wood, and an advance of a few paces brought, her to a shaded plain, where a beautiful white mare was champing the boughs and grass. A tall horseman sprung forward the moment her form was perceptible. It was Edward Craven, and he clasped Ada in his arms with passionate warmth. No moon shone down upon the dell that night. But palely-spiritually through the forest branches came the light of the stars. On the horseman's lofty stature, on the woman's sylphlike form, glanced those myriad lustres, like angel eyes gazing unimpassioned on weak humanity. Strange and various were the scenes on which their glory fell upon that breathless eve. They lit the murderer to his victim, and the thief to the miser's gold; they soothed the infant praying beside its couch; they glittered reproachfully on many a wild debauch. But no sadder scene was lightened by their rays than the forest dell, where the faithless man and yielding woman walked hand in hand, talking of a love that was unhallowed. "Have you thought of what I said?" asked Craven in his low, soft tone, drawing her closer to his side as he spoke. Thought of it!" she faltered faintly; "could I forget to think?" "And for your father!" he added, "fear nothing regarding him, his welfare shall be as dear to me as your own. We will lift him beyond the rugged lot and weary toil that accord so little with his age-our wealth shall be his when we return !” "No! no! it cannot be," exclaimed Ada, bursting into a torrent of tears; "the thought would kill him; and shall I bring sorrow upon his grey hairs! No, no, let us part now, and for ever-why did we ever meet !" 66 "Ada!" said Craven, who was only maddened into wilder passion by the grieving beauty of the girl, we can not part, the time is past. Could such love as ours exist, if we had not been destined for each other?-impossible! Your heart will consent, if you have not ceased to love !" O the deep unutterable look that answered those words !-too well it showed the tempter's triumph and the woman's shame. Let us hasten over the rest. That very night the lovers fled. Sad news for the hoary father, who bowed his head, and never smiled again! Merry news to Craven's bachelor friends, who were extremely facetious on the subject when they discussed it over their brimming bumpers. Pregnant matter for scandal among the village gossips, especially among Ada's conquered rivals, who had foreseen her disposition all along, and only wondered she had not " gone off" before. Like almost every other event that befalls humanity, the tale occasioned both tears and laughter. Time passed, however, and curiosity died away with it, for few rumours reached them to feed its flame. Occasionally it was whispered that Edward Craven was travelling on the continent, and that a fair companion cheered his wanderings; sometimes it was hinted that they were in England, lounging among the fashionable watering places. But whatever the old man knew remained untold. If any allusion were made to the subject, he bent his head again between his hands, and maintained an icy silence. So at last inquiry ceased; and in the press of life the circumstance was yawned over and forgotten like a "twice-told tale." But it is not thus that we can leave the wanderers; our tale pursues them in their flight. Craven's first route was to a neighbouring seaport, where for many reasons he hoped to indulge unmolested in the possession of his beautiful mistress. It was the period when the London season is at its height, so that there was less fear of stumbling over relations or families with whom he was acquainted; and if the fair Ada was accidentally seen in a corner of his carriage by some prudish mamma, it was easier to escape inquiry in a watering-place, where his "locale" was unknown, than in the great Babel, where morning, noon, and night brought him in contact with his friends. There was another reason, moreover, that urged him thither, and it may plead as a redeeming point in the character of the libertine. The reader must not imagine that Craven had been utterly heartless and cold in his unfortunate crime. In the first instance, his actuating motives arose no doubt from a profligate vanity; but as he proceeded to the goal, these feelings were displaced by very different sentiments. The trustful confidence of Ada, combined with her magical beauty, inspired him with love-a despotic love that had never reigned in his heart before. To a man like Craven, who had drunk to satiety from the cup of dissipation, there was something irresistibly attractive in the discovery that there was still a youthful bosom which could beat in unison with his. He yielded himself to its witchery at once; he triumphed as we have seen; but that victory was not all that his nature demanded. After the first gush of passion, his intellectual powers resumed their wonted restlessness, and the unformed mind of the poor village girl was of course a blank in everything but its affection. Therefore it was that Craven bore his bird of beauty to the obscure town beside the sea. He determined to make the jewel worthy of the casket, to make her intellect as well as her heart responsive to his own, With this intent he hired masters of every description; he filled their retired cottage with every adjunct to luxurious refinement which wealth could provide. Books, busts, pictures, and musical instruments were lavished upon her with profusion, while he endeavoured to ac celerate her progress in the new world thus opened by pouring into her soul the treasures of his own knowledge. The scheme was not without success: natural