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overcome by the unusual excitement her

“ Nothing.”

“Nothing!” she repeated. “Why do you speak so coldly to me?” Here her utterance choaked, and her eyes filled with tears. “Nothing, do you say—then why do you use me thus?”

“Use you thus how !” .

This was enough—she said no more, but sunk back in a swoon, exhausted—

feelings had undergone. The paleness of death spread over her face instead of the rose-like bloom that usually tinged her cheeks. Her cycs closed—and,--but for the heaving of her bosom as she respired,

new emotions were kindled in her heart as she fondled her little offspring to her breast. And whilst it lay sleeping in her arms, or rocked in its cradle—she watched by its side, unwearied, unceasingly. Thus was the stream of their existence flowing on, midst slowers and shade as it werewhen again the demon of jealousy was roused in the husband's bosom, fierce in denunciations—passionate, -inexorable From calm to storm—a sudden transition.

To her it was inexplicable. What had cau

sedito Something he had heard. What was it ! Whatever it was, deep within his breast rankled—boiling-raging—and cau.

of them hurried for a neighbouring physi-the winding up of his business.

it scemed as if life was extinct. sing the frequent emission of anger and

“What have I done" cried Theodore, passionate bursts, which might be comaccusing himself at once with the blame."paratively spoken of as resembling the “What have H done alas—Julia—love awful eruptions of Etna or yensuvius in revive, or I shall go wild with affright and the fury of their volcanic sires. At first dread" Loud were his cries for the they were indulged in only when and servants, who come around him fright- where they could not be audible to the ened from their beds, and, ascertaining cars of any—in secret—in solitude. the alarm, carried their mistress in. One I is first extraordinary movement was His occo. cian, and before morning. Mrs. West's niary circumstances were a sistent, his accouchment took place, giving birth to profits in commerce large, and it was ina daughter. - deed to be wondercol at that at such a time

And now, all her husband's former he should relinquish trade. But he did so tenderness was renewed—his momentary—sold his house in town, converted his jealousy forgotten. Nothing was fes, un capital into real-estate, mortgages, &c. done by him, that could possibly a send to and expressed his deter...ination of Resis

alleviate her sufferings. He was againing entirely at his séat on the Schuylkill, Consi- where at present he was passing the sunr.

the fond—the feeling husband. dence was restored between them. Un- nyer. " - - - pleasant recollections were hushed, and The officious world is ever ready to the stal of happiness again shone out, as praise or condemn. Judging from a nobright as ever, upon the fortunes and mentary impulse, it unhesitatingly passes home of the happy pair. - the opinion with which it is first impressed 'The day subsequent to this event, in--without consideration—without inqui. formation was brought to the mansion ring the cause. When particulars are not that Byard was home again—returned at once revealed, it is sure to suppose the from Europe. - - worst—always: when at the same time CHA-TER II. . . . . causes diametrically opposite may have Six weeks glided by. Mr.West returned transpired to produce the cssocis. So was to his business in the city, and was re-it on this occasion. His friends, acquaingularly at home in the evening—as soontances and relatives, all objected to the as possible always. , All his joys were course he was pursuing. They were cer. centered in Julia—she was to him like|tain he would repent it, they said. Rethe star that guided the wise men of the tirement had its charms they acknowledgeast—she influenced all his exertions, and ed—but for those advanced in years, not not an hour in the day did he suiser to pass for the young, the gay-hearted. Thus without his thoughts reverting to her and would they reason with him, but they fell the child. The incident of the flute, and not as lic did—they felt not the convulsive that of the singing was thought of no more pangs and conflicting throes that agitated —neither was repeated. Maternal tenderness occupied much of Julia's time, and it as easy to follow it.”

his breast. It is casy to give advice—is

sy throng of active life.

