It was on the evening of Alice de Heywode's flight a few moments after the
sun had gone down that an American frigate dropped anchor off the Battery,
in the harbor of New York, and in a few minutes afterwards a boat put from
her to the shore. Three officers landed at the Battery, one of them Captain of
the frigate, the other two were lieutenants.

`Well, my dear Bertrand,' said the captain as they stopped at the Battery
gate a moment, at the foot of Broadway, as if about to separate there, `well
my dear Bertrand, go to your hotel and read your letters and then come round
to my house and give me the rest of the evening; for I dare say we shall have
quite a party, for my wife sets all the bells ringing when I get home!'

`Thank you, my dear Captain, I will try to see you; if not I will be round
in the morning' answered the lieutenant, a young man of about five or six
and twenty, with a very handsome face and a noble, almost princely bearing:
and evidently from the absence of all restraint and reserve between them, notwithstanding
their difference in naval rank, there was a close friendship between
the junior and senior officer.

`Do come when you will, you will be always welcome,' replied the captain
getting into a coach which had been hailed and brought to by one of his men,
for two accompanied him carrying yalises, and packages. It drove off rapidly
while Bertrand, taking the arm of the other officer, walked at an earnest pace
up Broadway.

[figure description] Page 026.[end figure description]

`You must be expecting letters from some faire ladye, Frank, from the way
you pay ont foot-rope,' said his companion laughingly, a man about forty-four
years of age, with a bold, brown visage, and looking every inch the sailor.

`I have some very dear friends from whom I have not heard for some time.
I expected, you know, to have come into New York at first in the frigate; but
as we made Norfolk instead, I wrote to New York (where I had desired all letters
to be directed) for any letters there to be forwarded to Norfolk. But as
the frigate sailed immediately the very day after my letter went, and we have
had a quick run round, I am in hopes I shall be able to anticipate my instructions
and stop my letters! They were to he to the care of the City Hotel, and
in three minutes I shall know whether I am in time.'

`There must be a lady in the case. But you are young yet, and this eagerness
is excusable. When you get to be on the first soundings t'oher side of
forty and find the leadsman sing out that the sands of time are `grey mixed
with black,' you will be less impatient. But here we are, my dear boy, at the
old City; and she holds to her anchor here with her old six tiers of ports and
her red sides, just as she did when I last took my departnre, ten months ago.
Come let us board her and know the news!'

`All is right!' cried Bertrand as he held up letters in his hand after having
applied at the office, received them and returned to his friend ere he had fairly
got into the hotel.

`That's hearty, and good news I hope!' answered Lieutenant Benson. `No
infernal black seals, I see!'

`No; and all good news, I am sure. Excuse me! I have ordered a room
and must go to it and read them.'

`By all means, my dear boy. I'll meanwhile, just cruise about the lower
decks here and see if I can fall in with any craft I know.'

Bertrand hastened to his room, locked his door, and throwing himself into a
chair by the table, selected from the five letters which he held two, one being
quite a thick and voluminous looking epistle, the handwriting of which he well
knew, and pressing both letters warmly, passionately, adoringly to his lips,
while his manly eyes were filled with the tears of a pure and noble affection,
he gazed with affectionate interest upon the directions which her own hund had
penned!

`Sweet Marie! Oh, how good to write! One letter from you is worth all
others I could receive did they contain offers of thrones; for a throne in thy
heart is to me dearer than any on earth! Now what shall I hear! What shall
I learn? It is three months since I got your last letter at Gibraltar, and that
had then been two months written! What have you to tell me, sweet Marie!
I have to tell thee of my own advancement, and this will make thee happy, for
it will pave the way sooner for our union! I tremble while I hold the letter!
My fingers refuse to break the seal. What painful foreboding comes over me.
There is a difference in the writing! The one with the earliest postmark is
written, save a slight unsteadiness towards the last, in her usual beautiful hand,
quiet and elegant, and the other as if with hurried and trembling haste! Nay—
I will not torment myself with nervous conjecture! All I can fear is that
her father may object to our union for some two or three years yet, and this
objection we can remove I dare say between us. I will end this suspense!'

The lover then broke the seal and with an eagerness equal to his late delay,
he opened the first letter and read as follows:

`Elmwood, August 1st, 1834.
My Dear Bertrand:

I address you at New York as you desired me in your
letter from Mahon. For that kind letter I send you my warmest thanks. It is
like yourself and breathes that noble affection which has made you the idol of
my heart. The days, weeks and months seem very long for I count them by
the throbbings of my heart, which is my only measure of time while you are
absent from me I think my father is now reconciled to our union, and I heard
him speak with great commendation and a sort of pride, that gratified me very
much, of your courage and noble forgetfulness of self, in saving the lives of the
three English officers and that of those of the Prince and Princess di Luzzi,
in the squall which struck their boat after it left the frigate for the shore.—
The papers are full of it, though you make no mention of it yourself. This,

[figure description] Page 027.[end figure description]

too, is so like you. I cannot be too grateful to Heaven for your preservation
at such a time of imminent peril and confusion, and also for placing it in your
power to do so noble an act; for your fame and praises are mine, dear Bertrand!

I had written thus far when my father came in closing the door, approached me with a very grave look and asked me to whom I was writing? I answered,
for I conceal nothing from him concerning you, hide nothing from him in relation
to our mutual attachment, I answered by placing what I had written in
his hand. He saw to whom it was addressed, and then without reading a line
replaced it upon the escritoire before me and took my hand in his! I need not
say, dear Bertrand, I could not anticipate what was to be the nature of this interview;
for I apprehended it from what has already occurred within the house
Now—dont be jealous, Edward—for I am about to tell you that which will vex
you, though you will not be vexed with me. I did think of finishing my letter
to you before my father entered without alluding to this painful subject—but it
has now assumed too serious an aspect to be treated with indifference, and moreover
your presence may correct every thing, and save me from domestic persecution
that has fairly commenced.

There was introduced to my father while we were at Saratoga a month ago,
a French gentleman, the Count and Baron de Rosselau, as he styled himself on
his card. My father presented him soon after to me, and be chose to devote
himself to me from that moment every opportunity that unfortunately placed
me in his society. He was by no means a man to please a lady; for though
elegant in his manners, he was a consummate fop, and the expression of his
face was the index of a heart without purity, of a character without generosity.
In a word, he looked like a bad—very bad man, as I have no question that he
is. Instead of receiving his attentions and being dazzled by his titles, I shrunk
from him and avoided his presence in every way until my father interposed
his authority and commanded me to treat him not only with civility but to receive
with pleasure his attentions.

Do not harbor one dark doubt of my truth and love to you, Bertrand. Your
loved image, your dear memory, I only kept the closer in my heart of hearts.
My love for you became more sacred and I firmly refused to obey my father's
commands! Finding me resolute he ceased to urge me, but in every way afterwards
sought opportunities to have me under Rosselau's protection. He
would quite neglect to hand me into dinner till Rosselau, seeing me standing
alone, would press his services. He would suddenly desert me on some pretence,
when promenading the galleries, and the next instant Rosselau would
be at my side. I tried to show him, by my conduct and words, that his attentions
were disagreable; but confident in the support of my father, he continued
to persecute me, until at length, I firmly made up my mind that if my
father did not leave the Springs the next day, I would run away from him and
return home. This determination I made known to my father—with a spirit
that confounded him; and he was under the necessity of giving me his consent
to go.

We departed the next day although our residence had not been but a week
there, but not for home. Our destination was Niagara! I cared little whither
we went so that I saw no more of the hateful and persecuting de Rosselau.—
The very next day he joined us at Rochester and attached himself to our party.
I treated him with cool indifference and regarded his words and his presence
no more than as if I had neither ears to hear his folsome flatteries, nor eyes
to be conscious of his vicinity. I mortified him so openly before others by this
studied reserve that after a day at Saratoga he took his leave; and I trusted I
should see no more of him.

To my surprize, after he was gone, I did not receive from my father that severe
censure upon my conduct that I was tremblingly anticipating; on the contrary he was chereful and seemed to quite forget that I had displeased him,
or that there was such a person as the `Count Baron Rosseleau' in the world
I soon recovered my spirits and health, which were sadly suffering, as doubtless
my father had discovered, and after three days sojourn at Niagara, he proposed
that we should journey homeward. This proposition I assented to gladly;
for I felt that there I should have a retreat sacred from the intrusion of my
titled and persevering persecutor. But I was mistaken, Edward, as you will
see! But be patient and spare your feelings till you hear all. I had been at

[figure description] Page 028.[end figure description]

home but four days when father informed me he should have a friend from
town to dine, and desired me to `look and appear my best, for it was his particular
desire his friend should find his visit very agreeable. Perhaps you already
anticipate who this `friend' was, Bertrand. But I did not, not harboring
the least cuspicion that de Rosselau was in this part of the country. On my
entrance to the drawing room just before dinner was announced, I thought I
should sink through the floor on beholding Baron de Rosselau! Nothing but
my spirited indignation kept me from losing my self possession. My father's
eye was bent sternly upon me, and I bowed coldly and repeated the terms of
welcome, but without noticing the hand de Rosselau would have extended to
grasp mine.