talent did much, and love did more--for what cannot a young girl do who really loves--and when the foundation was once laid, the superstructure rose with steady rapidity towards the completion he desired. Now then, if ever, should have come the happiness he had sought to win. He possessed without restraint a being who loved him, a being whose mind no longer trammelled by ignorance, added fresh charms every hour to a form of unusual beauty; he revelled in luxury, and was rich in health, yet there were moments when his spirit languished to escape its thrall. An unruffled life grew wearisome for one who had been accustomed to alternate his studious days with nights of fierce excitement. He had no friend, whom he could introduce to their home. His bachelor friends would have striven to beguile away so fair a companion; his more staid acquaintance would have spurned her; there seemed no safety save in his present position, and every day rendered that position more irksome. Week by week his words became fewer, his rides more protracted, and his brow less serene; and when he reached home, their conversation flagged so heavily that he would take up a book and bury himself silently in its contents until the approach of dawn. Ignorant of the change that had overclouded his own manner, he was equally unaware of the effect upon Ada. He knew not how every cold reply and averted look struck like a dagger through her heart; for the sorrow of a sensitive mind remains untold, and no bitter upbraiding ever passed her lips. But he discovered it at last. One night he had cast his book aside somewhat earlier than usual. Taking the lamp, he proceeded to his chamber; and as he passed her couch, he stayed to gaze upon the sleeping girl. Her face was concealed by the luxuriant ringlets that had fallen around it, and as he swept them softly aside from her beautiful features, a low deep sigh escaped her. Some mournful dream was haunting her slumber: it was of him, for she murmured his name; and then an unbidden tear gathered upon her fringed eyelid, and coursed slowly down the cheek. Bending forward, he kissed away the unwelcome evidence of distress; but in that one tear the whole truth flashed upon him. He saw at once how much she had striven to bear, and how deep had been the sacrifice of endurance. For several minutes he paced the apartment in profound thought, and at last his course was fixed. He resolved, no matter what the risk, to seek an abode in town. So their little sea-side cottage was dismantled; a broker was ordered in to dispose of everything it contained; and when the last token of their brief sojourn had been brought to the hammer, Craven's travelling carriage bore them to London as fast as four steeds could hurry it. Ada looked despondent at first, but the evident satisfaction of her lover appeared in such heightened spirits that she grew more resigned. Every mile they covered seemed a furrow the less upon his ample forehead; he conversed again without restraint, nay even with glee, and was perpetually urging on the post-horses, as if (vain hope)-he could leave "reflection" behind in their deserted solitude. In spite of all, however, she could not conceal from herself that a change had come over the tone of his conversation. His new schemes of life spoke less of association with her than of his friends in society; and the idea of occasional separation, however short its term might be, was full of anxiety and torture. There is this wide distinction between the mistress and wife-that the former, if unhappy, cannot shelter her sorrow under the wings of friendship, or drown its recollection amid the thousand pursuits of a legitimate member of the human family. She has no friend; her position is not recognized; her moral and physical existence hangs on the breath of him who has led her astray. These, and many more such bitter reflections, dawned swiftly upon Ada's mind; and while they made her tremble for her future happiness, they deprived her of the power of enjoying the few consolations which the present afforded. Her emotions, however, were carefully suppressed from Craven's view. The long absent smiles that had now returned upon his countenance were too welcome to permit the expression of a syllable that might banish them again. She cast aside thought with a violent effort, and, drawing closer to her lover, linked her hand in his. And thus they entered into the mighty labyrinths of the modern Babylon. A few days of bustle succeeded; and at length the novelty of the first arrival wore off, and the pursuit of excitement palled upon them both. It was impossible to keep quite incognito; Craven's name crept into the papers, his acquaintance began to call, and as he could only permit a very small sprinkling of them to know that he had a companion, it became necessary to find a habitation for Ada apart from his own. At first she resolutely refused to leave him, and the mere proposal of separation elicited such scenes of passionate anguish that he was totally at a loss how to proceed. But by dint of persuasion and promises to be continually with her, she at last consented to this inevitable step, and he hired magnificent apartments in a street contiguous to his hotel. Having in this way carried his main point, he plunged with eager joy into the gaieties of the metropolis. There were very few drawing-rooms where Edward Craven was not a favoured guest. His prodigal hospitality drew male friends around him by the score; his wealth rendered him an object of intense interest to a numerous circle of managing mammas. Their invitations