping lady Caroline to his heart, and once more em­bracing his much beloved son-in-law.

Alfred, though he might wish to accompany him, imme­diately refused the invitation; but the baron requested that Matilda would go with them.

At rather an early hour, they were introduced by ma­dame Bosivi's servant to the breakfast-room, in which were seated that lady, lord Albourne, and his daughter. Lady Caroline was at her harp, and his lordship listening to her harmony, while he took his chocolate. All three rose at the entrance of the visitors, and madame Bosivi introduced the baron as the gentleman whom she had mentioned to his lordship the night before.

Lord Albourne bowed; and, though he seemed rather struck with the countenance, did not recognise the person: he, however, advanced, and took the hand of Matilda.

"Believe me, miss Maserini," said he, however, unex­pected this visit may be, the pleasure I receive from it is unlimited; and I am sure Caroline will join with me in thanks for the honour you confer on us."

Matilda bowed, and returned a suitable answer to this polite compliment.

During a short interval the baron's eyes were fixed, first on lord Albourne, and then on his daughter; while ma­dame [Page 151] Bosivi, who was the most disengaged of the party, thought she could perceive a likeness between the picture of the late lady Albourne that hung over the fire-place, and the stranger before her.

Each being seated, lord Albourne, turning to the baron, requested to know his business; and while this request was made, as he more earnestly observed the features of the person to whom he was speaking, they seemed to make some impression on his memory; and a something appear­ed to cross his mind, that occasioned considerable emotion.

The baron hesitated: a kind of sympathy worked upon both; and, while Matilda trembled with anxiety, lady Caroline and madame Bosivi looked at each other with the utmost surprise. The baron at length spoke.

"I will not so much wrong your lordship as even so suppose you have forgot some scenes at an early period of life; the tendency, and I may say, happiness of which have, no doubt, stamped on your recollection some objects to whom you were then nearly allied, and in whose for­tune you were much interested: but I am far from being surprised that my face does not call these circumstances to your recollection, when I consider the alteration that time and misery have made in my person."

Lord Albourne heard no more: he clasped the offered hand of the baron with an ardour that bordered on mad­ness; and, as he lifted his eyes towards heaven, he heaved a heart-felt sigh, which, in some degree, relieved the ful­ness of his soul.

Lady Caroline and madame Bosivi still remained silent spectators of this affecting scene; though, with Matilda, they were rather alarmed at the situation of his lordship.

The baron received lord Albourne in his arms with a pleasure that partook of paternal love. They were both [Page 152] unable to speak: his lordship took the hand of his daugh­ter, and presented her to her grandfather. Another affect­ing scene now took place, and the baron almost supposed he clasped the figure of his Lucretia.

After some time he gave them a brief account of his life since that period which he termed the crisis of his misfor­tunes—his parting with his daughter.

In the course of this relation he oft-times had occasion to mention Alfred, at whose name his lordship looked re­served, and lady Caroline with anxiety.

Though lord Albourne found him so much prejudiced in his favour, he could not forget events he had been wit­ness to, which left behind them traits very injurious to his general character. In the course of their conversation they found that his lordship had never received any letter from the baron; but had for answer to inquiries which he sent to Italy, that he was no more; nor could he ever gain any further information. To procure, however, some ac­count of his father-in-law, was one reason, though known only to himself, that induced him to lengthen his journey into Italy; but, on his arrival there, finding his health worse, he left it rather precipitately. During the short stay he made, he used every means in his power to find out some one who was acquainted with affairs relative to the death of the baron: but all proved ineffectual; for he under­stood that he left his villa suddenly, and settled in France, where he died. His lordship now gave up every thought of searching any further, and himself departed for Paris.

As a minute investigation concerning Alfred's conduct could not very well be entered into before a third per­son, the baron agreed to lord Albourne's invitation to sup that evening with him; and, after many congratulations on both side [...], they parted; not, however, without a pro­mise [Page 153] from Matilda to spend the next day with them. Al­fred was informed of the proceedings of this visit, and was somewhat surprised and hurt at lord Albourne's doubts respecting his character being so difficult to be obliterated; but a moment's reflection soon ended his astonishment; he knew his lordship had more than once seen him deeply en­gaged in play with men notoriously known as professed gamblers, and in every respect a disgrace to society. The little pique he had at first conceived now vanished, and he admired that particularity he had before condemned. The baron attended his lordship at an early hour; while Alfred and his sister spent the evening among a private party of friends.