upturned to heaven, she stood, pale and mo

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But his wife—for her falls the tear of pity as I write, whilst of her sorrows I think,and with a tremulous hand continue this page. How changed was her husband—how altered from what he was No longer he displayed the tenderness and warmth with which he usually returned her caresses— but haughty and distant was his manner and unmeaningly fixed on her was the hitherto expressive glance of his eye. For along time she endured it rather than upbraid; but at last it sunk deep within her heart, there to canker. Heroically she had stemmed the torrent of her feelings, but finally sunk under it—washed upon the beach of her expiring hopes—not drowned—but mentally inschsible. I do not mean that her reason was affected, but that indifference and neglect on his part had blunted it. A drowned person may be taken from the water, and the vital spark is to all appearance extinct, but by the application of resuscitatory powers, circulation of the blood is restored, and the inanimate being called back to the buSo was it with her; her ardent love for Theodore, which had so long supported her, was now in a state of torpor, but ready at any moment to awake again, with all its former cnergy, if called to life by him. In order to shelter her reputation from the blight of calumny, and to hurl back on her traducers the arrows directed against herself, Mrs. West had repeatedly demanded of Theodore the nature of her offence; since offended she had. He invariable shunned a positive answer, to some other subject he would revert, or else abruptly leave her to herself, in silence and alone, weeping. “Oh, that my heart would break, and end its miseries at Once " she would exclaim, at moments like these, as, with clasped hands and eyes

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amidst it not one kind word ceived from him ''' Yes, frequently had she asked him— entreated, implored and prayed to share the sorrows of his heart. Around his neck she would throw her arms, imprint upon his lips the kiss of eager love, and by every tenderness persuade. But, there's a time when forbearance ceases to be a virtue; when to endure is to sin; and that crisis had now arrived in the sufferings of Julia; for her to suffer longer, was to do wrong. She had done all in her power —all that she could do—and her resolution was fixed to plead with him no more. The smiles of her daughter, the infant Julia, were the only smiles she met. She became an object of suspicion to the domestics of the establishment even, with the one exception of old Margaret, the housekeeper. For when in her presence, they silently surveyed her with glances of doubt and diffidence, considering her a guilty woman. Her husband became worse and worse daily. To his lips he raised the intoxicating cup, and drank of it; whilst in secret he no longer vented his passions, but at any moment and before any eye. What a change — what a source of regret!—how different from the happy pair we have previously described them He a drunkard, an! sh —broken heartcd It was now the month of October, nearly three months having passed since the birth of her child. And here let me røstime the narrative. “Manuel,” said Mr. West, addressing one of his scrvants, one on whom he had conferred innumerable favours, and whom he honoured with his particular confidence. “Mannel”— “Sir” responded the other, entering the room where his naster was seated, and standing at his side. “Have you seen her ?” “. . os, sir.” “Where is slic l’”. “In her chamber, reading.” “And the cilild—where is it? with her —or has the nurse charge of it?” “'Tis asleep in its mother's arms.” There was a short pause. The servant stood at his side, whilst the questioner |cancú back upon his chair, shading his eyes with the palm of his hand, and a long drawn sigh cocaped from his bosom.

have I re

“You have seen nothing further, have you?” “No sir—nothing.” “Watch her, and bring me word immediately if you perceive anything more.” “I Will.” “A glass of wine—quick.” The servant obeyed, poured out the wine, handed it to his master, and at a draught the glass was drained of its contents, then returned to the domestic, who restored it to its place on the sideboard. “Now leave me; I wish to be alone— alone with my thoughts—alone with my misery 1” he said. As he spoke he sunk back into a reverie, with his eyes closed and his hand over his face. Manuel left, closing the door after him as he departed from the room, and went to the chamber of Mrs. West, where he found her—but not unexpectedly—engaged in packing into a small trunk several articles of wear. He entered the apartments so stealthily that his presence startled her, and she uttered his name with surprise ! “Hush—not so loud—” whispered Manuel, “or else we may be overheard. You'll be ready at the time appointed, will you?” “Yes —you're sure the boat will be waiting at the spot!” “..It will.” - “And the carriage on the other side of the river ?” “Yes; at eleven o'clock, I'll be under your window—come down immediately, and I'll conduct you to the boat.” “But the trunk—” “Tis a small one, and if you drop it from the window I can easily catch it. Remember at eleven l’” “I’ll not forget.” Left to herself, Mrs. West continued packing into the trunk the articles necessary for her purpose. Her resolution was fixed—she had resolved to leave her husband. The miseries of her present situation were more than she could bear and it was now the only remedy left. She was young—life is sweet—and the course she was about adopting seemed more as a duty enjoyed upon her by the will of Heaven than any inclination of her own. With the single exception of old Margaret, Manuel, the servant, was the only onc in the Gstablishment that scemed to take