How I got through dinner I have no recollection. I returned from the table
as soon as I could, and flying to my room burst into a paroxysm of tears! Oh,
how I wisned you were present then, dear Bertrand that we might fly together
I cared not whither so it were with you!

The young officer sprung from his seat at this passage of the letter, and gave
utterance to an execration of the deepest tone, while pity and sympathy for
her he so fondly loved, and from whom, at such a time, of all others, he was
away, was strongly expressed in his excited features.

`Madness! This is unendurable! I have no patience to complete this letter!
I feel as if I could fly to him this moment. Poor Marie! Noble and true Marie!
If that de Rosselau does not answer for all this—but, patience. I must
read more and know all before I can stir a step! Oh, that I could embrace the
contents of the remainder of the letter at a glance of thought.'

He sat down and compressing his lips forced a calmness he could not feel,
and resumed the narration of the persecuted maiden.

—`I did not leave my room till the next morning, nothwithstanding my
father came repeatedly at the door to summon me; but pleading illness I refused
to admit him or obey his commands. He threatened me; but I would gladly
have been locked up in the darkest and loneliest room of the villa than have
met de Rosselau. But believing in the morning that he had gone, for I had
been told so by my maid, I went out to breakfast. I found him standing with
my father in the breakfast-room. My first impulse was to fly. My next and
best was to remain and chill him by my manner. I had before found this most
successful, and I now assumed this bearing; and during breakfast I neither
saw nor heard him speak. His chair might as well have been empty, for I
took no notice that any one occupied it. My father was very angry and the
breakfast passed off gloomily; but I felt that I was the victorious one.

Directly after breakfast the count left, and a few moments afterwards one of
the servants handed me a note from him written in French, which I copy, for
I would you should understand all and know all that has transpired in the
fullest manner, my noble Bestrand.'

`Has the villain dared to address Marie a note?' cried the lover with a darkning
brow. `But I must have patience. Let me read and see what insolence
I have more to chastise.'

Madamoiselle,

`I beg you will not refuse to read with your beautiful
eyes (Bertrand. The devil confound him!) the few profound sentiments of
my heart, I have the honor to give expression to in consideration of the deep
passion I entertain for you. Be assured, Madamoisille, that it has never been
my felicitous fate to meet with one of your divine sex who has succeded in
imprisoning my heart so completely as you have done! Yes, admirable Marie!
(the foul fiend take him!) I have had but one thought since I beheld you, and
that is to make myself agreeable to you, that I may win that cruel heart which
already has captivated mine. I assure you I have taken no offence at your
proud and cold indifference, but on the contrary, your coldness has increased
the flame of my devotion! May I hope that my sincerity may meet at least
with some degree of grace from you, for you are too beautiful to be a tyrant!
(I'll make him eat this letter!) It is my highest ambition to make you the
Countess de Rosselau, a rank to which some of the haughtiest beauties I say
it without vanity, of dear enchanting Paris have aspired to in vain! At your
feet, where I have already laid my heart, I am desirous of laying the honors of
my name and rank. Your father's consent I have been so fortunate as to

[figure description] Page 029.[end figure description]

obtain, and I only await your condescension to my suit, trusting that I shall not
have sued in vain. Your devoted and humble lover, who kisses your hand with
the profoundest adoration,

When the young officer had ended the perusal of this epistle, he sat a moment
with his fiery glance fixed upon the signature.

`That Count Verrier has sealed his own fate as I am a living man! We have
met before now; and well do I know the villain. Verrier! It is the same
name and is the same wretch that I chastised with the flat of my sword at a
ball at the British Ambassador's at Naples, for picking up the glove of the
daughter of the Commodore as she hung on my arm, and pressing it to his lip
before returning it. We have now a new account to adjust; but for Marie's
sake, I trust she has not been persecuted by the attentious of such a villain.
But let me hear all that the dear girl says:'

`I took no notice of this note, Bertrand, and indeed should have sent it back
unopened, but I wished to know what it was he had to say, and to ascertain, if
possible, how far this persecution was to be carried; for I had made up my
mind to escape from it by flight, I knew not whither, if he should continue it.

After I had read the note my father came in, and asked me my decision. I
told him naively I was not free to act without your consent, for I was plighted
to you: that if he or the Baron would wait until you returned from sea, or
would write to you and get your consent, I would then think upon the matter.
This reply angered my father; and then I very firmly told him, that were I
free, pertectly free, the Baron would be the last man who would be successful
in engaging my affections; that he was very disagreeable to me, and `that if I
could be wicked enough to hate any body, I should hate him.'

I hoped this would settle the matter; and for some days I heard no more of
the subject of de Rosselau, though he twice or thrice visited the house and
dined with my father; but I did not see him, nor did my father send any message
to me to leave my room.

I therefore believed that the war was at an end; and daily hoping for your return
I began to be at peace and experience a sense of security. Under this
feeling I began this letter to you, and had written but the first twenty lines
when my father came in, as I already have said, asked me to whom I was
writing, and on my handing him the letter returned it to me again without
reading it.

Now I will proceed to tell you what he said to me, having deferred doing so
to acquaint you first with the occurrences which had previous to this transpired.
These occurrences you have now had fully communicated to you, and now
you shall hear the result of this last important interview between me and my
father!'

Bertrand's impatience would hardly permit him to wait the word for word
communication; he felt something still more painful to his feelings was probably
coming, and he more than once rose with the letter in his hand as if about
to crush it into his pocket, and without hearing more fly to know the worst!
But reflection enabled him to control these fiery impulses, and summoning all
his patience, he prepared to finish the letter.

CHAPTER VII. Bertrand at his Hotel—The letter continued.

[figure description] Page 030.[end figure description]

Bertrand having, with a great effort of self-control, succeeded in repressing
his impatience once more resumed the perusal of Marie's communication:

`What I am now to add, my dear Edward,' said the maiden in her letter, will
show you how fully matured was the conspiracy against my happiness and
peace, planned between my misguided father and this unfeeling Baron de Rosselau.
After he had entered my room, and locked the door as I have already
said in the beginning of my letter, he sat for a few moments in silence as if not
knowing in what way to open the subject upon his mind. At length he raised
his eyes and said,

`Marie, I have come here to speak with you touching my friend and guest,
the Count Verrier de Rosselau. I need not tell you that he is deeply enamored
with your beauty and intelligence; for this he has declared to you as well by
words as by his attention. I know you have taken it into your head to dislike
or else to pretend to dislike him. This is I believe, or am willing to believe,
mere coquetry to humble him still more at your feet; for this is the triumph of
your success! (Perhaps it is, Bertrand, with those we do not love,' added Marie
in parenthesis; `but have I ever humbled or sought to humble you, dear
Edward, at my feet? Oh, no! but rather to lift you to my heart, rather to rest
my head upon your bosom!) After my father had said that much he paused and
looked at me fixedly. Seeing that I remained silent he went on:

`If this is coquetry, it is my wish that you put an end to it, and receive the
attentions of de Rosselau with frankness!—if it is dislike, and a desire to act
contrary to my intentions respecting you, I command you to obey me, and to
accept the addresses of a man who truly loves you, and whose rank and wealth
are in themselves sufficient to command your consent.'

`I am not coquetting with the Count de Rosselau, sir,' I answered firmly;
`I have too much respect for myself, as well as too little for him to condescend
to any such acts, I thought, sir, I had very clearly proved to you my unconquerable
repugnance to the addresses of the French nobleman. If I have not, sir, I
now assure you with all the decision I can command, that it is my unalterable
determination never to give this baron one shadow of encouragement; nay, I
reject unqualifiedly his proposals, and I beg, sir, that from me you will communicate to him this decision.'

I spoke respectfully as became a daughter, but I spoke with a resolution that
surprised my father. He looked at me fixedly a moment. His eyes darkened
in their expression, and his cheek grew suddenly pale. I trembled; for I knew
the violence of his passions when awakened.

`And this is your decision,' he at length said in a deliberate tone, speaking in
a hoarse whisper, that told me how deeply he was moved.

`It is, sir!'

`And you are willing to abide by the decision you have come to?'

`Yes, my father. You know that I have no heart to give the baron. That
is Bertrand's.'

`Bertrand shall never call you his wife, so help me Heaven,' was his fierce
rejoinder. `He is a young officer on pay, and without name or fortune. Rosselau
is a noble, a man of distinction, who has the entree into Emperors' courts,
whose wealth will afford you every luxury, whose rank open to you the saloons
of princes.'

`I know that Bertrand is poor, but I love Bertrand and my love ennobles and
enriches him; and I had rather have a place in his manly heart than in the
proudest saloon of Europe's kings.'

It was thus I replied, dear Edward, for I spoke from my heart; and I know
you will forgive me for writing you what I said; but I wish you to know all
so that you may know how to act; for you are my only trust now, this side of
Heaven!

