"Yet you would have endured anything for his sake, my poor Rose," said Ellinor, stooping and kissing her damp forehead; "but be satisfied, I will spare him for your sake-I would not for his own!" With these words Ellinor left the chamber, and descended to the little parlour below where Francis was awaiting her. The reserved supercilious manner, mingled with an overstrained politeness, which had always made Francis Conyers so disagreeable to Ellinor, somewhat failed him on the present occasion, and it was with considerable perturbation that he said, “This is a most painful affair, Miss Musgrave, a trial which I would fain avoid; poor, sweet Rose, if my seeing her would save her a moment's suffering, though it were at the cost of years of anguish to myself, I would not hesitate, but alas, an interview can only revive for both of us the recollection of happy dreams that have brought miserable results, while the agitation of our meeting may perhaps prematurely destroy her, and its remembrance will haunt me like a spectre through my life." "You have heard that it is the wish of Rose, her last wish, to see you," replied Ellinor, coldly. "Surely the penalty of witnessing her condition is not too severe a punishment for the thoughtlessness, should I not rather say, the heartlessness, that caused it !" "You are unjust, Ellinor, like all your sex, upon these subjects!" said Francis; "men who have to struggle with the world cannot sacrifice a whole life to the dreams of youthful passion." "Upon that principle," retorted Ellinor, "they might then in compassion spare the weakness of woman, whose romantic susceptibility prevents her mistrusting them, and who, ready to make sacrifices for the man she loves, is vain enough to expect some sacrifice in return. But we waste time, which is not long for poor Rose, and I own, Mr. Francis, I am as unwilling to spare you such pain as you may endure on this sad interview, as to deny my poor friend the last comfort she may know on earth.” Such bitterness of speech was not common with Ellinor Musgrave, but Francis took the reproof in silence; he knew that he had well deserved it, that as a mere pastime he had won the affections of the curate's daughter, that he had felt for her as much of love as it was in his nature to feel, and that after indirectly, at least, leading the poor girl to suppose that she would be his wife, he was now the affianced husband of a woman whom he hated and despised, and to whom he had sold himself for her wealth. A bright smile lighted up the pale features of poor Rose as her faithless lover entered her room, and she stretched out her hands eagerly towards him; the hypocritical sentimentality of Francis, for the first and last time in his life, then failed him, and sinking on his knees beside the bed he bathed with genuine tears of sorrow and contrition the poor pale hand he held. "Do not weep so, dear! but look up at me, let me look you in the face once more;" as she spoke, with her other wasted hand she parted the locks from her lover's brow. He did look up at her, and then the callous man of the world moaned in his agony. 66 "I am a wretch !" he said, ever unworthy of your love, sweet Rose; a base false hypocrite, who beguiled you but for pastime of your best affections !" "Nay, dearest, you blame yourself too much," said Rose. "Do I not know how stern your father is, and that you must have the means to support your station? I have told my father that I never blamed you, and I have not blamed you, no never, never, never!" Faint and fainter grew the sweet voice as it pronounced these last fond forgiving words, till it sunk into a low musical chime, and the pure eyes closed, and the clasp of the small chill hand grew lax. At that moment the door gently opened, and the poor curate, who had hurried home from the discordant scene of gaiety, glided to the bedside of his dying child, and taking the other little hand in his, he said in a broken voice, "Oh, look up once, my dear Rose, my sweet child-only a look, a word, for your poor father at the last !" Slowly and painfully, as it seemed, the lids rose from the azure eyes, over which a ghastly film had gathered; there was a faint gurgling in the throat, and she evidently spoke with difficulty. "Dear father-bless you-in heaven we shall meet again; I have forgiven-oh, for my sake forgive, forgive!" Again the voice sunk into that low musical murmur, but never passed a sound from those lips again. The bereaved father remained kneeling in prayer and in anguish beside the beautiful corpse of his child, and Ellinor, leaning over the bed, reverently kissed the cold brow, and closed the dull fixed eyes; while he, the basest of deceivers, who had deceived not from passion but the impulse of a wretched vanity, and in whose behalf had been breathed only words of forgiveness and peace, conscience-stricken, debased, and miserable, rose from beside the dead girl, and crept from the house with the gathering shadow of the night into the darkness which best suited his own guilty, self-accusing thoughts. CHAPTER XXVI. "And oh, that pang where more than madness lies, BRIDE OF ABYDOS. AUBREY CONYERS and his new friend Maitland pursued their journey to the north without any occurrence worthy of record; as they approached their destination, however, Aubrey fancied that he observed a kind of gloom settle over his companion, which strongly contrasted with manners usually reckless and daring, even to effrontery. The train having conveyed them to Carlisle, they took a post-chaise to the town of A- within six miles of Allerdale, where Maitland intimated that they must for a time part company. At the chief inn of this town they took refreshments, and it was on their arrival there that the uneasiness of Maitland visi bly increased. He had all the air and manners of one who seeks, perhaps unavailingly, to "bend up each corporal agent to some terrible feat." He took his share of the repast rather as one who feels that he must not suffer his physical energies to flag, than as if he had any appetite for the meal; and though generally, as Aubrey had before remarked, a somewhat free drinker, he drank on this occasion but a couple of glasses of wine. It was late in the day when they reached A—, but Aubrey being resolved to proceed the same night to Ravenglas, had ordered the chaise to wait. He had understood from Maitland that he had some business to transact in the neighbourhood, but was not, of course, aware of its nature; he apprehended, however, that it was unpleasant. The dinner being ended, and the waiter withdrawn, Maitland drew his chair towards the fire, and taking a sealed packet from his bosom, he placed it in the hands of Aubrey, and while the shadows gathered yet deeper on his face, he said, “Our first introduction, Lieutenant Conyers, was, you doubtless remember, marked by a great service rendered to me by yourself. I was, after such an introduction, naturally inclined to think very favourably of you, and this favourable opinion our succeeding acquaintance has thoroughly confirmed. I am not a man to fawn and flatter, nor am I placed in a position in which to flatter any person would in any way avail me ; but sincerely, and from my heart, do I say, that your brave endurance of poverty, your valorous resistance of oppression, has done more to show me the weakness and wickedness of certain passages in my own life, ay, and to nerve me to the performance of an act of justice which will probably destroy me, than a thousand sermons would have done." "It is seldom," said Aubrey, "that an act of justice ruins those who nobly venture to perform it; let me hope that no fatal consequences will attend just conduct on your part." "We must all pay our reckoning, sooner or later," responded Maitland; "if I exacted that payment in former years, I must submit to make it now. I am going then, my friend, on a short but possibly dangerous journey; one, too, in which I must have no companion. I know not what perilous result I may encounter: if I were to trust the foreboding, |