Laura, St. Aubyn, O'Brien, and Mordaunt, were seated on one side the fire, with the sandwich tray before them; on the other side, thrown on a sofa, Ellen saw a tall thin young man, who, deeply absorbed in thought, noticed not her entrance. One pale, sickly looking hand hung motionless by his side, the other shaded his eyes, and over his brow his black hair fell in disordered curls; his dress, though that of a gentleman, was evidently neglected, and his whole appearance was

As Ellen entered, St. Aubyn rose, and with subdued emotion, said in a low tone:

"My love, we waited for you;" then somewhat louder;—"My Lord De Montfort, will you allow me to introduce you to...." he faltered, and looked as if he dreaded to pronounce the name ... "to my wife ... to ... Lady St. Aubyn?"

As he spoke, Lord De Montfort started from his reverie, shook back the curls which shaded his face, and shewed a fine, but pale and emaciated countenance. For an instant his bright black eyes flashed, and his cheeks crimsoned with a sudden emotion. He hastily took two or three steps forward, as if to greet some well-known friend; but seeing Ellen, who, half alarmed, leaned upon St. Aubyn, he gazed upon her for a moment with such an earnest yet melancholy expression as extremely affected her. She courtesied, and he bent his head with the air of a perfect gentleman, but spoke not, and then threw himself on his sofa again.

Ellen perceived that St. Aubyn's frame shook with subdued emotion, and her own trembled with an indefinable sensation.

"Come, Lady St. Aubyn," said Laura, "sit here by the fire; you look pale and cold; you should not indeed expose yourself to the night air in crossing the hall and staircase."

Ellen gladly sat down, and while they were taking their little meal, she glanced her eyes towards the youth, whose mysterious manner impressed her with feelings of no very pleasing import: she saw that under the shade of his bent brows he was attentively gazing upon her. The portentous gloom of his countenance seemed to her troubled imagination to forebode some direful event, and she grew so pale, that Laura perceiving it, put a glass of wine into her hand, and begged her to drink it. Before she would comply, St. Aubyn said:—

"Ellen, neither my entreaties, nor those of his former friend, Miss Cecil, can prevail on Lord De Montfort to take the slightest refreshment; try, my love, if you can induce him to take a glass of wine with you."

Ellen with sudden effort conquering the agitation of her spirits, said: "Indeed, my Lord, I shall be very happy if Lord De Montfort will do me that honour. May I, my Lord," speaking to him, "make it my request that you will do so?"

The soft persuasive tones of her voice seemed to touch him; he rose, and with a voice deep, melancholy, and impressive, said:

"At your request, Madam!"

He advanced, and took from Laura a glass of wine she offered to him; he bowed to Ellen, and lifted the glass to his lips, but instantly exclaimed, while his whole person shook with agitation:

"I cannot drink it! In this house! Oh, God!"

He let fall the glass, and covering his face with his hands, rushed out of the room.

O'Brien instantly followed him, while the little party which remained sat in silent dismay and astonishment. Yet St. Aubyn's emotion partook more of vexation than surprize: he paced the room with hasty strides for a few minutes, and then approaching Ellen, said, clasping her hand in his, which trembled with agitation—"This scene has been too much for you, my love: could I have imagined De Montfort's demeanor would have been so wild, I would not have brought him hither; yet let us make allowances for him—he doated on his sister." St. Aubyn's voice seemed elevated with deep contending passions: for a moment he paused, then added, "You had better go to your rest, my love, and you, Laura: I do not suppose this young man will return to-night."

He rung, and inquired of the servant in waiting where the two gentlemen then were. "They have been in the study, my Lord," said the man; "but are now gone to their chambers, which Mrs. Bayfield sent to say were ready for them."

The ladies rose to retire, just as Mr. O'Brien returned: he brought apologies from his pupil to Lady St. Aubyn, saying that Lord de Montfort regretted extremely his distress should have shewed itself so visibly, and doubtless alarmed her. "Forgive him, Madam," said O'Brien: "this is the first time he has been in this house, or even in England, since the death of Lady St. Aubyn: and recollections of the sister he lost so young, the sister he adored, have been too much for him."

"Surely," said Laura, "he must have been uncommonly attached to her, since six years have not effaced her from his memory." She sighed—the tear stood in her eye; for she thought—"It is scarcely as many months since I lost the sweetest sister in the world, yet she is comparatively forgotten."

"He cherishes every recollection of her," said O'Brien, "with officious care: he constantly wears her portrait next his heart. Before we left Spain, he insisted on visiting her grave, and was so deeply affected, I feared for his reason. To you, my Lord St. Aubyn, I ought to apologize for details which I see distress you, but I thought it was necessary to account for my pupil's strange deportment."

St. Aubyn bowed; but traces of vexation were legible in his expressive face. Mr. Mordaunt made some inquiries after the present state of Lord de Montfort, to which Mr. O'Brien replied he had left him in bed, and tolerably composed; that he had consented to breakfast with the family the next morning, when he hoped personally to apologize to the Countess for the alarm he had given her.

