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prejudices alone stood in the way of a marriage, upon which all their hopes of happiness were placed. Mr. Warren could give his nephew little hope of overcoming the strong Protestant prejudices of Mr. Neville, but he did think that, if the urgency of the case were placed before Ginevra, her scruples might give way; that, where the essentials or fundamentals of religion were almost identical, she would yield minor or trivial points. He, the latitudinarian Protestant, little knew Ginevra the pupil of Father Francesco,, and the devoted disciple of " the eternal, divine," and only true faith, as she had been taught to believe. Cheered by Mr. Warren's view of his situation, hope began to revive in the breast of Edmund :"But when he met Ginevra on the terrace of the park, on the evening of that day, and they stood alone together, with the dark wintry sky over their heads, and the gloomy future weighing on their hearts, the conflicts of grief and passion, of love and anger, burst all bounds. Her spirit rose in that hour, and the smothered fire that mouldered so long in her breast, kept under by nights of prayer and days of struggle, broke forth at last, and the passion of her Italian nature shook, and almost convulsed her fragile form. As, in her own tongue, she poured forth the story of her wrongs, and shuddered herself as she told it, deep, deep into her own heart and into his she dived, and brushed aside, with impetuous and overpowering reasoning, the vain subterfuges by which he sought to keep the truth from her grasp; unrolled the past before his shrinking glance; and then, with his hand in hers, and pointing to Heaven with the other, exclaimed-And when at the last judgment-seat you stand, how shall you answer to Ilim who made you, for having tempted a human soul into destruction? No, Edmund, no,' she continued, while a torrent of tears fell on his hand, which she still clasped with both hers. No! you will never have to answer for such a crime. The day will come when you will bless God that I could withstand your tears, and wring your heart.'

"She left him abruptly, for the sound of footsteps had that moment startled them: but he was going the next day, and her conscience reproached her for the vehemence, and her heart smote her for what, in her sensitive tenderness, she called unkindness. Through that long evening not one glance of affection could she obtain--not one token of pardon."

Neville reached Clantoy just in time to attend the obsequies of his father, who had died suddenly. The funeral was over-the will of the deceased was read. Edmund, already aware of its contents, and resolved on his part, listened with the concentrated calmness of a stoic:

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"Everything that for years had been possessed by his family, the townlands of Clantoy and Eskereen, in Ireland, with their rent-rolls of ten and twenty thousand a year; Darrell-court, and its dependencies, in the county of in England; a small estate in Scotland; a house in Cavendish square in London; and other minor bequests accompanying these, were successively and pompously enumerated, and all were left to him to hold and to keep at his pleasure, and to descend to his children after him, under proviso and condition, that if he remained unmarried, or died without heirs, the said estates and properties, &c., should devolve to Ann Neville, his sister, and to her heirs after her; or, in the event of his marrying, or declaring a marriage, with a person professing the Roman Catholic religion, that he should at once forfeit the possession of the said estates, properties, &c., and that they should at such times pass into the hands of the said Ann Neville, or, her life failing, to her children after her, or, her heirs failing, to Charles Neville, of and to his heirs after him."

*

"He had not raised his eyes once during the time which

it had taken to read the will; and when an old squire, who was distantly related to him, shook hands with him, as they passed through the hall into the drawing-room, and whispered- aye, a chip of the old block-a Protestant to the back-bone-no Popish wife, hey? the blood which rushed to his heart did not even tinge his cheek."

