{hand written inscription} Mayor 41-2 {large text} ANNALS OF THE EMPIRE CITY, FROM ITS Colonial Days to the Present.{special script} BY A NEW-YORKER. {inscription} A. Oakey Halt{illegible} TALE I. {large text} THE QUADROON, OR NEW-YORK UNDER THE ENGLISH. {very small text, verse} When hearts have once mingled, Love first leaves the well-built nest, The weak one is singled To endure what it once possessed. Oh Love, who bewailest The frailty of all things here, Why choose thou the frailest For thy cradle, thy home, thy bier! {right aligned with the text of the verse} SHELLEY. {large text} NEW-YORK: JOHN F. TROW, PRINTER, 49 ANN-STREET. 1852. TO {large text} MY SECOND MOTHER THIS First Tale {gothic script} IS GRATEFULLY DEDICATED BY The Author. {gothic script} {large text} THE QUADROON: A Tale of New-York in the Eighteenth Century. {gothic script} CHAPTER I. {small text, verse} A hundred years ago.--OLD SONG.

IT was late in the autumn of 1721, that a solitary horse-man was spurring his already wearied steed over the brow of Murray Hill. The night was calm and clear; but the moon had not yet risen, and the thickness of the woods prevented the stars shedding much light upon his path. He was evidently a stranger in those regions; and as he followed what appeared to him the only beaten track, he continually uttered half-smothered expressions of weariness.

At the brow of the hill the woods came abruptly to a close. The stranger reached it, but paused suddenly with a sigh of disappointment and an overwhelming conviction that he had lost his way.

No landmarks were visible in the darkness. A broad belt of smooth land extended from the foot of the hill, but how far and whether at all cultivated, it was impossible to determine. One thing was certain--the road he had been pursuing ended with the woods, and he had no means of determining where he was. After some deliberation, he adopted what seemed the most feasible plan, and determined to wait quietly until the moon should rise, by whose light he would retrace his steps and endeavor to find the city road. So occupied was he in these reflections that the sound of approaching footsteps was unheard. A blow on the head from the butt end of a gun awoke him to the consciousness of their presence; and a moment more sufficed to deprive him of all consciousness whatever.

The moon was shining brightly by the time he recovered his senses. Stiff and sore, and still confused from the blow he had received, he soon discovered his horse (a poor jaded hack that the robbers had not thought worth taking), browsing quietly not far off. The robbers had completely rifled him, carrying off his watch and whatever valuables he possessed. Though still faint and giddy, he collected the scattered contents of his saddlebags and replaced them; and then steadying himself against a tree, considered what he should do.

The bright light of the moon soon enabled him to discover where he was. He had emerged from the woods into a broad belt of open land, which, as far as he could judge, extended from river to river. No vestige of a road appeared upon it, except a path skirting the forest, and leading, for aught he knew, to the very rendezvous of the robbers. The first thought that occurred to our unfortunate traveller was to retrace the journey he had taken through the forest, and endeavor to strike again into the city road. Impracticable as this plan appeared, he was about to put it into execution, when it suddenly struck him that a light, which he had imagined to proceed from the Jersey shore, might possibly belong to his own side of the river.

Cheered by this hope he urged his horse in that direction; but the poor animal was nearly exhausted, and it was only by severe efforts that he made the slightest progress. Faint and weary, his head bound up, and his limbs aching in every joint, he at length arrived at a large building, of what shape he could not distinguish, but to all appearance in a dilapidated condition. A bright light however shone through the cracks of a side door, to which he proceeded and knocked. It was disregarded. A louder knock succeeded, and a louder. At last there was a sound of drawing bolts, and the door, turning slowly on its hinges, displayed the figure of a man whose uninviting exterior gave small signs of welcome.

"Your business?" demanded the man in accents as rough as his appearance.

"Can I have a lodging for the night?" inquired the stranger, whose voice of almost feminine sweetness contrasted forcibly with the harsh tones of the other; "I am very weary, and have lost my way."