The ladles now retired, and each went to her respective apartment. Lady St. Aubyn passed through her own room into that where the infant lay: both the child and his nurse slept quietly. She knelt a moment by the bed-side, and offered a fervent prayer to heaven for the health and happiness of her infant, and for its father, who seemed menaced by some mysterious disturbance. The contrast presented by the soft sleep, the placid innocence of the baby's face, to the scene of anxiety and confusion she had left, deeply affected her. Tears stole down her cheeks, and wetted the little hands she held pressed to her lips. At length, rousing herself, she returned to her bed-chamber, where Jane waited to undress her: "Make haste, Jane," she said, "I am weary." Jane obeyed in silence; for her Lady's pensive looks had power to quiet even her loquacious propensities.

In a few minutes Ellen was laid on her pillow, and the tumultuous throbbing of her heart began to subside. In about half an hour she heard St. Aubyn go to the room he occupied at present, and fancied, after his valet left him, she could distinctly hear him pacing the apartment, and sighing heavily: but this perhaps was chiefly fancy; for the wind still howled and sobbed round the Castle, and through its large hall and long galleries. Sometimes it sounded like the low moans of one in grief or pain: then in shriller gusts it shook the lofty battlements, or swept over the tops of the high trees, which bent and rustled beneath its power.

Ellen, restless, uneasy, impressed with the melancholy countenance and strange conduct of their mysterious guest, vainly endeavoured to sleep, and turned from side to side, soothed only in the intervals of the storm by hearing the soft breathings of her infant, whose couch (the door being open between the rooms) was so near her, that she could accurately distinguish every breath he drew. Two or three times she was inclined to rise, and steal him from his nurse's side to partake her bed; for she felt how glad she should be in that unquiet hour to feel his little cheek pressing against hers, and hold him to her anxious heart; but fearing to disturb, or give him cold, she relinquished her purpose, and endeavoured to compose herself to rest.

At length, just after the Castle clock had struck two, she felt as if sleep were stealing over her fatigued senses; but starting from a momentary forgetfulness, she heard a light footstep, yet sounding as if the person walking wore no shoes, approaching her bed-room door. It was she knew unfastened; for lest the child should be ill, or want additional assistance, it was always left so. Starting, she listened: her breath grew short, and her heart beat audibly, as the steps approached nearer and nearer; yet not losing her presence of mind she drew aside her curtain, and fixing her eyes on the door, prepared to fly into the inner room, should, as she now began to expect, a midnight robber meet her view.

Slowly, slowly, opened the door, and a tall thin figure, wrapped in a loose night-gown, just appeared within it. "Sister! sister!" said a voice, low, tremulous, and impressive: "sister, are you awake? You bade me call you early."

The figure! the voice!—Oh, what became of Ellen, when in both she recognized the wild, the mysterious, De Montfort! In his pale hand he bore a lamp, the flashing light of which fell at intervals on his gloomy countenance: while his bright black eyes were indeed open, but, oh! "their sense was shut."

Again, as he advanced into the room, he repeated in the same low mournful tone, "Sister Rosolia! What, sleeping still? You said you would rise early, and walk with me." Then pausing, he seemed to stand as if listening for an answer; but suddenly, with a start of recollection and a heavy sigh, he exclaimed, "Oh yes, I remember! too well I remember! You cannot rise: you will never rise again!—You are dead! you are dead! you are dead!"

Again a solemn pause ensued, and sighs, which seemed to rend his bosom, alone broke the terrific silence of the moment.

Again he spoke with an energy of action, as if his sleeping agitations were breaking into frenzy, addressing himself as in answer to one who had spoken to him.

"But did he murder you? Was it St. Aubyn? Tell me, I conjure you, and answer truly. Condemn not your own soul, and O, Rosolia, involve not mine in condemnation by a lie!—A lie!—Can the dead lie?—And you are come to me here—aye, here, in this very chamber, where in our innocent school-days you used to sleep—to tell me the truth—the truth, Rosolia."

And now with quicker steps he paced the chamber, as if pursuing one who fled before him, yet, with that wonderful instinctive power which often attends the sleep-walker, avoiding every obstacle.

"Nay, fly me not!" he exclaimed: "deceive me not; for I have seen an angel in thy place to-night; and if thou art not a false and lying spirit, thou wilt not lead me to injure her." Then pausing again, as if listening to some one who spoke, he said, with quickness—

"I know it! I know it! That pistol—that ring! Yes, yes, yes, yes! Those indeed were direful evidences of his guilt!—Years, years, I have passed in thinking of them!—Yet he says, he swears, he is innocent—that it was De Sylva—that thou wert guilty! Oh, tell me, Rosolia, was it—was it so?—But I will pray for thy soul."

He knelt, and placing the lamp before him on the floor, its dismal light fell on his sad countenance, and shewed his eyes upturned, and his lips moving as in fervent prayer, while at intervals he crossed himself, and bowed his forehead to the earth. Then rising with a sudden start, he exclaimed—

"Hark, O'Brien calls! He will hear me—he shall not know my thoughts. It might not be St. Aubyn who shed thy blood: yet, oh, Rosolia—oh, my sister, it was thy blood I saw! And here is some of it on my hand."

He shook his hand violently, and appearing to look at it earnestly, he uttered a low, mournful, and distracted cry of terror, and rushed out of the room.

Alarm and horror had kept Ellen silent—she fainted not; yet scarcely could she be said to live. But as soon as his receding footsteps convinced her he was really gone, she hastily threw on some of her clothes, and flew, scarcely in her senses, to St. Aubyn's room. His door was fast, but with repeated knockings she aroused him, and great indeed was his consternation to see her so pale, so almost convulsed with fear and agitation.