Not without a struggle, however, did Neville now act the part of a conscious impostor, and allow himself to hold a position from which there seemed to him no honourable or possible means of extricating himself, unless his wife listened to his solicitations and arguments, and became a Protestant. His actual situation he durst not, all at ouce, lay open to the high-souled Ginevra, strong in her Italian faith, and before whom the path of duty ever lay broad and well-defined. She heard of the death of her unknown father-in-law, and was anxious to learn how that event might affect her husband or herself. Now, surely, the great obstacle was removed, and the painful secret might be revealed. With many hopes and fears she broke the seal of Neville's first letter, and read

"So much depends on the spirit in which you will receive and read this letter, that I entreat you to pause before you give way to your feelings and take it for granted, that blindly to adhere, under all circumstances, to a predetermined course, is the best and highest wisdom. I never felt to love you more than at this moment. All that you have been to me since the first hour of our acquaintance is present to my mind-your gentleness, your heroic patience, and generous forbearance under the most trying circumstances. I do full justice to the principles that have guided you throughout. I can even appreciate and respect the resistance which you have hitherto offered to my entreaties on a subject, on which your feelings are admirable, but on which an error in judgment misleads you. When we have adverted to this point, we have neither of us viewed it with sufficient calmness, or in the dispassionate manner which it demands. It is, doubtless, difficult to be calm when, on the decision of another, the happiness or wretchedness of a whole life depends, and when the obstacles that are raised against the only safe and proper course are the result of deplorable error and prejudice. You know well what I allude to; but I must inform you that the reasons I formerly urged with such earnestness on your consideration, when I implored you to conform to the religion of your husband and your country, are become tenfold more imperative from the tenor of my father's will. In short,

there is no alternative now between that concession on your part, or such ruin and misery to us both as cannot be calmly contemplated. I will not go over the ground that we have but too often trodden before. I will only repeat, that what I want of you is no offence against morality-no abandonment of the service of your Creator; that service which every reasonable creature owes to Him, but which finds its expression in one peculiar form, or in another, according to the infinite variety and incident of climate, of character, and of association, which serve to produce a number of religions-all resulting from one source, and tending to one end, common to all, needful for all. You received the tenets which at present you hold from early instructors, whose country, and whose sympathies are entirely different from those of the land which is now become your home, and in which my interests and my duties are centred. How can you, at your age, have any assurance that what you now believe is not merely the truth, but the only truth? Why cannot you adopt the religious convictions of your family, of your friends, and of one dearer to you (if you have not deceived me on that point) than all the world beside? Will you run the risk of ruining me, in every sense of the word, on the chance that your early teachers were better informed, and more enlightened, than those friends, of whose understandings you have yourself such a high opinion? It seems to me that, viewed in this light, you cannot

hesitate any longer in following the line of conduct which alone can rescue us from an abyss of irreparable misery. The state of the case is this; I am not only ruined, but dishonoured; unable to meet the most indispensable engagements, or even to look the world in the face again, if, while you persist in professing the Roman Catholic religion, I should acknowledge my marriage. I will never deny what you may choose to proclaim to the world, but this I plainly tell you, that on the day that you disclose this secret (and I leave you at liberty to do so; this very letter in your hands furnishes you with evidence, and places me at your mercy), I shall leave England for ever, and never set eyes on you again. If you persist in your present religious opinions, there are but two alternatives before you. One is silence--which must forbid our meeting but in crowds, or our ever speaking to each other but in fear and trembling. The other is-an eternal separation, with the consciousness that you have driven your husband from his country and his homeblasted his name, ruined his fortune, broken his heart."" We cannot follow all Neville's arguments and entreaties before he thus concluded :

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"Ginevra! if you write to me to come to you-if, with the simplicity of a child, and the tenderness of a woman, you resign yourself to me, and as the Scripture itself directs you, learn of your husband in meekness and in submission, what days of bliss are in store for us, what a life of happiness before us! You, who are the only woman I have ever truly loved-you, who have already given me proofs of heroic devotedness, and borne with such gentle patience the strange sufferings of our lot, now, that on one hand, every blessing is within our reach, and every misery threatening us on the other-will you hesitate any longer? I ask of you peace, honour, happiness! And will you let an opinion, blindly received and blindly maintained, weigh against the fidelity you vowed to me, the submission you owe me, the love you bear me? Let conscience speak to you unbiassed by prejudice; and if you listen to its voice,

this is the last time I shall have to tremble as I send-to tremble as I wait-a letter from you.-Ever yours, EDMUND NEVILLE.'”

