your heavy ear, and stop your expiring prayer for mercy."

Mr. Trevor was now left alone: he could utter nothing; he closed his eyes, as if to hide him from the imprecating fiend, and sunk insensible to the earth; and before he recovered the power of action the morning had dawned, and with slow and fainting steps he reached his home, where all had been confusion and alarm at his unusual absence.

The widow of Mr. Trevor's brother was an Italian of high birth: she inherited violent and impetuous passions, but the desire of vengeance for injuries was the predominant attribute of her stormy nature. Her husband, on his death-bed, had bequeathed her and his infant son to the care and affection of his brother, who promised faithfully to watch and protect them and their interests with a father's tenderness and fidelity; but, alas! temptation was too strong-principle too weak: to aggrandise and enrich his own he stifled the cries of conscience, and taking base advantage of their unprotected condition in the interior of a foreign land, he determined to usurp the rights of his nephew, and arranged his nefarious plans, as he hoped and believed, beyond the possibility of detection or discovery. He advised the widow to reside in a convent till all affairs were prepared at home for her reception; the child he placed at nurse with a poor woman, who for a certain sum of money received him, and promised to bring him up as her own. He soon, however, received tidings through his emissaries that the child was dead; and that the widow, reduced to want and despair, had taken the veil in another convent. He now enjoyed his usurped possessions without fear of detection; but the voice of conscience he could not stifle: the voice of his brother from the gravethe voice of his perishing widow from her gloomy cell-the voice of his injured dead innocent infant, sounded in his ears,"Thou art the murderer, the betrayer of a brother's blood!"

Thus, though he believed them gone for ever the one dead, the other by conventual fetters secured from ever interrupting him,still the terrors of guilt pursued him; and the guilty only can imagine his consternation and horror when she made her appearance in the wilderness of the park: certainly the worm gnawed deeper and deeper at his heart,

but there was no "compunctious visiting,' -no repenting thought mingled in the dark chaos of his troubled soul; he felt insecure, yet knew not from what baneful quarter the retributive blow would come. In the unlimited indulgence he granted to his children, rested his sole enjoyment of his ill-acquired wealth and consequence; and to gratify his son, he had for many years made Trevor Castle, during vacations, the home of Julian Spencer,they had gone to college together, and they seemed to have but one mind.

were

Young Spencer was reported to have a very large fortune; his habits expensive, and his expenditure unlimited. In his frequent visits to Trevor Castle, he had with peculiar favour distinguished the beautiful Madeline: he had in words equivocal offered her love-marriage, but it was in secret, for he feared the indignation of a relative, who had other views for him. She had given him her heart, her whole guileless heart, and in his constancy rested her hopes of future felicity.

Such was the situation of things, when Henry Trevor attained his twenty-first year; and the brilliant fête to celebrate it was in preparation when our narrative commenced. The evening, the eventful evening of the masked ball arrived; the magnificent hall of the castle was splendidly illuminated; the music sounded through the spacious galleries; the gay and joyous laugh, the sprightly repartee, made doubly interesting by the strict incognito of the guests, with the graceful dance, and the mingled gaieties the various characters assumed, bewildered the senses with the excess of pleasure. The fair Circassian, the dusky Indian, the bright, the vivid Sultana, and the freezing Laplander, all performed their parts, and conspired to render the whole a scene of enchantment.

Mr. Trevor, alone unmasked, walked through the motley groups: he strove by smiles and attentions to others to beguile himself of painful reflection,-to him no pleasure was conveyed; and to recover from the effects of affected enjoyment, he seated himself in the recess of a remote window, the drapery of which concealed him from the busy throng. Still gaily resounded the music, merrily continued the joyous festive dance; but there was one to whom these gaieties communicated no pleasure-in her ear they sounded the knell of departed peace; sorrow was at

her heart, and the tear of tender regret unseen rolled down her fading cheek :it was Madeline. She had been dancing with a mask that did not recognise her, although him she knew full well,-the eye of love can penetrate the deepest disguise, he left her: her eye followed his movements till he stopped, and leaning against a pillar he heard a voice exclaim, "Spencer, I know you by your favourite Spanish dress-I know you." "No one but Vivian can know that," said he, turning and giving his hand.

