A lovely summer's evening, in the year 168-, was drawing
towards its close, when many a gay and brilliant cavalcade of
both sexes, many of the huge gilded coaches of that day, and
many a train of liveried attendants, winding through the green
lane as they arrived, some in this direction from Eton, some
in that, across Datchet-mead from Windsor and its royal
castle, came thronging towards Ditton-in-the-Dale.

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Lights were beginning to twinkle as the shadows fell thick
among the arcades of the trim gardens, and the wilder forestwalks
which extended their circuitous course for many a mile
along the stately hall of the Fitz-Henries; loud bursts of
festive or of martial music came pealing down the wind, mixed
with the hum of a gay and happy concourse, causing the
nightingales to hold their peace, not in despair of rivalling the
melody, but that the mirth jarred unpleasantly on the souls of
the melancholy birds.

The gates of Ditton-in-the-Dale were flung wide open, for it
was gala night, and never had the old hall put on a gayer or
more sumptuous show than it had donned that evening.

From far and near the gentry and the nobles of Buckingham
and Berkshire had gathered to the birth-day ball—for such
was the occasion of the festive meeting.

Yes! it was Blanche Fitz-Henry's birth-day; and on this
gay and glad anniversary was the fair heiress of that noble
house to be introduced to the great world as the future owner
of those beautiful demesnes.

From the roof to the foundation the old manor-house—it
was a stately red brick mansion of the latter period of Elizabethan
architecture, with mullioned windows and stacks of
curiously wreathed chimneys—was one blaze of light; and as
group after group of gay and high-born riders came caracoling
up to the hospitable porch, and coach after coach, with its
running footmen or mounted outriders, lumbered slowly in
their train, thes aloons and corridors began to fill up rapidly
with a joyous and splendid company.

The entrance-hall, a vast square apartment, wainscoted with
old English oak, brighter and richer in its dark hues than
mahogany, received the entering guests; and what with the
profusion of wax-lights, pendent in gorgeous chandeliers from

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the carved roof, or fixed in silver sconces to the walls, the gay
festoons of green wreaths and fresh summer flowers mixed
quaintly with old armor, blazoned shields, and rustling banners,
some of which had waved over the thirsty plains of Syria,
and been fanned by the shouts of triumph that pealed so high
at Cressy and Poitiers, it presented a not unapt picture of that
midway period—that halting-place, as it were, between the
old world and the new—when chivalry and feudalism had
ceased already to exist among the nations, but before the rudeness
of reform had banished the last remnants of courtesy, and
the reverence for all things that were high and noble—for all
things that were fair and graceful—for all things, in one word,
except the golden calf, the mob-worshipped mammon.

Within this stately hall was drawn up in glittering array
the splendid band of the Life Guards, for royalty himself was
present, and all the officers of that superb regiment quartered
at Windsor had followed in his train; and as an ordinary
courtesy to their well-proved and loyal host, the services of
those chosen musicians had been tendered and accepted.

Through many a dazzling corridor, glittering with lights,
and redolent of choicest perfumes, through many a fair saloon
the guests were marshalled to the great drawing-room, where,
beneath a canopy of state, the ill-advised and imbecile monarch,
soon to be deserted by the very princes and princesses
who now clustered round his throne, sat, with his host and his
lovely daughters at his right hand, accepting the homage of
the fickle crowd, who were within a little year to bow obsequiously
to the cold-blooded Hollander.

That was a day of singular, and what would now be termed
hideous costumes—a day of hair-powder and patches, of hoops
and trains, of stiff brocades and tight-laced stomachers, and
high-heeled shoes among the ladies—of flowing periwigs and

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coats with huge cuffs and no collars, and voluminous skirts,
of diamond-hilted rapiers and diamond buckles, ruffles of
Valenciennes and Mechlin lace, among the ruder sex. And
though the individual might be metamorphosed strangely from
the fair form which nature gave him, it cannot be denied that
the concourse of highly-bred and graceful persons, when viewed
as a whole, was infinitely more picturesque, infinitely more like
what the fancy paints a meeting of the great and noble, than
any assemblage nowadays, however courtly or refined, in
which the stiff dress coats and white neckcloths of the men
are not to be redeemed by the Parisian finery—how much
more natural, let critics tell, than the hoop and train—of the
fair portion of the company.

The rich materials, the gay colors, the glittering jewelry,
and waving plumes, all contributed their part to the splendor
of the show; and in those days a gentleman possessed at least
this advantage, lost to him in these practical utilitarian times,
that he could not by any possibility be mistaken for his own
valet de chambre—a misfortune which has befallen many a one,
the most aristocratic not excepted, of modern nobility.

A truly graceful person will be graceful, and look well in
every garb, however strange or outrè; and there is, moreover,
undoubtedly something, apart from any paltry love of finery
or mere vanity of person, which elevates the thoughts, and
stamps a statelier demeanor on the man who is clad highly
for some high occasion. The custom, too, of wearing arms,
peculiar to the gentlemen of that day, had its effect, and that
not a slight one, as well on the character as on the bearing of
the individual sodistinguished.

As for the ladies, loveliness will still be loveliness, disguise
it as you may; and if the beauties of King James's court lost
much by the travesty of their natural ringlets, they gained,

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perhaps, yet more from the increased lustre of their complexions
and brilliancy of their eyes.

So that it is far from being the case, as is commonly supposed,
that it was owing to fashion alone, and the influence of
all powerful custom, that the costume of that day was not
tolerated only, but admired by its wearers.

At this time, however, the use of hair-powder, though general,
was by no means universal; and many beauties who fancied
that it did not suit their complexions, dispensed with it
altogether, or wore it in some modified shape, and tinged with
some coloring matter, which assimilated it more closely to the
natural tints of the hair.

At all events, it must have been a dull eye, and a cold heart,
that could have looked undelighted on the assemblage that
night gathered in the ball-room of Ditton-in-the-Dale.

But now the reception was finished; the royal party moved
into the ball-room, from which they shortly afterwards retired,
leaving the company at liberty from the restraint which their
presence had imposed upon them. The concourse broke up
into little groups; the stately minuet was performed, and
livelier dances followed it; and gentlemen sighed tender sighs,
and looked unutterable things; and ladies listened to soft nonsense,
and smiled gentle approbation; and melting glances
were exchanged, and warm hands were pressed warmly; and
fans were flirted angrily, and flippant jokes were interchanged—
for human nature, whether in the seventeenth or the nineteenth
century, whether arrayed in brocade or simply dressed
in broadcloth, is human nature still; and, perhaps, not one
feeling or one passion that actuated man's or woman's heart
five hundred years ago, but dwells within it now, and shall
dwell unchanged for ever.