`If you persist in this decision you shall have a place in the lowest cell of a
convent,' he answered with deep displeasure.

`I am in your power, my dear father,' I answered submissively; I would rather
be an inmate of a dungeon than an inmate of the palace of de Rosselau.'

[figure description] Page 031.[end figure description]

`You then refuse to wed him?'

`I do sir.'

`Then you shall have your wish. If you wed not de Rosselau neither shall
you wed Edward Bertrand. Now take your choice, either a Convent or de
Rosselau.

`I prefer the Convent,' I answered as firmly as I could, though my heart was
breaking and my eyes ready to gush with tears; for I knew well the determined
purpose of my father and that he would not hesitate to punish me as he had
threatened.

He walked to the window and looked forth for a moment. He then returned
and took my hand and said kindly—

`Marie, I do not wish to lose my child forever. You are very dear to me. It
is because I know that your union with Baron de Rosselau will be of great advantage
to you in society and the world that I urge it. This is a world of rank,
of wealth and appearance. Your union with M. de Rosselau will secure to you
all those advantages I wish you to enjoy. Forget this childish attachment for a
young seaman who has only his courage and his sword, and be wise, and yield
to my wishes. I will settle on you the morning of your marriage with the baron
one hundred thousand dollars. With him you will be happy, envied, honored
and caressed.'

`I shall never be de Rosselau's bride,' was my firm response. `I would rather
be Bertrand's wife, though he have nothing but his courage and his sword,
than the wife of Rosselau were he heir to the French throne.'

When I had thus spoken, my father cast my hand from him and said,

`Then do I make you repent in sorrow for this madness and obstinate folly,
be assured. I will give you three days to decide. At the end of three days
you must consent to become the Countess de Rosselau or an inmate of a Convent.
'

Thus speaking, and casting upon me a look of the severest displeasure, my
father left me. I at first gave myself up to tears—tears of unhappiness and
grief and anger all mingled. I was angry at de Rosselau, grieved at my father's
resentment and tyranny, unhappy at the prospect of your own suffering at
losing me; yet I looked not upon myself as my own, so much as that I am
yours, Edward.'

`Three days,' exclaimed Bertrand, almost paralized by the terrible events he
was obtaining knowledge of through her letter, `then she is now in a convent,
for this letter has been written full twenty. Merciful God, sustain me under
this heavy blow. But this is no time for grief, but for action But let me hurry
to read this fatal letter to the close. Noble, faithful, persecuted girl'

`After half an hour's weeping for you as well as for me, dear Bertrand, I
resolved I would write to you the whole that had transpired, knowing that you
were soon to be back from the Mediterranean, and hoping that my letter may
find you in New York in time for you to fly to rescue from a two fold danger
her who lives only for you. I have, therefore, been sitting up half the night
writing the foregoing, while my father believes that I sleep. Two days more
remain. Vague ideas of flight enter my mind—but I ask myself whither shall
I fly? How should I escape from my father's careful watch, or the no less
watchful scrutiny of de Rosselau' I shall soon decide upon something. I will
close my long letter now, for the morning dawns, and my father will soon be
here to unlock my door and ask me if I have changed my mind and am ready
for the sacrifice. I shall secretly despatch this letter to the office by my faithful
servant Moses. I will not seal it till I can send it away, and will add a
postscript telling you what I decide upon.

`I have come to the determination to fly. De Rosselau is still an inmate
of the house, and my father has compelled me to meet him at dinner. I cannot
endure this tyranny any longer. I, therefore, shall make an effort to escape
to-night. I have also decided where to go. There is a poor woman who
resides in a very retired spot not far from here with whom I can be safe until

[figure description] Page 032.[end figure description]

I hear from you or see you. She lives at the foot of the hill, called Berry Hill,
about a quarter of a mile from the grave-yard of the village. Her name is
Bray; the house is without paint, browned by age. No one ever visits her and
the place would be unsuspected by my father as affording me shelter. I have
called at her house in my rides on horseback for a glass of water, and talked
with her and given her money and otherwise aided her; she is, therefore, my
friend, and I know will be faithful. There you will find me. I shall fly to-night.
It is my only alternative, for I begin to fear from my father's manner
and some hints he has thrown out, that he will endeavor to compel me to marry
de Rosselau at the expiration of the three days time.'

I had sealed this letter when, just at sundown, I saw a carriage drive up to
the door and a lady dressed in deep mourning and closely veiled alighted and
entered. The elegance of her form and the air of graceful ease which characterised
all her motions led me to believe that she was youthful and beautiful.—
I ran over in my mind all of my female friends, who are, however, very few,
but could fix upon none of them as likely to be my visitor; for that the visit
was paid to me I had no doubt. As I was locked in my room (for my father has
kept me a prisoner since his decision) I could not go out to ascertain, and was
compelled to wait until I was sent for. I heard my father's step in the hall,
then his voice in a tone of strange surprise. Then I heard the door of the library
close and all was silent. De Rosselau I knew had gone out on horseback,
and that my father was alone, I was satisfied, after listening a few moments,
during which the low hum of voices reached me along the verandah coming
from the open library window at the other end into mine, that the visit was to
my father. She has been here ten minutes! It has suddenly flashed upon my
mind that it is some lady of the Convent of Mont St. Benedict, which is but a
few miles distant, and that I am the subject of their interview. The carriage is
a plain equipage without any mark to designate the person who came in it. I
begin to tremble; for to go to a Convent is to be separated from you. I therefore
resolve without delay to fly. I close this letter in haste and will send it to
the office in the metropolis from the widow Brag's where I now fly for shelter.
I can escape by means of my window, and as it is twilight I shall be favored by
the growing obscurity.

Farewell, Bertrand, until we meet at my place of refuge.

When the young lieutenant had come to the close, he thrust the letter into
his coat pocket with the others that were unopened, and with but one thought
upon his mind he hastened from his room, took a hurried leave of his friend
Benson, and in five minutes more was in a carriage on his way to the New Haven
boat which was to leave within a few minutes. He reached it in time and
felt a weight thrown off his heart as he found himself borne rapidly over the
water in the direction of the `City of Elms.' On arriving there at nine o'clock
at night, he took the Boston mail stage directly through. He was the only passenger;
and as the day dawned, he recollected the letters which he had not yet
opened, and to which under his excitement he had not given a thought until now;
for while on board the steamer he had done nothing but pace up and down the
deck under the burning thoughts which the letter he had just read had kindled.

As the dawn began slowly to redden the eastern horizon, and the darkness
that had enveloped the scenery around him fled before the approach of morning,
he drew forth the letters. There were four of them; one from his mother, as
he knew by the hand writing; another from a friend, and another in a hand-writing
that he believed to be that of Colonel de Heywode. The fourth letter
as we have already said was one from Marie of a later date than that he had
perused. He tore open the latter, as he saw its date to be only four days back,
and then as if not having courage to learn what she had communicated lest he
should hear news more evil than he could bear, he broke the seal of that he
thought to be from Colonel de Heywode; for that he should write him he regarded
a very extraordinary circumstance; and as he knew that his letter also
must throw some light on what he feared, yet panted to know, he hesitated to
read it and come to the knowledge; for he felt impressed that in some way the
fate of Marie had been decided, and that he should find in what manner by those

[figure description] Page 033.[end figure description]

letters. His superscription was large and bold and had a defying air; while
hers he saw trembled in every curve.

`I will read his first. I will know the worst from him, rather from Marie!'
he said as he completed the unfolding it.

`Sir:

I shall make no apology for this communication. I address you
upon a subject of the deepest interest to me. I am not ignorant of your aspirations
to the hand and fortune of my daughter; nor am I ignorant that you have
been successful in inspiring in her bosom a temporary regard for you. Whatever
may have been my former forbearance in suffering this attachment to go
on unchecked, circumstances, not at all affecting your character, sir, render it
necessary that I request you to terminate all further views in relation to a union
with her. This is her desire as well as my own; and it is not therefore necessary
to inform you that all letters which you may have the imprudence to address
to her will be returned, and that my doors will be closed to any visits
that have Marie for their object.

I have the pleasure of informing you that my daughter is betrothed to a gentleman
every way worthy of her in rank, wealth and position in society, the
Count Baron de Rosselau, and that this union will take place in all probability
in a very few days; I therefore write you that if this letter should find you in
New York, you may be saved the trouble and expense of making the visit here,
which I learn you have had in contemplation.

When Bertrand had ended this letter he saw at once its falsehood and bearing;
for it was dated the day before that which had been written him by Marie.

`I see it all. In intrigning for the elevation of his child, he has forgot the
integrity of a gentleman. How miserable, if I can be more wretched than I
am, this letter would have made me had I not noticed its anterior date, or had
I opened it at the hotel before I opened and read that of dear Marie's. For
once, Colonel de Heywode, your deception is unavailing; for I know under your
daughter's own hand that your letter is false. Thus would he sacrifice his
child! Brave, noble, true Marie! Oh, that I had thy foe and persecuter, this
baron, in my power! But patience. We shall yet meet! He shall yet answer
for all this to me Now, dear Marie, with trembling hands I open this other
letter of so recent date—written twenty days after thy last—twenty-one days
after thy father's false missile.'