"My dearest life!" he exclaimed: "what, for heaven's sake, is the matter with the child?"

"Oh! I have left him! I have forsaken him!" said she in terror, "all the doors open too, and that poor distracted youth may perhaps return, and who knows what injury he may do him! Oh! let us fly to the child," and she made some hasty steps towards the door.

"Recollect yourself, my Ellen," said the astonished St. Aubyn: "you are dreaming—sit down in this chair by the fire, and compose your spirits."

"Oh! no, it was no dream," said the shuddering Ellen, "I saw him as I see you now! he came to my room and said such dreadful things!"—

"Who came to your room?" exclaimed St. Aubyn: "who dared to intrude, to disturb and alarm you thus?"

"Oh! he was sleeping, I believe! but in his sleep—Oh heavens! he talked so dreadfully—of such horrid things—and called upon his sister in such tones! Oh! I never, never shall forget them!"

"Was it De Montfort?" asked the dismayed St. Aubyn.

"Oh yes, oh yes—De Montfort! Oh, his eyes, his face, his voice! I never, never, shall forget them!" she repeated with renewed agitation.

"Unhappy young man!" said St. Aubyn, with a sigh. "Would to God thou had'st never come hither! Affright not yourself, my Ellen, with his wild wanderings. By this time, I had hoped the wretch, who caused this dreadful mischief, might have been found, and all might have been cleared. Years have I sought in vain. Still, still, he evades my search—perhaps exists no longer.

"It is, however, time to reveal the past to you; but now you are too much alarmed to hear the long and melancholy tale: return to your bed, my Ellen; try to rest for my sake, for your babe's, who must suffer, should his tender nurse be ill: go to repose, and I will watch by you till morning; then, dear, and for ever dear creature, all shall be revealed; but remember your promise, in spite of all appearances—still to believe me innocent!"

Prevailed on at length to return to her own chamber, yet Ellen entreated St. Aubyn to examine the gallery, and see if De Montfort might not be again returned to visit the room he seemed to know so well; and even when assured he was not there, she still shuddered and turned pale, as fancy pictured him standing with his lamp in the door-way, or pacing with disordered steps the chamber floor.

After obtaining a few hours rest, which somewhat restored her, Ellen, by appointment, joined St. Aubyn in his study at a very early hour, where he had promised to explain, as far as he could, the strange and vexatious events which had so long involved him in the greatest uneasiness.

Sad was St. Aubyn's countenance, and the cheek of Ellen was yet pale from her recent agitation when they met. St. Aubyn, tenderly taking her hand, said, "I half regret, my Ellen, that my selfish love withdrew you from that sweet content and cheerfulness which surrounded your peaceful abode when first we met, to partake with me cares and alarms which otherwise you never would have known."

"My dear St. Aubyn, do not talk so," said Ellen, with a tender tear: "all the cares, all the alarms you speak of, were they ten times doubled, could not outweigh, in my estimation, the happiness of being one hour your wife. Oh believe, my beloved Lord, that fate I would have chosen, even though I had been sure the next would have brought my death."

"Matchless creature!" said St. Aubyn, clasping her to his bosom: "in such love, such tenderness, I am overpaid for all the griefs which former events have brought upon me, for all the anxiety with which the present hour surrounds me!—Repeat to me, dearest, as well as you can remember, what you heard from the unfortunate Edmund in his nocturnal visit to your apartment."

Ellen, while her cheek was blanched by the fearful recollection, and her whole frame trembled as she called to mind that terrific visit, endeavoured to obey, yet she feared to shock him, by repeating those words which seemed to connect his name with the idea of guilt and murder; but contrary to her expectation, he heard her without surprize, and with calm, though sorrowful composure: he sighed heavily indeed, but no alarm or perturbation appeared in either his countenance or gesture. As she ended, he said, "All this I knew; but too well knew what horrible suspicions this unhappy youth has formed, nay own he had great reason to conceive them. Poor Edmund! these dismal thoughts, working in his mind, and, as it appears, concealed from all others, have preyed upon it till reason seems shaken, and his troubled spirit wakes even while his bodily organs are locked in sleep! No wonder in this dreadful tumult of his imagination he came to your room, for that room used to be his sister's when she visited my mother before our unfortunate marriage was even thought of; and often, doubtless, in the days of his childhood, he has gone to her door to waken her at her request, and chid her for sleeping so late when he wanted her to walk with him: for dearly did he love her; and in those days she was innocent, and she was happy! Alas! poor Rosolia, whatever were thy faults, thy fate was dreadful!"

He sighed, and was a moment silent.

"I need not," said St. Aubyn, "say much on the subject of my first acquaintance with Lady Rosolia de Montfort. You have heard, I believe, that her father was a near relation of mine, and that her mother was a Spanish Lady of a high noble family, and were Roman Catholics. The lady's friends were exceedingly averse to the match, and at length consented only on condition that the sons of the marriage should be bred Roman Catholics; and after the father's death, should he die during their minority, be placed under the care of the mother's relations. Rosolia would probably also have been a Catholic, but her mother died young, and she was placed in the care of my mother and Lady Juliana Mordaunt. In the vacations she was generally here, where my mother constantly, and my aunt frequently, resided; and here also Edmund almost always spent the time of his school recesses, though twice they went to Spain with their father, and spent a few months amongst their mother's connections.