It needs not to say that, on such an occasion, in their own

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father's mansion, and at the celebration of one sister's birth-day,
Blanche and Agnes, had their attractions been much
smaller, their pretensions much more lowly than they really
were, would have received boundless attention. But being, as
they were, infinitely the finest girls in the room, and being,
moreover, new debutantes on the stage of fashion, there was no
limit to the admiration, to the furor which they excited among
the wits and lady-killers of the day.

Many an antiquated Miss, proud of past conquests, and
unable yet to believe that her career of triumph was, indeed,
ended, would turn up an envious nose, and utter a sharp sneer
at the forwardness and hoyden mirth of that pert Mistress
Agnes, or at the coldness and inanimate smile of the fair
heiress; but the sneer, even were it a sneer of a duke's or a
minister's daughter, fell harmless, or yet worse, drew forth a
prompt defence of the unjustly assailed beauty.

No greater proof could be adduced, indeed, of the amazing
success of the sister beauties, than the unanimous decision of
every lady in the room numbering less than forty years, that
they were by no means uncommon; were pretty country hoppets,
who, as soon as the novelty of their first appearance should
have worn out, would cease to be admired, and sink back into
their proper sphere of insignificance.

So thought not the gentle cavaliers; and there were many
present there well qualified to judge of ladies' minds as of
ladies' persons; and not a few were heard to swear aloud that
the Fitz-Henries were as far above the rest of their sex in wit
and graceful accomplishments, as in beauty of form and face,
and elegance of motion.

See! they are dancing some gay, newly invented Spanish
dance, each whirling through the voluptuous mazes of the
courtly measure with her own characteristic air and manner,

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each evidently pleased with her partner, each evidently charming
him in turn; and the two together enchaining all eyes
and interesting all spectators, so that a gentle hum of approbation
is heard running through the crowd as they pause,
blushing and panting, from the exertion and excitement of the
dance.

“Fore Gad! she is exquisite, George! I have seen nothing
like her in my time,” lisped a superb coxcomb, attired in a
splendid civilian's suit of pompadour and silver, to a young
cornet of the Life Guard who stood beside him.

“Which she, my lord?” inquired the standard-bearer, in
reply. “Methinks they both deserve your encomiums; but I
would fain know which of the two your lordship means, for
fame speaks you a dangerous rival against whom to enter the
lists.”

“What, George!” cried the other gaily, “are you about to
have a throw for the heiress? Pshaw! it won't do, man—
never think of it! Why, though you are an earl's second son,
and date your creation from the days of Hump-backed Dickon,
old Allan would vote you a novus homo, as we used to say at
Christ Church. Pshaw! George, go hang yourself! No one
has a chance of winning that fair loveliness, much less of
wearing her, unless he can quarter Sir Japhet's bearings on
his coat armorial.”

“It is the heiress, then, my lord,” answered George Delawarr,
merrily. “I thought as much from the first. Well, I'll relieve
your lordship, as you have relieved me, from all fear of rivalry.
I am devoted to the dark beauty. Egad! there's life, there's
fire for you! Why, I should have thought the flash of that
eye-glance would have rendered Jack Greville to cinders in a
moment, yet there he stands, as calm and impassive a puppy as
ever dangled a plumed hat, or played with a sword-knot. Your

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fair beauty's cold, my lord. Give me that Italian complexion,
and that coal-black hair! Gad zooks! I honor the girl's spirit
for not disguising it with starch and pomatum. There's more
passion in her little finger, than in the whole soul of the
other.”

“You're out there, George Delawarr,” returned the peer.
“Trust me, it is not always the quickest flame that burns the
strongest; nor the liveliest girl that feels the most deeply.
There's an old saying, and a true one, that still water aye runs
deep. And, trust me, if I know anything of the dear, delicious,
devilish sex, as methinks I am not altogether a novice at the
trade, if ever Blanche Fitz-Henry love at all, she will love with
her whole soul, and heart, and spirit. That gay, laughing brunette
will love you with her tongue, her eyes, her head, and
perhaps her fancy—the other, if, as I say, she ever love at all,
will love with her whole being.”

“The broad acres! my lord! all the broad acres!” replied
the cornet, laughing more merrily than before. “Fore God! I
think it the very thing for you. For the first Lord St. George
was, I believe, in the ark with Noah, so that you will pass current
with the first gentleman of England. I prithee, my lord,
push your suit, and help me on a little with my dark Dulcinea.”

“Faith! George, I've no objection; and see, this dance is
over. Let us go up and ask their fair hands. You'll have no
trouble in ousting that shallow-pated puppy Jack, and I think
I can put the pass on Mr. privy-counsellor there, although he is
simpering so prettily. But, hold a moment, have you been
duly and in form presented to your black-eyed beauty!”

“Upon my soul! I hope so, my lord. It were very wrong
else; for I have danced with her three times to-night already.”

“The devil! Well, come along, quick. I see that they are
going to announce supper, so soon as this next dance shall be

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ended; and if we can engage them now, we shall have their
fair company for an hour at least.”

“I am with you, my lord!”

And away they sauntered through the crowd, and ere long
were coupled for a little space each to the lady of his choice.

The dance was soon over, and then, as Lord St. George had
surmised, supper was announced, and the cavaliers led their
ladies to the sumptuous board, and there attended them with all
that courtly and respectful service, which, like many another
good thing, has passed away and been forgotten with the diamond-hilted
sword and the full bottomed periwig.

George Delawarr was full as ever of gay quips and merry
repartees; his wit was as sparkling as the champagne which in
some degree inspired it, and as innocent. There was no touch
of bitterness or satire in his polished and gentle humor; no envy
or dislike pointed his quick, epigrammatic speech; but all was
clear, light, and transparent, as the sunny air at noonday. Nor
was his conversation altogether light and mirthful. There were
at times bursts of high enthusiasm, at which he would himself
laugh heartily a moment afterwards—there were touches of passing
romance and poetry blending in an under-current with his
fluent mirth; and, above all, there was an evident strain of right
feeling, of appreciation of all that was great, and generous, and
good, predominant above romance and wit, perceptible in every
word he uttered.

And Agnes listened, and laughed, and flung back skilfully
and cleverly the ball of conversation, as he tossed it to her.
She was pleased, it was evident, and amused. But she was
pleased only as with a clever actor, a brilliant performer on
some new instrument now heard for the first time. The gay,
wild humor of the young man hit her fancy; his mad wit struck
a kindred chord in her mind; but the latent poetry and romance

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passed unheeded, and the noblest point of all, the good and
gracious feelings, made no impression on the polished but hard
surface of the bright maiden's heart.