"I keep no public, sir," replied the man gruffly, as he prepared to close the door.

"But I am badly wounded," repeated the stranger. "I can proceed no farther--and look at the state of my horse." For the poor animal, overcome by the long journey, had sunk exhausted at the gate.

"Let the gentleman in, Hughson," interrupted a strong but not unpleasing voice from within. Hughson at these words slowly and reluctantly opened the door, muttering as he did so, that it could not be helped, but he always liked to see the color of a gentleman's money before admitting him to lodge in his house.

"I will be responsible," haughtily repeated the voice which the stranger had heard before, and which he now saw to proceed from a tall, finely-formed youth seated in a retired part of the room. He presented one of those impressively handsome countenances which are so seldom seen, and when seen, never forgotten. His noble features, aided by a sanguine complexion, coal-black eyes and raven hair, together with teeth of dazzling whiteness and hands of feminine delicacy and softness, would in any place have attracted attention. He was dressed richly but tastefully in the fashion of the day; while a slouched hat and riding whip on the table beside him showed him to be also a traveller, though evidently familiar with the people of the house. To the new comer's expressions of gratitude he returned no answer beyond a distant bow.

The room in which the stranger found himself was one of those large, old-fashioned kitchens, which in Dutch houses were the usual sitting-room of the family. Though of fair proportions, it boasted no other furniture than a couple of tables, a chair or two, and a large oaken dresser. Two immense windows in the side wall were as closely barred as the door. The fireplace stood at an angle of the room, and was of course of uncommon size, and ornamented with a border of little Dutch tiles portraying Scripture histories. The bright cheerful fire on its hearth was in fact the only hospitable feature of this dreary room.

The proprietor of the establishment seemed in admirable keeping with it. He was tall, square-built and bony, with a head of tremendous size, a short thick neck, and hair of an iron gray, with a bald spot on the crown. Two large bushy eyebrows shaded a pair of deep-set, gray, sinister-looking eyes; and the lower part of his face was covered with a hard gray beard of a week's growth. He was apparently about fifty; but his gaunt frame, sinewy hands, and determined expression of countenance showed that years had not diminished the vigor of body or mind.

The helpmate of this man, and perhaps ten years his junior, was shorter in stature, but like himself of a large frame. Her regular and strongly marked features appeared by long usage to have become incapable of expressing any emotion. She sat in the chimney-corner, her attention apparently engrossed by the stocking she was knitting; but whenever the stranger raised his eyes he observed hers, which were large and dark, with a peculiarly sinister expression, intently though furtively regarding him.

"Bad company enough," he muttered, "but that gallant looking youth--can he be one of them?"

Before long another person entered.

This was a Quadroon of about seventeen, but neither her air nor attire was that of a servant of the Hughsons. Indeed, she seemed scarcely conscious of their presence; but stepping gracefully past them, looked anxiously round as if expecting somebody. Her eye first fell upon the stranger. She looked at him for a moment, and then was turning away with a childish expression of disappointment, when she perceived the young man in the corner. With a wild scream of delight she bounded towards him, and hid her face on his breast. The youth, at once roused from his reverie, clasped her tenderly in his arms; and a whispered conversation commenced between them.

The stranger, who, faint and weary, had laid his head on the table, perceived from her gestures that she was intent upon some petition relative to him, which she urged with the warmth characteristic of her race. Reassured by a smile, she rose, and carelessly passing the good people of the house, (who evidently regarded her with no loving eyes) drew a bowl of warm water from the kettle that hung over the fire; and then approaching the stranger, began to wash the blood from his head.

In this occupation the traveller had opportunity of observing her appearance. Though belonging to a despised race, this young woman possessed charms which many a European might have envied. Her complexion was of that rich brown which we so rarely see in the mixed races, but which is attributed by painters to the beauties of the East. In her dark cheek, the warm blood mantled with a rich glow scarcely known among the pale votaries of fashion in New-York at the present day. Two plain Madonna bands of rich dark hair, smooth and straight as a European's, shaded her forehead, and were drawn down to a simple knot at the back of her neck. Her features were small and exquisitely delicate; her large, dark, almond-shaped eyes told the depth of the soul within, while a white and even row of teeth formed the only vestige of Ethiopian blood remaining. But what chiefly surprised the stranger, was the air of authority which she bore towards all around her, while their dislike of her was evidently repressed in her presence and tempered with unwilling respect.