"Rosolia grew up very handsome, but the character of her beauty was not such as suited my taste: there was too much hauteur in her countenance; too much pride in the mind which informed it to please me; yet from our early youth the friends on both sides were anxious to unite us. I had at that time no particular predilection for any of her sex, nor could I object any thing against her, though certainly not exactly the sort of woman I should have chosen; her partiality in my favour, however, appeared evident, and was too flattering to be resisted by a young man like me, from a young woman who had crowds of admirers, most of them my superiors in fortune and quality.

"We were married, therefore, when I was about five-and-twenty, and Rosolia six years my junior. For two years that my mother lived, we remained a great deal with her, and in the country, under her eye and that of Lady Juliana. Rosolia did not discover those unpleasant traits, which, though they lay dormant, were not conquered.

"On my mother's death, we removed for a time to London, and there Rosolia lay in of a son, the only child we ever had. But, ah! how different a mother was Rosolia from you, my Ellen! No care for her infant subdued the excessive vivacity she now began to display, no maternal tenderness subjugated, or even softened, the levity of conduct which now became manifest, and ultimately was her bane. The society of every idle coxcomb was preferred to mine: my remonstrances, and those of my respectable aunt, nay, even of her own father, were unheeded. My disposition, naturally inclined to jealousy, took fire at the lightness of her carriage; but she held me in contempt, often in derision; and as the tongue of slander had not yet fixed on the name of any particular person to connect with her, I was obliged to submit to see her flirting, as it is called, first with one admirer, then another, and the last fool as welcome as the former. My aunt, wearied and vexed at our domestic unhappiness, in a great measure forsook us, and contracted a dislike of Lady St. Aubyn, which, in some degree, extended to all her family. Edmund was still our frequent guest, but his partiality for his sister would not allow him to see a fault in her, and indeed his extreme youth made me conceal from him, as much as possible, the uneasy terms on which we lived together. We had been married about three years, and our little boy was six months old when Rosolia's father died: by his will, he appointed me the guardian of Edmund's estates, till he should attain the age of twenty-four, and requested that I would see him placed under the care of the Duke de Castel Nuovo, in agreement with the terms of his own marriage-contract with the daughter of that nobleman.

"This request I could not refuse, yet knew not how to leave my wife in England; for if her conduct were so reproachable while we were together, what had I to expect if I left her solely to her own guidance? Yet such was the perversity of her temper, I doubted whether she would accompany me abroad: to that, however, she consented, prompted, I believe, more by a wish to be as much as possible with her brother, than to oblige me. But nothing could induce her to leave the child behind, though my aunt offered to take it solely under her own care during our absence, although Rosolia herself never saw it, except for about five minutes, once or twice in the day.

"This singular obstinacy inspired my aunt with an idea (which I confess I partly shared) that Rosolia's intention was to leave the babe with her paternal relations; for though she called herself a protestant, she certainly had much inclination towards the ceremonies of the Catholic Church, and, I grieve to say, held all religious principles so lightly, that to distress me and vex my aunt, she was but too capable of placing her child in the hands of Catholics, that it might be bred up in a religion she knew my aunt abhorred, and I had no good opinion of. To counteract this, or any other scheme which might be formed to take the child from me, as well as to ensure its being well taken care of, Lady Juliana insisted that our good Bayfield should accompany us, and made her promise never to let the child be absent from her sight. But these precautions, in the event, proved useless; for the poor babe caught the small-pox soon after we landed at Cadiz, where we remained a short time, and died in my arms, attended with undeviating care by the worthy Bayfield: for, oh, my Ellen, your tender nature will recoil when I tell you its unfeeling mother refused to see it from the time the disorder came to its height, though she herself had had it, because its appearance was too shocking to her delicacy! Every care, however, that could be obtained, was lavished on it, but in vain.

"Poor Edmund grieved sincerely at this event, and shared my lonely and sorrowful hours; for he had been attached to the infant with excessive affection, and always felt for me the sincerest regard, while I considered him as my own brother, and thought no attention too much to serve or please him.

"Soon after the death of the child we proceeded to Seville, and, in the gaiety of that city, the attentions she received from her mother's relations, and the flattering compliments paid to her beauty by the crowds of gentlemen who now surrounded her, Rosolia soon lost whatever traces of sorrow remained for the loss of her infant. She was handsomer than ever, and shone in all the elegance of dress and the blaze of unnumbered jewels, with which my lavish fondness, in the early part of our marriage, and the liberality of her Spanish relations, had profusely supplied her. Her grandfather, the Duke de Castel Nuovo, at whose palace in Seville Edmund was to be placed, happened to be absent, having been suddenly called to Madrid on some important state business, and wrote to beg I would remain a month or two at his palace, when he hoped he should return thither to receive his grandson from my hands, to see his granddaughter, and thank me for the kindness with which I had taken so long a journey. Having nothing immediately to recall me to England, I was not sorry to see more of this interesting country; and hearing of a beautiful villa to be let on the bank of Guadalaxara, I removed thither with my family, preferring it to a residence in the Duke's palace.

