had lost their magic, sorcerer-like influence; the cottage girl of fatal loveliness, known to and the first germs of hatred-yes, loathing ha-him from a child-loveliness which the watery tred, then crept into her breast.—The fatal spell bed in which she had found a resting place durwas broken for ever! ing the night, had not disfigured. * Truly Hardress Fitz Hugh, all love from mortal hearts had flown from you, with that young being, who had just passed from your door. Pitiless-reckless, you scarce cared to know even if she had been followed, her delicate, pampered frame, saved from the peril of exposure to the storm and darkness. You cared not then, gloating as you were, over your long coveted prey. But in after days-in "The dark, deep, thinking hours of midnight," in solitude on the bed of sickness-on the bed of death, might not the accusing form of your forsaken victim, float like a meteor before your sight, that thrilling shriek smite upon your ears, striking your appalled conscience with sore trembling, and horrible dread? Assuredly a hand will come forth, and write upon the wall against you, as it did of old in the sight of an impious monarch. And wretched man! darker guilt must in that awful day, weigh like a mill-stone on your soul-guilt from which, in your most hardened-selfish cruelty, you would have given much to have spared your conscience-for the life of a fellow creature, shall be required of you. Strange and startling it must have been to the chance passengers on that inclement night, to behold the madly flying form, scared by their sight, like the tempest beaten bird; if, indeed, strange and startling, ought can be, to the frequenters of the vice-trodden, misery haunted streets of the metropolis. No, still so exquisite was the beauty of the poor dead girl, when she was placed on the couch prepared for her, that the most callous of those, permitted to approach to gratify their idle curiosity, were moved to a startled exclamation of wonder and compassion. The spectacle, afforded more than common interest, to many amongst the number; for a rumor of the nature of the tragedy had transpired, and with heartless avidity, all had pressed forward, to avail themselves of this horrid opportunity, of taking a first and last look, at the celebrated beauty, the companion of Fitz Hugh, who was equally notorious for his profligacy, and talent. And had the fair, faded being before them been that same creature-the victim of sinful, lawless passion-she with that pale, unsullied brow-calm, placid cheek the countenance on which reposed the expression of almost infantine innocence and simplicity? Yes, so it was! Before them lay the mortal body of Norah Mahony: the face no longer lighted up by the unhallowed flame of guilty pleasures, or the wild, raging fire of carnal misery, but now again by the hand of death-restored to the image of that pure and lovely temple, which once came forth from the hands of its great builder-fit receptacle for the spirit of Heavenly grace and purity, for which it was originally erected, but-awful thought!-from whence sin had banished it. It befits us not to seek to inquire into the measure of eternal punishment, which will be the portion of those, who, like this unfortunate being, have been perverted and led astray in their weakness, ignorance, and blindness of heart. It is a consideration of far too awful an import to handle in a work of this description, and belongs to the secret things which are not revealed. But this we know, and may declare All trace of Norah was lost; the pouring rain, the howling wind, favoring the defeat of the pursuit. The night, and early morning had been vainly spent in search of the unfortunate girl, by Desmond, and several persons employed to assist him: dark suspicions began to sug--and we shrink not from so doing, to remind gest themselves to their minds. A crowd of stragglers were, the next afternoon, collected near the banks of the Serpentine, watching proceedings of too frequent occurrence, to excite feelings of a much deeper nature, than that curiosity, which the love of the horrible so inherent in the vulgar breast, generally creates on such occasions; but sud denly a murmur ran through the assembled multitude of more than common interest, and all were striving to press nearer. Drawn from the sullen waters, the lifeless body of a woman appeared, and was borne from amongst them, towards the Humane Society Asylum. The sight of the form of the unfortunate girl, the long, yellow hair floating back from her head, dropping streams of water, as the body was carried along, was of itself sufficient to identify the victim, and it was scarcely necessary to draw near and look upon that bloodless face. But the man Desmond, who, as the emissary of his friend, felt himself in some degree responsible in the matter, came forward, and in the lifeless corpse, (for soon it was ascertained that all human aid was in vain,) he recognized such of our readers who, perchance, may close their eyes against all sacred revelation-that to those who have caused the poor to fall and perish, and the ignorant and blind to go out of their way against them-the perverters of the young and innocent, will be annexed the guilt of those lost creature-fallen through the wickedness of their deceit. But let us turn from these most revolting scenes, of the narrative we have undertaken to