ginning to end. I explained, to disarm her of my suspicions of sincerity, that my own father had made his money in trade; that, therefore, my family was no whit better than her own, and need be no obstacle to our union; that although my friends might desire a wealthier match for me, still, when once united, they would not discountenance us. I might have spared my soul this accumulation of guilt; truth herself, she entertained no doubt of the truth of him she loved. Resolving to give her no time for reflection, my letter was scarcely dispatched ere I followed myself; my dress was carefully arranged to meet the mother's eye, deviating as far as was consistent with a gentlemanly appearance, from the man of fashion. When I reached the house, I inquired for the mother.

"Manson! Yes, sir, please to walk up two pair; the door in front of you."

I was shown into a small room, but which still evinced the presiding hand of female taste and delicacy. Everything was poor, but neat.

I waited some minutes, during which there was no sign of life, at length a light foot was heard slowly descending the stairs, the door opened, and not the mother, but herself appeared.

Her eyes were red with weeping; but an ill-concealed gleam of pleasure lighted them up as they rested on me. She was dressed most becomingly; I never saw her look more beautiful than at that moment. We were both confused; I with too good reason. "Her mother," she said, "was so indisposed as to be obliged to keep her bed."

I expressed my regret, and we stood for a moment in awkward

silence.

At length, taking her hand, I led her to the little sofa, and placing myself beside her, said, "Lucy, can you forgive me?"

She tried to speak; her bosom heaved convulsively, and her voice was lost in broken sobs. I placed my arm round her waist, and drew her to me; she offered no resistance.

"Can you not pardon me? Do you not believe in the sincerity of my repentance? Will not all the love I feel for you, prove to you, suffice to blot out the recollection of a few hasty

words?"

"And do you really love me?"

"Love you!-better than my own soul."

Villain, hypocrite as I was, I told no lie in that. I would have sacrificed these both to society; but I loved her best. She threw herself into my arms, and, hiding her face in my bosom, gave vent to her pent up feelings in a flood of unrestrained tears. I pressed her to me, and endeavoured to kiss away her grief. "And do you love me, too, Lucy?"

"Ungrateful!" she cried, reproachfully; "how can you ask? From the first evening-do you recollect it?-that I heard the tones of your voice, your form has scarcely ever been absent from my mind. When I have been surrounded by the mere votaries of fashion, listened to the emptiness of their wellworded professions, and been disgusted with the smiles of hypocritical vice; when I found talent but a veil for deeper rascality, and the fool the less dangerous villain of the two, I have thought that if such were man, I would banish the feeling of love from my bosom. And then you came; you did not speak to me as others did; you did not seem to think me a thing without intellect or feeling, unworthy to be addressed but as a mere creature of passion, a pretty plaything to be deceived, acquired, destroyed and thrown aside. Your words were those of a gentleman; your sentiments of a man of feeling: and then when I had suffered myself to-to-I will tell you all-to love you, and I heard you address in the same strain those who could not appreciate half you said, and would rather have listened to the fulsome adulation of their ordinary admirers, a pang has shot through my heart, not of jealousy, but to think that, alas! I was no more to you than they, and all alike, but the sport of the moment; but a look has reassured me. And then when, though striving constantly to check it, I at length gave full way to the flow of the first full tide of love, to think that, after all, you differed from the others only in the superiority of your talents; that you, too, had been wooing me to destruction, but more deliberately, more vilely than any, oh! you cannot-you cannot imagine the anguish of that thought. You cannot know what I have suffered since we parted last night, till this morning has made amends for all. And, oh! if my poor love cannot compensate you for the sacrifice you make to public opinion, to fortune, your own conscience shall reward you in the happiness you have bestowed on so many wretched creatures."

Conscious of my own villainy, every word she uttered went to my heart: curse the folly that prevented my doing justice to so much excellence. I should now have been a happy man.

The next day I returned, her mother was so unwell as to be unable to rise. The night before she should have been at the opera, but had been obliged to send an excuse, and remain with her sick parent. I urged her to give up the engagement, either altogether as unworthy of her, or at any rate during the time that her mother should require her constant attendance. With much difficulty I prevailed, at least until her mother's health should be restored. To give it up altogether would be to make herself dependent on me. However she consented to my taking a note to the manager, or whatever they call him,

asking for a suspension of her engagement for a time. I took the note and threw it into the fire; in the meantime I called on the lessee, and requested the favour in my own name, and for my own convenience. It was easily granted; and while the ballet girl watched by the sick bed of her dying mother, the trusted child of Fortune plotted her destruction.

At last I came, and her mother was dead. She had heard her daughter's tale, and been anxious to see me; but death was too quick with her: with her dying breath she prayed for and blessed the protector of her orphan children.

I did not see Lucy that day; the next I called; she had subdued the violence of her grief: feeling how entirely her mother's younger children depended on her for support, she had evidently resolved to be equal to the emergency. She was calm, but it was the calmness of suppressed anguish.