"Tell me then, Spencer, how have you been passing the last few weeks? I hear you are about to become a Benedict: lost your heart, and soon to give your hand to one of the fair damsels of this castle."

"You jest, surely," interrupted Spencer, with a smile of scorn, curling his lip, "I thought you knew my humour better: hearts, not hands, is my game-love and liberty my motto;" and laughing, he added, "the fair thing must sigh alone, and think on what is past,-for I am off tomorrow for the continent." "Go tomorrow," repeated his friend; "what, go and leave so sweet a creature to wear the willow?"

"Aye, even so," said Spencer, with unfeeling nonchalance; " she will not be the first I have presented with that drooping ornament: its bending graces will admirably become her cold, moon-like beauty."

"Spencer, you are incorrigible," said Vivian; and the friends then mingled with the crowd, which was now thronging to the supper-rooms. Poor Madeline! she had, unseen, unknown, heard all: pride, woman's pride for a moment supported her mild spirit, and she was moving away with ill-affected hauteur, forgetting that the mask concealed her agitated features, when again an innate, an injured delicacy swelled her bosom, at the recollection that her love-so chaste, so pure— was not only scorned, but betrayed and exposed, rushed over her mind, and imparted such an agony that it overcame all her fortitude; she pressed her hands to her throbbing heart, and was weeping bitter unseen tears, when the words "Dastardly wretch! serpent so long cherished in my heart as friend,-turn, vile betrayer, turn! Henry Trevor speaks: thou pitiful deceiver of a trusting angel, I could crush thee to the earth; but thy life, thy dishonoured life, shall answer for thy VOL. V.-No. 1.

perfidy: follow me, coward, follow me instantly." With the fiercest passions raging in their bosoms they rushed out together.

Poor Madeline had heard all that passed-she heard no more; she fell senseless, but she was hidden from observation by the entwining flowers and branches which wreathed round the temporary pillars erected for the festive day.

A different scene was preparing in another part of the decorated hall: Mr. Trevor, at the head of the principal table, gave a signal for attention, he held a golden goblet in his hand, and bowed"Friends all," said he, with a firm voice, while his whole countenance beamed with the inward excitement and with the fervor of the welcome he gave "friends all, I thank you much,-off with all masks, and let sincerity and love pledge me in the health to Henry Trevor, who is this day twenty-one." The father, while he spoke, looked proud and happy, yet the canker-worm was gnawing at his heart. Alas! how many wear the smile of pleasure, when grief lies heavy on the bosomhow many smile when the sigh is bursting how many smile when the tear is starting-how many smile when the heart is breaking!

The lord of the mansion, the master of the feast, the father of the family, he appeared joyous: he felt, but for the moment, he felt exulting, triumphant in happiness, yet he stood on the very brink of woe and desolation: too surely, ruin is most concealed from man when near! for he saw not the yawning gulf, the dark abyss, the fathomless vortex of evil, which was about to open and enclose him for ever.

The health of Henry Trevor went round: the young man bowed, he even smiled, but the smile was like a sunbeam on the turgid wave,-yes, he smiled, but he could utter nothing: thought, dreadful, awful thought, was tearing his heart: his purpose had been suspended; but he knew, he felt that a very few hours might number him with the dead, number him with murderers, or the murdered: he might have said, "Oh! how can I look up; for, oh! what form of prayer can serve my turn." At the bidding of Mr. Trevor every one had unmasked, and sweet smiles and soft looks, with bright eyes sparkling and gay hearts beating, were seen around the banqueting tables;

B

but none shone so fair, so sunny, so bright, as Agnes, the rose of Trevor Castle. She shone unrivalled,-except by Madeline, who, for her sweetness and modesty, was named the Violet; her beauty was so pure, so chaste, she always looked a being of another sphere.