relate. Difficult has of late been our taskforced, as it were, to weigh every word-measure every expression-lest unwittingly we should extenuate, or gild with false colors the crimes we would bring forward, not to serve as a dread warning-to show the retributive misery of the guilty-of those who have selfishly indulged in sin! Gladly we turn awayfor though it be to meet those who are in tears and anguish their grief may at least claim our deepest and unmingled sympathy. The surprise the doubts-the misgivings the mysterious whispers-the dark insinuations, which spread amongst the household, when the disappearance of Mrs. Lennard became known, may well be imagined; especially when the last supposition was destroyed, by discovering, not wont to be the last to appear, to claim her share of his notice. "Come, my pets," he said, laughing, for he was becoming somewhat impatient at being detained from discovering the reason of her nonappearance"here is little Sybil waiting to be noticed: where is your Mamma, darlings?-is she here?" and disengaging himself from the children, he opened the door of the bed-room and looked in but no-not there! "Where is your mother?" Mr. Lennard again inquired, in a tone of surprise, turning to his children; "has she gone out?" The boy looked into his father's face with a frightened and mysterious air, but did not speak; Mary became very pale-clasped her hands and sobbed. The young Sybil stood her cheeks flushed from the effects of her journey-her dark eyes roving restlessly around, and seeming to grow larger and larger-her stately little form clad in her travelling dress, appearing to swell higher and higher with surprise and displeasure, at a reception of so different a nature from that which her Papa had led her to anticipate. Where was the Mamma who would be expecting her with such eager The steward turned faint, but with presence of mind, restrained himself from giving vent to the frightful fancies which presented themselves to his mind, and nerving himself for the worst, approached-gazed upon the corpse-then retired, breathing a prayer of thanks to Heaven. However, by a curious coincidence, his former informants proceeded to give him further particulars concerning the deceased-communicating to him the rumor afloat, that it was the mistress of the distinguishad radical member-delight ?-where, all the charming excitement Mr. Fitz Hugh-who had destroyed herself. her arrival was to create? No Mamma-no welcome from any one! The servant departed, and went immediately to the abode of Fitz Hugh. He had shrunk from doing so before-it was too horrible a suspicion-but now he would go. The house was shut up-and from the old woman that came to the door, no information of any kind could be gained. But it is needless dwelling on these particulars; suffice it, that from the slight gleams of light thrown on the subject, the doubts and suspicions of the servants were but too direfully strengthened, when the dreaded time drew near for the expected arrival of their beloved master. Between seven and eight in the evening the carriage clattered up to the door. The loud peal and thundering knock followed, and the door was opened-but how much more tardily than was usual on such occasions!-and in another moment the hall-lamp shone full upon the face of Albert Lennard, and that of his little travelling companion, whom he had lifted from the carriage and borne in his arms into the house. The servants-generally so eager in pressing forward to greet, with officious attention and willing service, him, whose coming was a gladness to all-now hung back; but Mr. Lennard paused not to notice this. He merely uttered his usual cheerful," Is all right?" and again lifting his little daughter from the ground, to expedite their movements, sprung up stairs. The father stood still, and gazed for a moment in silent, startled astonishment at the two children; his countenance changed-his color slightly faded from his cheek; he glanced again quickly round the apartment, then crossed it with hasty steps-put forth his hand, and was about to ring the bell, when some inward impulse caused him to refrain. He turned, and once more approached his elder daughter; he took her hand, and fixing his eyes full upon her face, said, with an expression of countenance, and in a tone of voice which ever after clung to the memory of the child, "Mary, my life!-tell me, where is your mother?" They were but a few broken sentences, that his innocent daughter sobbed forth on his bosom, in connexion with her mother's name, but they proved enough to send the first stab of a horrible suspicion, with fatal sharpness, into Albert's heart; his arms relaxed his hold of Mary; he staggered, then fell at the feet of his three innocent children, whose terror may be well ima gined. The boy threw himself down by his father, and with epithets of endearment, flung his little arms around the prostrate form, and strove to hug it into consciousness. Young Sybil screamed and stamped her feet, and wrung her hands in an agony of passionate terror; Mary looked as if about to fall by her parent's side. The words, "Here we are, Papa!" directed This was the scene which presented itself to him to the dressing-room, where, in another the sight of those, who, having nerved themmoment, he had deposited his charge, and re-selves to the dreadful task which it was necesceived