poured in for soirées and dinnerparties; the evening visits involved morning calls, and engagements in the park, until but little time remained which he could bestow upon Ada. Friendless and alone in the great capital, she now began deeply to lament her position. Her thoughts reverted mournfully to the humble but happy cottage she had left, and her father-but she dared not think of him! Another torment that weighed upon her heart was the circumstance that Craven seldom or never visited her alone. When she wearied of public amusements, he would bring friends to dine with him at her apartments; and the levity of their conversation, and the exhibitions of riot and intoxication that ensued, brought the terrible conviction to her mind of how low was the esteem in which she was really held. She demanded, begged, implored to be spared these inflictions, and to be treated as he had promised, but in vain. He made vows of amendment which were broken ere the week was past. The riots became orgies, that revolted her spirit with disgust; and one outburst brought on an eclaircissement which drove them, before the season was over, to Paris. it with trembling hands. Placing it with the money beside another packet that awaited him, she rose once more, gazed wistfully around the room on the mute evidences of their companionship that lay scattered about, and at length the die was cast: she hastened from the house. It was late in the night when Craven returned. From the absence of light in their apartments he imagined that Ada had retired to rest, and he cast himself wearily into a fauteuil for the purpose of perusing his letters before he joined her. The thicker enveloppe covered a business dispatch. He was about to cast it aside, when the Thus from scene to scene hurried the unhappy word "Immediate," on the inside cover, attracted pair, each haunted by a spectre that could not his attention. Hastily breaking the seal, he hurbe allayed. Regret on her side, and remorse ried through the contents; and the conclusion on his, forbade the slightest happiness from left him pale as if a voice had summoned him their illicit love; and the drama they were from the tomb. He called aloud to Ada, and enacting began to deepen into those tragic | receiving no answer, hastened to her apartment. passages which heralded its close. Craven had It was tenantless! not visited Paris since the tour that followed bell to make inquiries regarding her absence, He was about to ring the his first entrance into life; it will easily be under- when the second billet met his eye, written in her stood therefore that the associates he now raked well-known hand. The blotted lines told all: up were of a widely different class from the she had flown from his protection to England. polished scions of fashion whom he had left in Before another hour had elapsed, post-horses England. Men whose principal incomes de- were fastened to his travelling-carriage, and he pended on their wits; women, whose characters was flying on the track of the fair being whom he varied through many shades of the demirep, had destroyed. formed the companions who wasted his means and occupied his time. Ada had too good reason, moreover, to doubt his fidelity. She saw indeed, what was really the case, that her beauty lost hopelessly in its powers of attraction, when compared with the ineffable charm of a French woman's manner. But this, while it increased her terror at the danger of her new position, exasperated her still more at the thought of his treating her with neglect. The consequence was visible both in her mind and face, they were equally clouded with gloom; the loveliness that had been at once her weakness and her stronghold, waned daily before the corroding effect of grief, and with it seemed to fade her influence over Craven. Determined at last to solve her doubts and fears, she followed his carriage one evening, when he had left her, as he stated, to attend a soirée. The result was conclusive. Instead of going to the Chaussée d'Antin, he met a veiled female not far from the Pont Neuf, and placing her hastily in his chariot, they drove off on the road to St. Cloud. She did not follow, she did not attempt to arrest his progress, though her voiture was close to his side; but hurried to the hotel in a state of mind bordering on frenzy. Floods of tears came to her relief, or that shock would have killed her. When the first emotion had passed away, she rose from the low ottoman on which she had sunk, and her mien was composed into a desperate calm; nothing but a slight quiver on the lip betokened the madness that was gathering over her brain. With collected coolness she reckoned the sum that was necessary for her purpose, and then having emptied the rest of the coin from her purse, she sat down and wrote to him the last words that her hand ever penned. One solitary tear fell on that pregnant missive, as she folded In order to explain the sudden intelligence which, more than Ada's flight, brought Craven back to England, it is necessary to retrace the events that had occurred during his absence. Not many months after his departure strange reports were circulated abroad. Summer was on the wane, harvest was near, and rumours arose from the country and the press that nature's wealth was failing throughout the land. At first it was treated as a mere outcry of the least contented portion of the community; but instead of dying away, as the sanguine had anticipated, every day added fresh evidence in confirmation of the fact. While crowded meetings filled the market-place, and angry recriminations were