The baron, on his return, mentioned that he had removed every objection lord Albourne had entertained against Alfred Maserini, and that he had brought him an invita­tion to accompany Matilda and himself the next day, to dine with his lordship. With heart-felt joy he returned the old gentleman a thousand thanks, who now declared he must shift for himself, relative to any other wish he had to gratify through the reconciliation.

The next day Alfred had the felicity to be received with the cordiality of sincere friendship by lord Albourne, the utmost politeness by madame Bosivi, and in a manner that answered his most sanguine expectations by lady Caroline.

They parted at rather a late hour, with an appointment for lord Albourne, madame Bosivi, and lady Caroline, to spend the next day but one with the baron, and, as he was pleased to term them, his adopted children. Alfred obtained permission to call at madame Bosivi's the next morning, to inquire after their health, and, as lord Al­bourne laughingly added, to sigh away an hour with Caro­line.

[Page 154] They found, on their return home, Henry Peviquil's card, which mentioned he should call on them the next day. Tiresome as his company might be to them, common po­liteness dictated they should receive him. At a late hour the figure of the once elegant and handsome Henry Peviquil knocked at their door, worn out in constitution, though, according to years, hardly in the prime of life. He was only the shadow of what he formely was; and his appear­ance, in point of dress, indicated that his pecuniary cir­cumstances were by no means affluent; yet still he was gay to a folly, and cheerful almost to madness: in short, he was a professed gambler, and a noted debauchee; account­ed an Englishman of the first t [...]n in France, and a man of the first taste and fashion in his own country; he was the very quintessence of high life in London, and allowed at Paris to be possessed of that je ne sai quoi, which stamped on him the real character of a fine gentleman. Among the generality of the ladies of rank of both nations, he was adored as a man of gallantry; nor were their ideas wrong: a man of gallantry he certainly was; for, to his great ho­nour, he had seduced more women, and afterwards forsaken them, than one half of his sex; and, in these circumstances, the etiquette of both kingdoms encouraged his noble and spirited conduct.

The poor innocent girl whom his cursed arts had taught to love him, entangled like the defenceless fly in the web of a spider, falls a sacrifice to the ensnarer. Mark the re­sult of his enterprise: the miserable object finds herself betrayed by the man whom her guiltless heart taught her to suppose as generous as he was insinuating; the delicacy of virtuous women forces them to discard the child of affliction, and victim of unmanly cruelty; while the author of her disgrace receives double splendour from the deed be­coming [Page 155] coming public, and is cherished by that society, and nou­rished by those comforts, from which he has hurled her for ever. Shameful prejudice! Though a national custom, it is a disgrace to its followers, and stands the criterion of a narrow mind, and unfeeling soul.

Henry Peviquil, as was before mentioned in the former part of this little history, did not, when he found Matilda forsaken by her friends (at least by those who should have pro­ved themselves such) behave to her in a manner altogether consistent with rectitude or politeness; and his manners at last became rude and insulting. He once had the au­dacity to make proposals which gave her the most serious alarms while she remained in his power. The scene was entirely changed; the distressed orphan of the Maserini family, despised by his mother, contemptuously treated by his sister, forgot by his father, and insulted by himself, was now possessed or in every respect likely to be possessed of rank, fortune, and friends. Even the assurance of Henry Peviquil, now quite sober, could not overcome a little embarrassment as he addressed them; he, however, soon got the better of this vulgar failing.