Mr. Trevor continued to laugh loudly: his brilliant wit, his courteous demeanour, his urbane manners fascinated every guest; deeply he himself quaffed the pledged goblet; he seemed reckless of care and sorrow, and no one remembered to have seen him so animated, so apparently happy for he was generally gloomy

and reserved.

The varied, the hurried, the intoxicating delights of the evening were at last waning into weariness; and the younger guests exhausted with fatigue and pleasure, and the elder longing for repose, were preparing to depart, when they were summoned to partake of an early breakfast. Mr. Trevor appeared in his place, but his cheek was now pale, his eye languid, and a painful anxiety seemed to mould every feature. Some of his family were absent.

"Some tables want their heads," said he: "where is Harry? where Spencer? Madeline? Why are they absent?" he continued, looking to Agnes. "Indeed, dearest father, I know not: it is strange, but I will seek them, they may be sauntering in the gardens." Scarcely had she uttered these words, when an approaching noise was heard, and in the next instant a figure, white as the sheeted corpse, and gasping for breath, rushed in among them, and uttering a wild and fearful cry, sunk on the ground-it was Madeline. She clasped her hands, franticly clasped them; and, between shrieks and sobs, exclaimed, "For me, for me,he died for me; I saw his blood, his very heart's blood, and I could not save him." Her eyes were tearless, but they seemed starting in agony from their orbs; her whole frame was shivering in convulsions, and despair glared in every pallid feature of her lovely face. She endeavoured to raise herself, and looked around; and then, as if to escape from some horrific image, she hid her eyes, but again she started up, and at length fixed her wandering eyes upon her sister; but again they rolled and gleamed in all the wildness of delirium, till exhausted by her struggles, and heart-rending piercing

shrieks, she fell senseless at the feet of her agonised father. The guests, dismayed and horror-struck, departed without the ceremony of taking leave; and the family. was left to themselves and their miseries.

"Oh! father," exclaimed Agnes, while burning tears rolled down her pale cheeks, "oh, haste, seek my brother! My dear, dear sister, what is the matter? What can we do? She speaks not-she moves not." Not a sigh, nor word, nor groan, escaped the suffering father, but his countenance was deadly pale; he stooped down, and raising his inanimate child in his arms, he laid her on a sofa, while Agnes, kneeling by her, used volatiles to restore her. After some time she opened her eyes, and seeming to recollect, she cried, "Hush, hush," and pointing to the distant prospect, she added quietly, " do not disturb him, his rest is sweet." She laughed in bitterness: then softly touching her sister's cheek, said, in that voice which wrings the heart, "Sweet Agnes, why do tears dim your eyes, is your love false as mine is? Is your brother dead as mine is?" Agnes groaned, and folded her in her arms; but she started and struggled, and with rapid steps fled from them. The father, nearly distracted, followed her with Agnes to the wilderness, in the gardens. "Come, come," cried the beautiful Madeline, beckoning them to follow, "come on, we shall find them,—yes, yes, yes, here he is,-here Harry fell;" and with a few more hurried steps, wildly repeating, "here,-here!" she sunk upon the breathless body of her brother.

The early fated Henry, in proud vindication of Madeline's wrongs, had fallen a victim to the sword of the ungenerous, perfidious Spencer. The wretched father, conscience-struck, stood entranced in horror: immovable he stood gazing on his prostrate children. Meanwhile the poor Madeline, delicate in frame, and too sensitive in mind, could endure no more: in her violent struggles she had broken one of the vessels of her severely tried heart; and as the blood poured from her lips, she was fast yielding to the icy grasp of death. She spoke not, moved not; but at last, between soft and low sighs, she murmured, murmured," Spencer-Henry-Father -Agnes." She looked up, and her pure innocent soul returned to the Great Being who gave it; and the beautiful, the highly-gifted, the virtuous Madeline was as a clod of the valley.