Fearing the expenses she must necessarily incur, would dangerously diminish their little funds, she would have gone through the mockery of woe at the Opera, and danced upon her mother's grave; she assured me she was quite equal to it: at the same time that she fell into my arms in a fit of hysterics. "For myself," she exclaimed, "I could bear the heavy lossbut what will become of these little ones ?"

Forgetting in her grief for how long she had been their sole support, and that she was left to them.

I promised, aye, over her mother's corpse I swore, that I would be a husband to her—a father to them.

With difficulty I made her promise not to resume her engagement at the Opera yet, if ever; and to apply to me if she were in need of money.

The funeral was scarcely over when nature gave way the restraint she had put upon her feelings, reacted upon her bodily health, and a severe illness was the result.

I took a room in the house in which she lived, and during the continuance of her illness, scarcely ever left it. The greater part of my time was spent by her bedside. I nursed her with unfailing assiduity. And when she recovered sufficiently to leave the house, was the constant companion of her walks and her drives. I persuaded her as she regained strength, even to go sometimes for a day or two with the children and myself into the country.

She had become so gradually habituated to my presence, that she seemed not to think of its impropriety or its danger. She appeared to think it quite natural that I should be always with her, and to have forgotten everything but my tenderness.

Our evenings were spent in each other's society, and we would talk of the future, our prospects of happiness, our marriage.

My friends, I had told her, were abroad; on her recovery had professed to have written for their sanction to our union: there was no doubt of our obtaining their consent, and we waited but their answer.

In another month it must arrive, and then we were to be married.

She trusted as she loved me. Alas, for her!

In the meantime, I induced her to terminate her engagement with the Opera House people at once. The season was nearly at an end; she was not in good health; and, at any rate for my sake, and for my name's sake, she ought not again to be seen on the boards. She had money enough to last her for the next six months, if needs were, since she was resolved not to accept my assistance; for, during her illness I had contrived, by the kindly connivance of the good-natured people of the house, to defray every expense, and leave her stock untouched.

She consented; and one morning walked down to the house. There was a rehearsal of some kind going on; and several distinguished "amateurs" of the day were there observing the proceedings.

Her business was soon transacted; she was received with smiles, and her request readily acceded to. The worthy man regretting to hear that her health had been so bad; and inquiring after Mr. Hertford, whom they were sorry to have missed for so long a time.

Poor Lucy blushed at his mention of my name; but she had banished all suspicion.

In recrossing the stage, she rested a minute or two behind two of those worthy amateurs, and presently heard one ask the other,

"Who was that little girl you looked so hard at, just now?" "Just now? Oh, Lucy Manson."

'Lucy Manson! So it was; I have not seen her here a long time. What has she been up to?"

"Living with Hertford."

"Living with Hertford !"

"Yes; so the world says-so everybody here says. I took the trouble to inquire of the manager, and he told me she went away with him some two months ago; he came down to the theatre himself to arrange matters. He plucked the thorny rose that none other had ventured to touch. Curious fellow that. He never seemed to care for a woman till he saw her, and then he cuts us all out. - and are as mad as the devil for they both tried and failed. And of all places in the world, they are living, I understand, in Brewer-street, Golden-square; nobody ever sees him. He seems to be given up body and soul

to her, and certainly she is a dear little creature. I was one of the rejected myself. I once sent her a little pocketbook with a £1000. note in it, and the little gipsey left it in the lobby, and told me I had better send for it, or it might be lost. So I did. But there certainly is something devilish taking about that fellow Hertford; I believe there is not a woman in London who would not give her very soul for him."

Poor Lucy had heard enough; she staggered dizzily across the stage, and found herself in the open air.

Her good name was gone: instead of going home, she turned into St. James's park, and sat down on one of the benches.

She reflected long and painfully on all that was past; on all that was to come. And who that has loved, as woman only can love, shall question her conclusion.

Was it his fault that such reports had gone abroad!—what had he done to give force to them!-was it for her to charge the scandal of the world on his self-devotion !-was she to repay his tenderness with suspicion !—his confidence with doubt? What though the world should blast her good name, was he to blame!-had he anything to do with it!-was she to make him miserable with a report which was founded in falsehood, and fostered by vice!-did she not know from the first the stern dictum of society; and that she had forfeited her reputation at the moment that she became an opera dancer!”

She came home, and throwing herself into my arms, wept long and passionately. She explained her grief by saying that the scene she had just visited, had called up sad associations, almost forgotten.

My suspicions were aroused; I thought that she was shocked by something she had seen or heard at that place, and I did not question closely.

In an hour she had decked her face in smiles, and all seemed to be forgotten.

On this part of my story I need no longer dwell. I availed myself of the opportunities which cunning assiduity had given Poor Lucy was lost.

me.

She uttered not one word of unkindness or reproach: for some time she seemed lost. She was absent and sad, but there was no violence in her grief; sometimes and for short intervals she was even gay: but day by day she became paler, thinner, more silent. My endeavours to cheer her were rewarded with smiles, but produced no further effect.

At last she became really ill. I was alarmed, and would have sent for a medical man, but she intreated me not to do

80.

"Wait till to-morrow, and I shall be better."