CHAPTER VIII. The Stranger-Guest.

[figure description] Page 034.[end figure description]

The letter which Bertrand now opened, with a throbbing pulse and a pain
ful foreboding of evil to her he loved, to his surprise begun thus:

`To Mr. Francis Edward Bertrand.
Sir,—'

`What can this mean?' he exclaimed in astonishment. `Marie to address me
thus. This is certainly her hand-writing, and at the end of it' (and here he
rapidly ran over the pages of the letter to the close) and here is her signature
`Marie.' What can this mean? It is signed simply `Marie' without one
word of affection. Nay. It is `your unfortunate and lost, Marie.' What fearful
news have I now to hear. She can be lost to me only by being the wife of
this baron Can it——Oh, can it be possible that she has——but I
will not drive myself mad by anticipation. I will hasten to learn the worst.'

`Sir,—It is with emotions which I know not how to express—alas, I
know not how to say what I have to divulge. It breaks my heart to address
you so formally as I have begun my letter. My heart is not equal to the task
it has schooled itself to. `Dear Bertrand' would flow from my pen if I dared
thus to address you. But how shall I ever again bestow upon you a title so
endearing. Oh, Edward, I am all unworthy to address you in any way. But
for this once forgive me if I let my heart speak; for I cannot coldly write to
one in whom my soul—my very being is wrapped up.

`What shall I say to you. How shall I begin. If I begin I know not if I
shall have the courage to end the fearful narration. While I write my eyes
swim—my brain whirls—my reason wanders.

My last letter closed with my resolution to fly at once. I had delayed but a
few moments to collect a few little articles together, and had already raised
the windows to escape, for my father had contented himself with locking my
door, when I heard high voices approaching my door. One was my father's
and it was raised to a menacing key—the other was that of a female. Surprised
I arrested my flight. The next moment the voices ceased apparently
close to my door, and then the lock was turned and father entered.

I saw at a glance that something of a most extraordinary nature had disturbed
him; something more than a suspicion of my intention for at the first I believed
that it was this that was bringing him to my room.

Never did I behold such an expression of countenance as his, as I looked at
him. It caused me to shudder. He closed the door and coming towards me
said—

`Prepare instantly to go with me.'

`Wither?' I asked fearfully.

`Not to the Convent now. But do not delay. You have to fly from a
greater evil than any you fear.'

At this moment the door, at which my father had been anxiously turning
his eyes as if fearing an interruption, was struck with emphasis, and a thrilling
voice cried—

`Robert, oh, Robert, harm her not—fly not with her and I swear to do whatever
you dictate.'

`Go back to the library. Did you not promise but now you would be peaceful.
'

`But I heard you bid her go with you! Fly not. Take her not away. Let
me—'

`Cease woman,' cried my father almost ferociously as he opened the door and
exposed to my view an extremely beautiful woman, her hair dishevelled, her
features animated with wild grief, her attitude excited and imploring. I never
beheld so beautiful yet so painfully interesting a creature. She did not appear
to be more than eight and twenty, and was in deep mourning. Oh how, all at
once my heart went out towards her with love and sympathy and hope. There
was something in her looks that seemed to me to belong to some of the faces
of the lovely beings I have seen in the dreams of my childhood.

I stood spell-bound gazing upon her with deep wonder. When she beheld

[figure description] Page 035.[end figure description]

me her arms went forth from her bosom as if to embrace and clasp me closely
to it. I never had such emotions in my life. My father stood and eyed her
closely and terribly. He caught her eye and then I saw him lift his finger menacingly
and heard him whisper harshly,

`Beware.'

She shrunk from his gaze and I could see she trembled. But her eyes turned
from him only to rest upon me with the tenderest curiosity and affectionate interest
that melted my soul and caused tears to start into my eyes.

Who could this darkly beautiful lady be, over whom my father had such a
mysterious power?' I asked myself. She made a movement towards me.

`Beware,' repeated my father a second time; and again she quailed before
his glance.

`This, my daughter, is a person who has come to bear to you a piece of news,
that may perhaps both grieve and rouse your indignation. I wished to broach
it gently to you, but she, as you have seen, would rush in and make all known
at any risk. You will now retire,' he said to her, keeping his eyes steadily as
he had done while speaking, upon her, `and I will make known to my child
that which so nearly interests her.'

There was something in my father's words and manner that made me fear.
He looked as if instigated and possessed fully by an evil spirit. Something instinctively
whispered to me that not one word he had said was true; and that
the female knew it was not true, but feared to gainsay it. He opened the door
for her and she slowly left the chamber bestowing secretly upon me a look of
the sweetest affection. Oh, how I felt for her and yearned to know what fearful
mystery surrounded her: to know how she was thus under my father's power.
He left the chamber with her. He accompanied her through the hall to the
library, and then returned to me.

`We like to have had a scene, my daughter, said my father with a torced
smile as he re-entered.

`Who is that beautiful stranger, sir?' I asked in my anxiety.

`She is a Southern lady. Her father was an officer I believe. I have seen
her before in Charleston.'

`Then that is where I have seen her,' I answered quickly; `for her features
are familiar to me, but vaguely recollected like faces seen in dreams.'

`Did you ever see her before?' demanded my father with extraordinary
emotion'

`I think I must have seen her, sir.'

`Then you are not certain?' he asked with the close look of an inquisitor.

`No, sir.'

`She is, as I said, a Charleston lady. The rumor of your proposed union
(for all the world,' said my father, have it) with the baron de Rosselau, has
brought her here.'

`The world, sir, are to be disappointed,' I answered not a little vexed and
mortified to know that through de Rosselau and my father it had probably gone
abroad that I was to be wedded to the baron.' What interest had the lady in
the matter?' I asked haughtily `Is she a prior claimant for the Count's
hand?'

`No, not for the Count's but for the hand of one less honorable. Can you
guess?' added my father with a peculiar significance.

`No, sir.'

`She having heard then that you were sought for in marriage by the Count
de Rosselau, but that you refused to give him a final answer—'

`I have given him a final answer, sir,' I interrupted.

`Here me,' cried my father sternly—`I do but give what she heard. This
rumor then coming to her that you delayed a final answer because you felt
that the young officer, Edward Bertrand held a claim upon you, and the lady,
being a friend of Count de Rosselau and seeking his happiness as well as
your own, has kindly taken the trouble to pay a visit here purposely to inform
you that you need not suffer any bonds of engagement to Mr. Bertrand
to influence you, as she is already, herself, privately married to him.'

Was ever such infamous slander and falsehood invented by the devil himself?
' cried Edward with a vehemence, that caused the coachman to draw in

[figure description] Page 036.[end figure description]

his horses and call back to the coach-window to inquire `if the gentleman
inside wanted anything.'

`Nothing—nothing,' answered Edward, recalled to himself; and governing
his emotion he continued to read—

`The story so base and false,' said Marie in continuation, did not produce
upon me any other effect than scorn and pity for those who could stoop to invent
it. Had she brought intelligence that you were dead, Edward, I should
have believed it; but I never could believe that you were false.'

`Noble Marie,' ejaculated Bertrand, warmly pressing those words to his lips.

`My father saw the effect was lost upon me. He saw that my confidence in
you was stronger than my credulity.

`You do not believe it?' he said.

`No, sir,' I answered firmly. `The woman is an impostor. (God forgive
me, for what I said; but I knew not all then!')

`Yes, I dare say she is,' he answered readily. `I have no doubt of it. I
thought it best to let you know. At any rate you see she is your enemy, and
you will, therefore, not permit her to speak with you.'

There was something, I know not what, that led me to suspect he feared to
have her speak to me—something that produced in my resolution an entirely opposite
effect from what he intended. I recalled her looks of fear—her glances
of tender interest—her expression of sorrow—her evident fear of my father and
his power over her, and I made up my mind that she was a victim of his tyranny
as well as I; that she had sought him for other purposes and objects than that
he had fabricated to my ears, and that she was my friend rather than my enemy.
I did not, however, expose the secret judgment of my mind to my father, but
merely answered quietly—

`I thank you, sir, for your caution. Will she remain here till morning?'

`Yes—perhaps longer,' he answered hesitating. I have some business touching
property in the South I wish to speak with her about, and besides I wish to
question her more fully in relation to this matter of Bertrand's.'

`Of that, sir, I am now quite well satisfied,' I answered.

`I doubt if she is married to him, but I have no question but that she is betrothed
to him; and that Bertrand has rendered himself, therein, unworthy of
you.'

`Let her tell me this herself, and I can then judge,' I answered.

`My word must be sufficient for you,' he answered; and then adding, `I
trust you will now let no further hopes of this young man deter you from giving
your consent to marry de Rosselau.'

`I do not believe Bertrand to be false, sir.'

`Who do you think this woman is, then? What motive other than this has
brought her, a stranger to you?' he asked angrily.