For fear, however, that the spirit or honour of this ac­complished gentleman should be called in question for thus seeking to recommence an acquaintance he formerly dis­dained, and with persons who received his offers of friend­ship with that coolness which could not prompt him to go on with the pursuit, it will be necessary to inform the rea­der that he had interest in view: besides gratifying his pride, to class them among other persons of distinction whom he could familiarly nod at in public places of enter­tainment, or chat with at the rout of a woman of fashion, he was actuated by another motive, more powerful by far; he knew Alfred had loved play; he was himself a perfect [Page 156] master of the art, and was well acquainted with the power­ful infatuation that encircles the votaries to that way of destruction; therefore, whatever he might have heard rela­tive to his having entirely given up the gaming-table, he conceived to be merely fabulous, and only raised either to introduce him to lord Albourne's esteem, or to be of service in the intended trial. Now Henry Peviquil knew, if he could but once more draw him among those scenes he had formerly frequented, he would prove a very fit person to become a dupe to his artifices; and this was the more to be desired, as he had just entered into a party something simi­lar to that in which D'Ollifont had been engaged, and into which the baron Sampi [...]n [...] was introduced at Genoa.

With these very honourable determinations, he waited on his distant relations; but he had the mortification to ob­serve that all the advances he made were received with mere civility, and that there appeared very little hopes of Alfred ever again attempting th [...] faro table.

With great coolness they parted, and Henry Peviquil sa­tisfied himself with declaring, at all the fashionable par­ties, that the whole trio, meaning the baron, Alfred, and his sister, were quite outre; and informing his new col­leagues, whom he had fed with hopes of bringing a new pigeon to exert their abilities on, that he found the fellow void of all spirit, and questioned if he had integrity enough to pay a debt of honour before a tradesman's bill.

CHAPTER. XLV.

MATILDA now proposed a visit which she had in con­templation ever since their arrival in France, which was to the mother of Agnes. She li [...]ed some distance from Pa­ris. Accordingly the fair fugitive and herself set off the next day, attended by one servant; while the baron and Alfred were engaged to dine with lord Albourne. They that morning received a letter from lord Milverne, which mentioned his having made every inquiry relative to his lordship and lady Caroline, but that all his endeavours proved useless.

Alfred had, however, dispatched a letter to inform him of their unexpected discovery, and his own happiness; which he supposed would have come to his hands before the date of his from England.

Agnes and Matilda pursued their journey, and, after a day's quick travelling, found themselves at the place of their destination. The heart of the former throbbed with various emotions: love, fear, joy, and doubt, alternately possessed her bosom; while the effects might clearly be per­ceived in her countenance. The servant knocked at the door, and a young girl, whom Agnes did not know, opened it. She instantly exclaimed, "My mother is dead!"

Unable to proceed further, she nearly fainted. Matilda, with as much composure as she could assume, asked if the person who inhabited that cottage some months past, was living.

The girl answered, "Yes, and within."

Agnes clasped her hands in ecstasy. Matilda first alighted, and entered. A middle-aged woman was seated [Page 158] knitting: she arose at the entrance of the stranger, and seemed rather confused.

"You had," said Matilda, "a daughter?"

She changed colour, and could hardly articulate "Yes." "And you lost her?"

She with still greater difficulty repeated the same answer.

The conversation proceeded no further: Agnes rushed into the room, and was instantly in the arms of her mother.

Tears relieved them both, and the latter then requested to know by what act of providence she was thus blessed beyond expression. Matilda related to her most of the cir­cumstances that had happened to her daughter since she left the cottage, and concluded with an inquiry after M [...] Le Selet.

The question confused her greatly; and, after a few mo­ments, she replied, she had seen him but once since her daughter left her; but had heard he was dead.

Matilda now turned the discourse relative to her behaviour to that gentleman and her child. Her words carried in them a severe rebuke to the imprudent mother, who ap­peared to be perfectly convinced of her error, and declared she had not enjoyed one moment of felicity since her daughter's elopement, torn as she was with remorse for her cruel conduct towards her.

Oliver, they understood, was well, and lived only for Agnes. He was sent for; and their meeting can only be conceived—not described.—Matilda experienced the most heart-felt pleasure in settling every point with the old lady relative to their marriage, and rewarding this faithful and truly innocent girl with the best gift she could bestow on her, a good husband. She gave Oliver an invitation to return with Agnes to Paris (who was to stay with her mother a few days) when they should be united, and he [Page 159] receive with his bride a portion sufficient to put them into a way of life that with industry would procure them every necessary and comfort they could wish to possess.