Meantime, how fared the peer with the calmer and gentler
sister? Less brilliant than George Delawarr, he had travelled
much, had seen more of men and things, had a more cultivated
mind, was more of a scholar, and no less of a gentleman, scarce
less perhaps of a soldier; for he had served a campaign or two
in his early youth in the Low Countries.

He was a noble and honorable man, clever, and eloquent, and
well esteemed—a little, perhaps, spoiled by that good esteem, a
little too confident of himself, too conscious of his own good
mien and good parts, and a little hardened, if very much
polished, by continual contact with the world.

He was, however, an easy and agreeable talker, accustomed to
the society of ladies, in which he was held to shine, and fond of
shining. He exerted himself also that night, partly because he
was really struck with Blanche's grace and beauty, partly because
Delawarr's liveliness and wit excited him to a sort of playful
rivalry.

Still, he was not successful; for though Blanche listened graciously,
and smiled in the right places, and spoke in answer
pleasantly and well, when she did speak, and evidently wished
to appear and to be amused; her mind was at times absent and
distracted, and it could not long escape the observation of so
thorough a man of the world as Lord St. George, that he had
not made that impression on the young country damsel which
he was wont to make, with one half the effort, on what might
be supposed more difficult ladies.

But though he saw this plainly, he was too much of a gentleman
to be either piqued or annoyed; and if anything he
exerted himself the more to please, when he believed exertion

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useless; and by degrees his gentle partner laid aside her abstraction,
and entered into the spirit of the hour with something
of her sister's mirth, though with a quieter and more chastened
tone.

It was a pleasant party, and a merry evening; but like all
other things, merry or sad, it had its end, and passed away, and
by many was forgotten; but there were two persons present
there who never while they lived forgot that evening—for there
were other two, to whom it was indeed the commencement of
the end.

But the hour for parting had arrived, and with the ceremonious
greetings of those days, deep bows and stately courtesies,
and kissing of fair hands, and humble requests to be permitted
to pay their duty on the following day, the cavaliers and ladies
parted.

When the two gallants stood together in the great hall,
George Delawarr turned suddenly to the peer—

“Where the deuce are you going to sleep to-night, St. George?
You came down hither all the way from London, did you not?
You surely do not mean to return to-night.”

“I surely do not wish it, you mean, George. No, truly. But
I do mean it. For my fellows tell me that there is not a bed to
be had for love, which does not at all surprise me, or for money,
which I confess does somewhat, in Eton, Slough, or Windsor.
And if I must go back to Brentford or to Hounslow, as well at
once to London.”

“Come with me! Come with me, St. George. I can give
you quarters in the barracks, and a good breakfast, and a game
of tennis if you will; and afterward, if you like, we'll ride over
and see how these bright-eyed beauties look by daylight, after
all this night-work.”

“A good offer, George, and I'll take it as it is offered.”

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“How are you here? In a great lumbering coach I suppose.
Well, look you, I have got two horses here; you shall take
mine, and I'll ride on my fellow's, who shall go with your people
and pilot them on the road, else they'll be getting that great
gilded Noah's ark into Datchet-ditch. Have you got any tools?
Ay! ay! I see you travel well equipped, if you do ride in your
coach. Now your riding-cloak, the nights are damp here, by
the river-side, even in summer; oh! never mind your pistols,
you'll find a brace in my holsters, genuine Kuchenrenters. I
can hit a crown piece with them, for a hundred guineas, at fifty
paces.”

“Heaven send that you never shoot at me with them, if that's
the case, George.”

“Heaven send that I never shoot at any one, my lord, unless
it be an enemy of my king and country, and in open warfare;
for so certainly as I do shoot I shall kill.”

“I do not doubt you, George. But let's be off. The lights
are burning low in the sockets, and these good fellows are evidently
tired out with their share of our festivity. Fore God! I
believe we are the last of the guests.”

And with the word, the young men mounted joyously, and
galloped away at the top of their horses' speed to the quarters
of the life-guards in Windsor.

Half an hour after their departure, the two sisters sat above
stairs in a pleasant chamber, disrobing themselves, with the
assistance of their maidens, of the cumbrous and stiff costumes
of the ball-room, and jesting merrily over the events of the
evening.

“Well, Blanche,” said Agnes, archly, “confess, siss, who is
the lord paramount, the beau par excellence, of the ball? I
know, you demure puss! After all, it is ever the quiet cat that
licks the cream. But to think that on your very first night

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you should have made such a conquest. So difficult, too,
to please, they say, and all the great court ladies dying for
him.”

“Hush! madcap. I don't know who you mean. At all
events, I have not danced four dances in one evening with one
cavalier. Ah! have I caught you, pretty mistress?”

“Oh! that was only poor George Delawarr. A paltry cornet
in the guards. He will do well enough to have dangling after
one, to play with, while he amuses one—but fancy, being proud
of conquering poor George! His namesake with the Saint
before it were worth a score of such.”

“Fie, sister!” said Blanche, gravely. “I do not love to hear
you talk so. I am sure he's a very pretty gentleman, and has
twice as much head as my lord, if I'm not mistaken; and three
times as much heart.”

“Heart, indeed, siss! Much you know about hearts, I fancy.
But, now that you speak of it, I will try if he has got a heart.
If he has, he will do well to pique some more eligible—”

“Oh! Agnes, Agnes! I cannot hear you—”

“Pshaw!” interrupted the younger sister, very bitterly, “this
affectation of sentiment and disinterestedness sits very prettily
on the heiress of Ditton-in-the-Dale, Long Netherby, and Waltham
Ferrers, three manors, and ten thousand pounds a year to
buy a bridegroom! Poor I, with my face for my fortune, must
needs make my wit eke out my want of dowry. And I'm not
one, I promise you, siss, to choose love in a cottage. No, no!
Give me your Lord St. George, and I'll make over all my right
and title to poor George Delawarr this minute. Heigho! I
believe the fellow is smitten with me after all. Well, well! I'll
have some fun with him before I have done yet.”

“Again,” said Blanche, gravely, but reproachfully, “I have
long seen that you are light, and careless whom you wound

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with your wild words, but I never thought before that you were
bad-hearted.”

“Bad-hearted, sister!”

“Yes! bad-hearted! To speak to me of manors, or of
money, as if for fifty wills, or five hundred fathers, I would ever
profit by a parent's whim to rob my sister of her portion. As
if I would not rather lie in the cold grave, than that my sister
should have a wish ungratified, which I had power to gratify,
much less that she should narrow down the standard of her
choice—the holiest and most sacred thing on earth—to the
miserable scale of wealth and title. Out upon it! Never, while
you live, speak so to me again!”