`That, sir, you can best answer, perhaps; I cannot,' I replied.

`It is well you cannot,' I heard him murmur as he left the room.

`Mistress Marie,' said my maid, coming in as my father left, and trembling as
she spoke; `do you know that lady in mourning what came in de coach half
hour ago.'

`Well, what?' I asked eagerly.

`She has been weeping in de library while master in here; and afore when
she first came and he saw her in de hall—soon as he saw her lift her veil he
grew black in de face and curse her so wicked. But she take his hand and say
something and cry, and den he go into de library wid her. And den I hear him
scold her, and hear her sob, and three time, Missy Marie, I hear him say he
kill her, she no go right away. Den I hear him swear and den she say something
'bout you, and den he tell her she must keep some secret or he shoot her
on de spot. Den little while he come out and go to your room and de strange
lady follow wringing her hands and he cursing her to keep quiet.'

This narration of the girl's aroused my curiosity and awakened my interest
in the mysterious stranger, who for some end my father had represented as my
rival and enemy; neither of which did I believe; for I could not believe you
false; and it was difficult to regard as my foe one, who in looking upon me had
poured from her eyes into my soul a flood of the most extraordinary affection—
which found a strange echo in the deepest recesses of my being. No, I could
not believe such an one false and hostile. It was easier to believe that she was

[figure description] Page 037.[end figure description]

a victim of my father's tyranny, and acted by his commands. That night, I retired
late; for much thinking kept me up. I had just laid down filled with a
restless curiosity to know who she could be, for she was still an inmate of the
house and, as my maid informed, had been ordered by my father to occupy the
chamber over mine. I could hear her step as she moved to and fro across the
floor in ceaseless motion, hour after hour, and this kept me from sleeping. I resolved
that I would not leave the house till I had had an interview with and
learned precisely why she came on this extraordinary visit. My maid had informed
me that she took her tea in the library alone, whither my father had ordered
it, and that he himself had escorted her to the door of her chamber, left
her with a severe threat that was not understood, and locking the door upon her
returned to the library. I had, as I have said, just laid down, when I heard
a horse led up to the door. Looking out secretly I saw my father mount him
and ride away at a rapid pace down the avenue. I now resolved to embrace
the opportunity to see this stranger; for as he had gone on horseback I
knew that he would be away perhaps for an hour or a much longer time. I
herefore hastily dressed myself, and went to my door. But my father had not
forgotten his care of me, and it was locked on the outside, I and my maid being
locked in. I was about to go to the window, raise it and leave that way and
get into the house, if possible from without, and so to the stranger's room; and
I had sent my servant Jennette out by the window to see if the house could be
entered that way, when I was startled by a low knock at my door. My blood
run cold in my veins. I trembled with a strange feeling of alarm. I knew it
must be the stranger, for it was the touch of a light hand.

I began to fear the stranger. My mind was suddenly filled with apprehensions
of some great evil of which she was to be the instrument. I shrunk from
the door, and stood transfixed without daring to speak, and painfully listening.
The knock was repeated. I grew bolder and answered as firmly as I could.

`Who seeks admittance?'

`One who would embrace this moment of freedom to speak to you,' answered
a voice of singular sweetness of cadence, but earnest and thrilling.

`I cannot open to you, if I would,' I answered. `If perhaps you find a key
on the outside you may enter!' was my response in a resolute tone; for I was
now deeply interested to have speech with this mysterious person.

`It is in the lock,' was the reply.

The key turned slowly and felt as if it was turning in my very heart, so
wrought up were my feelings at the prospect of seeing and speaking with her.
A lamp was burning upon my toilet table and reflected in the mirror threw a
two-fold brilliancy over the room. The door openod and it fell full upon her
person. She was still in black, but her raven hair was now bound up, and her
countenance was more composed, yet no less beautiful than when I before beheld
her enter with my father. She was paler and sadder. She fixed her eyes
on me steadily—tears came into them—she sprung forward and knelt at my
feet—caught my hand and bathed it with tears and covered it with kisses. Half
terrified, I shrieked, I believe, broke from her and retreated to the opposite side
of the room. She rose from the floor, folded her hands humbly. Oh, so humbly
upon her bosom, and looked so sad and tearful that I could have wept when
I heard her say—

`Yes, fly me, lovely one. It is thus I deserve to be shunned by thee. Alas,
alas! for me there is no love—no love.'

I approached her—I took her hand—I spoke gently to her—I led her to a seat
and sat by her. She would have knelt to me again, but I embraced her and
bade her tell me her sorrow, and wherefore she had come hither, and what it
was on her heart she would reveal to me.

She made no reply for a few moments; but sat gazing fondly into my face, as
I have seen young mothers bend their eyes of affectionate pride upon the faces
of their first born. She then rose, and crossing the room, secured the door, and
returning to me, took my hand in hers and said—but Edward, I cannot write
further. My pen refuses to express the words of shame and dishonor I feel it
my duty to write. Spare me—at present—another time--soon—perhaps in a

[figure description] Page 038.[end figure description]

few days I shall be able to write. Only know this—that it is the last letter you
will ever get from me from my father's house. Events have transpired—the
story of that mysterious woman—the tearful destiny that is mine to fear—all
render it necessary for your honor and happiness that you should forget me!
To-night I fly—not from de Rosselau—not from my father's tyranny—but from
myself—from you—from the world. Within three hours I fly from hence leaving
no trace of my flight. It is sixteen days since that night when she told me
her tale! Sixteen days during which I have been part of the time wild with
delirium. Part of this letter was written before then—part since! I will, when,
I reach the asylum I am about to seek once more, write you and explain what
now my mind refuses to dictate! Till then, farewell—farewell forever!'

CHAPTER IX. The Journey.

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The letter left an inscrutable painful mystery. Bertrand's disappointment
and anxiety almost drove him mad. `Why had she closed her communication
so abruptly. What fearful thing had she to reveal? What evil had befallen
her? Why should she subscribe herself wretched and lost!'

These and a hundred other inquiries rushed through his mind as the stage, its
speed quickened by his earnest appeals and offers of reward to the coachman,
rolled swiftly on. The idea that she had been forced into a marriage with the
Baron de Rosselau was uppermost in his mind; but if so how could he account
for certain expressions in the letter showing her deep love for him.

`No, it would not be that Marie would ever wed this man!' he said very
positively; `she should have died first by her own hand! What then, if I reject
this horrible idea, what then has occurred—what great evil has befallen
her?'

In vain attempts to resolve this question to the satisfaction of his own mind,
he passed the day of travel. As the stage approached Boston he learned from
the driver that it would pass along the tunpike part the very gate-way leading to
the avenue of Colonel de Heywode's villa.

This intelligence filled him with joy; as it would bring him sooner to the
knowledge of her fate, and he resolved to leave the stage there and let it take his
baggage on into town. The moon was about half an hour high as, on descending
a hill, the `Vale of Eden' was visible with its numerous villas, gardens,
groves and sparkling brooks. In ten minutes afterwards the coach was traversing
the turnpike before described as passing through this beautiful scene, and
along which Marie had escaped northward three nights before

`I will not go on so far as the avenue gate but alight here,' said Bertrand,
as the stage entered a woodland that bounded Colonel de Heywode's estate.
`And now, my good driver,' he said handing him his purse, take this for your
good speed. And I want another favor of you. I have some business before
me which requiries secrecy. Will you lend me your white coat with the dozen
capes, your brown broad brimmed hat, and your gloves and whip. In exchange
I leave you my cloak, cap, gloves, and this money, till I see you again
at the stage office in the city.'

`You seem to be a nice gentleman, sir, and I am willing to oblige you,' answered
the coachman, preparing to make the exchange. `Some love affair I
reckon, sir, from the way you have wanted to push ahead, and some words I
overheard you talking aloud to yourself! I don't care for your cloak and other
things, sir, unless you want me to take them into Boston!

`I do,' answered Bertrand as he alighted.

In a few minutes the young officer was completely disguised as a stagecoachman.

`Now, if I don't feel like gettin' inside myself, sir, and lettin' you take the
box, for bless me, if you don't look like a regular coachee, begging your pardon,
sir! Vell, I wishes you success; but I hopes you wont get into no out
and outer scrape in them coverin's, coz the name of `Bill Rowley's, writ on em
all inside, and I don't want to be `sponsible for my fixins when I is'nt in 'em!'

Bertrand promised him that they should not bring any discredit upon him;
and hastened on his way first towards the cottage of widow Bray, hoping
faintly, that he might find Marie there; for he was satisfied that she had fled to
some refuge directly after closing the letter he had last read.

The driver putting on an old `weather-coat' that lay upon his box, and mounting
his `storm-cap' instead of the articles he had doffed to oblige his passenger,
once more drove on, satisfied that if he never beheld his apparel again, he had
their full value in the purse which he held safely in his pocket.

Bertrand had been two years before on a visit to Marie a few days, and
he was familiar with the grounds about the estate; for he and the maiden had
often travsrsed them on foot and in the saddle He knew the position of the

[figure description] Page 040.[end figure description]

cottage and soon reached it by a path through the wood. It was dark, silent
and seemed deserted. He knocked at the door and was answered from within
by the voice of the good dame.

