the discovery of your real relationship to my greatest enemy must have been to me. But a short time after I had to sustain one still more terrible. Lord Edward Mortimer died; I was appointed one of his executors, the other was abroad. I went down to M- to inspect his papers, and beautiful instances indeed I discovered amongst them of his gentle, heavenly character. They expelled all the evil thoughts, which a remembrance of her (she was now absent) might have excited, and brought me back to pleasant recollections of him and of you. The day before that on which I proposed to leave M―, while I was searching in different corners of his chamber, I lighted upon a parcel addressed to myself. Within it were three notes-one to me, one to Lady Edward, one to your brother! He desired me to deliver them within a twelvemonth; adding, 'As a friend of both parties, I will not conceal my intentions from you. It is my dying wish, which I have expressed to each of them, that two hearts which have been so long and cruelly separated should at last become one.' I read his note to myself again and again; I read it aloud; I learnt every syllable by heart before I knew what it meant. Then I tore it to atoms, threw it into the fire, and watched the ashes. As I gazed on them, the thought rushed into my head that their letters might

1

burn too. I clapped my hands—I held the letters down to the bars-all the villany of the thought came upon me at once. But with the consciousness of crime the temptation seemed to grow stronger. I should escape exposure if I put them into the fire-I should occasion much misery, and prevent none, if I delivered them. The fire burned very bright-the room was silent-there was but one servant in the house-the shutters were halfclosed; I held them close to the bars till I almost persuaded myself they were burning. A thought entered my mind. When mixed with

of you
others, it had added one to

my motives for the seemed by an invi

crime; but coming alone, it sible force to withhold me. I determined to save the papers-come confusion, come exposure, come unredeemed guilt. I raked every spark out of the grate, thrust the letters into my trunk, and set off for London.

"From that time I believed you to be my guardian angel, as much as if it had been revealed to me from heaven that you were so; but I banished every dream of love from my heart as sinful, and I swore that my whole efforts should be directed to save you from Mrs. Hartenfield. You know the events which followed; by what accident I was brought back to your society; how the charm of it every day grew upon me; till, at last, I heard

you confess with your own lips that even the guiltiest man might hope for your compassion. The same hour in which my ears were ravished with these words brought back the remembrance of the letters, that the year was accomplished, and that Henry Conway was returning. I left your house, determined to seek him on the Continent, to execute my commission, and never to return. We missed each other. I came back to England, and sunk into a fever. During this illness my resolution grew stronger. I heard that you had left London: the first day I could crawl out of my chamber I undertook my errand. Whom I met instead of Henry Conway, and what passed between us, you know; but you do not yet know the results of that interview. I rushed back to my hotel, opened both letters, and destroyed them. This, Honoria, is now the only record of their contents."

"And this record, sir, was to be revealed to you on one condition. Hate me, scorn me, trample upon me, but hear it: I said to your sister, • If you would not have these dark tales for ever hidden-if you would not have the sacred words of a dying man violated-if you would not bring a heavy guilt upon your brothers-be my wife e; then only will I speak.' Three days ago I re

ceived these words, in her own hand-writing,'My brothers are to meet the secrets must be told.'

"The terms, then, are accepted! She will reach R-to-night. Before you have read my confession I shall have claimed my prize."

"Not while I live!" exclaimed Eustace, springing from his couch, and rushing out of doors.

CHAPTER XVI.

For by his death, we do perceive his guilt.

SHAKSPEARE.

THE way to M-- lay through fields. Eustace ran vehemently for a mile, sustained by the energy which excitement brings with it; then his weakness overcame him, and he sunk against the stump of an alder which overhung the river.

He lay there some time, exhausted and insensible. When he came to himself, the first object he saw was a pitcher of water, placed, as if on purpose for him, by some kind passenger. He had taken a draught before he observed that a piece of paper with some writing on it was tied to the handle. He tore it off, and read these words: "Take the way through the wood; at the top of