Her attention was in the highest degree grateful to the wounded traveller. Removing the handkerchief from his head, she washed carefully and with great delicacy of touch the blood from around the wound. It had long ceased to flow, leaving an unsightly scar. Having washed away the clotted blood, she bound up his head with her own handkerchief, and throwing the stained one to the woman, clapped her hands and looked round as if for approbation.

"That will do, Isadora," interposed the young man, who had evidently looked on with impatience, "that will do: besides, the gentleman must need a night's rest."

He looked as he spoke at Mother Hughson, and pointed to the door. Rising accordingly, she took down a candle, and without speaking motioned the stranger to follow her.

They passed through a narrow passage into a large stone hall extending the whole depth of the house. Many passages branched from this hall, but their high, narrow, mysterious-looking doors appeared to have been long unopened. A broad staircase of stone led them to a semi-circular lobby, which presented a picture of desolation difficult to describe. The large oaken doors were hung with cobwebs, and the locks and hinges rusty with age. The white mice peeped from every cranny, and rattled fearlessly through the wainscot. The banisters had fallen from the staircase--many of them lay still scattered as when they first fell. The wind whistled drearily around even on that elsewhere still October night--it found ample ingress through a huge skylight, the glass of which had fallen in. Had the ghosts of our ancestors the tastes commonly ascribed to them, they could not have found a more appropriate scene for their rambles.

Mother Hughson, who was troubled with no such spectral tastes, shivered as she reached the landing, and drew her shawl more closely round her; then drawing from a bunch at her girdle the most ponderous of old-fashioned keys, she applied it to the latch of a large iron-bound door, which turned slowly on its hinges with a harsh grating sound that scared legions of mice from their accustomed quarters, and admitted the stranger, who could only perceive by the dim light that it was large and arched, and contained a capacious bedstead. Mrs. H---- next sounded a whistle which brought to her aid, not the delicate Quadroon, but a stout sooty negress, who in a twinkling made the bed, and kindled a fire from the remnants of the banisters. This done, they retired, leaving the stranger to his repose.

But the strangeness of his adventure, the novelty of his lodging, the mystery appearing to surround his hosts, and the excitement he had in general undergone, were no assistants to slumber; and it was long ere he turned from watching the shadow of the fire like a moving monster on the wall, and listening to the wind howling in the huge chimney, to the delights of slumber and forgetfulness.

CHAPTER II. {small text, verse}

There is a thing, there is a thing I fain would ask of thee. {right aligned with the verse} LEWIS

When our traveller awoke the sun was shining brightly through the large eastern window of his apartment, and promised a delightful day for his entrance into New York. The events of the past night seemed at first like a painful dream, and as they gradually advanced upon his recollection, appeared yet stranger than before. The peculiar aspect of his chamber helped to convince him of their reality. It had evidently been the state chamber of the house, but that time was long passed. The tiles were falling from the fireplace, the plaster from the walls; the windows were hung with cobwebs; the ceiling looked damp and mildewed; and several planks were loose in the floor.

There was no sign of any one stirring as he descended the stairs, but the kitchen door was unlocked, and permitted his egress to the front of the house. The building, he could now see plainly, was an old Dutch country mansion, or bouwerie, as it was then called, which had probably been deserted for many years by its rightful inhabitants. It was built partly of wood, and partly of little black and yellow Dutch bricks, such as about ten years ago might have been seen in Broad and Cherry streets. It was furnished with numerous windows, and large oaken doors, with expansive stoops adorned with foliage heavily carved in wood. Iron figures on the front told that the house was erected in the middle of the past century; a date confirmed by the antiquity of its appearance. It was composed of a centre and wings, the gables of which were shaped like stairs. The wing at his right was in a state of tolerable repair; but the remainder of the edifice was in a condition of utter dilapidation.