thundered in the senate, the papers teemed with accounts of present destitution and approaching famine. Speculation commenced its accursed traffic in human food, driving the value to an unnatural height; and though this was a calamity which affected every individual unit in the country, it fell with double force on particular branches of business: on none more heavily than that which concerned Edward Craven. His employés became alarmed; they wrote letter after letter urging his return, but their remonstrances were either unheeded or never reached their destination. With his usual recklessness, he omitted to give any clue as to his whereabouts, and so while he was hurrying on in guilty companionship from pleasure to pleasure, the fatal crisis came. allude. Panic became universal, credit tottered, Many will remember the event to which we banks stopped, the merchant princes of the nation trembled on the brink of ruin. In the country want of food produced every description of riotous license. Armed bands of peasantry entered the houses of the gentry, demanding re lief, and the shops were plundered until their owners ceased to trade. It was through a scene of this kind, when the labourer had turned his tools into weapons, that a travelling chariot, urged by four steaming horses, passed along, one autumn evening, to Craven House: the outrages of the populace were at their height; mansions had been robbed and ransacked: it was just that point of a civil convulsion when the thirst for blood commences. At the first appearance of the carriage there was a universal movement to arrest its progress. The crowd formed into a dense mass in the very centre of the road, shouting and waving their torches in the air like the rabble of an angry Comus. On came the conveyance, and the voice of its occupant cheered the post-boys forward to headlong speed. The nostrils of the steeds flashed fire with fear and haste, the lamps flickered, the vehicle swayed from side to side as if every moment would bring it to the ground, and thus it reached the impeding multitude. They made a shout of resistance, but in vain; it swept through their recoiling ranks like a discharge of artillery. A few flaming torches were dashed in at the window; the panels were despoiled of their paint, and the affrighted horses flew on faster than ever. Irritated beyond measure at the failure of their attempt, the mob grew uproarious in its demand for vengeance. "Who was it that dared to trample down the starving people?" "Who was he?" "What was his name?" "Edward Craven !" shouted a sturdy peasant, with a fowling-piece in his hand; and as he spoke the torchlight fell on his countenance, discovering the features of Richard Hawthorn. "Edward Craven!" echoed the rioters. The name of the once-favoured landlord was branded with imprecations and ribald jests upon his late companionship. The roar of voices grew loudly insolent; clubs, pitchforks, and sticks waved ominously on high. There are moments of popular excitement when a single collected mind may lead the mob in any direction it suggests. The present juncture was ripe for the proposal that succeeded. "Let us follow him!" cried the voice that had spoken before, and with a unanimous impulse they adopted the thought. Along lane and valley went labourer, tenant, artizan, even women and children, in one solid mass, not shouting as they had hitherto done, but silent in their deadly purpose, as the panther, an instant ere it springs. Until they reached the gates, not a whisper escaped, not a sound was heard, except their heavy, irregular tramp along the road. No precaution seemed to have been taken to obstruct their progress, and they wound through the carriage-drive to the very door of the mansion, where the reeking horses still remained harnessed. A post-boy was loitering on the steps when they first drew near: with an instinctive foreboding of mischief he hastened to alarm the house. Craven was in a drawing-room overlooking the lawn, which was covered with this insurgent crew, and for some time the boy stood motionless on the threshold, unable to deliver his message, so strangely was the mien of his master altered. Beside a table covered with papers, books, and other documents, sat the head man of business, reading hurriedly, and interpolating brief comments that only rendered the intelligence more startling to his listener. Craven paced the saloon with rapid strides, denoting the terrible agitation that worked within. At intervals he stopped, and sinking into a chair, unconsciously wiped the cold sweat away that streamed upon his brow. All the lofty pride of his demeanour was vanished; his frame was bent, his colour changed into a ghoul-like pallor; every word that reached him seemed to plant a furrow upon his brow, and add a year to his full-blown manhood. It was no ordinary tale that had stricken his mind and body alike into imbecility. When the clerk's voice ceased, he learnt that he was ruined! But danger more immediate even than this awaited him. Before the boy could summon courage to speak, a reverberating shout rose outside the window like the yell of an Indian tribe. The multitude demanded that he should come forth, and listen to their will. Having briefly explained the mischief that threatened, the servant secured the door of the apartment, and tried to rouse Craven to a knowledge of his position. At first all their efforts were vain. He neither spoke nor moved, but kept gazing upon them with a bewildered stare; by degrees, however, a sense of their meaning appeared to dawn upon him. He motioned them to open