The father and surviving daughter stood stiffened in anguish unutterable; feeling was too deep for expression; till the storm of agony and remorse burst from the father's whitened lips, in few words: "Her curse is on my head, in my heart! My son, my child! he breathes not, speaks not, hears not." He took the body in his arms, clasped it to his breast, kissed his clay-cold lips, and again exclaimed, "My son-my son! my other darling too." He dragged the dead bodies of his children to him, and throwing himself upon them, he was heard in an inward voice to repeat, "Her curseher curse!"

The curse had indeed smote his heart, it had fallen upon him: in the bereavement of his beautiful innocent children it had fallen upon him. He was forcibly separated from the lifeless bodies, and in a state of insensibility conveyed to bed by his grieved and appalled domestics. It was midnight of the ensuing day,-the winds howled mournfully through the ancient galleries of the castle,-the rain fell in torrents, and driven by the blast shook the windows; nature seemed in loud commotion,-a dreadful contrast to the dreary melancholy reigning within. Agnes sat trembling by her father's bed, listening to the heavy breathing of his perturbed slumber : fearful and sad were the passing hours to Agnes. She had not only to bear the bitter anguish of her own heart, but she had to endure, to listen and watch her too guilty father: the suppressed groan, the agonised cry, the frequent start of inward horror, and the cold damps dropping from his pallid brows, all betrayed the secret workings of a troubled spirit. His child continued to moisten his parched lips till he opened his heavy eyes, and in accents though indistinct, he spoke-"It is she-she is come with retributive vengeance: was it a dream? what a fearful dream." He seemed to recollect; "Agnes" he continued, and he was more calm: "Agnes, she came to visit my crimes, crimes which cry aloud to Heaven to hurl me to perdition."

"Oh father, dear father, say not so, speak not such fearful words;" and Agnes pressed his hand to her heart,

you were ever kind and good.”—“ My child, my child, you do not know your wretched father: for your brother, your brother now dead, I wronged the widow and the fatherless; and their curse, their

bitter heavy curse, imprecated on me and mine, now falls: it blights my children, it steps between me and my prayer for mercy. I am doomed-condemnedlost-lost."

"Oh, forbear-forbear, my poor father," cried Agnes, weeping in agony: "live-live, we will restore."

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"Innocent angel, even to you the curse extends," the father interrupted: "the bolt has sped, death is now on me; and who in this sad merciless world, a world that visits the sinless for the sinner, who will protect you, my child ?" He looked up: one can, and though in shame and sin and sorrow I go to the dust, and though my guilt may brand your fair name with a father's disgrace, yet Agnes, in that world to which I am hurried in the fulness of crime, in unforgiven crime, a pure bright sphere will be your abode. Agnes, I would, but dare not, bless you: blessing from my lips would turn to curses, for the widow's and the fatherless is upon me: I feel it in my soul, it burns me up in quenchless flames: yet, oh Heaven save-have mercy on this child, no, I left it to perish; and his widow-"

"Is here!" exclaimed a voice deep, solemn, and awful, "his widow stands here."

The father and the daughter shrunk aghast, and shrieked. A female figure drew near the dying man's bed: her face was pale as marble, yet the fire of fierce undying passion glared in her dark large eye. She raised a long white arm,her lofty form seemed to dilate as she cast a look upon the dying man. It was such a look as Satan might be supposed to cast upon a victim he had secured his own: a moment she gazed, and again she spoke-"Man of sin," she said, "man with a heart that mercy never touched, that justice never moved, your crimes have now their righteous visitation of the all-righteous one; aye! retribution from the High Almighty one, goes beyond my curse and puny vengeance: for hear, to your eternal horror, hear-your son fell by the hand of my son, the hand of your dead brother's injured son: your daughter was scorned, deserted by that son, and I am come to thunder the dire tidings in your ear-to listen to the groanings of your last despair-to see you sink down, deep down, among your kindred friends."

The expiring man endeavoured to raise his hands as if in prayer, but they fell