“Sister, I never will. I did not mean it, sister, dear,” cried
Agnes, now much affected, as she saw how vehemently Blanche
was moved. “You should not heed me. You know my wild,
rash way, and how I speak whatever words come first.”

“Those were very meaning words, Agnes—and very bitter,
too. They cut me to the heart,” cried the fair girl, bursting
into a flood of passionate tears.

“Oh! do not—do not, Blanche. Forgive me, dearest! Indeed,
indeed, I meant nothing!”

“Forgive you, Agnes! I have nothing to forgive. I was not
even angry, but pained, but sorry for you, sister; for sure I am,
that if you give way to this bitter, jealous spirit, you will work
much anguish to yourself, and to all those who love you.”

“Jealous, Blanche!”

“Yes, Agnes, jealous! But let us say no more. Let this
pass, and be forgotten; but never, dear girl, if you love me, as
I think you do, never so speak to me again.”

“I never, never will.” And she fell upon her neck, and
kissed her fondly, as her heart relented, and she felt something
of sincere repentance for the harsh words which she

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had spoken, and the hard, bitter feelings which suggested
them.

Another hour, and, clasped in each other's arms, they were
sleeping as sweetly as though no breath of this world's bitterness
had ever blown upon their hearts, or stirred them into
momentary strife.

Peace to their slumbers, and sweet dreams!

It was, perhaps, an hour or two after noon, and the early
dinner of the time was already over, when the two sisters
strolled out into the gardens, unaccompanied, except by a tall
old greyhound, Blanche's peculiar friend and guardian, and
some two or three beautiful silky-haired King Charles spaniels.

After loitering for a little while among the trim parterres
and box-edged terraces, and gathering a few sweet summer
flowers, they turned to avoid the heat, which was excessive,
into the dark elm avenue, and wandered along between the tall
black yew hedges, linked arm-in-arm, indeed, but both silent
and abstracted, and neither of them conscious of the rich melancholy
music of the nightingale, which was ringing all around
them in that pleasant solitude.

Both, indeed, were buried in deep thought; and each,
perhaps, for the first time in her life, felt that her thought was
such that she could not, dared not, communicate it to her
sister.

For Blanche Fitz-Henry had, on the previous night, begun,
for the first time in her life, to suspect that she was the owner,
for the time being, of a commodity called a heart, although it
may be that the very suspicion proved in some degree that the
possession was about to pass, if it were not already passing,
from her.

In sober seriousness, it must be confessed that the young
cornet of the Life Guards, although he had made so little

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impression on her to whom he had devoted his attentions, had
produced an effect different from anything which she had
ever felt before on the mind of the elder sister. It was not his
good mien, nor his noble air that had struck her; for though
he was a well-made, fine-looking man, of graceful manners and
high-born carriage, there were twenty men in the room with
whom he could not for five minutes have sustained a comparison
in point of personal appearance.

His friend, the Viscount St. George, to whom she had lent
but a cold ear, was a far handsomer man. Nor was it his wit
and gay humor, and easy flow of conversation, that had captivated
her fancy; although she certainly did think him the
most agreeable man she had ever listened to. No, it was the
under-current of delicate and poetical thought, the glimpses of
a high and noble spirit, which flashed out at times through the
light veil of reckless merriment, which, partly in compliance
with the spirit of the day, and partly because his was a gay
and mirthful nature, he had superinduced over the deeper and
grander points of his character. No; it was a certain originality
of mind, which assured her that, though he might talk
lightly, he was one to feel fervently and deeply—it was the
impress of truth, and candor, and high independence, which
was stamped on his every word and action, that first riveted
her attention, and, in spite of her resistance, half fascinated her
imagination.

This it was that had held her abstracted and apparently indifferent,
while Lord St. George was exerting all his powers of
entertainment in her behalf; this it was that had roused her
indignation at hearing her sister speak so slightingly, and, as
it seemed to her, so ungenerously of one whom she felt intuitively
to be good and noble.

This it was which now held her mute and thoughtful, and

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almost sad; for she felt conscious that she was on the verge of
loving—loving one who, for aught that he had shown as yet,
cared not for her, perhaps even preferred another—and that
other her own sister.

Thereupon her maiden modesty rallied tumultuous to the
rescue, and suggested the shame of giving love unasked, giving
it, perchance, to be scorned—and almost she resolved to stifle
the infant feeling in its birth, and rise superior to the weakness.
But when was ever love vanquished by cold argument, or
bound at the chariot-wheels of reason?

The thought would still rise up prominent, turn her mind to
whatever subject she would, coupled with something of pity at
the treatment which he was like to meet from Agnes, something
of vague, unconfessed pleasure that it was so, and something of
secret hope that his eyes would ere long be opened, and that she
might prove, in the end, herself his consoler.

And what, meanwhile, were the dreams of Agnes? Bitter—
bitter, and black, and hateful. Oh! it is a terrible consideration,
how swiftly evil thoughts, once admitted to the heart,
take root and flourish, and grow up into a rank and poisonous
crop, choking the good grain utterly, and corrupting the very
soil of which they have taken hold. There is but one hope—
but one! To tear them from the root forcibly, though the
heart-strings crack, and the soul trembles, as with a spiritual
earthquake. To nerve the mind firmly and resolutely, yet
humbly withal, and contritely, and with prayer against temptation,
prayer for support from on high—to resist the Evil One
with the whole force of the intellect, the whole truth of the
heart, and to stop the ears steadfastly against the voice of the
charmer, charm he never so wisely.

But so did not Agnes Fitz-Henry. It is true that on the
preceding night her better feelings had been touched, her

[figure description] Page 424.[end figure description]

heart had relented, and she had banished, as she thought, the
evil counsellors, ambition, envy, jealousy, and distrust, from her
spirit.

But with the night the better influence passed away, and ere
the morning had well come, the evil spirit had returned to his
dwelling-place, and brought with him other spirits, worse and
more wicked than himself.

The festive scene of the previous evening had, for the first
time, opened her eyes fairly to her own position; she read it in
the demeanor of all present; she heard it in the whispers which
unintentionally reached her ears; she felt it intuitively in the
shade—it was scarcely a shade, yet she observed it—of difference
perceptible in the degree of deference and courtesy paid to herself
and to her sister.