The traveller himself, as he stood viewing it, had formed no despicable study for a painter. He was apparently about thirty; tall and slight in figure, with an oval face and pale fair complexion, which, as well as the languor of his manner, told of delicate health. The most careless observer would have been struck with the expression of his large blue eye, which varied incessantly, contrasting strangely with the mild and melancholy aspect of his face. It now shone with the eagerness of a mind restless and preying on itself; now wore the look of one grasping at a visionary object, which still flies as pursued; and now sank into the indefinable melancholy of one whose dearest hopes have been crushed. Still in all these changes (and they occurred every moment), there was a tranquility in his manner, and a gentleness in his voice, calculated to disarm the most hostile.

He had turned the corner of the old mansion, when a voice from the other side reached his ear, and caused him to retire with that delicate sense of honor which shuns even accidental intrusion into the secrets of another.

"And you leave me to-day, Albert?" said the sweet voice of the Quadroon, in a tone of gentle reproach. "When will this cold unsatisfying state come to an end?"

"Heaven knows, Isadora, not I;" replied the deep rich tones of the stranger youth. "I have as yet seen no hope; and the stern Italian answers all my entreaties with rebuke."

"Can you trust his secrecy?" inquired the girl sorrowfully. "They are a deceitful race--so have I ever heard--and I fear those dark eyebrows, which seem to harbor treachery in the soul."

"I know it, I know it, Isadora; but what could be done? He seemed our only resource; and that has failed. Yet you need not fear him; the secret came to his knowledge in a way he dare not reveal. It would bring upon his head the unchristian law of the land, and the more dreadful anathema of the church."

"Albert, I had a fearful dream last night. I thought that you stood with me upon those rocks which you have pointed out to me, rising like a prison wall above the Hudson. I thought that you told me there your oft-repeated vow, that we were one for life, and that death alone should part us. I was happy, for I believed you. And then, methought a pale girl came over the waters, and would have struck me with a poisoned dart. I clung to you for protection; but, oh Albert! you struck me from you with a curse, and when I wound my arms around you, tore them from you and hurled me from the rock. And then I thought it was given me to follow you, and like a serpent to drain the life-blood from your heart. And still, while exulting in your dying agonies I seemed to love you; and when I had gnawn your heart asunder, it seemed that my own was bursting to blend with yours for ever."

Isadora was seated on a green plat before the door, leaning on Albert's bosom, with her eyes fixed on the ground. As she ended the account of her vision, she raised her eyes to his face, and continued in a calmer tone:

"Albert, do you remember the legend you once told me of the nymph who loved a gentle youth, and by her prayer to the gods was transformed into one body with him? My feelings are like that nymph's. You love me as you would your book, your horse, or your hound. The business and pleasure of the city occupy your thoughts; they are your life; and you come to me as to a recreation, to fill an idle hour, or aid you to forget some care. But my love is as the rocks beneath the ocean. It is my life, my whole existence. When you are absent I move in a dream, existence is a waste, and I could with rapture now clasp you in my arms and die with you in one last embrace."

"Isadora, do not harass me with such suspicions. Can such have been lurking in your breast? they never were expressed before. My whole life is for you--and while we remain so far from the consummation of our wishes, my misery equals your own."

"Stay with me this morning," said Isadora, while a smile lighted her countenance. "Let us at least enjoy each other's society, since further happiness is denied us."

"As you will, dear girl; but go in now. I must look after our stranger guest."

Isadora retired while Albert, making the circuit of the house, joined his guest, whom he found on the stoop.

On seeing the person to whom he was indebted for his night's lodging, the first impulse of the stranger was to rise and seize his hand. But the cold salutation of Albert, and the slight haughty bow with which he acknowledged the stranger's thanks, chilled them while they were spoken.