in exchange his other children, who flew sary for them to fulfil, had been with tardy steps into his arms and hid their faces in his bosom. approaching, and who at these startling sounds, He strained them to his heart-his eyes, in the burst into the room. meantime, seeking for his wife-she who was 1 "Tis well that age LYTTLETON. Hath made me like a child, that I can weep; Tears-tears! I thought their source was dried for ever in my brain as I journeyed on towards London, with two as tearless as myself; and they were those beings, whose ears were still ringing with the tidings, that had made them the reputed parents of shame and infamy. But from a different cause to mine were their tears impeded. Alas! from the moment I had read the fatal communication, I felt struck with the conviction, of the hopeless, ravless certainty of the very worst. And merciful Heavens was not that enough to have quenched the very life blood in my veins? But the father and mother would not weep. What! should they allow their tears to fall, and thus, as it were, sanction this tale of utter madness-the supposed dishonor of their child of purity and perfection? "Mrs. Lennard had left her home, and, from every apparent circumstance preceding the act, as well as from the few slight traces which had been discovered of her since her disappearance, the suspicion as to her accomplice in her flight had fallen upon Mr. Fitz Hugh." Such was the epitome of the tale which that morning had reached the father and mother of Sybil Lennard; and with stern-almost superhuman strength, did they seem to be battling against the waves of misery, by which, with the very supposition of such an evil, I should have imagined they would have been at once overwhelmed-even as I was, I then thought, for ever. But the sequel proved, with what frightful violence to their feelings, the struggle must have been accomplished. Arrived in Park-lane, the following day, Mrs. Devereux descended from the carriage with her wonted dignified composure, and inquired, in her usual impressive tone of self-importance, for her daughter, Mrs. Lennard. One glance at the domestic was sufficient to tell us that our doom was sealed that the demand was mockery! And the mother sat, calm and apparently composed, that next day, and again the next, waiting she said, for her daughter,-for Albert's wife whilst all around her were tossed in the bitter waves of utter despair and anguish. Great God !-was that the same Albert who, but three days before, had departed like a bright sun from amongst us—that grief-bewildered being who stood up, as we entered the dressingroom, with haggard eye and bloodless cheek? The children were hanging round their father, but, on my entrance, sprang to meet me, and by their greeting broke, in a degree, the horror of the first meeting-a scene which I will not portray. At length I drew away the little ones, and led them to their grandmother, but only to witness their innocent wonderings at the little notice she bestowed on them-even on her worshipped Sybil. And then her strange perseverance in asking for their mother, in spite of their affecting endeavors, to make her understand and sympathise in the piteous tale they poured into her ears-"That Mamma was gone, and that Papa's heart would break-all their hearts must break; what should they do if she came not back?" It was to me too heart-rending, but I was forced to bind up my bleeding spirit to nerve it for all that it was called upon to undergo, for my office henceforth was to be, "to dry up tears, not to shed them." I shall not enter into a detail of the steps taken to trace out the fugitive. Alas! from all the suspicious particulars, gained from the servants, concerning the circumstances preceding the catastrophe-the long and daily visits of Fitz Hugh-the strange and altered appearance of their lady, especially during the last daylittle doubt could reasonably be entertained of the truth of the case by Mr. Devereux and myself. But Albert-he could not, would not be brought to believe it possible-or if indeed it was so, in a fit of mental derangement, the fatal step must have been taken. And to know that the wife-once-still, so fondly beloved-was in safety beneath his own roof, or under the protection of her parents, even though lost to him, seemed to constitute the chief, earnest desire of his soul. In answer to the dreadful communication made to them through me-public rumor having before reached their horror-stricken, unbelieving ears--Sir William Mordaunt and his wife flew to offer all the assistance that, under such sad circumstances, they could afford. Sir William set off to support the wretched father in his distressing expedition of discovery; the stern and resolute nature of the Baronet, well fitting him for so critical an undertaking. It had been with some difficulty that Mr. Lennard was prevented from forming one of the party-How could his proximity fail to lure back the last one?