`It is a friend—rise and let me speak with you,' he called to her.

The good dame, who had nothing to fear in her poverty from the cupidity of
thieves, rose, struck a light and opened the door.

`Oh, you are a stage-man,' she exclaimed as the light fell upon his costume;
`have you upset or is any thing the matter?'

`No, madam;' answered Bertrand, entering; and closing the door behind
him, he said, `I am here to ask you if you know whether Miss de Heywode is
still at home! She is a friend of yours, I believe!'

`Miss Marie, is indeed my friend, sir! But for her bounty I should have
been in the alms-house. All these comforts are her gifts. But, ah! sir, you
ask me a sad question! She is not at home! She disappeared three nights ago
very suddenly, and no one has been able to find any clue to where she went!'

`She has then escaped,' ejaculated Edward with a feeling both of relief and
alarm; for if she had escaped he felt she could not have been made de Rosselau's
wife! But he quickly asked, trembling to hear—

`Do you know if she was married.'

`Married! Lord love you, no, Mr. Coachman? You mean to that Frenchified
Count.'

`Yes.'

`Why that is what she run away from, is my opinion. She'll never marry
but one person, and that is the young officer as was here to see her two years
ago and used to ride about and walk about with her! I've heard her speak of
him with tears of love in her eyes; for she used to come and talk with me, and
told me at times much of her young heart.'

`Then she is escaped indeed, if she has escaped from him,' said Bertrand,
forcibly.

`Yes she is escaped; and I didn't know of it till the Colonel came ridin' up
here yesterday noon, to ask me if she wasn't here, or if I hadn't seen her! and
they got down and searched all through my house but didn't discover her;
though, if she wanted shelter with me, I would hide her if I had to lose my life
keeping her from bein' found!'

`You are a faithful good woman. I see I can trust you! I am not what you
think. These garments are only borrowed! I am the young officer who was
here two years ago. If you look at me closely and also at my uniform under
this box-coat you will recognise me, perhaps.'

`Yes, lord love you, and so it is the very face and the very gold on the coat.
And what a pity that Miss Marie is gone.'

`I got a letter from her saying she was about to fly from home. I have hastened
hither and have but just arrived in the stage that passed a few minutes
ago on the turnpike. Before going to the villa I came here, because she wrote
me that possibly she might seek refuge with you. But she has not so.'

`No, sir; and I am very sorry, because, poor dear, she will soon be found,
and I could have kept her safe hid, I know That Count and her father will
have to answer for this,' she said with anger. `She told me when she was
last here, how she wished you were here to free her, and that if her father
pressed the marriage she should escape from it in one way or another. And
poor sweet! she has gone and nobody knows whither.'

`Are you sure that nothing else has occurred to drive her away? Nothing
besides dread of this union with the Frenchman?' asked Bertrand, recalling
the painful evil, which had closed, as well as begun, her last letter to him.

`Nothing, as I have heard, sir. Wasn't that enough, 'deed?'

`Yes, it was,' answered Bertrand with bitter emphasis. `Poor Marie! Where
are you now wandering. What pillow shelters your head. What roof covers
you.'

`Do not give way to despair, young sir. God is over all and the good will
be protected from the wicked. That is my faith.'

`And a very strong and proper faith it is. Can you give me no clue, my dear
madam?'

`No, sir, pity's me I cant.'

At this moment a hand was heard moving the latch without and the door

[figure description] Page 041.[end figure description]

slowly opened, and in peeped the wooly head and sable countenance of Moses
the African. The widow who had started back with a half cry of terror recovered
her self-possession on recognising him to be the old servant of Colonel
Heywode whom she had often seen accompany his young mistress as bearer of
her bounties.

`It is nobody but uncle Moses sir,' she said, seeing the young officer regard
him with curiosity, and with a look of surprise, at his stealthy mode of entering
the hut.

`I recognize him, now,' answered Bertrand, with an expression of pleasure.
`I am your old friend, lieutenant Bertrand, Moses?'

`But am you massa Frank, sure?' answered Moses, who on seeing the supposed
coachman, had been half disposed to retreat. His face wore a look of
alarm as he entered, and he seemed to be in apprehension of some danger from
without; and as he answered, he bolted the door and stood against it.

`What is that for, master Moses?' asked the dame.

`To keep out any body dat want Mose,' he answered with signs of fear, and
in a trembling tone. `Dar be no place for Mose up to de villy, missy Bray!' he
said, shaking his head. `Ah massa Frank, 'tis you for sartain! I wish you
come sooner!'

`What has just occurred?' demanded Edward.

`Master's gone stark mad and goes 'bout with a pistol cursin' orful! He
shot him favorite horse dead, and den dere's been a funeral!'

`A funeral?' exclaimed Bertrand and the dame in one breath.

`Yes, massa; and dat is no place for dis nigger no longer; so he come here
for hide little while, and morrow he go orf. Now Miss Marie has really escaped?
' asked Edward with deep and painful interest, and putting this question
in hopes of drawing more from him touching her flight.

`It am true, massa. She wait for young massa Frank Bertrand come from
ober de sea and marry her, but he no come in time; and her father say she must
marry de Count, and so she get out ob her winder and escape in de night from
de villy! Den massa he take on like mad when he know it, and de Count he
swear, and dey ride dis way and dat, and for two, three days they done notin'
but ride after her; and now massa has shot his horse and he swear he kill ebery
individual 'bout de place; and 'specially old Mose, coz he spec me know
whar missy Mary gone! De Count am gone orf to Boston, and massa hab de
house to hisself, now de corpse is buried!'

`What corpse?' demanded Bertrand, with surprise and curiosity.

`Why dat ov de strange woman! no body know who she whar! She come
dere 'bout three week ago in a town carriage jest at dark, and hab some dreadful
scene wid master in his lib'ry. Massa know'd who she was, but no body
else didn't. Well, she stay dar most three week, massa keepin' her lock up in
her room and nobody neber see her nor speak to her; massa he carry her all her
viittels and dar she stay; and he all time lookin' awful out ob his eyes when
anybody look at him. Well, she die three day ago, and when she die nobody
wid her but master. We hear her groan but nobody dars'nt stir; coz massa
say if any ob de servants' go to her room he kill em dead!'

`This is a most extraordinary affair,” said Bertram, who had no difficulty in
identifying this person with the female alluded to by Marie in her letter. `Go
on Moses, I would hear all you know.'

Moses, after listening with his ear at the door, to be sure than no one was approaching
the cottage, then resumed:

`After she die, master make de women lay her out in de dinin' hall, and he
had it hung wid black and keep de key. No body go in dere but hissef! Dat
night after she die, Missy Marie get out ob de window and 'scape. Dis mornin'
massa had a grave dug under some tree by de brook and after dark came to
night he had de coffin carried there by four of de servants. De coffin hab a
brack cloth over um, and massa, dressed in brack, walk behind it. He makee me
carry a candle, and when de men lower de coffin in de grave he gave each of
dem two candles and tell em light em by mine. Den he put de seben candles
round de grave and tell us all go 'way. Den we go, but I stop good way off and
see him kneel down and hear him talk as if he was prayin'! By and be he came
back to the house and tell me go fill up de grave. I and Peter went mazin'
frightened, but we darsn't disbey master, and when we got to de grave de

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candles was gone and de coffin laying silent and dark in de bottom. We soon
covered it up, and jist as I had got through, one ob de farm people came and
tell me master was mad—had shot him horse dead—walked about wid a loaden
pistol and swear he kill me when I come in, coz he spec' I know whar Miss
Marie be!'

`And do you know?' demanded Bertrand, who had listened with surprise at
the foregoing narrative of Moses.

`True as de lord, massa Frank, I don't. I see her ony to de wood whar she
leab her hosse; and dis I tell my wife Dinah, and I spose she tell some order
one, and oder one tell anoder and so massa guess dat dis nigger know.'

`What wood? what do you know? what did you tell your wife Dinah?' demanded
Bertrand with animation.

`I tell Dinah when she ax me so much I no able to say no, I tell her, coz she
promise she keep 'em secret, I tell her—'

`What did you tell her?' cried Edward with impatience.

`How tedious he is,' exclaimed the dame.

`I tell Dinah, dat after Miss Marie get out ob de window, I go meet her wid
her favorite horse, Browny, at de outside ob de garden gate in de field; and she
get on and I lead him down de hedge to de pike and dere we gets through and
she goes galloping up de pike, which we run after to cotch my horse what I leff
tied under de bridge!'

`Then you were with Marie when she made her escape, Moses?' cried Bertrand
taking the old man's hands in his; `for mercy's sake go on and let me
know all! What bridge? when was this? At what hour? When did she go?
Where is she now?'

`Lor' bress my soul, massa Frank. You knock de poor nigger ober and ober
wid so many 'terrogations one a top ob de oder and all comin in a heap. De
bridge where I leff my horse am de old bridge whar you used to catch trout,'

`And she crossed this bridge northward.'