"Nothing could exceed the beauty of our little domain, or the rich luxuriance of the country in which it stood. This villa was only two miles from Seville, where at that time several regiments were stationed, and all the officers of rank eagerly sought an introduction to me and the beautiful Rosolia. Amongst them was a man of the name of De Sylva."

At this name Ellen started, for she had heard it from Edmund, in his wild wanderings the night before; though, till that instant, she could not recollect it.

"Why do you start, my love?" said St. Aubyn; "does some intuitive emotion whisper to you that this was the wretch whose villainy involved me in so much misery?"

"It was the name," said Ellen, "which I could not recollect just now; the name I heard from Edmund."

"No doubt," replied St. Aubyn, "it dwelt upon his mind; for but last night I again endeavoured to convince him of that villain's guilt. But to proceed.

"This De Sylva was a young man of a very fine person and elegant manners; one, in short, exactly fitted to win the favour of any woman, who looked more to exterior appearance than intrinsic merit. He was, I afterwards learned, a determined gamester, of broken, if not ruined fortunes, without principles, and stained with many vices; yet this man I too soon perceived the light Rosolia had selected as her chief favourite. If she danced, he was her partner; and often was her lovely person exhibited in the fascinating but immoral dances of her country: an exhibition, oh, how unfit for an English matron!—how hateful to the delicacy of my sentiments. I am perhaps too fastidious; but I again repeat, such a display, even of grace and beauty, in a married woman, is displeasing, but carried to the excess Rosolia did, detestable. How can we wonder at the alarming strides vice has made in this country, when we see even wives and mothers, in the slightest drapery, and with an almost unlimited freedom of manners, courting the notice of men whom they know to be characters which neither honour, nor even the ties of friendship, can restrain from the gratification of their passions.

"Forgive, my Ellen, this digression, by you so little needed; but I linger and dwell on any subject which can a moment detain me from those dreadful scenes I must soon describe. I was speaking of the intimacy which now took place between this De Sylva and Lady St. Aubyn. In dancing, walking, or riding, he was her constant attendant; and in the last exercise she excited the admiration of all who beheld her. Her English side-saddle and riding-dress, and the ease with which she managed her spirited Arabian, drew the most flattering plaudits from the gay military admirers who constantly surrounded her; and most of all from De Sylva, whose manners at last became so particular and presuming, I could not avoid noticing it, and telling Rosolia if he altered not his conduct, I should be under the necessity of forbidding him my house.

"At first she only laughed at my threats, and turned every thing I said into ridicule, but still persisted in the same manner of living, till I perceived, that even in that gay country her conduct was disapproved by all who witnessed it, and who had not lost all sense of decorum; even two or three of the older officers, men of rank and consequence, began to look gravely upon her, and with a sort of displeasure at me, as if they thought me too supine in not more warmly asserting my own honour. I now determined, therefore, to remove her from the place where she had so many opportunities of meeting this young man, which, without an eclat I wished to avoid, I could not prevent, as I believed her innocent though imprudent, and to visit some of the most interesting scenes in that part of the country where we now were, hoping that a tour, which I knew she had never made, would give a new turn to the sentiments of Rosolia: we removed, therefore, with our suite, from the beautiful villa we had lately occupied, and travelled the first day to Cormona, where we visited its castle, of immense extent, but now wholly in ruins; from thence we went by excellent, but very ancient roads, to Cordova, where we also saw every thing worth notice, and spent a few days very agreeably; at least they would have been agreeable, had Rosolia seemed in the least inclined to enjoy the new scenes presented to her, or the civilities of the inhabitants of this ancient town, where our rank and relationship to the Duke de Castel Nuovo ensured us a hospitable reception from all the noble families whose manner of life is cheerful and pleasant.

"After leaving Cordova, we travelled through the delightful vale of the Guadalaxara, which runs between the ridges of hills embellished with hanging woods and olive-yards. Nothing could exceed the beauty of the scene through which we now for two days travelled. No mind, which had not entirely lost all power of enjoying the charms of nature, could have been dead to the enchanting scenes which the banks of the lovely Guadalaxara now presented in ever-varying succession. Extensive plains, beautifully tinted by rows of olive-trees, towers and ancient castles rising at intervals on the side of the stream, afforded a variety of charming and picturesque views, from which Edmund and myself derived the warmest pleasure. Alas! the heart of Rosolia was shut to them all. At length we reached a small but pretty villa at the foot of the Sierra Morena, which I had learned some time before was unoccupied, and had hired, and caused to be prepared for our reception. Edmund's health had appeared to be somewhat shaken by the very warm climate of our abode near Seville, and it was thought the cool air from those mountains would brace and invigorate his drooping frame. Here, then, we rested in this quiet retreat, whence I made occasional excursions, sometimes on foot, sometimes on horseback, in the picturesque environs of our new abode. Sometimes I extended them to the northern side of the Sierra, and visited the romantic country of La Mancha, which Cervantes has immortalized.

"It is impossible to describe the various beauties these mountains present; the clear torrent of the Rio de las Pedras, falling over beds of rocks, through glens of beautiful woods; the wild and unfrequented solitudes, covered with a rich variety of flowering and sweet-scented shrubs, and the interesting new colony of La Corolina, of which I hope, some day, to give you a fuller account; all rendered these excursions delightful to me; the more so, as they occupied my thoughts, and carried me from a woman whose capricious humours and inconsistent conduct rendered my home irksome and distasteful.