Was ever Catholic wife so tried?

"She walked to the door and locked it, and then came back and sat down near the table on which the letter was

was awful as the stillness that precedes the storm. Mr. Warren said with hesitation

"I hear that Edmund is miserable-that his father's will'

"The name, the words fell on her ear-and swift as the hurricane over the ocean, across that silent spirit swept a tide of passion, too powerful for the slender frame that quivered with its violence. Her eyes flashed, her breast heaved; over her cheeks, her neck, her temples, rushed the crimson hue of indignant feeling, and words rose to her lips as keen as her anguish-as strong as her despair.

"And what is man's will? she cried with convulsive agitation- What is man's will, that it should sever what God hath united? Can the breath of his mouththe stroke of his pen-A will! a will! in God's name, Mr. Warren, is it His will, or man's will, that must prevail? Heaven forgive me! I know not what I say, my brain is giving way.'

"She fell on her knees, her face buried in her hands." From the pathetic reply of Ginevra to the appeal of her husband we give but one passage :

"Oh, dearest Edmund, if it is a sin to lie to men, to lie to God is an unpardonable crime. If I were to abjure the faith which is as strong as life within me-if I prosoul I believed-what in my heart I adored-my very tested by my acts, and with my lips, against what in my prayers would become insults to the Majesty of heaven. But is there, indeed, no alternative but that which you point out ?-have I to choose between my guilt and your despair?

"A thousand wild fears and vague suspicions dart through my mind. I have risen at night and made my way to the library, and searched in books, and read over and anguish. I can nowhere find an explanation of the laws and statutes, till my head has throbbed with fatigue fate you assign to me. I cannot accept it, Edmund, nor by a sacrilegious lie avert it; and yet I cannot, I dare not brave your anger, your threatened desertion-to draw upon you all the misfortunes you speak of. mercy upon me, and explain yourself clearly. Prove to me that it is just and honourable to keep our marriage a perpetual secret; that you have the right to do so-the

Have

lying. She started when her hand touched it, as if there was danger in its contact. Twice she passed her hand over her brow, and then her face flushed violently; sud-right to compel me to silence by more fearful threats, by denly her throat seemed to swell and her chest to heave; with both hands she seized the velvet ribbon round her neck, and tore it asunder. The ring it held flew out, and fell at some distance on the floor. She took the letter and read it again, wildly glancing from liue to line with a bewildered expression of doubt, of misery, and of fear. When she came to the last sentence, she lighted a candle and held the paper to the flame. It burned slowly; she watched word after word, line after line, disappear, till the fire reached her hand; she let it fall, and soon it mingled with the ashes.

Mr. Warren, who had previously attempted to remove what he considered the religious prejudices, or foolish scruples, of Miss Ginevra Leslie, had, at this moment, come to say farewell, previous to his departure for Germany. She was calm, but deadly pale, and he felt painfully concerned for her, though her distress was merely, as he fancied, the dream of a love-sick girl rudely destroyed, not the whole life of a woman blighted. "With evident embarrassment he endeavoured to address to her a few words of sympathy. This was more than she could bear; the struggle was dreadful; she would have given worlds to break that silence, to question him, to tear the veil from his eyes and from her own, and burst through the shackles which were driving the iron into her soul. But she could not speak and be calm. She could not command the tumultuous throbbing of her heart she gasped for breath. All traces of colour vanished from her cheeks; her lips were partly open but did not move. Her breathing was now scarcely discernible, so profound was the silence of her whole being. It

more powerful means, than if you pointed a dagger at my breast. Only prove to me this, Edmund, and I will be silent as the grave, till the day that death will give you freedom, and to me peace. Only never forget, as you would not forget your soul's salvation, and your hopes of heaven, that what God has joined together, man cannot put asunder. Remember that I must ever stand between you and other hopes, between you and other ties, as a shade, a cloud, a blighting vision! Oh, that it were not a crime to bid you forget me; that it were not a duty thus to cross your path and embitter your existence. Why it should be so, Edmund, why the pure gold of our love has turned into dross, you alone can tell."