the window. While they unfolded the shutters, Craven opened an escritoire beside him, and swept a quantity of loose guineas out of a secret drawer; then in the same listless apathy, he emptied his purse upon the pile of glittering coin, and lifting the whole in both hands, he advanced to the casement, and presented himself before the multitude. Another clamorous outburst rent the air as they recognized his form, which was personally familiar to most of them. The clerk and the servant shrunk back, and screened themselves in terror behind a curtain; but Craven gazed upon the rioters with the same unconscious immobility he had displayed throughout. During the lull that followed he approached more fully into view, and essayed to speak. Twice the accents died upon his lips in a hollow murmur, and when at last the words escaped, they sounded hoarse and sepulchral as the night-wind from a charnel. "What is it you require?" he said, in laboured gasps. "Have my tenantry come to welcome me home, or are they not my friends?" An uproar of confused voices replied, rendering little distinguishable, save the prominent cry of "Food! bread! money!" 66 Money!" he repeated; "money! I have none but this, and it is yours; take it-depart!" He showered the gold in small handfuls among them to the right hand and the left. A sickly smile convulsed his lips while they scrambled for it; his cheek grew more livid than before. This unexpected benevolence was not without effect upon the assembled crowd. One of those curious reactions occurred which are so common in popular outbreaks, making them at once unsafe and useless. They forgot the pastthey saw nothing but the present ministrant to their necessities, for gold speaks eloquently to starving stomachs: their former shout of defiance was changed into an applauding cheer; again it rose, rending the heavens; a third time their ragged hats were thrown up in joy, and their lungs roared forth applause, when, louder than all, a sharp crack was heard above the din. Before any one could turn to see the cause, Edward Craven uttered a thrilling cry, and fell lifeless! Three shots had penetrated his heart. Thus perished the last of a long line of wealthy commoners. The murderer was never known, for immediately after the occurrence the rioters fled in terror to their houses. On examination a fowling-piece was found beneath the window, but there was no mark upon it that gave even circumstantial evidence regarding its owner. The revenge of Richard Hawthorn upon the seducer of his betrothed was seen by One alone. Days passed on, and at length the forsaken dust was borne from the stately hall of Craven House to the escutcheoned sepulchre of his race. Slowly it wound through the broad demesnes, followed by weeping tenantry and mourning friends. Solemnly waved the plumes of the hearse; loftily, as if in mockery of human pride, the prancing horses tossed their heads, and flecked their ebony skins with foam. As they moved silently along, a loud neigh burst forth from the market-place-it was from Craven's white mare, which had just been sold. The animal pricked her ears and snorted,* with a kind of instinctive recognition, while the paraphernalia of death gleamed by. Leaving the town, they moved along the winding valley; but another scene must yet be passed ere they reach the village temple. Amid the oaks and pines that skirted the forest was a humble thatch-roofed cottage, whence discordant shrieks issued that scarcely seemed human in their agony. An old man tended his daughter, and strove to calin her ravings with every endearing term that affection could dictate, but it was in vain. She burst from him, and rushed to the door, with her long chesnut hair streaming upon the wind. The hearse and the feathers, the mutes and the train came past, and the sight increased her delirium; she poured a volley of curses upon her destroyer; her hazel eyes shot forth indignant hate, as if she saw some deadly enemy. The old man held her back with difficulty, until on a sudden something appeared to strike her frame with feebleness, and the maniac Ada Gray sank upon her father's neck, and died. probable some casual reader may recognize its details, and start to see the curtain lifted here. Black in its guilt, fearful in its retribution, we would fain have chosen a brighter reminiscence from the leaves of memory; but it was written, and must be told. We have not sought to paint a high-wrought picture; it has rather been our endeavour to subdue than excite the colouring; nor have we cast a meretricious halo over faults that were shainelessly committed and fearfully atoned. The names of the dead have been suppressed out of regard to the living; in every other respect the circumstances are truthfully recorded. May the Epicurean triflers of the present day, who deem that "the only Good is Pleasure," listen to the warning which is whispered in these pages, that "the only Pleasure is Good." "Tis not the earth that is a waste to man, Be lost in wreck and ruin. Passing on, Through Care's drear wilderness and sombre shade, Dare that man say, earth has no gift for him? A few brief years only have passed away since Oh! if his path be cheerless-strewn with weeds, the occurrences which we have transcribed; so That choke the place where once the flower grew recent indeed is the tragedy that it is not im-Without love's track to guide him on his way, He is but wandering in a self-made waste, And where the wild-wood and the thorn that wounds Were planted by his will. *This may appear unlikely; it is a literal fact nevertheless. ROSE ACTON. |