She felt, for the first time, that Blanche was everything, herself
a mere cipher—that Blanche was the lady of the manor,
the cynosure of all eyes, the queen of all hearts; herself but the
lady's poor relation, the dependent on her bounty, and at the
best a creature to be played with, and petted for her beauty
and her wit, without regard to her feelings, or sympathy for
her heart.

And prepared as she was at all times to resist even just authority
with insolent rebellion; ready as she was always to
assume the defensive, and from that the offensive against all
whom she fancied offenders, how angrily did her heart now boil
up, how almost fiercely did she muster her faculties to resist, to
attack, to conquer, to annihilate all whom she deemed her
enemies—and that, for the moment, was the world.

Conscious of her own beauty, of her own wit, of her own
high and powerful intellect, perhaps over-confident in her resources,
she determined on that instant that she would devote
them all, all to one purpose, to which she would bend every

[figure description] Page 425.[end figure description]

energy, direct every thought of her mind—to her own aggrandizement,
by means of some great and splendid marriage,
which should set her as far above the heiress of Ditton-in-the-Dale,
as the rich heiress now stood in the world's eye above
the portionless and dependent sister.

Nor was this all—there was a sterner, harder, and more
wicked feeling yet, springing up in her heart, and whispering
the sweetness of revenge—revenge on that amiable and gentle
sister, who, so far from wronging her, had loved her ever with
the tenderest and most affectionate love, who would have sacrificed
her dearest wishes to her welfare—but whom, in the hardness
of her embittered spirit, she could now see only as an
intruder upon her own just rights, a rival on the stage of
fashion, perhaps in the interests of the heart—whom she already
envied, suspected, almost hated.

And Blanche, at that self-same moment, had resolved to keep
watch on her own heart narrowly, and to observe her sister's
bearing towards George Delawarr, that in case she should perceive
her favoring his suit, she might at once crush down the
germ of rising passion, and sacrifice her own to her dear sister's
happiness.

Alas! Blanche! Alas! Agnes!

Thus they strolled onward, silently and slowly, until they
reached the little green before the summer-house, which was
then the gayest and most lightsome place that can be imagined,
with its rare paintings glowing in their undimmed hues, its
gilding bright and burnished, its furniture all sumptuous and
new, and instead of the dark funereal ivy, covered with woodbine
and rich clustered roses. The windows were all thrown
wide open to the perfumed summer air, and the warm light
poured in through the gaps in the tree-tops, and above the summits
of the then carefully trimmed hedgerows, blithe and golden.

[figure description] Page 426.[end figure description]

They entered and sat down, still pensive and abstracted; but
ere long the pleasant and happy influences of the time and place
appeared to operate in some degree on the feelings of both,
but especially on the tranquil and well-ordered mind of the
elder sister. She raised her head suddenly, and was about to
speak, when the rapid sound of horses' feet, unheard on the soft
sand until they were hard by, turned her attention to the window,
and the next moment the two young cavaliers, who were
even then uppermost in her mind, came into view, cantering
along slowly on their well-managed chargers.

Her eye was not quicker than those of the gallant riders,
who, seeing the ladies, whom they had ridden over to visit,
sitting by the windows of the summer-house, checked their
horses on the instant, and doffed their plumed hats.

“Good faith, fair ladies, we are in fortune's graces to-day,”
said the young peer, gracefully, “since having ridden thus far
on our way to pay you our humble devoirs, we meet you thus
short of our journey's end.”

“But how are we to win our way to you,” cried Delawarr,
“as you sit there bright chatelaines of your enchanted bower—
for I see neither fairy skiff, piloted by grim-visaged dwarfs, to
waft us over, nor even a stray dragon, by aid of whose broad
wings to fly across this mimic moat, which seems to be something
of the deepest?”

“Oh! gallop on, gay knights,” said Agnes, smiling on Lord
St. George, but averting her face somewhat from the cornet,
“gallop on to the lodges, and leaving there your coursers, take
the first path on the left hand, and that will lead you to our
presence; and should you peradventure get entangled in the
hornbeam maze, why, one of us two will bring you the clue,
like a second Ariadne. Ride on and we will meet you. Come,
sister, let us walk.”

[figure description] Page 427.[end figure description]

Blanche had as yet scarcely found words to reply to the greeting
of the gallants, for the coincidence of their arrival with her
own thoughts had embarrassed her a little, and she had blushed
crimson as she caught the eye of George Delawarr fixed on her
with a marked expression, beneath which her own dropped
timidly. But now she arose, and bowing with an easy smile,
and a few pleasant words, expressed her willingness to abide by
her sister's plan.

In a few minutes the ladies met their gallants in the green
labyrinth of which Agnes had spoken, and falling into pairs,
for the walk was too narrow to allow them all four to walk
abreast, they strolled in company toward the Hall.

What words they said I am not about to relate—for such
conversations, though infinitely pleasant to the parties, are for
the most part infinitely dull to third persons—but it so fell
out, not without something of forwardness and marked management,
which did not escape the young soldier's rapid eye,
on the part of Agnes, that the order of things which had been
on the previous evening was reversed; the gay, rattling girl
attaching herself perforce to the viscount, not without a sharp
and half-sarcastic jest at the expense of her former partner,
and the mild heiress falling to his charge.

George Delawarr had been smitten, it is true, the night
before by the gaiety and rapid intellect of Agnes, as well as
by the wild and peculiar style of her beauty; and it might
well have been that the temporary fascination might have
ripened into love. But he was hurt, and disgusted even more
than hurt by her manner, and observing her with a watchful
eye as she coquetted with his friend, he speedily came to the
conclusion that St. George was right in his estimate of her
character at least, although he now seemed to be flattered and
amused by her evident prepossession in his favor.

[figure description] Page 428.[end figure description]

He had not, it is true, been deeply enough touched to feel
either pique or melancholy at this discovery, but was so far
heart-whole as to be rather inclined to laugh at the fickleness
of the merry jilt than either to repine or to be angry.

He was by no means the man, however, to cast away the
occasion of pleasure; and walking with so beautiful and soft
a creature as Blanche, he naturally abandoned himself to the
tide of the hour, and in a little while found himself engaged
in a conversation which, if less sparkling and brilliant, was a
thousand times more charming than that which he had yesterday
held with her sister.

In a short time he had made the discovery that with regard
to the elder sister, too, his friend's penetration had exceeded
his own; and that beneath that calm and tranquil exterior
there lay a deep and powerful mind, stored with a treasury of
the richest gems of thought and feeling. He learned in that
long woodland walk that she was, indeed, a creature both to
adore and to be adored; and he, too, like St. George, was
certain that the happy man whom she should love would be
loved for himself alone, with the whole fervor, the whole truth,
the whole concentrated passion of a heart, the flow of which
once unloosed, would be but the stronger for the restraint
which had hitherto confined it.