"Rosolia, angry at being withdrawn from the society she so much prized, and still more so at being deprived of De Sylva's company, now assumed manners the most aggravating, and caprices the most extraordinary. Sometimes, for a day or two together, the sound of her voice never reached the ear of any human being; but sunk, in affected apathy, she pretended scarcely to see or hear any thing that was passing. Then she would suddenly assume the gayest air, and for hours would scarcely cease speaking; following me incessantly; never allowing me to read or reflect a moment; singing, playing on her harp, or with castenets in her hands, dancing with a gaiety that was as unpleasing as it appeared unnatural, till her forced spirits being quite exhausted, she would fall into violent hysterics, and be conveyed to bed, whence she would not rise again in many days.

"Think only, my dear Ellen, what a life this was for me. With no other companion (for Edmund was still a mere boy), and dreading every hour to what the caprices of the next might lead. At length, all at once, she affected a new humour, and was continually rambling alone, even so late in the evening, that in the neighbourhood of those wild mountains, I feared some evil would befall her; but vain were my representations, vain my entreaties. She told me, she thought it hard to be denied the only pleasure my jealous temper had left her, and that I had better revive the old Spanish customs of lattices and duennas, and lock her up altogether. These, and many such provoking speeches, silenced me; but I saw that our good Bayfield was suffering from some unknown cause. She was frequently in tears, and betrayed, at times, a degree of agitation which astonished me; for in general her composure was remarkable. I conjectured, that, dissatisfied with her lady, as indeed she had but too much reason to be, the worthy woman pined to revisit England; but on my pressing her on this subject, she assured me, that wherever I was, there she was best pleased to be; and only wished she knew how best to shew her devotion to my interests.

"These last words seemed spoken with particular meaning, but she evaded any explanation. A new vexation now assailed both her and me: several of Lady St. Aubyn's valuable jewels were from time to time missing, and vainly sought.

"Rosolia affected the most perfect indifference about them, saying, since she had no one to wear them, she cared nothing for jewels: but Bayfield, who was the only person, who, except her lady, had access to the place where the jewels were kept, was excessively disturbed at their frequent losses. At last, a very fine and remarkable ring of mine, composed of an antique cameo, set with brilliants of great value, was also gone. I began to suspect my valet of these repeated thefts, though I had obtained of him the most excellent character; and he had been three or four years in my service without the slightest suspicion of dishonesty in any respect.

"Determined, however, to watch this man, I said nothing of the loss of my ring, thinking if I appeared to have no suspicion I should the easier detect him.

"About a week after this circumstance, being restless, and unable to sleep, I rose from my bed at midnight, and sat for some time at my window, watching the bright moon, which in that clear climate gave a light scarcely inferior to that of day: but judge of my surprize, when I saw the figure of a man emerge slowly from a grove of cork trees, at some little distance; and after looking cautiously around, pass close under my windows, and approach those of Lady St. Aubyn's apartment. We had for some time inhabited separate rooms, as she complained of restless nights, and chose to have her chamber to herself. I fancied that I had now detected the robber, who, by some means, having gained access to those chambers, had, from time to time, stolen the jewels I mentioned; but in a moment I saw Rosolia's window open, and herself appear at it. She spoke a few words to this man, on whom the moonlight falling more clearly, I distinctly perceived the height, figure, and I fancied the features of De Sylva.

"Rosolia instantly threw down a light rope ladder, and the man, whoever he was, began to mount it; but on a sudden she turned from the window, as if disturbed by the entrance of some one to her room; and making a sign to him with a hurried air, he hastily descended: she immediately closed the window, and the man ran to the grove from which he had first appeared.

"All this scene passed so quickly, I had scarcely time to recollect myself, or determine what I ought to do—but hastily seizing my pistols, which lay always loaded in my room, I descended a private staircase leading to the garden, and with quicksteps, followed the man, who lay concealed in the grove. I walked with as little noise as I could, fearing, lest, if he heard me, he might make his escape, and I should be deprived of the satisfaction I expected, so that I was close to him before he perceived me, and seizing him with a powerful grasp, I dragged him into the moonlight, and there saw it was indeed De Sylva."

"Rage almost choked me as I exclaimed:—'Villain! you here, and lurking under my windows at this hour!' He shook with cowardly apprehension, and attempted some excuse, which, however, his terror rendered inarticulate: still the momentary pause gave me time for recollection, and disdaining to assault an unarmed man, I threw him one of my pistols, and bade him defend himself: again in faltering tones he murmured some assurances that he merely came to see Lady St. Aubyn's favourite servant, a Spanish girl named Theresa; but this hacknied excuse was too shallow to obtain a moment's credit, and I still pressed him to an instant decision of this affair. He now, somewhat more firmly, requested me to recollect, that if we fought, and he fell, what would be the appearance of a man found in my grounds murdered, as it would seem; and on the other hand he appealed to my generosity, what would be his situation should I be killed, and above all, what a slur would be cast on the reputation of Lady St. Aubyn by such a business. Calmed by these representations, which certainly had some justice in them, I finally consented to wait till the next evening: the time between, he told me, he should pass at a little Posada in the neighbourhood, where, he said, he had a friend waiting for him, who would come with him to a spot I mentioned near the mountains; and during the same space I said I would ride to Almana (the next small town), where a gentleman resided with whom I had some acquaintance, and on whom I would prevail to be my second in this affair: then bidding him retain the pistol, and bring it prepared, as I should do its fellow, to the place of meeting, I sternly told him, that should I see him again lurking beneath my walls, I would not wait the event of the next evening, but treat him as a midnight robber deserved to be treated. I then left him and returned to the house: a faint light yet gleamed from the windows of Rosolia's room, but the rope ladder was withdrawn, and the curtains closed, so that I concluded she had given up all expectation of seeing De Sylva again that night. I watched, however, till morning, but all was still, and I then threw myself on my bed to obtain one hour's repose; after which I rose, and spent some time in settling my affairs, and writing some letters, to be delivered in case I should fall in the duel with De Sylva.

