CHAPTER V.

"And when he told me he must come to-night
And that he then would lay a burden down,
Which he had borne in silence all too long—

His voice was strong, and sturdy, calm and clear,
So that I doubted if it could be love

That then was in his thoughts."

P. V. A.

THREE weeks had elapsed since the last meeting between our heroine and the Marquis. The fever had left him, and though still weak and ill, he was sufficiently recovered to bear the motion of an open carriage for an hour every morning, but yet he had not visited the Abbey.

Ernest was sitting listlessly in his arm-chair, one morning, when the servant opened the door,

and announced a visiter. He started forward,-a glow of momentary happiness overspreading his pallid countenance, as our heroine entered his library, and gave him her hand, inquiring in a low but steady voice, whether he really felt much better. Rosemaldon did feel greatly better at that moment, and he was telling her simply the truth, when her eyes accidentally fell on the miniature of Henrietta De Winton, which was lying, almost forgotten by Ernest, on a side table. The whole mystery of his conduct seemed at once, and as if by magic, brought to light. Rosemaldon saw the expression of her face, and felt that he was discovered. He took Horatia's hand, tried to speak some words of explanation—of excuse, but she did not grant him an opportunity. Here was proof sufficient to her, that he had been acting a false, nay treacherous part, by affecting devotion for her, while he was all the time engaged to another. With a voice, forced into calmness, she stepped back and said that she had merely come for a moment, by her father's desire, and Lord Lechmere's request, to beg that he would admit the

latter to Gunnersdown, as he was about to leave the Abbey, and wished very much to see him before his departure. She hardly gave time to Rosemaldon to make the reply to her request, before taking the arm of Mabel, who had accompanied her, she sprang away. Her departure was the signal for a display of violence very foreign to the generally calm temper of Ernest. Every letter (they were not many) that he had kept of Henrietta's, every trifle which she had ever placed in the house, was scattered and trodden under foot by her affianced husband; even the miniature, for which the fair Henrietta had called up all her blandest smiles, was torn from its place, and dashed violently out of the window. Rosemaldon felt happier, as he thought that no visible signs could now be seen of the claims of his cousin upon him. Few of Miss De Winton's offerings had been deemed of sufficient beauty or importance to be kept. What gift has any beauty in the eye of a lover, if it comes not from the one most beloved? withered leaf from the hand of Horatia would have been valuable to Rosemaldon-an orangegrove from Henrietta, valueless.

A

On the following day, Lord Lechmere went to pay the permitted visit to Rosemaldon. As he walked over the lawn, he saw something sparkling on the grass; and, on stooping to pick it up, perceived that it was the miniature of the handsome yet despised Henrietta. He put it into his pocket, with the intention of restoring it to its rightful owner, then, going round to the entrance, inquired for the Marquis, and was admitted to his presence.

Lechmere had never received a shock so terrible, as when he heard that Rosemaldon was dangerously ill. The full guilt of his own conduct rose in dreadful array against him, and made every hour, until Ernest was declared better, an age of apprehension. Should the Marquis die, what was he better than a murderer? Had he destroyed the friend to whom. he owed the very roof which sheltered him, his friends, his comforts, and his rank? Where would he have been, had not the Marquis protected him in Italy,—written in his favour to the family of Dungarvon? And how had he requited such services? Well would it have

been if Augustus had thought of his obligations to his friend before, and reviewed the difference between what his return for it had actually been, and what honour should have made it; but his repentance, though tardy, now seemed stable and sincere; and he entered Rosemaldon's apartment with the determination of avowing the extent of treachery to which his passion for Horatia had led him on. In reply to Ernest's cool and formal salutation, he entreated him to listen to what he had now to confess; and, when he had told all, he implored the Marquis not to aggravate the punishment he well merited, by letting him see that, as the husband of the false Henrietta, he was made wretched for life.

But Rosemaldon had been too often and too lately deceived by Lechmere to give credit to his present tale. It seemed too atrocious, too indelicate towards his relations, to conceive that they could be guilty of such an action; and Augustus reaped the reward of all deceivers, he was not believed even when he spoke the truth. How could Rosemaldon trust a man who had twice de