-and then his thirst to avenge her I verily feel assured his own wrong sank to nothingness, before that of the being whom he believed to be the innocent victim of some fiendish plot of his vicious, profligate enemy-Who should slake his vengeance but himself? The alarming pitch of excitement which followed our arrival, had succeeded the utter prostration of sense and feeling, into which the unhappy man had been thrown for the first twelve hours after the shock; when, however, the hour for departure arrived, he had again sunk so low in bodily strength, as well as exhaustion of mind, that he was at length persuaded that his company would only retard the measures of the others. Into the particulars of their fruitless mission I need not enter. They had scarcely left us when a letter was dropped at the door, directed to Mr. Lennard, in an unknown hand. On its being opened by me, according to his directions, what were my feelings to find it contained the writing of Sybil, though changed and deformed, as had become the mind of that unfortunate creature? The words were-" Albert, I can be yours no more--I have given myself to another; seek me not. When you receive this, I shall be far from the possibility of recovery, and with him whom fate has ordained as the future companion of my existence.-Sybil." The wedding-ring was enclosed-no date! Imagine, reader, the wretched husband's feel ings! He was cast down at once in a lethargy of hopeless despair. The man who had been chosen, from his mind of vigorous energy, as well as conspicuous talent and wisdom, to assist to guide the helm of the intricate affairs of the nation!-where was now his strength-his energy? His strength was truly perfect weakness-prostrate was every power of mind and body. The children were still allowed to be with their father-Lady Mordaunt offered, on her first arrival, to take them to her house, but this proposal Mr. Lennard had resisted. It was the innocent tears of his darlings upon his cheek, which had roused him from the dark trance of his first prostration of energy; he must have died but for them; in their presence, he was kept from utterly sinking. They were, there fore, still suffered to hang round him; and in the extremity of all our reckless anguish, we thought not of the injury, which scenes of distress-such as they were forced to witnessmight produce on the minds of the young crea tures. The boy lay, most of the day, his soft cheek pressed against his father's, murmuring sweet or playful endearments in his ear, between the bursts of bitter agony which broke forth from that poor father's lips; sometimes also manifested in the convulsive embraces, in which the child was strained with words of passionate fondness, to the breast of the miserable parent. Ah! blessed boy! in sorrow or in joy, even at that tender age, thou wert like an angel of consolation! But the poor little girls---they demanded most pity; not only from their slight superiority of age, but also their more premature susceptibility of suffering, which I have ever remarked as amongst the many sad prerogatives of our sex. Mary was often by her father's side; but the sight of his inconsolable misery, was almost too much for her feeling heart; and she would come to me as I sat in the adjoining room, to seek for some relief-some consolation-to question me earnestly in woful anguish, on the nature of their sad affliction-how it was-what it was! to beg me to explain the-to her-dark mystery of her mother's loss-- "Oh! it was pitiful to see For I could but bid her pray---I could I could only bid her pray to God, for He alone could help us even whilst my faithless, rebellious heart, contradicted my words, by its inward groans of "Who can now lift us upwho can show us any good?" in our remediless -shoreless woe? And Mary would lift her streaming eyes, and with clasped hands raise her sweet voice to her Father in Heaven, imploring for mercy for her afflicted father-for her lost mother-little that last epithet. Her infant accents reached knowing poor child, the double signification of the sufferer's ears; he called her to his side, and said, Mary pray-pray on-pray night and day, dear child-for we greatly need your prayersbut above all, pray for her." And again, that interceding voice, arose like. and whilst it continued, seemed to soothe the an angel's, midst the storm and darkness; tempest-tossed spirit of him who listened. To a mind like Mary's-of such naturally heavenly birth, nought could come amiss, but the little Sybil-on her young heart, I verily believe the blight of her mother's sin, cast its first shadow. The child showed not the same affectionate signs of feeling as her sister, at the sight of her father's afflicted state. Ever accustomed to be the caressed, rather than the caresser, she seemed shy of manifesting to him her sympathy, by imitating the tender, loving manner of her little brother. But she would stand at a distance gazing upon him, listening to his groans or manifestations of agony-her large eyes expressing mingled trouble and wonder, then roam about from place to place, like a frightened bird, scared by the darkness—a darkness truly, "that could be felt," which brooded over all within the house, till weary-wretched, the poor child yielded at last to my endeavors. to draw her to my side-which, with the wild timidity of a young gazelle, she had, at first, resisted-and consented to share with her sis ter, the gentle solace, which I, with my own breaking heart was able to bestow. Once I led her to the door of her father's room, for she seemed uncomfortable I thought, when Mary and Bertie were with him, and she shut out from a participation in their tender caresses. She crept up to the sofa on which he lay, and softly placed her little hand on his. Mr. Lennard. pressing it to his