any interest whatever in her fate. Circumstances had latterly introduced them to each other, and in the resolution she had taken he greatly aided her, and was perhaps her adviser throughout. Many and painful were the struggles that agitated her maternal bosom at the thoughts of leaving her go to InCVCr See it again! But leave it she must—she could not with consistency take it with her. As she finished packing, the clock on the mantle-piece struck six, and the twilight of evening began to close around her. She pulled a bell, and desired the servant who answer it to furnish her with a light. A lamp was brought, after which she fastened the door of the apartment and sat down to compose a letter. Tear after tear, many and fast, trickled down her colourless cheeks, as with a trembling hand she traced the anguish of a bursting heart! . She finishedit, scarcely able to sign her name at the bottom, and superscribed it to her husband. It was now ten o’clock—another hour, and then farewell to her home ! She went out upon the balcony, and taking a seat upon the place where so often she had sat with her husband, whiled away the intervening hour with a retrospect of the past—the days of her childhood— courtship—the death of her mother— marriage—the birth of her babe—and then her present pitiable condition. As the moment of her departure approached, her fears—or rather her regrets of the idea of leaving her child, augmented. “But he will take care of it—oh, yes! It never offended him if I have, and against his own he surely cannot harden his heart!” The clock strikes—eleven—and a slight cough is heard beneath her window. “Is it you Manuel 1" “Yes—drop the trunk—and as you come through the hall be careful not let any of the doors slam. Mr. West is up and pacing his chamber—I heard him.” The trunk was dropped and caught by Manuel. Julia shut ão the window, put a hat and cloak on, hastened through the entry, down the stairs, through the hall, and as she issued from the door was promptly met by Manuel with the trunk upon his sholders. He begged her to make haste for fear of accident or discovery. She took his arm, and they hurried down

to the river, where the boat lay moored with

a voice. “This way,” when at the same

—and he laughed within himself at his awn

edit advisable to keep silence herself.--ex

mean?” she exclaimed, finding words and

afforded she recognized the features of her

THE Manours or carissy.

ing figure: put all these together, and they

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a man ready at the oars. She entered, bade adieu to Manuel, and charged him to writé whenever she sent a letter herself. He promised to do so, shoved off the boat, and turned his steps towards the mansion again, whilst the stroke of the oars reached his ears

success. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The night was so dark that Julia could

not distinguish the face of the rower; and

as not a word was spoken by him she deem

pecting every moment to be landed on the opposite shore, there to enter a carriage which she supposed was in readiness for her. Ten minutes at least had passed, and still the rower continued his exertions. She knew the comparative width of the river— it certainly could not take so long merely to cross it—and she was, upon the point of making her alarm known, when the boat came abruptly against the side of a sehooner riding at anchor in the stream. Immediately the steps were thrown over the vessel's side, and Julia was desired to ascend. In amazement she did so, and before aware of what she was doing found herself upon deck. . ;

“ For Heaven's sake, what does this

coming to a sense of her situation. A dark night—on board of a strange vessel—and

around me I know not whom **.