Ere long, as they reached the wider avenue, the two parties
united, and then more than ever he perceived the immense
superiority in all loveable, all feminine points, of the elder to
the younger sister; for Agnes, though brilliant and seemingly
thoughtless and spirit-free as ever, let fall full many a bitter
word, many a covert taunt and hidden sneer, which, with his
eyes now opened as they were, he readily detected, and which
Blanche, as he could discover, even through her graceful
quietude, felt, and felt painfully.

[figure description] Page 429.[end figure description]

They reached the Hall at length, and were duly welcomed
by its master; refreshments were offered and accepted; and
the young men were invited to return often, and a day was
fixed on which they should partake the hospitalities of Ditton
at least as temporary residents.

The night was already closing in when they mounted their
horses and withdrew, both well pleased with their visit; for
the young lord was in pursuit of amusement only, and seeing
at a glance the coyness of the heiress and the somewhat forward
coquetry of her sister, he had accommodated himself to
circumstances, and determined that a passing flirtation with so
pretty a girl, and a short séjour at a house so well appointed
as Ditton, would be no unpleasant substitute for London in
the dog-days; and George Delawarr, like Romeo, had discarded
the imaginary love the moment he found the true
Juliet. If not in love he certainly was fascinated—charmed;
he certainly thought Blanche the sweetest and most lovely girl
he had ever met, and was well inclined to believe that she was
the best and most admirable. He trembled on the verge of
his fate.

And she—her destiny was fixed already, and for ever!
And when she saw her sister delighted with the attentions of
the youthful nobleman, she smiled to herself and dreamed a
pleasant dream, and gave herself up to the sweet delusion.
She had already asked her own heart “does he love me?” and
though it fluttered sorely and hesitated for a while, it did not
answer “No!”

But as the gentlemen rode homeward, St. George turned
shortly on his companion, and said, gravely,

“You have changed your mind, Delawarr, and found out
that I am right. Nevertheless, beware! do not, for God's
sake, fall in love with her, or make her love you!”

[figure description] Page 430.[end figure description]

The blood flushed fiery-red to the ingenuous brow of George
Delawarr, and he was embarrassed for a moment. Then he
tried to turn off his confusion with a jest.

“What, jealous, my lord! jealous of a poor cornet with no
other fortune than an honorable name and a bright sword! I
thought you, too, had changed your mind when I saw you
flirting so merrily with that merry brunette.”

“You did see me flirting, George—nothing more; and I
have changed my mind since the beginning, if not since the
end of last evening—for I thought at first that fair Blanche
Fitz-Henry would make me a charming wife; and now I am
sure that she would not—”

“Why so, my lord? For God's sake! why say you so?”

“Because she never would love me, George; and I would
never marry any woman unless I were sure that she both
could and did. So you see that I am not the least jealous;
but still I say, don't fall in love with her—”

“Faith! St. George, but your admonition comes somewhat
late; for I believe I am half in love with her already.”

“Then stop where you are and go no deeper; for if I err
not, she is more than half in love with you, too.”

“A strange reason, St. George, wherefore to bid me stop!”

“A most excellent good one!” replied the other, gravely,
and almost sadly, “for mutual love between you two can only
lead to mutual misery. Her father never would consent to
her marrying you more than he would to her marrying a
peasant—the man is perfectly insane on the subject of titledeeds
and heraldry, and will accept no one for his son-in-law
who cannot show as many quarterings as a Spanish grandee
or a German noble. But, of course, it is of no use talking
about it. Love never yet listened to reason; and, moreover, I
suppose what is to be is to be—come what may.”

[figure description] Page 431.[end figure description]

“And what will you do, St. George, about Agnes? I think
you are touched there a little!”

“Not a whit I—honor bright! And for what I will do—
amuse myself, George—amuse myself, and that pretty coquette
too; and if I find her less of a coquette, with more of a heart
than I fancy she has—” he stopped short and laughed.

“Well, what then—what then?” cried George Delawarr.

“It will be time enough to decide then.”

“And so say I, St. George. Meanwhile, I, too, will amuse
myself.”

“Ay! but observe this special difference—what is fun to
you may be death to her, for she has a heart, and a fine, and
true, and deep one; may be death to yourself, for you, too,
are honorable, and true, and noble; and that is why I love
you, George, and why I speak to you thus, at the risk of being
held meddlesome or impertinent.”

“Oh, never, never!” exclaimed Delawarr, moving his horse
closer up to him, and grasping his hand warmly, “never!
You meddlesome or impertinent! Let me hear no man call
you so. But I will think of this. On my honor, I will think
of this that you have said!”

And he did think of it. Thought of it often, deeply—and
the more he thought, the more he loved Blanche Fitz-Henry.

Days, weeks, and months rolled on, and still those two
young cavaliers were constant visitors, sometimes alone, sometimes
with other gallants in their company, at Ditton-in-the-Dale.
And ever still, despite his companion's warning, Delawarr
lingered by the fair heiress's side, until both were as deeply
enamored as it is possible for two persons to be, both single-hearted,
both endowed with powerful intellect and powerful
imagination; both of that strong and energetic temperament
which renders all impressions permanent, all strong passions

[figure description] Page 432.[end figure description]

immortal. It was strange that there should have been two
persons, and there were but two, who discovered nothing of
what was passing—suspected nothing of the deep feelings
which possessed the hearts of the young lovers; while all else
marked the growth of liking into love, of love into that absolute
and overwhelming idolatry which but few souls can comprehend,
and which to those few is the mightiest of blessings
or the blackest of curses.

And those two, as is oftentimes the case, were the very two
whom it most concerned to perceive, and who imagined themselves
the quickest and the clearest sighted—Allan Fitz-Henry
and the envious Agnes.

But so true is it that the hope is oft parent to the thought,
and the thought again to security and conviction, that, having
in the first instance made up his mind that Lord St. George
would be a most suitable successor to the name of the family,
and secondly, that he was engaged in prosecuting his suit to
the elder daughter, her father gave himself no further trouble
in the matter, but suffered things to take their own course
without interference.

He saw, indeed, that in public the viscount was more frequently
the companion of Agnes than of Blanche; that there
seemed to be a better and more rapid intelligence between
them; and that Blanche appeared better pleased with George
Delawarr's than with the viscount's company.