"After this I went to Lady St. Aubyn's room: at the door I met Bayfield, who, pale, and with her eyes swollen with weeping, looked as if she had, like myself, watched all night.

"My good Bayfield,' said I, 'where is your Lady, and why do you look thus alarmed and haggard?'

"She answered me, but with some confusion, that her Lady was just dressed, and that she had been induced to watch in the chamber next Lady St. Aubyn's almost all night, having heard some noises which had induced her to rise at midnight, and go to her Lady's apartment, whom she found also much agitated, and therefore had remained there till morning. I made no doubt, and I afterwards found this conjecture was just, that my faithful old servant's suspicions having been excited, she had gone to her room, and by interrupting her, had caused the sudden dismissal of De Sylva, and had since passed the night in bewailing Rosolia's evil propensities. Without staying for any explanation, however, I left her, and passed into the Countess's apartment: she started at the sight of me, for of late we had seldom met but at meals, and her guilty conscience taught her to consider my visit as extraordinary. I told her sternly to be seated and hear me, and I then related to her the events of the preceding night: at first she trembled and turned pale, but soon recovering her effrontery, she attempted, as usual, to make a jest of what she affected to term my ridiculous jealousy.

"Mark me, Rosolia!" cried I rising, and eagerly grasping her arm, for, with affected scorn, she attempted to rush past me. 'Mark me! I am no longer thus to be deceived. This evening, this evening shall revenge my too long endured injuries—the wretch who has so deeply wronged me, this arm shall punish.'

"At that moment, while my angry looks were fixed upon her countenance, where rage and disdain contended with shame and fear, Edmund entered the room, and must, I knew, have heard the threats I uttered: he started and looked amazed, for frequent as were our altercations, they had never before risen to a height so alarming.

"I left them together, and taking my horse, rode to Almana, where, most unfortunately, I did not find my friend at home; and after waiting his return till I feared I should not arrive at my villa in time enough to keep my appointment, I left the place alone, and merely going into the house to take my pistol, I hastened to the appointed spot. There I waited, vainly waited, for nearly two hours: no De Sylva arrived; and concluding that he then meant not to keep his appointment, and some vague fears pressing on my mind that possibly Rosolia might be the partner of his flight, I hurried back to the villa. It was almost dark when I arrived, and just as I entered the hall, heated, disordered, not having changed my dress since the night before, and in the confusion of my thoughts not even concealing the pistol I had carried in my hand, I met Edmund, who eagerly asked me where his sister was.

"I know not,' said I; but a thousand suspicions darted into my bosom, and gave to my countenance and manner an agitation which must have appeared to him extraordinary. 'Is she not in her own apartment? I have been out all day and have not seen her since I left her with you this morning.'

"Nor I,' said Edmund, 'since half an hour before I saw you return on horseback; she then complained of a violent head-ache, and said she would try if the evening air would remove it: I offered to walk with her, but she said she would rather be alone, for she had enough to occupy her thoughts: she kissed me too,' added Edmund, 'and bade me farewell, sighing bitterly, and saying her heart was heavy and full of terror: why then,' said I, 'will you go alone, sister? why not let me walk with you? I really think there is danger in being out late so near the mountains.' She forced a smile, and replied, she feared nothing from the mountains: all her misery and terrors arose at home.'

"Ungrateful Rosolia,' I replied, as Edmund told me this; to which he answered:—

"Ah, my Lord, it grieves me to see you both so unhappy; I hope my grandfather's return will soon restore in some degree your domestic comfort; he will persuade Rosolia to be more accommodating to your wishes.'

"I sighed, and asked him which way his sister had gone.

"Through the cork grove,' he replied, 'and towards the Hermitage, which is I know her favourite retreat.'

"'Surely,' said I, 'she would not remain in that lonely place till this late hour; yet, so strange for sometime has been her conduct, I know not what to suppose: call the servants, my dear Edmund, to bring lights, for in that gloomy retreat it will be quite dark, and let us go in search of her.'

"We set out accordingly, attended by two men servants and my good Bayfield, who, fearing, as she said, her Lady might be ill, insisted on accompanying us. The place to which we directed our steps was a quarter of a mile from the villa, and, as I had said, by the time we had reached it the darkness of night had come on.

"This gloomy cell stood at the foot of a rock deep embowered in thick groves: a mountain stream fell from a considerable height near it, and the dash of its waters alone broke the silence of this secluded retreat, which was called the Hermitage, from the peculiar style in which it was fitted up. For some time before we reached it we made the surrounding thickets resound with Rosolia's name: but all was silent, save the murmuring breeze and the dashing of the waterfall. I concluded that my wife was gone off with the infamous De Sylva, and my whole frame shook with rage and agitation.