heart, murmured, "Which is this?' LADY MORDAUNT shared with me the duties of this trying season; she had taken upon herself the department of watching over Mrs. Devereux. That unfortunate lady, for the first two days succeeding her arrival in London, continued in the state of torpor before described, and which I have ever felt convinced, was brought on by the stunning effects of the words, which greeted her entrance into the house; meeting as they did, her mind, in the strained pitch of excitement to which, since the first receipt of the fatal communication at Oakleigh, it had been worked. Mrs. Armstrong was the first person on whom Mrs. Devereux's eyes had fallen, when she arrived in Park Lane; whilst, at the same time, in answer to her proud demand of "Where is my daughter?" the nurse had pronounced in accents almost as stern, "You have no daughter, madam-she has cast herself away-she has dishonored us all!" On the morning of the third day, however, a change was perceptible. Lady Mordaunt came to beg me to be present at the trying moment which must attend the awakening of her unhappy aunt, to a sense of the reality of the case. We took little Sybil with us, and found Mrs. Devereux much in the state of a person, arousing from the deep sleep produced by the effects of a strong opiate. She looked at her grand child; then our pale and altered countenances seemed to attract her attention, and she cast her eyes with a wild bewildered air round the room. Speak to your grandmamma, darling!" we said to the child; and accordingly, Sybil began: "Grandmamma, when will you go back to Oakleigh, and be well again! London is such a dark, unhappy place." 66 Still Mrs. Devereux looked confused and distressed, and at a loss how to answer; but turning, after a pause, to Lady Mordaunt and my self, she said collectedly, "Really, I am ashamed that the child should see me thus. It is very strange. I suppose we are in London-but will you tell me what brought us here?" Lady Mordaunt took her hand: with admirable tact, she endeavored to bring back her aunt's mind to the communication which had greeted her first arrival, for there was no use in temporising in such a case as this. The poor lady then was made to remember, that already she had been apprised, that her daughter had left her home. "Left her home!" she repeated, her features all working convulsively, "you mean, I sup pose, that she is dead. Oh! I know that is what you mean," she continued, waving her hand impatiently," she is gone to her grave-in what other manner could my daughter leave her home? Not dead! What! would you make me believe that the other words they told me were true? That the being I bore-I nurtured with such care, has become a vile castaway-a creature for whom the strongest epithet of infamy and shame, is but too honorable? What -what do you say? They have gone to tear her from the arms of her paramour-to force her back? Let them not bring her before my eyes, if she wish not to hear my curse to be spurned with my foot, as a thing most vile and abominable. Yes, curses! curses on the head of the reprobate wife and mother! "Childchild!" and she seized the arm of the terrified little girl; "your name is Sybil, or I would curse that name, and all who ever owned itcast it off child, as a word most loathsome-a shame and reproach to you forever; for it is the name of your mother--the mother who has destroyed your good name, as well as that of all belonging to her. Curse the day that gave you birth--curse---" But we threw ourselves before her; we implored her forbearance - her pity, for the wretched being she thus anathematized; and Lady Mordaunt sent the affrighted child away. There was, however, no power of softening the mother's feelings; we invoked forbearance, but to draw down more harsh denunciations from her lips, on the head of one so lately her pride and crown of glory. It was dreadful to see the stoical womanlike the sturdy oak of centuries, rocked by the sudden tempest-under the influence of such fierce passions. But their very violence perforce, caused the speedy exhaustion of their outward demonstration, and without a relieving tear, Mrs. Devereux sank down upon a chair with shaking form and quivering lip; the strong, time-resisting frame, struck-as it must have been in one short hour-with all the ap pearance of decripit old age. "He has stripped me of my glory, and taken the crown from my head; He has destroyed me on every side, and I am gone, and my hope He has removed like a tree.' "Fearful Scripture !" as a poor sinner once before said fearful indeed to us, and so woefully applicable! But I will dwell no longer on a period fraught with agony, such as no pen can portray-an agony bereft of all hope, all consolation. Death! oh! what is death in comparison to such grief such truly shame-faced grief? When death tears from us, the beloved of our hearts, though our tears must fall, we feel that the affliction is not without its consolation-its dignity; we are stricken by the hand of God, and must bow to His mysterious dispensations; and when time at last arrives, with healing on its wings, our hearts will close on the cherished object, and it will be embalmed forever, in our most sacred and endearing recollections; but when our joys are nipped in the blossom by the withering hand of crime, no such consolation remains; every thought has a scorpion's sting, |