Matilda remained at the cottage that night; the next day returned alone, and joined Alfred and the baron at madame Bosivi's in the evening, where they were engaged to supper. Here she was informed that it had been reported the whole day that D'Ollifont was no more: it was not, however, by any means confirmed.

On their entering their lodgings they were told by the servant that a strange gentleman had called, who parti­cularly wished to see Mr. Maserini, or the baron. In vain they endeavoured to imagine who it could be; their efforts were fruitless, and they retired unsatisfied.

They had just set down to breakfast the next morning, when they were informed the same gentleman requested to be admitted. He was accordingly introduced; but he was entirely unknown to them all. His dress was plain; yet there was much of the gentleman in his manner, and he seemed to be in the decline of life. They politely asked to know his business.

"My business," he answered, "is rather of a strange nature; and the character I come under, will, I doubt, give you no very good opinion of my honour or integrity."

Alfred, Matilda, and the baron, were astonished.

"I am, continued the visitor, "the steward of count D'Ol­lifont."

They were still more surprised.

"I perceive your countenances change," said he. "But suspend your exclamations for a moment, while I inform you, not now of the murderer or usurper of another's right, but the dying guilty wretch, who waits, with all the horrors of a hell before him, to receive the awful change that plunges him into eternity."

[Page 160] They were in some degree affected, and he was requested to be seated.

"Alas!" he cried, "I am not without my share of misery, which fell on all that came within his destroying power. My name is calumniated for ever: by the multi­tude I am called the confidant of a fiend whom I detest as much as they, but whose infernal snares beguiled my un­suspecting soul, and hurled me to destruction. Yet I now come to fulfil his last request. Before his eyes are closed for ever, he wishes to behold, what I should suppose would blast his very sight—the baron Sampieno, Mr. Maserini, and his sister."

It is impossible to conceive the amazement of all three.

"The count," he continued, "four days ago made his will, in which he resigns all right to the estates of his late uncle; and, in some degree, to make what poor reparation is in his power, he has bequeathed the whole of his fortune, except some small annuities in charity, to be equally divi­ded between the baron and the two surviving heirs of the Maserini family. The amount of this property is nearly sixty thousand pounds. No scruples need prevent your receiving it, since it has not been accumulated by the frauds he has been guilty of, but by the favour he was once in at the court of France."

He begged to know their determination; for, if they consented to the wishes of the dying man, he would himself conduct them at any hour of the day they chose to appoint. It required some little time to resolve; but at length com­passion for the sufferings of the criminal D'Ollifont overcame every other argument against the visit, and they fixed three o'clock that day.

The [...]eward departed, and promised to be with them at that hour.

[Page 161] They considered that at all events there could be no danger whatever in this request, as officers of justice resided in the house. They, however, determined to take two of their own servants. The person whom they had just seen, was, they had no doubt, Rabourn, whom they had heard lord Milverne mention in no very favourable manner; but they had found, since their residence in Paris, that his character had been cleared by D'Ollifont's own confession.

At three o'clock Rabourn arrived, and all four set off in the baron's carriage, attended by two men, to the count's mansion. Their ride was short, as he lived at no great distance from their own residence.—During the time, how­ever, they understood by the steward that he was much worse than in the fore part of the day, and that he left him in strong convulsions; he therefore conceived (as the sight of him might be too great a shock to miss Maserini's feelings) that she had better not enter his chamber, unless he should so far recover as to mention again a wish to see her. This was settled, and they presently stopped at the house.

They were conducted through a superb hall into an ele­gant apartment: the servants were desired to follow, and remained here with them, while Rabourn went into the sick man's chamber, which was the next room. He retur­ned, and informed them his convulsions were gone off, but he was afraid he was speechless; though he seemed, how­ever, to look as if he wished to know whether they were come. Matilda begged to remain where she was, unless he should, by signs or words, express a desire to see her.

The steward led the way; Alfred and the baron follow­ed, through a pair of folding doors, to an elegant bed-room, beautifully furnished in the richest taste. At the further end was the count's bed, of crimson satin, with gold trim­mings. Two physicians, two nurses, a confessor, and three [Page 162] servants, stood round, and, at intervals, administered cor­dials to their patient. The curtains were pulled on one side; and, extended on the bed, lay the wretched man, surrounded with elegance, clothed in the finest linen, and reclined on a matrass of down. But what were the luxu­ries, the paltry elegances, that surrounded him? Could the structure of the room, the beauty of the furniture, the rich­ness of the canopy under which he lay, or the downy soft­ness of his bed, give to him that comfort, that consolation or fortitude, which the awful crisis required?