The result of this painful correspondence was, that Neville resolved, in spite of conscience and his better feeling, to preserve silence for a time, in the hope that Ginevra might relent, and yet see it her duty to profess the Protestant faith, as this alone could rescue her husband from debt, dishonour, and beggary; while, on the other hand, Ginevra, in the hope of Father Francesco's return which he had announced, also resolved still to keep the important secret :—

"And thus she remained in her father's house, to some an object of strange interest, to some of enthusiastic admiration, to all, perhaps, of a nameless compassion; for all felt that her lot differed in some ways from that of others; that there was a cloud resting upon her-Walter Sydney called it a halo, so mild was the light of her eye, so pure was the tenour of her life. Margaret alone had seen that cloud gather, and knew the dark source from

whence it rose; but even when it was weighed on that shrinking head, her own heart had whispered that it was laden with misery, and not with shame. Her own wild

racter.

spirits, her childish glee, her thoughtless prattle was altered. She seemed to view life differently from what she had hitherto done. Her own disappointment, the weight of a secret, gratitude for the quiet and spotless course of her own life, seemed to deepen and to strengthen her chaThen Walter Sydney's lessons began to tell, and the peculiarity of such an affection as his to strike her." And in brief, the most perfect understanding soon grew up between Margaret and her "Old Walter." He had always loved her from her cradle till now that she considered herself old enough to approach the marriage-altar; and, stranger still, looking more deeply and considerately into her own heart, Margaret found that she had always loved him, and him only. Cross-purposes are not at an end, however, for we are not yet through the second volume, and the whole family of Grantley Manor are on the wing for London, where, plunged into the vortex of gay, youthful life, Walter insisted that his Margaret should make further trial of her affections and constancy. At the close of a very pretty scene of something quite as tender, and not much less romantic, than young, passionate love, Walter exclaims :

"Margaret, listen to my firm, my unalterable resolution, formed even at this moment of overpowering happiness, and which, so help me God! I will keep. You shall not marry your Old Walter-you shall not give your youth, your beauty, your heart to him-you shall not bind yourself by irrevocable ties, till you have tried and tested your feelings, and learned the full value of that priceless gift. O, my beloved child! tell no one of the hope you have given me. Let not the world, or any human being, even venture to interfere or judge, if they should come when, with the same adorable simplicity with which you have offered to intrust your happiness to my keeping, you should come to me and say-Walter, I was mistaken. You may, you must love me still, but not in the way we once thought of. A silent pressure of the hand, a struggle, a prayer, and the dream would be at an end. This short life would be more sad, doubtless, and the thought of another more precious still than before; but none would know the trial, or the consolations of that hour, but yourself and me. Promise me this, Margaret!'

And how long is my trial to last, you suspicious Old Walter? I think I have done something very like proposing to you, and I am not quite sure I have not been refused in a very pretty sentimental manner.'

Now, for the first time, Walter smiled, and the full tide of happiness seemed to rush over his heart.

*

*

"That evening, at the same time, both sisters had raised their eyes to Heaven, and both had felt as if a blessing, a benediction, had descended on their heads. On one, the bright face of nature had smiled; its glorious hues, its perfumes, and its songs, had spoken a blessing from the skies, and that evening hour had brought her a promise of happiness, the purest that earth can yield. The other had received a benediction from the altar, where she had knelt in the immediate presence of God, and she rose with the promise that none but God can make good—that suffering itself may be a pledge of mercy, a source of blessing, an earnest of Heaven.