"You have been received and lodged, sir, as you say," replied Albert; "no questions have been asked you, and no impediments put in your way. You can hardly be surprised if I ask a slight favor in return."

"Any thing in my poor means, sir, will be only too gladly rendered. In what way will it be in my power to serve you?"

"Simply to promise to preserve silence as to your last night's adventure, so much of it at least, as concerns this house and those you saw here."

"That promise is readily given; though why required is to me a mystery."

"It will probably remain one," said the other haughtily. "One word further. It is possible that you may see me in New-York. If so, you will have the goodness to remember that we meet as strangers. I am anxious (for reasons I need not mention) that our interview here should remain a secret, and if by any means we should hereafter become acquainted, it is to be understood that we meet then for the first time."

"Depend upon it," replied the stranger, whose usually mild features now wore and aspect as haughty as his own, "that I will never force myself on any person who wishes to shun my acquaintance."

"It is well," said Albert, with a half smile. "But I have yet another communication for you, and perhaps a more agreeable one. Have the goodness to examine this parcel. How it came into my hands, I rely upon you not to inquire." And handing him a small package he withdrew.

The stranger, in whose mind a growing dislike to the handsome youth was combating with the interest his first presence inspired, took the package with surprise, and opened it. It contained a heavy gold watch, made after the old Dutch fashion, a silver pencil, a ring with a large diamond, a purse of gold and silver coin, and a rosary with a small gold crucifix. All these articles he immediately recognized as his own, and remembering the scene in the kitchen, could not doubt that the landlord's sons had been the depredators, and Albert had secured the spoil from them.

Drawing the rosary from the parcel, he went through the Romish ceremony of devotion; then bending reverently towards the East, he raised the crucifix to his lips; At that moment Albert appeared in the doorway. His countenance changed as he observed the proceeding; and approaching the stranger in a far different manner than before, invited him to breakfast.

A plentiful and inviting meal was spread in the kitchen. They sat and ate in silence. None of the family were present, nor did the beautiful Quadroon once make her appearance.

"If you have breakfasted, sir," said Albert, for the first time breaking silence, "your horse waits at the door. I will accompany you a little distance, and put you into the way." The stranger would have declined, but Albert, without waiting for an answer, led the way to the door.

They followed the road for some time in silence. At last Albert, having looked round several times, as if to ascertain that no one was within hearing, turned to his companion and demanded in a quiet tone,

"Your name, sir?"

The abruptness of this unusual question is calculated in almost every case to embarrass or incense. On the stranger it had the former effect, and he simply replied,

"The question is a strange one."

"You are under no obligation to answer it," replied the young man, relapsing at once into his former haughtiness. "It was asked mainly for your sake." And he went on in silence. After a short but awkward interval the stranger resumed:

"My name is Ury," he said in a hesitating voice. "I am a Schenectadian."

"A stranger, as I supposed," replied Albert, "and for that reason I asked. A stranger in New-York is liable to many impositions which in smaller places are unknown. Meanwhile, to return your confidence, my name is Albert Farquhar."

"But we are to be strangers in the city," rejoined Ury, not yet fully reassured.

"Circumstances may arise," returned Albert, "which will place us in a different position. You are a Catholic?"

These words were spoken in a scarcely audible whisper, but they brought the blood to the stranger's fore-head.

"You know it," he exclaimed, "by what means I cannot tell; but you have penetrated my secret, and will use it to destroy me, lest I reveal yours."

Instead of resenting this suspicion, Albert Farquhar looked at him with increased interest.

"How little you know me," he said, "when you suspect me of conduct I would scorn toward my bitterest enemy. If you knew,"--but here he stopped and muttered, "not here. I would not trust a secret within a mile of the Hughsons."

"Forgive me, forgive me, Mr. Farquhar," replied Ury, earnestly, "though your forgiveness is scarcely to be hoped for after what I have said. I own my suspicions did you wrong."