Alas! no; every moment did the trembling victim of guilt and ambition expect to see the gilded scene of earth­ly pride vanish into darkness, and that darkness open to him he knew not what—but which it was hell to him only to conceive.

Alfred and the baron advanced slowly. D'Ollifont's eyes turned upon them: a kind of cold shivering seized him, and drops of perspiration appeared on his forehead, which one of the nurses dried off with a muslin handkerchief.

During the course of his diabolical existence, many were the sighs he had wrung from the widow, the fatherless, and the unprotected; yet the damp muslin that received these guilty drops of horror and remorse of conscience, might be said in some measure to atone for the innocent tears he had drawn from female distress. Who could tell his pangs, the inward workings of his soul? Who could tell the convul­sive terror that shook every limb? Who could tell his secret thoughts that blasted every hope?

His senses failed him the moment the visitors appeared. His convulsions returned with double force, and a fourth servant was obliged to be called in, to assist the others in holding him. He raved on the names of Maserini and Sam­pieno; then, spent with exertion, bit his under lip with [Page 163] such violence that blood flowed abundantly from his mouth.

His ravings again returned. By a sudden snatch he dis­engaged himself from hold; and, with a kind of exultation in hi [...] [...]ace, which was now partly black, he tore a large root of h [...] from his head; then, with a stifled laugh, fell life­less [...]n the pillow.

Such was the end of the most tyrannical, cruel and un­exampled villain—a disgrace to the world, a scourge to his fellow-creatures, and a curse to himself. Ambition was the bait that beguiled him: and that ambition did but mock him when he lay a disfigured corpse under the hang­ings of an elegant canopy.

Alfred, the baron, and Rabourne, withdrew to the next apartment, all greatly shocked. They were informed that Matilda was in one of the lower rooms; the cries of the dying D'Ollifont were too much for her.

The news of the count's death was no sooner told than the whole house was in considerable confusion, and the ba­ron requested to know who was to have the management of his affairs. The steward informed them, the will mention­ed it should be jointly executed by Mr. Maserini and him­self. He assured them every thing was left in so exact a manner that it would occasion them very little trouble.—The count, before their arrival, had confessed every circum­stance relative to the murders, which would, without any trial, put them at once into possession of their right.

Rabourn produced the will, and it contained every thing he had mentioned. After having invested him with po [...] ­er to give all necessary orders relative to the funeral and other matters, they departed to their lodgings.

The disagreeable scene they had just witnessed, was re­paid by the sight of lord Milverne, who received Alfred's letter the very day he sent off his own, and followed him­self immediately.

[Page 164] He congratulated them on the fortunate conclusion of their affairs, though he declared he was malicious enough to wish these events had happened after his alliance with Matilda, that he might have been able to have proved to the world the disinterestedness of his love.

That evening he accompanied them to madame Bosivi's. Lord Albourne received him as an old friend, lady Caroline, as an acquaintance whom she had much esteem for, and madame Bosivi, with the utmost politeness.

It is impossible to conceive a more happy party than the persons who then sat down to supper. The recollection of their past misfortunes endeared to them their present felici­ty; and they all agreed that a life tinctured with adversity, receives that glow of happiness which an insipid medium never produces.

CHAPTER. XLVI.

THAT virtue and vice are their own rewards, is a pro­verb generally allowed; it is certainly founded on truth, and exemplified in almost every occurrence of life.

It requires but little observation, to perceive that the comforts, even the superfluities of the world, procured by means not consistent with the moral government of man­kind, lose the chief part of those allurements which tempt­ed the possessor to gain them by illicit transactions. The man who partakes of a scanty, hard-earned meal by his own industry, enjoys more than he who eats of the sumptu­ous repast, at the expense of a fellow-creature's misery and oppression.