"Why do you tremble so, my Lord?' said the affrighted Edmund, who hung upon my arm: 'do you think any harm has happened to my sister?'

"I know not,' I replied, 'but I fear it, greatly fear it!'

"Just then we entered the gloomy Hermitage: all was dark and still; the echo of our steps alone broke the awful silence. The men who accompanied us lifted their torches to throw a fuller light into the cell; and—ah! my Ellen, I dread to shock your tender nature by describing the horrid scene which met our view.—Imagine our sensations when we saw the unfortunate Rosolia extended on the earth! her white garments dyed in blood! in that blood which some hand, either accidentally or by design, had shed! for on raising the body, by this time stiff and cold, a wound was discovered in the back of her head, which was evidently the effect of a pistol-ball, and had caused her death. You tremble and turn pale, my love: it grieves me to distress you, but think what was my distress, when Edmund, who, in frantic despair, had thrown himself by his murdered sister, found the fatal weapon which had done this deed of horror, and I saw at once it was the fellow pistol to that I had in my hand when he met me in the hall, remarkable for its peculiar construction and workmanship; the very one, in short, which I had given to De Sylva. Never, never shall I forget the glance of his dark eyes at that moment: I saw the direful suspicions he, at that instant, conceived, and which were still more fatally confirmed by what immediately followed.

"My poor Bayfield, full of grief and horror, was arranging, with all the care circumstances would admit, the removal of the body to the house, when seeing something glitter amidst the horrible darkness which surrounded us, and our fading torches scarcely broke, she stooped and picked up my ring, that well-known ring, which I indeed had lost, but had not said so; and which she, from some impulsive feeling, perhaps fearing the sight of it in that place might implicate me in the late sad event, attempted to conceal in her bosom.

"What is that?" exclaimed the half-frantic Edmund, darting towards her and seizing her hand. 'Your ring, my Lord, your ring! at this time—in this place. The pistol too—those dreadful threatenings of revenge.—Ah God! Ah God!—what horrible conviction flashes on me.—Rosolia! poor dear sister!—Ah, basely, basely murdered!' and he fell senseless on the ground.

"The domestics who attended us were Spaniards, and did not understand a word he said: but Bayfield stood the image of dismay.

"Ah, my Lord,' said she, 'fly, if indeed your hand by accident has done this deed, for think what will become of you amidst the bigotted Catholics, who will seek to revenge it.'

"Fly!' I repeated, 'my good old friend! Can you believe me guilty?'

"Oh no, my dear Lord,' she replied, never, never! but think what these unfortunate appearances will say against you to those who know you less than I do.'

"Whatever they say, I will brave,' I exclaimed: 'nor care I much after this dreadful moment what becomes of me; but never will I, by an ignominious flight, tacitly avow myself guilty, when I know and surely cannot fail to prove my innocence.'

"In a few minutes one of the men, who, on Edmund's falling into the deathlike trance from which we yet vainly sought to recover him, had fled towards the house for more assistance, returned with almost all the domestics, who eagerly crowded to satisfy their curiosity, and whose astonishment and impatient questions may be easily conceived. Between them they conveyed into the house their murdered mistress, and the still insensible Edmund, whose spirit we at one time imagined had really followed hers. To paint the confusion which ensued would be impossible: one express was instantly sent off to the Duke de Castel Nuovo, and several men I sent into the mountains and round the neighbourhood to seek for De Sylva, by whose hand I doubted not the fatal wound, either by accident or design, had been given. I described his person and appearance, saying that such a man had been seen lurking about the house the night before.

"Some of the servants having remarked the capricious character, and, of late, the melancholy manners of Rosolia, suggested an idea that she had destroyed herself; but the situation of the wound prevented such a possibility. Forgive me, my love, these shocking details: they are indeed unsuited to the tenderness of your nature; but without a very accurate account of this unfortunate event, it would be impossible for you to judge what evidences there were of my apparent guilt, or real innocence.

"Edmund slowly recovered from his deep swoon, but his reason for a time was flown, and all the skill of the medical people about us failed for weeks to recover it. Yet still he knew me—still with an expression of the most vindictive hatred his eyes pursued me. His words frequently pointed out the nature of his suspicions; but he raved so constantly, that they remained unnoticed, save by me and Bayfield: too fatally, alas! we understood them. To her I fully explained all that had passed, and she told me she had no hesitation in believing that De Sylva was the author of this direful tragedy. To find that villain appeared impossible: my servants returned, after a week's search in every direction, without having discovered the slightest trace of him. Indeed, to track a fugitive in that wild romantic country is extremely difficult: immense woods, deep caves, and the recesses of vast ruins, might easily shelter such a one from pursuit.

"To the servants I held out an idea that some banditti from the mountains had found their Lady in her lonely walk, as indeed they all knew I often had feared would be the case, and had murdered her for the sake of the money and jewels she had about her; and in truth many of them had seen her go out with some rich ornaments, which she generally wore, and which certainly were removed from the body.

"On searching the Hermitage the next morning, a parcel was found, containing a complete Spanish habit for a boy, and a letter—at least a part of one, for part was torn away, and the remainder contained only these words: