been abstracted, through the infidelity of his servant, who, acting under a blind obedience to the requisitions of his priest, had placed them all in Mr. Sullivan's hands.

That gentleman it was also, as will be surmised, who had forwarded the provincial newspapers to Lady Wharncliffe. The articles which related to this affair having been inserted by himself. One reason being, his hopes that Lord Lisburn's resistance, founded upon his sense of what was due in honour to Miss Wharncliffe, might be met by a something of a similar nature as regarded Miss Vernor; namely, the publicity of his attentions. And this proceeding had not been without producing its effect. The pertinacious silence of the one, aided by the constant communications with the other, promised, in no short time, to decide the conflict. Such was the state of things until that very morning, when Mr. Sullivan, who kept up a careful correspondence with England, and watched every movement of Sir John Wharncliffe's family with intense interest, had, through the infidelity of a domestic, received the intelligence that Miss Wharncliffe was upon the eve of marriage with the only son and heir of Mr. Langford of Ravenscliffe.

This intelligence he had just communicated at the time when we beheld Lord Lisburn displaying such an ecstasy of passion.

The news had, indeed, been received with a burst of anguish, for which the priest, well as he thought himself acquainted with the disposition of his young charge, was little prepared.

The agony into which Marcus had been thrown, his grief, his despair, seemed to know no bounds;

and when, in the course of the agitated conversation which had ensued, he had become, for the first time, aware of the deceptions which had been practised upon him, the violence of his indignation was indescribable. Contrary to his usual habits when much moved, the young Irishman had become suddenly silent. It seemed as if rage and scorn alike denied him utterance. In a sort of desperation he had continued walking up and down the shore endeavouring to escape, as we have seen, from the priest, but the priest would not leave him.

But reasoning, entreating, explanation were alike vain. The thoughts of Marcus were all in confusion. Passionate regret, awakened by the conviction that Eleanor was lost for ever. Vehement self-reproach for his supineness in thus suffering himself to be blinded and led; detestation of the means employed, and of passionate anger against the man who had thus deluded him, were united to a horror indescribable, at the thought of the man to whom Eleanor was about to be sacrificed. For, he remembered him well. The paroxysm that ensued was of the wildest violence.

In this whirlwind of passion he had continued to walk up and down in the manner just described, without the slightest attempt to curb the violence of his emotions. When suddenly, as he uttered the word "Renounce!" a thought had struck him, and diverted the whole course of his ideas. A new world seemed

to open before him, new plans, views, and purposes to present themselves. His chest ceased to labour under the dreadful storm of grief which agitated it; the darkness in which he seemed wandering, lost, and desperate, was at once dispelled; the cloud was lifted

he saw, he felt, that all was not yet over; and his resolutions were sudden as was the change which had taken place.

To escape from the company of the priest was his first attempt, and he effected it with a determination very different from that with which during the last hour he had been trying to shake him off. At that time, it was only because the presence of Mr. Sullivan was oppressive, when Marcus was panting to be alone and give vent unrestrainedly to his feelings now, he was become a positive obstruction in the course upon which the young man had resolved, and, with his usual spirit and resolution, the desire was carried into effect in a moment.

CHAPTER XII.

"What, sovereign sir, I did not well,

I meant well."

WINTER'S TALE.

THE priest returned slowly to the house. He felt unwilling to enter it. Perplexed and ill-satisfied with himself, he felt the greatest repugnance to the idea of joining the family party, one of which he constituted, for he resided with Lord Fermanagh.

of

He could scarcely endure the thought of confronting Lord Lisburn in the presence of his parents, exposing himself to the flashing scorn of that bright eye before Lord and Lady Fermanagh, both of whom he greatly loved and respected. Not that he exactly feared that they would participate in their son's contemptuous indignation at the part which had been played; - they had been long habituated to that sophistry, which justified the disguising of truth for purposes of policy. He knew how deeply anxious they were for the attainment of the object in view, and he believed that, like too many of their creed, they would esteem all the means admissible employed to bring the purpose to bear.

Still, he shrank from the thought of confronting Marcus in their presence. That vehement abhorrence of the false, in whatever cause, or however employed, which the young man had so passionately displayed, and which had, like a sudden light, awakened Mr.

Sullivan's own mind to new perceptions, and for a few moments presented things under a totally new moral aspect, might act upon them also. And to have his conduct, even for an instant, looked upon by others as he had been forced, as it were, to regard it himself, was more than he could bear.

So, slowly and unwillingly he walked towards the house; the hoarse murmur of the sea, as it lashed the shore, and thundered and echoed among the rocks, sounding in his ears like the portent of coming woe. At last, however, he rounded the furthermost point of rock which interposed between him and his object, and the stately castle of Lisburn rose in full grandeur before him.

It stood at the head of a beautiful bay, adorned with all the wild sublimity of that splendid and interesting western coast of Ireland, scooped out and hollowed by the waves of the vast Atlantic. Lofty mountains encompassed it behind, rising ridge beyond ridge in stately majesty, and lifting up their peaked heads among the clouds, which, dark and heavy, rolled slowly over them. The ridge of mountains terminated seaward abruptly, in the lofty precipitous cliffs which encircled the bay; the huge faces of rock lifting up their frowning heads as if in defiance of the winds and waves. Several picturesque islands, rather like peaked mountain tops than islands, broke the view of the wild ocean, which came tumbling in with irresistible force among them, and pouring its giant waves in ceaseless succession upon the shore. It was a scene at once wild, grand, terrible, and beautiful.

The castle stood upon a gently rising ground,