This position was proved in D'Ollifont, and the prin­cipal sufferers by his villany, the baron, Alfred, and his sister: by accounts they now heard from Rabourn, the count underwent far more than [...], though all three un­der [Page 166] the severest lash of adversity: for he was tortured by a guilty conscience, and haunted by phantoms of a disturbed and disordered brain.

His funeral was conducted by the steward, who in the will was left a small but decent competency; and to it Alfred, his sister, and the baron, added a considerable sum. The legacies were many of them overpaid, by their joint consent, to those who were in want of it. In a very short time all the affairs were properly settled, and the children of the Maserini family became possessed of all their right, by a short though regular process in law. Agnes and Oli­ver returned at the time appointed; the latter was intro­duced to the baron, and Alfred (now count Maserini) and received from them no inconsiderable marks of favour.

Matilda conceived it would be proper Agnes's mother should be sent for, to be present at her daughter's marriage, which was consummated about a fortnight after their ar­rival at Paris. She returned the count and his sister a thousand thanks, and received from both a handsome pre­sent. It was now determined, Oliver and his wife should set off for Grasville Abbey. Count Maserini intended to have it put in repair, and fixed upon him as a proper person to superintend them, as he had been originally brought up in that line; for Leonard, who was still there, was too much advanced in years to take the care upon himself. It was, however, left entirely to their own inclination, and they both gladly accepted the offer.

It was about a week after their departure, when the count Maserini and lady Caroline Albourne, lord Milverne and Matilda, were on one day united. Lord Albourne and the baron sighed at the altar, and could hardly stifle a [...], the mixture of acute sorrow and extreme pleasure; half of it might be said to arise at the recollection of the time when [Page 167] they were together at a similar ceremony, the former as the enraptured bridegroom, the la [...]ter as the doating parent: the other half was occasioned by their present felicity, though under different characters; the bridegroom trans­formed to the parent, and the parent to the still further ti­tle of grandfather, viewing in the child of his departed daughter every virtue, every female accomplishment, he though [...] he had for ever lost, when deprived of the affection­ate tie of parental tenderness.

Both the count and lord Milverne now saw themselves possessed of every happiness they could even form a wish to have procured: this thought, as it crossed the mind of the former, by a rain of ideas incident to it, brought to his ima­gination that moment, when, with the sword of his de­parted father, he was going to put an end to his existence in a sit of phrensy and despair. He blushed at the recollec­tion of an event which he now almost shuddered to think of; it held forth to him a striking lesson against a want of fortitude, and a rash unmanly precipitation.

They remained at Paris but a week after the marriage, and then set off for England, as it was their invention to spend in London the remainder of the winter season (which was now just commenced) return to France about June, and the latter end of the year proceed to Grasville Abbey, which would by that time be ready for their reception.

Their arrival in this metropolis was immediately known in the fashionable world; and one of the first parties that received the general whisper, was that of lady Peviquil. They had slept in their house in Berkley-square but one night, when the next morning their breakfast table was co­vered with cards of invitation and congratulations from different quarters, and among them one from sir Anthony and his lady.

[Page 168] Most of the persons whose names they mentioned, called in the course of the morning, and formed a complete groupe or levee; the chief part of which had shunned them with adverse eyes in the chilling part of their misfortunes, but who now courted their acquaintance with a sycophantic earnestness, when they found them encircled by the warm rays of prosperity and affl [...]e. All these were received with a very cool and distant civility, and among them was lady Peviquil, who, with the true deceitful simper of a courtier, descended from an elegant equipage, and, forcing her way through a crowd of the great world to the upper end of the drawing-room, in the most whining tone of ten­derness declared herself "happy beyond expression at see­ing them returned to England." Her compliments were received as those of a person whom they had never before seen; and her ladyship had the mortification to return with her pride extremely hurt at the reception she received.

Having spent the allotted time in London with consider­able happiness and felicity, their time equally divided a­mong select friends and public places of amusement, they returned to Paris, and the hours floated, away here in the same round of enjoyment. They several times saw both Henry Peviquil and his sister; the former every day be­came more low and depraved; the latter, forsaken by the man whom she eloped with from her father's house, was now the [...]here [...] of an Italian marquis, whose character by no means added lustre to his title.