But, to a man blinded by his own wishes and prejudices,
such evidences went as nothing. He set it down at once to
the score of timidity on Blanche's part, and to the desire of
avoiding unnecessary notoriety on St. George's; and saw
nothing but what was perfectly natural and comprehensible in
the fact that the younger sister and the familiar friend should
be the mutual confidants, perhaps the go-betweens, of the two
acknowledged lovers.

[figure description] Page 433.[end figure description]

He was in high good humor, therefore; and as he fancied
himself on the high-road to the full fruition of his schemes,
nothing could exceed his courtesy and kindness to the young
cornet, whom he almost overpowered with those tokens of
affection and regard which he did not choose to lavish on the
peer, lest he should be thought to be courting his alliance.

Agnes, in the meantime, was so busy in the prosecution of
her assault on Lord St. George's heart, on which she began to
believe that she had made some permanent impression, that
she was perfectly contented with her own position, and was
well disposed to let other people enjoy themselves, provided
they did not interfere with her proceedings. It is true, that
at times, in the very spirit of coquetry, she would resume her
flirtation with George Delawarr, for the double purpose of
piquing the viscount and playing with the cornet's affections,
which, blinded by self-love, she still believed to be devoted to
her pretty self.

But Delawarr was so happy in himself, that, without any
intention of playing with Agnes, or deceiving her, he joked
and rattled with her as he would with a sister, and believing
that she must understand their mutual situation, at times
treated her with a sort of quiet fondness, as a man naturally
does the sister of his betrothed or his bride, which effectually
completed her hallucination.

The consequence of all this was, that, while they were unintentionally
deceiving others, they were fatally deceiving themselves
likewise; and of this, it is probable that no one was
aware, with the exception of St. George, who, seeing that his
warnings were neglected, did not choose to meddle further in
the matter, although keeping himself ready to aid the lovers
to the utmost of his ability by any means that should offer.

In the innocence of their hearts, and the purity of their young
love, they fancied that what was so clear to themselves, must be

[figure description] Page 434.[end figure description]

apparent to the eyes of others; and they flattered themselves
that the lady's father not only saw, but approved their affection,
and that when the fitting time should arrive, there would be no
obstacle to the accomplishment of their happiness.

It is true that Blanche spoke not of her love to her sister, for,
apart from the aversion which a refined and delicate girl must
ever feel to touching on that subject, unless the secret be teased
or coaxed out of her by some near and affectionate friend, there
had grown up a sort of distance, not coldness, nor dislike, nor
distrust, but simply distaste, and lack of communication between
the sisters since the night of the birth-day ball. Still
Blanche doubted not that her sister saw and knew all that was
passing in her mind, in the same manner as she read her heart;
and it was to her evident liking for Lord St. George, and the
engrossing claim of her own affections on all her thoughts, and
all her time, that she attributed her carelessness of herself.

Deeply, however, did she err, and cruelly was she destined to
be undeceived.

The early days of autumn had arrived, and the woods had
donned their many-colored garments, when on a calm, sweet
evening—one of those quiet and delicious evenings peculiar to
that season—Blanche and George Delawarr had wandered away
from the gay concourse which filled the gardens, and unseen, as
they believed, and unsuspected, had turned into the old labyrinth,
where first they had begun to love, and were wrapped in
soft dreams of the near approach of more perfect happiness.

But a quick, hard eye was upon them—the eye of Agnes;
for, by chance, Lord St. George was absent, having been summoned
to attend the king at Windsor; and being left to herself,
her busy mind, too busy to rest for a moment idle, plunged into
mischief and malevolence.

No sooner did she see them turn aside from the broad walk
than the cloud was withdrawn, as if by magic, from her eyes;

[figure description] Page 435.[end figure description]

and she saw almost intuitively all that had previously escaped
her.

Not a second did she lose, but stealing after the unsuspecting
pair with a noiseless and treacherous step, she followed them,
foot by foot, through the mazes of the clipped hornbeam labyrinth,
divided from them only by the verdant screen, listening
to every half-breathed word of love, and drinking in with greedy
ears every passionate sigh.

Delawarr's left arm was around Blanche's slender waist, and
her right hand rested on his shoulder; the fingers of their other
hands were entwined lovingly together, as they wandered onward,
wrapped each in the other, unconscious of wrong on their
own part, and unsuspicious of injury from any other.

Meanwhile, with rage in her eyes, with hell in her heart,
Agnes followed and listened.

So deadly was her hatred, at that moment, of her sister, so fierce
and overmastering her rage, that it was only by the utmost exertion
of self-control that she could refrain from rushing forward and
loading them with reproaches, with contumely, and with scorn.

But biting her lips till the blood sprang beneath her pearly teeth,
and clenching her hands so hard that the nails wounded their
tender palms, she did refrain, did subdue the swelling fury of her
rebellious heart, and awaited the hour of more deadly vengeance.

Vengeance for what? She had not loved George Delawarr—
nay, she had scorned him! Blanche had not robbed her of her
lover—nay, in her own thoughts, she had carried off the admirer,
perhaps the future lover, from the heiress.

She was the wronger, not the wronged! Then wherefore
vengeance?

Even, therefore, reader, because she had wronged her, and
knew it; because her own conscience smote her, and she would
fain avenge on the innocent cause, the pangs which at times rent
her own bosom.

[figure description] Page 436.[end figure description]

Envious and bitter, she could not endure that Blanche should
be loved, as she felt she was not loved herself, purely, devotedly,
for ever, and for herself alone.

Ambitious, and insatiate of admiration, she could not endure
that George Delawarr, once her captive, whom she still thought
her slave, should shake off his allegiance to herself, much less
that he should dare to love her sister.

Even while she listened, she suddenly heard Blanche reply to
some words of her lover, which had escaped her watchful ears.

“Never fear, dearest George; I am sure that he has seen and
knows all—he is the kindest and the best of fathers. I will tell
him all to-morrow, and will have good news for you when you
come to see me in the evening.”

“Never!” exclaimed the fury, stamping upon the ground
violently—“by all my hopes of heaven never!”

And with the words she darted away in the direction of the
hall as fast as her feet could carry her over the level greensward;
rage seeming literally to lend her wings, so rapidly did
her fiery passions spur her on the road to impotent revenge.

Ten minutes afterward, with his face inflamed with fury, his
periwing awry, his dress disordered by the haste with which he
had come up, Allan Fitz-Henry broke upon the unsuspecting
lovers.

Snatching his daughter rudely from the young man's half
embrace, he broke out into a torrent of terrible and furious
invective, far more disgraceful to him who used it, than to those
on whom it was vented.