`Yes, massa. A'ter I'd found my nag I mounted him and galloped a'ter her,
and if she didn't lead Croppy a race he nebber know'd what gallopin' on four
legs was afore in his born days.'

`How far, and where did she ride? what hour was it?'

`It was about nine o'clock, and star-light coz the moon wasn't riz so early
three nights ago.'

`It was three nights ago?'

`Yes, massa Frank. Last night am one, de night afore am two, and de night
afore dat am three.'

`That is four nights instead of three.'

`It will be four nights to-morrow mornin, massa; dis night aint gone yet.—
Nigger know how to count sure.'

`And where did she ride to?'

`Well she kept on de pike about haff an hour or may be less, till you come to
the road that turns off north east, that road you once rode with her when you
went to see the Cambridge colleges.'

`I remember it. It is full four or five miles along the pike to it. And in
this side road how far did you go?'

`About three miles when Croppy guv out, lay down in de road and swear he
no gallop no furder. Mistress then tell me she ony want me to go two miles
furder to bring back Brounny and say she rode on and fasten him to a tree at
de foot ob beach-nut hill. So she rode on, and den I went on after her, and
den Croppy he come too and gallop past me; and when I come to de foot ob de
hill I find Brounny tied and Croppy standin' by him, but I neber seed nothin'
ob young missus. I holler, and I look ebery whar and I ride on a mile, and I
see nothin' ob her. So I took Croppy back, coz she told me I must do so, and
put him in de stable and get to bed afore ma sa could know nothin' about it.—
Dat am all Mose know, massa Frank, and all he tell Dinah; and if massa Heywode
kill me dis am all me know 'bout it sure as de Bible.'

Bertrand had listened to this narrative with an interest that can moe easily

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be imagined by the reader than described. Although it did not give him a clue
to her place of refuge, it relieved his mind by dissipating much of the uncertainty
and mystery which enveloped her flight. He, also, hoped to be able by
this description of the course taken by her, to be able yet to ascertain where she
had sought refuge.

`Will you go with me, Moses, if I will protect you?'

`Yes, massa Frank.'

`Will you show just where your young mistress left her horse?'

`Yes; for I know de tree in de dark.'

`Then come with me. At the first Inn I will obtain a conveyance of some
kind, for it is far for you to go on foot, and I am too impatient to walk.'

Taking leave of the good dame, and promising to give her intelligence if he
should hear from the fair fugitive, and receiving from her a promise in return,
that if she heard of Marie she would at once give him information at a place in
town the number of which he left with her, he bade her good night, and followed
by Moses, took his way in the direction of the turnpike.

CHAPTER X. The Convent.

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It was nearly midnight when Bertrand reached the wood at the entrance of
which Moses told him the lovely fugitive had secured her horse, and at which
point she had disappeared. He and Moses were both on horseback.

`Dis am de very tree, Massa Frank,' said Moses, dismounting and placing his
hand emphatically against the trunk.

`How far it is from here into Boston?' asked Bertrand, after surveying the
place closely.

`It 'bout four mile, p'raps not so much, p'raps it mout be litty bit ober,' answered
Moses. `But she no go to town, coz if she wos I cotch up with her sure,
Massa Frank, coz dat was de fuss road I go looking after her on, soon as I get
the hosses.'

`I will examine this place accurately by daylight, survey the country round
from the top of the hill, see what roads lead from this point and then make my
search; for I shall not let myself rest until I obtain some trace of her,' added
Edward with firmness.

`I hope we find her, Massa Frank; but I 'fraid we nebber see her agen! She
tell me not to look ater her, coz it would be unpossible to find her.'

Bertrand made no reply. He remained walking vp and down before the tree
in a little patch of moonlight that found its way to the ground through the
branches above him. All around him was still. Not a sound disturbed the
woodland stillness of the midnight hour. Bertrand was revolving in his mind
the events that had transpired, and endeavoring to come to some conclusion as
to the place which Marie would be most likely to choose for a refuge.

Suddenly he was conscious of a shout of human voices borne through the air
to his ears, apparently from a great distance.

`Did you hear dat, Massa Frank?' exclaimed Moses starting to his feet, for
he had thrown himself upon the ground to indulge in a nap.

`Yes. There it is repeated and more distinctly. It is the shout of a multitude!
What can it mean?'

`It werry 'markable, massa! P'raps it massa Haywood comin' arter dis
Moses!

`Dont be alarmed! The voices are in another direction—apparently over
this hill and beyond it! Let us hasten to the summit?'

`Mounting, and putting spurs to their horses they galloped to the top of the
hill; and Bertrand seeing the side path which led to the highest elevation, and
the same which Marie had taken four nights before, he entered it and dashed on
to the top, the voices of the multitude growing louder and more imposing in
their volume as he advanced. He soon emerged in the open space, described in
the first chapter of this story, from which he had a full moonlight view of the
convent upon the summit of Mount Benedict over against him. The edifice
stood stately and beautiful in the moon-beams, and a holy calm seemed to surround
and rest upon it. But to the right of the sacred edifice farther down the
hill he beheld a vast black moving mass of human beings, from the bosom of
which ever and anon up rose the fierce shouts that had reached Bertrand's ears
beyond the woodland. He reined in his horse, and stood gazing upon the hill
and listening to the appalling cries with amazement. The dark masses moved
onward and upward like a huge billow, and went roaring as it rolled towards
the convent like the surges of the ocean.

Some of the men he saw bore torches which were waved above their heads
uttering shouts and fierce cries that were undistinguishable from his position.

`What can all this mean?' he exclaimed turning to Moses as if possibly he
might explain.

`Why dat am impossible to say, massa Frank,' answered Moses who looked
quite terrified at the scene before him; but you knows dat is de Convent; and

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I hear say t' oder day dat dere was a mity great quarrel tween de town people
and the Catolic's bout a young 'ooman as dey say was stole by em and 'locked
up in dere; and p'raps dis is de people wot is gwine to let her out; coz I stinctly
hearn one voice say jiss now,

`Down wid de gate!'

`Is it possible that this outrage can be meditated? I heard nothing of this
quarrel; but I have been at sea! It impossible that this ferocious multitude
are bent on the destruction of that beautiful and hallowed structure, that seems
so calmly reposing, as if unconsious of the tempestuous waves of human passion
about to break against its walls. Hark! what savage cries! Follow me or remain
here, as you will, Moses; I must go there. There needs one at least who
is not mad at such a scene as this is likely to be! Some one to save and protect
the innocent—for doobtless that building, so fearfully menaced by that
that rolling onward mass, contains females--the young and unprotected, the old
and infirm.

`Me nebber stay behind you, Massa Frank,' answered Moses stoutly.

But his reply did not reach Bertrand's ears, who had put spurs to his horse
and dashed down the hill and across the intervale. As he ascended Mount
Benediet, the shouts of the mob filled the air, and when he came upon the level
of the hill, the gates were already assailed, and men with stones were dashing
in the windows of the convent and others hurling blazing torches through the
openings into the interior. The walls were encompassed with people and cries
of the most terrific and sanguinary character rose on all sides. Being mounted,
Bertrand, who had but one thought, and thnt was of protecting the inmates
whom he could see flying from window to window, filling the air with shrieks,
spurred his horse round to the rear, as the crowd was so dense in front as to
render approach to the entrance they were battering down altogether impossible.
Giving his horse the rein he galloped around the walls to the rear, while
the shouts of the assailants, the thunder of their blows upon the gate, the constant
ringing of the convent bell, and the cries of the inmates fell upon
his ears.

On reaching the rear he saw the garden door thrown open and several females
rush wildly forth.

`Nay—flee not from me, I am here to protect you!' called out Bertrand, as
some of them would have turned back. Haste to some shelter. There is a
house across the field which you had best try to reach. Are there any within
that I can aid? Are all alarmed?'

`I fear not, sir,' answered Teresa, the portress, whom the reader has already
before seen; there are many sleeping in the different rooms—but the lady-Superior
is behind alarming and collecting them all.'

`Fly you with these young girls to yonder house. I will see what I can do
within; for in a few minutes the convent will be in flames and the mob in possession.
'

Teresa shrieked and gathering her young charges, full twenty in number,
about her, took the way across the fields. Leaping from his horse and throwing
the rein to Moses, Bertrand hastened through the gardens and entered the
court of the convent. It was filled with females.

`Are all assembled here, my dear madam?' he asked of the lady-Superior
whose dignified appearance at once declared her rank.

`All, sir. We have then a friend among all these foes,' she exclaimed.

`Yes. I am here to do what I can to save you and yours, before the mob enter.
You have no time to lose. The cornice of the wing and the tower are already
in flames; and in another moment the gate will give way.'

`Were it not for these I would here remain and meet the storm and perish,'
answered the lady-Superior firmly.

`Do not hesitate. Through the gardens and to the house in the valley. The
other party have fled in that direction. Haste, and if anything can be done to
save the edifice after you are gone in safety, I will do it.'