At their return to Grasville Abbey they found all the re­pairs finished entirely to their liking; and though the struc­ture was by no means robbed of its gothic elegance in the external part, yet it was made far more convenient and comfortable in the internal: the chapel was handsomely fitted up, and a tomb erected to the memory of their fa­ther, [Page 169] mother and aunt. They found the good old Leonard in perfect health; and his happiness at seeing them was extreme.

The count received a promise from lord Milverne and his sister that they would spend three months in every year with them at the abbey. It was settled the baron and lord Albourne should do the same; Paris agreed with them both far better than Italy; and they determined to live together the remainder of their lives.

The mansion of D'Ollifont was fixed on for their habi­tation; and madame Bosivi consented to take the care of their household upon herself. No great distance from it lord Milverne bought an elegant chateau, which both himself and Matilda determined to make their general residence; though his lordship made her promise to spend some little time every two years in England.

Both lord Milverne and the count had the felicity, about twelve months after their marriage, to clasp to their bosoms, under the tender title of father, a blooming infant; the former a girl, the latter a boy. The families were seldom divided; for, when lord Milverne and his lady, with the baron and lord Albourne, had spent the allotted time with the count, both he and the countess, after a very short in­terval, returned the visit at Paris.

Agnes and Oliver, as soon as the repairs were entirely finished at Grasville Abbey, returned to lord and lady Mil­verne at Paris; the latter was made steward and principal overseer of the chateau, while his wife was the favourite and friendly attendant of Matilda.

Leonard remained at Grasville Abbey; and, being too much advanced in years to take upon himself the office of superintendant, lived in it with a servant to attend him, received a handsome income from the count, and an annual present from lady Milverne.

[Page 170] The principal persons of this little history enjoyed their present happiness, by a recollection of former scenes of ad­versity, which taught them to feel for the unfortunate, and at the same time gave them the highest gratification, by being enabled to alleviate their distresses.

Sir Anthony and lady Peviquil continued their round of fashionable folly, till age impeded their course, and cast an insipidity on those scenes which had constituted the chief pleasure of their lives. No relief opened itself to their view; dissipation had been their whole study; and, when that failed, their existence became a burthen.

Void of all fortitude, disgusted with each other, and the world in general, they sunk into their grave much about the same time, and with the same horrors before them; leaving behind but just property enough to pay their debts, and bury them in the pompous manner they had ordered.

Henry Peviquil continued his run of gambling in France for near four years, when he became so notorious in that country as to be obliged to quit it for England. From his father, however, he could get no assistance; and, after a period of eight years, during which time he subsisted by common swindling, he was taken up for a highway robbery, received sentence of death, but took the king's mercy by accepting transportation, and died on the voyage.

His sister lived with the Italian marquis before mention­ed, for about two years; when she eloped with his valet de chambre into Switzerland, where he used her exceed­ingly ill; and, for an attempt on his life, she was obliged to fly to a remote part of the country, was suddenly taken ill, and died in her twenty-eighth year.

Oliver and Agnes led a life of the utmost serenity and comfort: they had several children, which proved a com­fort to their increasing years [...] and all turned out valuable members of society.

[Page 171] The good old Leonard enjoyed but a few years of felici­ty; he however lived to spend some time with every bles­sing he could wish, and to see all those scenes realised that his most sanguine ideas could have formed.

Lord Albourne died about twelve years after his daugh­ters's marriage; the baron felt most severely his loss; in short, this might be said to be the first event that occasion­ed any considerable damp on the happiness of the two fa­milies. The chief part of his lordship's fortune was left to his daughter, and a considerable legacy to lord and lady Milverne.

The baron Sampieno, after lord Albourne's death, re­sided with lord Milverne, as madame Bosivi died of an apo­plexy a few months before his lordship. He lived to a very advanced age, blessed with years of happiness, that might be said in a great measure to repay him for former misfor­tunes. He left the whole of his fortune between the count and lord Milverne.

The count and countess of Maserini, with lord and lady Milverne, enjoyed a long series of happiness and felicity. They had each several children, and lived to see them prove an ornament to their rank and the community at large. Time heightened their blessings, and their declining years were like a setting sun, which gathers fresh splendour as it gradually vanishes from our sight.