“There are none but friends here,” said moment the cabin door was opened and she was asked to enter. Passively she complied and descended the steps—a lamp hung in the middle of the cabin, and by the light it cousin–Edward Byard 2 . “My cousin!” she exclaimed. . . . . . . ... “Ay—your cousin that loves you, Julia– loves you!” . . . . . . . . . . . . . “Betrayed "betrayed " . . . . . . . . . ”, continued)

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. A number of accomplishments, an engaging air, a heart full of falsity, the art of hiding his vices, and of knowing the weakHess of others; do not forget a most pleaswill give you a just picture of the Marquis de 8. the hero of this history. . .

Groomsman. . . . . . . . . . . . . 9

* *

-

* * * * * • * * * * ... •

men his lové; but the interestedness of his heart made him hold out against the vanity of success with them. Those of the fair

him the length of love, were rather animat

continued their designs upon him. . Raisel, and Mädémoiselle de Bugey. . . . of age, had a tall majestic statüre, and her

to this picture, by way of preparing, you

mate sensatiens, and those deep sentinents that penetrate into the soul instead of going off by evaporation. . . . . . . . . . . . . . * The other was sixteen: figure. to yourself all the freshness and bloem in the power of youth, to give, a lively piercing wit, with that inexpressible charm that resides in innocence and native ingentiousness. .

. Those two rivals were friends, and lived in the same circle of acquaintance. The Countess kept her own secret out of discretion, Adelaid de Bugey did not know that she had one to reveal. : Monsieur de Cressey learned it her; and availing himself of the advantage which experience and arti

| |fice gave him over her, little by little warm

ed her heart, and, by insensible gradations brought her to that dangeröus confession, of which loyers commonly contest the truth, till from proof to proof they draw on those they love to give them one, after which the doubt indeed; dissipates, but the desire takes its flight, and is heard of no more.

... To this proof the Marquis had well nigh |brought the fair Bugey, after a confession

that to him seemed an authority to demand

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|.ne does. The agitation of her heart sus

The men sought his friendship, the woVol.III. —I—2,... . . . . . . .

Pended the agreeable effects of her wit.

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sex, who, äished at no more than pleasing him; were disheartened by his indifference. Those who carried their sentinents towards ed by the difficulties of conquering it, and ... Amongst these last were the Countess de The first, a widow of twenty-six years eyes sparkling with fire and vivacity. Add

for the catastrophé, a tingture of that constitutional melancholy which supposes inti

but the fear of letting marks of her inclination escape her, gave her an air of reserve. and embarrassment, which was mistaken.

quis was not in company: in his presence

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to write her, i. . . . ;'. . . . . ... Chance, however, having: meet at a ball, gave occasion

these, nor others that the Marquis continued

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tions, that terminated in an interview with

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of the séason, the solitude in which they,

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him in a manner that could leive no room för mistaking them. A high birth, and a prodigious fortune; gavé.her a sortefright to hope and dare everything. Shá wrote

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the Marquis had received he attributed to Madam D'Elmönt. At this now summons, that cleared up the person of the writer,

now of bothing but of gaining Madam de i. .*. A "o. #o to the study of Her tastes, the natural air with. which he adopted them, his art § shewing

reigned in this place, the beauty of the ni lice,

ght; the periumé that

ing his accomplishments, and, golours of

himself under the most shining

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- * * , - - - - ,

* ... . . * ... . . . ." ". . . . . . . . . .* * * “. . . . . . . . . . . .''. ** * * - . . . - * * * - - ... o.o. o. . . . . ." ' ' '... : ‘‘. ... * *. - . . . . . . . . ..’ “ - “. . . . ... * * * * * : * ,

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n;half uncovered; all conspired to excite. by little and little in the mind of the Mar--.

power this senses usurp &grihe. o: * . *her... . tenderly, to his breast, and imprinted on her. .

his ambition was raised; he repented the oáths he had made to Adélaïd, and thought

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had tried in vain to make the Marquisgues her seikiments, at length déclared them to .

him a second anonymous letter; for the first

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