`Heaven will not forget your goodness, sir,' answered the lady-Superior as
she retired with the rest of the youthful family under her protection. She had
not reached the outlet of the garden, when the gate yielded, and the mob rushed
in like a torrent. Armed with torches they flew to all parts of the edifice and
kindled it in a hundred different places at once. In a few minutes the red flames

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shot their forked tongues high above the roofs and towers, and illuminated the
landscape far and wide. Wildly the convent bell, rang by an aged nun who remainded,
sounded to and fro the alarm, and the bells of the town answered back
from every steeple; but it seemed more like the merry peal of rejoicing than
the stirring fire alarm which rouse all men from deep sleep and moves them to
fly to protect and to save. None came now but to gaze from a distance in wonder
and awe, and some perhaps with sorrow, or to rush onward to aid in the
work of destruction.

Bertrand confronted the mob and made an eloquent appeal to them within
hearing of his voice in behalf of religion, humanity and order. He was not listened
to, and even ferocious looking men with blackened faces pressed upon him
with threats of violence. Every where over the edifice, in the gardens and chapel
the mob dispersed seeking what to destroy, as if fearing the fire would not
do its work. Driven from one wing by the flames and dense smoke they would
retreat to another. Sickened with the scene and his bosom burning with anger
and shame for his country, and melting with pity for the unfortunates who had
been driven forth at midnight, from the sacred covert that was now tumbling
into ruins around him, he mounted his horse on the outside and rode over to see
how the unprotected victims of popular fury, ignorance and guilt were sheltered.

`It is then all in ruins, sir,' said the lady-Superior to him gazing from the door
of the dwelling to which he had ridden up.

`I fear no portion of it will escape their vengeance,' answered Bertrand.

`Are you a son of the church, sir?' she asked fixing her eyes upon him with
grateful interest.

`No, lady, not of the Roman church, but of humanity.'

`The Protestants have forgotten that they are Christians, and have made
themselves do the deeds of savages. Bless thee, Mary Mother, that thou hast
taken to thee one lovely child ere this storm burst. Bless thee that dear Marie
was sheltered by thee ere the refuge she sought was destroyed by the ruthless
violence of men.'

`Whom do yon mean, lady? You have mentioned a name—though a common
one—yet which I cannot hear without emotion.'

`I mean, son, a fair sweet maiden of scarcely eighteen summers, who four
nights since sought an asylum with me in yonder Convent around which our
enemies are now gathered and above which rise, instead of the voice of prayer,
the shouts of blasphemy.'

`Did a young girl, called Marie, seek asylum with you four nights since?'
demanded Bertrand, hardly believing that he heard aright, or that it could be
he had found the beloved fugitive at last.

`Yes, my son. She came and asked me for shelter in the name of charity and
love. I was instantly struck with her beauty and an expression of intense suffering.
She asked me to give her an asylum from the evils of the world without,
and not betray her to any one who sought her there. She told me it was
her wish to pass her life in penitence and prayer; but adding that she felt she
should live but a few days. In my hand she deposited jewels of great value,
which she told me were lawfully hers, but which she desired to bestow upon the
church. The day after I received her, I visited her to learn her history for I
was deeply interested in her. But she communicated to me nothing save her
name.'

`And that?'

`Marie de Heywode.'

`Oh, madam, go—go on. I listen with my heart.'

`That night she sent for me saying she was ill and wished to see me. I found
her writing; and also in a high fever. I took her pen away and told her she
must lie down. `I shall soon rest, dear mother,' she said with a heavenly smile;
`I shall soon lie down and rest.' I understood her and wept. `I have finished
what I wished to write. Let me seal it and you may direct it,' she said, `and
when I am gone to my rest I wish you to send it to whom it is addressed.'

`And to whom was it addressed?' asked Bertrand, scarcely able to artiulate.

`To Mr. Bertrand, an officer in the navy.'

`Dear—dear Marie. And what more—what more'—he gasped. `Oh, tell

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me not she is dead,' he almost shrieked. `Tell me not my beautiful and noble
Marie—my beloved and idolized one is dead. Say not that she died?'

`Alas, sir, she died yesterday morning in my arms'

`Dead. Marie, dead,' he repeated with agony unspeakable.

`Yea, my son. But earth in losing a child has given to Heaven a seraph. Do
not mourn over one whose life here would have been one of tears and sorrow.'

`Died yesterday morning. Then she is not yet entombed. I must behold her
even in death. Where have you laid he?' her asked almost wild with grief.

`She was taken into the chapel; and after vesper's mass for the dead was said
over her; and the body, when we learned that the Convent was to be assailed
and that we must fly, I had placed in the crypt, beneath the altar, all wreathed
with flowers and robed in white as it was; for we did not intend to bury it until
to-morrow after vespers.'

`And the body of Marie is now in the crypt beneath the altar in the
chapel?' said Bertrand with deep emotion.

`Yes, my son.'

Without another word Bertrand dashed his spurs into his horse's flanks and
flew like the wind back to the Convent, which now presented a fearful but magnificent
spectacle rolling upward from a Mælstrom of roaring flame, vast clouds
of lurid smoke, charged with myriads of sparks that filled all the sky and shed
wide and far a baleful glare. As he approached the scene of conflagration, the
red light shining upon the faces and figures of the fierce men around, made
them look like demons.

Blinded by his tears and with his heart nearly breaking, his lips firmly compressed
to control his great sorrow, Bertrand at length reached the garden wall,
and throwing himself to the ground hastened in the direction of the chapel.—
Each step as he approached it, he felt he was pressing upon ground doubly hallowed
by holding the remains of Marie. He passed the burial place, in the gardens,
which he found broken open and desecrated by the sacriligious multitude,
who seemed to take a pride in dehumanizing themselves. The chapel was
broken open, and men were over-turning the altar with levers as he entered
it; while others had even dared to profane the sacred image of the cross by
hurling it to the ground and breaking it in fragments with stones cast upon i.

`Hold, monsters! Do you call yourselves Christian men?' cried Bertrand,
in a voice that made every man start. `That cross, if it be upon the Roman
altar, which is the object of your vengeance, is no less the sign of your salvation.
Are you become heathens, that you spare not even the holy and hallowed.
Stand back! Go forth! Do you not fear the roof of this sacred temple may
fall and crush you in sudden judgment!'

One by one the men withdrew, not one replying—not one offering to delay.
There was a majesty and power in Bertrand's deep grief and holy indignation
combined, that awed them, conscious as they were of guilt, and enforced obedience.
He stood alone within the chapel. Close by his feet was a slab with
a ring affixed to it which opened into the crypt. A fragment of the shattered
cross was upon it which he removed. He then stooped, and with a strong arm
lifted the slab. The crypt was shallow, being but two steps below the pavement,
and about three feet in deptn. The glare from the crackling flames
around, shone broadly into the vault. Bertrand kelt down and bowed his head
low to the very earth and wept like a child. He then raised her head and gazed
fixedly upon the sweet face before him. Calm, beautiful, like an angel sleeping,
she lay before him arrayed in her vestal robes with a crown of white flowers
yet unfaded and fragrant about her temples.

He stooped and kissed the lips and brow. He spoke not! His tears flowed
no longer. His grief had become too deep for expression.

A loud shout rose from the court of the convent and at the same instant the
tower fell with a crash that jarred the earth; and at the same instant the chapel
gnited.

`This is no place for thee, Maria, even when thou art dead!' he said, with
bitter woe. `I will bear thee to a quieter resting place than this. Though dead
thou art dear to me still! I will bear thee hence and find thee a place where
thou canst rest in peace and I can weep over thee.'

As he spoke he bent down and raised the body of her who was so dear to him
in his arms, and coveriag it with a shawl which one of the nuns had dropped in

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her flight, he hastened from the chapel and took his way along the avenues of
the garden, half of the time enveloped in the dark clouds of smoke that rolled
along the ground from the subterranean chambers of the convent. On reaching
the gate he found the faithful Moses with the horses. Seeing him bearing
off through the smoke some burden, and believing it to be treasures, several of
the mob set out a shout and followed him. He was already in his saddle, the
body of the lovely girl hanging across his left arm. A man sprung forward to
seize the bit, but Bertrand rode over him hurling him to the ground and the next
moment was descending the hill closely followed by the African, and soon disappeared
in the wood land beyond the summit of the other eminence.

Here terminates the story of the young priest as we have it in the manuscript
to which reference was made at the conclusion of our first chapter.

The reverend author without doubt has communicated therein all that he
knew in reference to the events which he has described; and knowing nothing
of Bertrand or of events that followed his departure from the burning ruins, he
has with this incident ended his romance.

We have had, however, the privilege of access to circumstances of a subsequent
date, and as they will serve to throw light upon the mystery which led
the unhappy Marie to fly to the Convent for an asylum, as well as upon that
enveloping the beautiful stranger-guest, we shall, as in duty bound to our readers,
shortly give them another story developing and unfolding every thing that
the young priest has left in obscurity.