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Margaret drew near to the piano as her sister finished the plaintive but glorious strain, and passing her arm round her neck, whispered

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The Leslie family went to London and Walter followed. Ginevra made at once a strong impression upon fashionable society. Her strange beauty, her foreign manners, her talents, and her genius combined to make her the idol of the world which she shunned

"And it was impossible that she should not feel the contrast between the homage she received, and the admiration she inspired, and the bitter and miserable destiny which her husband assigned to her; but the love and devotion for others, instead of healing, seemed but to deepen the wounds which her heart had received; and when bursts of admiration and murmurs of applause attended some brilliant exercise of her talents; when, with the enthusiasm of genius, and the simplicity of manner which belonged to her, she had electrified her hearers by some incomparable strain of melody, or by an improvisaa startling and resistless impetuosity, she would return to her place, and sit in silence with one image before her eyes, and only value the praises resounding in her ears, as tributes to be one day laid at the feet of her undeserving husband.”

tion, in which thought seemed to hurry on language with

That husband appears on the scene to heighten her distress, and increase the difficulty of the part, so foreign to her nature, that she was compelled to play. There were rumours afloat of Neville's marriage, and Ginevra herself became the object of the marked attentions of Sir Charles d'Arcy.

The doubts and perplexities of Margaret were renewed as she viewed the conduct of her sister; and the misery and despair of Ginevra became unendurable, for now a rival appeared in the person of Mrs. Frazer, a gay widow whom society gave to Neville. One day Ginevra had perversely, and unlike her gentle self, persisted in acting in a play, though wholly unfit for the necessary exertion, merely to prevent Mrs. Frazer from taking her part. The demon of jealousy had been let loose upon her the bitter jealousy of a disowned wife :

"When after the rehearsal scene she found herself alone, she two or three times waved her arms above her head, as if to dissipate the weight that seemed to press on her brain, and then clasped her hands in earnest supplication.

'Send an angel to comfort me,' she murmured; and doubtless her prayer was heard, for tears came to her relief-tears that fall like rain on the parched ground; and words, too, which relieve the pent up spirit, burst from her lips in the solitude of her chamber-broken, incoherent, checked by sobs, without precise meaning-but yet with power to relieve. Who knows not the value of those secret out-pourings?

"Edmund, will you come to me? Edmund, will you return to me?' she murmured. I am so weary, so lonely, so frightened sometimes. I am so afraid of youI am so afraid for you. O, if I dared, I would flee away, and be at rest. There are homes where I might lay my head, and never cross your path again. But I may not shrink from the struggle. O, that woman! Anything but that-any trial but that. Bound to me for everbound to me by ties he hates, perhaps, and cannot break and my silence, my ignorance, my fears-it is too much -the cross is too heavy, the burthen too great!'

"She lifted up her head: the sun was sinking obscurely bright among the dark clouds that seemed assembled to receive him. It was the sunset-hour, when every knee Ginevra, I am happy; would to Heaven that you bends in her own land as the vesper-bell floats over sea were so too! and plain from every lofty spire and convent tower. She "A flash of joy passed over the pale face of the young-recited the sacred but familiar words, and with them peace est sister. returned. Long and earnestly she prayed. She prayed "O mother of mercies' she exclaimed, thou hast for strength to do her duty, that simplest and most supleaded and obtained!'

blime of all prayers, whether it points to the commonest

self-denials, or to the most heroic sacrifices. He that hears that prayer, and gives that strength, knows alone where it is most needed; for He alone can judge of the merit of those sacrifices to which the world so often renders much more or much less than justice. Pale still, but patient and calm, Ginevra left her room, and joined her father and her sister. With that perfect simplicity and earnestness of character which was peculiar to her, she reproached herself for having neglected to do her best at the rehearsal of that morning-at having allowed her own sufferings to interfere with the satisfaction of others —and it would have been touching to any one who could have known how sore and bruised that gentle spirit had been that day, to have seen her take up that manuscript, the very sight of which was painful to her, and con it over like a child its lesson, while now and then she disentangled Margaret's knitting, or raised her eyes from her work to smile at Colonel Leslie, who since the morning had watched her with anxious tenderness. She observed this; it gave her a motive for exertion."