There was no check to his violence, no moderation on his
tongue. Traitor, and knave, and low-born beggar, were the
mildest epithets which he applied to the high-bred and gallant
soldier; while on his sweet and shrinking child he heaped terms
the most opprobrious, the most unworthy of himself, whether as
a father or as a man.

[figure description] Page 437.[end figure description]

The blood rushed crimson to the brow of George Delawarr,
and his hand fell, as if by instinct, upon the hilt of his rapier;
but the next moment he withdrew it, and was cool by a mighty
effort.

“From you, sir, anything! You will be sorry for this to-morrow!”

“Never, sir, never! Get you gone! base domestic traitor!
Get you gone, lest I call my servants, and bid them spurn you
from my premises!”

“I go, sir—” he began calmly; but at this moment St.
George came upon the scene, having just returned from Windsor,
eager, but, alas! too late, to anticipate the shameful scene—and
to him did George Delawarr turn with unutterable anguish in
his eyes. “Bid my men bring my horses after me, St. George,”
said he, firmly, but mournfully; “for me, this is no place any
longer. Farewell, sir! you will repent of this. Adieu, Blanche,
we shall meet again, sweet one.”

“Never! dog, never! or with my own hands—”

“Hush! hush! for shame. Peace, Mister Fitz-Henry, these
words are not such as may pass between gentlemen. Go,
George, for God's sake! Go, and prevent worse scandal,” cried
the viscount.

And miserable beyond all comprehension, his dream of biiss
thus cruelly cut short, the young man went his way, leaving his
mistress hanging in a deep swoon, happy to be for a while
unconscious of her misery, upon her father's arm.

Three days had passed—three dark, dismal, hopeless days.
Delawarr did his duty with his regiment, nay, did it well—but
he was utterly unconscious, his mind was afar off, as of a man
walking in a dream. Late on the third night a small note was
put into his hands, blistered and soiled with tears. A wan smile
crossed his face, he ordered his horses at daybreak, drained a
deep draught of wine, sauntered away to his own chamber,

[figure description] Page 438.[end figure description]

stopping at every two or three paces in deep meditation; threw
himself on his bed, for the first time in his life without praying,
and slept, or seemed to sleep, till daybreak.

Three days had passed—three dark, dismal, hopeless days!
Blanche was half dead—for she now despaired. All methods
had been tried with the fierce and prejudiced old man, secretly
prompted by that demon-girl—and all tried in vain. Poor
Blanche had implored him to suffer her to resign her birthright
in favor of her sister, who would wed to suit his wishes, but in
vain. The generous St. George had offered to purchase for his
friend, as speedily as possible, every step to the very highest in
the service; nay, he had obtained from the easy monarch a
promise to raise him to the peerage, but in vain.

And Blanche despaired; and St. George left the Hall in
sorrow and disgust that he could effect nothing.

That evening Blanche's maid, a true and honest girl, delivered
to her mistress a small note, brought by a peasant lad; and
within an hour the boy went thence, the bearer of a billet,
blistered and wet with tears.

And Blanche crept away unheeded to her chamber, and
threw herself upon her knees, and prayed fervently and long; and
casting herself upon her painful bed, at last wept herself to sleep.

The morning dawned, merry, and clear, and lightsome; and
all the face of nature smiled gladly in the merry sunbeams.

At the first peep of dawn Blanche started from her restless
slumbers, dressed herself hastily, and creeping down the stairs
with a cautious step, unbarred a postern door, darted out into
the free air, without casting a glance behind her, and fled, with
all the speed of mingled love and terror, down the green avenue
toward the gay pavilion—scene of so many happy hours.

But again she was watched by an envious eye, and followed
by a jealous foot.

For scarce ten minutes had elapsed from the time when she

[figure description] Page 439.[end figure description]

issued from the postern, before Agnes appeared on the threshold,
with her dark face livid and convulsed with passion; and after
pausing a moment, as if in hesitation, followed rapidly in the
footsteps of her sister.

When Blanche reached the summer-house, it was closed and
untenanted; but scarcely had she entered and cast open the
blinds of one window toward the road, before a hard horse-tramp
was heard coming up at full gallop, and in an instant George
Delawarr pulled up his panting charger in the lane, leaped to
the ground, swung himself up into the branches of the great
oak-tree, and climbing rapidly along its gnarled limbs, sprang
down on the other side, rushed into the building, and cast himself
at his mistress's feet.

Agnes was entering the far end of the elm-tree walk as he
sprang down into the little coplanade, but he was too dreadfully
preoccupied with hope and anguish, and almost despair, to
observe anything around him.

But she saw him, and fearful that she should be too late to
arrest what she supposed to be the lovers' flight, she ran like
the wind.

She neared the doorway—loud voices reached her ears, but
whether in anger, or in supplication, or in sorrow, she could not
distinguish.

Then came a sound that rooted her to the ground on which
her flying foot was planted, in mute terror.

The round ringing report of a pistol-shot! and ere its echo
had begun to die away, another!

No shriek, no wail, no word succeeded—all was as silent as
the grave.

Then terror gave her courage, and she rushed madly forward
a few steps, then stood on the threshold horror-stricken.

Both those young souls, but a few days before so happy, so
loving, had taken their flight—whither?

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Both lay there dead, as they had fallen, but unconvulsed, and
graceful even in death. Neither had groaned or struggled, but
as they had fallen, so they lay, a few feet asunder—her heart
and his brain pierced by the deadly bullets, sped with the accuracy
of his never-erring aim.

While she stood gazing, in the very stupor of dread, scarce
conscious yet of what had fallen out, a deep voice smote her ear.

“Base, base girl, this is all your doing!” Then, as if wakening
from a trance, she uttered a long, piercing shriek, darted
into the pavilion between the gory corpses, and flung herself
headlong out of the open window into the pool beneath.

But she was not fated so to die. A strong hand dragged her
out—the hand of St. George, who, learning that his friend had
ridden forth towards Ditton, had followed him, and arrived too
late by scarce a minute.

From that day forth Agnes Fitz-Henry was a dull, melancholy
maniac. Never one gleam of momentary light dispersed
the shadows of her insane horror—never one smile crossed her
lip, one pleasant thought relieved her life-long sorrow. Thus
lived she; and when death at length came to restore her spirit's
light, she died, and made no sign.

Allan Fitz-Henry lived—a moody misanthropic man, and
shunned of all. In truth, the saddest and most wretched of the
sons of men.

How that catastrophe fell out none ever knew, and it were
useless to conjecture.

They were beautiful, they were young, they were happy.
The evil days arrived—and they were wretched, and lacked
strength to bear their wretchedness. They are gone where One
alone must judge them—may He have pity on their weakness.
Requiescant!