The play was performed in the presence of Neville. It was one that caught his conscience :"What an actress! How she acts!' is whispered in the pit, in the boxes, in the galleries. The first act ends, the curtain falls, the applause continues.

"How can you sit on, like a stone, Neville, when that girl is enough to drive one mad? Did you ever see any thing so captivating? D'Arcy is desperately in love with her. No wonder, for they have been rehearsing together, morning, noon, and night, for the last three weeks.'

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And now it was Edmund's turn to be tortured with jealousy :—

"She has not answered his letters—she has disregarded his requests, his entreaties against her acting-she has cast him off, and the ties which he has refused to acknowledge, have ceased to bind her conscience. He blames, he condemns, he despises her he thinks that her religion might have taught her better. He forgets everything, but that he loves her still, and that she loves him no more."

Need we say that Ginevra had never received any of her husband's letters-never learned the wishes she would have been too happy to obey.

From this point the work is full of continuous interest. We shall give but one scene of fiery trial. At a ball, Ginevra is receiving the passionate declaration of Sir Charles d'Arcy, and quite stunned, is at a loss what to reply, when she saw her husband

"In a moment Edmund was by her side; her his arm, as if they were engaged to dance. it in silence, and they stood among the crowd.

a voice at his elbow said

46

he offered She took Suddenly

"You do not waltz-what are you about?' It was Mrs. Frazer who spoke. Then Ginevra felt that they flew swiftly round and round, in the midst of that crowd, to the sound of that loud music, and she scarcely knew if what oppressed her heart and her brain was joy or suffering. His arm was round her waist, and her head was gradually sinking on his shoulder.

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'Stop!' she said; and they drew back and pierced that crowd, and still he dragged her along, without speak ing, down a long shrubbery walk, and across a wood, till they reached a small temple, built in the Italian style, which stood at the end of a vista. Edmund darted within itand closed the door, bolting it inside. The coolness of the atmosphere revived her. He had let go her hand, and was standing opposite to her, with his arms folded, and his countenance lowering with speechless anger. She clasped her hands, and exclaimed

"At last-and thus!' and then, rising with impetuosity, she stood before him, and raising her head proudly, returned his glance; and in hers there was such mighty upbraidings-such overpowering reproaches, so

strong in their mildness, that he faltered under its speechless influence, and exclaimed

“Ginevra, you can break my heart, but not bend my will. You may plunge us both into despair, but you shall not pursue your course unmolested. Do not imagine that you can brave me in every way, or that I will not sacrifice everything in the world, rather than endure the silent humiliation of the last few days-your name in every mouth!-your shame proclaimed aloud! Aye, your shame! though the world knows it not; and into my very ears instils the poison of its slander. Did you imagine I should bear this, and tamely acquiesce in my dishonour and in yours? To my face, this very day, displaying with audacity——

"The colour rushed to her face; a storm was gathering on her brow; a torrent of recrimination was rising to her lips; a woman's insulted, wounded, goaded feelings were struggling for mastery, and well nigh burst all barriers, and broke through all restraints; but she paused and prayed for patience, and with a strong hand kept down that rising passion, and, with an effort of more than human virtue, pleaded for herself. She, the victim to the tyrant, the deserted wife to the jealous husband! Oh, what a relief to the oppressed spirit it would have to defy, ground he had assigned her, to brave his anger, to scorn to threaten, to upbraid, to take a haughty stand on the his threats in his presence, even if her own heart should

afterwards break in his absence! But there was a word stamped upon her brain, engraved upon her heart, which passion could not efface, or anger obliterate. Expiation was that word; and it brought her to his feet, not to plead guilty to his charges, but to accuse her own ignorance, to entreat his indulgence, to implore his guidance, and then, with her eyes fixed upon his face, and her hand clasped in his, to wait for his next words, as if her sentence of And now was her life or of death turned upon them. worst trial-now her guardian angel must support her— now the saints in heaven should pray for her-for Edmund has drawn her to his breast, and his heart is beat

ing against hers, and his eyes are fixed upon hers with unutterable love; and that voice, which she has so often in her solitude pined to hear, is pouring forth into her ears words of passionate affection, of ardent supplication and when she attempts to speak, he closes her mouth with kisses, and draws her still closer to himself. He pleads, he reasons, he holds the cup of bliss to her lips, he tempts her by every art, he scares her by every fear. She grows pale and paler as the fierce conflict lasts; and then, suddenly leaving his side, she stands before him, and says—

But we must stop. Ginevra triumphs; the good angel, as she supposes, is by her side, whispering that "life is too short; eternity too long," for the awful sacrifice of principle required of her :

"Save me-save me,'" she said; "I cannot endure

this trial much longer. I love you, and make you miserable. I would give my life for you, and I embitter yours; my wretchedness can scarcely be more complete." " Go,' '" said Edmund gloomily; "go, and tell your family-go, and tell that crowd of people yonder that you are my wife. Then, at least, no insolent admirers will dare for a while to address you; and if they ask what is become of your husband, you may tell them that he is ruined, dishonoured, and undone, through you, and by you—'"'

They parted, with the conviction on Neville's part, that he had offended his deserted and insulted wife beyond woman's forgiveness.

"And then, in days to come, how should he see her?-If she should ever fall into guilt, would not her fall weigh on his conscience like a damnning curse; and the memory of her lost virtue haunt him to the day of his death like a menacing spectre? What could save her, he bitterly asked himself, if, hating him-her husband and her betrayer-she stood in the world with her youth, her beauty, her warm heart, and her ardent spi

Ginevra had not long enjoyed the quiet of the lowed affections, and with a life before her unbrightened convent, when she accidentally heard that Mr. by one ray of hope or of love?"

rit, unguarded by sacred ties, unprotected from unhal

What can save her? he

that religion, to which she had clung through the storm, and which had carried her through it with an unshaken fidelity, and an unsullied purity."

repeated with agony; and then he thought of her reli-Neville was that day to be married at St. George's gion-her firm, ardent, uncompromising religion-that Church, Hanover Square. All particulars were religion, against which the winds of human passion had related to her. The coincidence was perfect. It beaten, and the waves of affiiction had broken in vainwas too surely her false husband who was about to plight his faith to another woman, and plunge himself into deeper guilt. Her flight, her agonies, the incidents of her journey, and her final raving madness, ere she rushed through the portal of the church, and reached the altar where her husband stood, are harrowing in the detail. We need not say that it was all mistake, though, certainly, Mr. Charles Neville was there, and then about to be married to the sister of Edmund. Edmund himself, necessarily present at his sister's marriage, rushed towards poor Ginevra as she tottered into the church. He felt, he saw that she was mad—that he had driven her mad.

Events now hurry forward. One day the distracted and miserable, if guilty husband, after an absence of some weeks from London, went to Colonel Leslie's house and found that the whole family had gone to the Continent, attended by Sir Charles d'Arcy. He was on the verge of frenzy, but Ginevra, whatever were her husband's thoughts of her, had not accompanied her family. She was ill. She daily now expected her aged relative and spiritual director, Father Francesco, by whose decision she was resolved to abide, and she had told Margaret :

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The crisis of my fate is approaching, and, as I said before, it is in prayer and in solitude that I must meet it. Doubts have risen in my mind which never rose there before, and I seem to have lost the track which, narrow as it was, once appeared so clear. When this happens to a Catholic, Margaret, this is what he does. For a while, if he may, he withdraws from this perplexing world, and communes in deep silence with his own soul and with God. In one of those calm retreats, when the light of eternity shines on the paths of this life, and the still small voice of conscience is discerned by the hushed spirit-he listens to that solemn message, and returns to the world like Moses from the mount, ready to break the idol, or to offer the sacrifice that Heaven requires. This is what I am about to do; far from those I love and those I fear, alone with my God, and those who speak in His name and with His power, prostrate at the feet of the cross, I will ask in deep humility what he will have me to do; and that, so help me Heaven, I will do, though it should be sister, what I have prayed against from my childhood upwards, to bring misery on those I love, and pour fresh bitterness into a cup already but too full. Now, dearest, go and sleep; and if in the night you wake with tears in your eyes, remember that they are blessed, for you have wept to-night with one who weeps."

Ginevra sought this sacred and soothing retreat, and though she found not the guidance and peace for which she prayed, its tranquillizing power was felt, and is described in coloured language:—

"When she entered her little room, its simple arrangement, and its various religious ornaments, reminded her of her Italian home; and the sacred Litanies chanted by the nuns the same which, from her infancy upwards, she had loved to join in, wherever a humble choir of wandering peasants, or of home-bound children, recited them bef re some wayside image of the Blessed Virgin-carried her back to the days of childhood, and awoke in her heart a fervent gratitude, that her faith had made no shipwreck in the midst of the storms which had beset it. Who can describe what the language of the Church is to a Catholicthe type of its universality, the badge of its unity! that voice, reaching unto all lands, and speaking to all hearts! uttering the same well-known accents in the gorgeous temples of the south, and the Gothic shrines of the north, as in the rustic chapel or in the mountain cave, where persecuted worshippers meet in secret. At every altar, in every sanctuary, each sacred rite and solemn hour claims the words of sacred import, which fall on the ear of the stranger and the wanderer, at once as a whisper from his home, and a melody of Heaven.

"Ginevra's eyes filled with tears as she joined in the well known responses, but they were tears that relieved the heart and brain."

Her

"It was horrible torture that Edmund Neville was going through. He had married a woman he adored; he adored her still, and he had driven her mad-to have killed her would have been less dreadful. Once she had said to him, How will you answer at the day of judgment for torturing a human soul into destruction?' soul, blessed be the God whom she served, had not been lost in the fierce conflict, but even this he knew not. Where she had been, what she had done, whither she was going, what design, or what chance had brought her into his presence in that hour of retribution, he knew not; nothing but that she was there by his side, and that life was ebbing, and reason failing.”

Catholics, and we might learn the fact from this book alone, have great faith in the merit of suffering-of expiation-and dreadful was the expiation of Edmund Neville as he watched day and night by the bedside of his delirious and dying wife.

"One mightier than himself had smitten him with his own weapons, and condemned him out of his own mouth. Then he, for the first time, felt whom he had striven against, when he had put his own human will in opposition to the conscience of a fellow-creature, and the nature of the warfare he had waged against the faith of that young heart, which had not yielded in weakness, but broken in agony. He felt it, and he prayed-he knelt by that bed and prayed, as we pray when death is at hand and no help near-as they pray when earth gives way beneath their feet, and eternity opens before them." One other idea brought something like consolation to Edmund.

"He would proclaim her his wife on her deathbed and sacrifice on her grave every worldly hope-every earthly prospect. He would fetch his sister to her side, and with his dying treasure in his arms, bid an eternal farewell to all he had ever valued, and which he now loathed as the price for which he had bartered Ginevra's life. 'Save her,' he said, and convulsively grasped the doctor's hand; save her, and me-if you can.'

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He fulfilled his purpose, he revealed all to his sister, who, strict Protestant as she was, said to him, Mercy will be shown you, for your sufferings are great." And mercy was shown; Ginevra was restored from the very gates of death to life and reason, and it was found that the elder Neville, if bigoted, had not been retrospective in his purposes. It was to Father Francesco, who now appears on the scene, that Anne Neville related the tragic story of her brother and Ginevra, while

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