"You will offend me still more by supposing my pardon unattainable," replied Albert, smiling. "But here is the city road. Farewell, Mr. Ury; but hold--though we must meet as strangers, let us part as friends."

He shook with increased heartiness the hand of the stranger; then drawing into the wood, remained watching him as he spurred onward to time-honored Gotham; here and there passing the villas of the more adventurous New-Yorkers; then diving into the forest which covered Union Square, Astor Place, Niblo's, and the other modern localities of up-town Broadway. By degrees the woods grew thinner; faded into groves; gave place to villas with pleasant-looking gardens. Various signs of the approaching town now dawned upon his sight. First the Hospital, with its extensive grounds, which seemed to him a palace. Next he spurred across the fields,* with their beautiful grove of Elms, in which the politicians of the day held annually{e in "held" doubtful} their muster-meetings. A short distance brought him to the celebrated valleys lying on on either side; one the Ladies' Valley, (t){cross symbol} a romantic and shady dell in which the belles and beaux of Gotham loved to recreate themselves; the other the gloomy valley of the Peach Orchard (f){double cross symbol} renowned in the annals of Indian warfare. Two majestic windmills next appeared; a low rudely built wall ran from river to river at their base; on the other side arose a forest of roofs of every possible pattern; the staircase, the tower, the triangle, and every other style of gable ever devised; here and there square turrets and Dutch lantern-domes diversified the outline; weathercocks veered in every direction; in short, the Empire City was reached.

Broadway, or as it was more properly styled six score years ago, the Broadway, was not the bright, flashing, joyous Broadway of modern times; the grand artery of

* The Park {illustration of a cross} Maiden Lane. {illustration of a double cross } Dey Street.

a city of five hundred thousand souls, and the sphere of a din that might rival the tower of Babel. No! the Broadway of omnibuses, carts, carriages, busy merchants, colored dandies, gayly-dressed ladies, plate glass, gilding, palaces, hotels, dust, din, tumult and magnificence; the Broadway through which all the world passes at least once in the course of its life, was at that time not in existence. The Park, the Astor, Stewart's, Thompson's, and all the thousand and one localities which now seem part and parcel of Broadway, were nowhere to be found. The Bowling Green was there, but without its fountain; and Mushroom Row had not sprouted.

The Broadway of our respected ancestors was a quiet, genteel, and thoroughly English-looking street, such as may still be found in the less frequented parts of our city. It is described by a writer of the day as by far the most pleasant street in the city; and primitive as were its arrangements, had already the pre-eminence which it continues to enjoy. The houses were of brick, and seldom turned their gables to the street. Here and there appeared the lofty mansion of some English magnate, whose fortune allowed a degree of show which to the Manhattanese appeared little short of magnificence. Broadway, moreover, could boast two churches; one the renowned "Old Trinity," the other a Lutheran Chapel, which occupied the site afterwards allotted to Grace Church, and finally appropriated to a magnificent range of stores. The shops too were in this street; and though not exactly boasting the plate-glass and gold splendor of Beck's or Stewart's, elevated Broadway far above the despised Dutch thoroughfares. The trottoir was bricked and the street tolerably paved; while a row of trees on either side answered the double purpose of shade and ornament. Last, though not least, Broadway was the favorite resort of the sons and daughters of the aristocratic English, who, with the gay dresses and pretty faces for which New-York is still renowned, lounged along the two-shilling side (even then so distinguished), and stared every unhappy Dutchman who ventured into such precincts, completely out of countenance.

The old Fort stood at the foot of the street, on the site now occupied by Mushroom Row; so called when mushrooms were less plentiful than at present in the Empire City. It was very extensive, and contained within it the Government House, or residence of the English Governors, which fronted on the Bowling Green. Beyond it, where now the Battery extends its green lawns, the visitor saw nothing but scattered rocks, some of them covered with earth and containing the huts of fishermen.

A narrow road lay between these rocks and the Government House, forming what is now called State street. Along this road Ury guided his horse with difficulty, till he reached a narrow causeway connecting one of the rocks to the main land. Here he crossed, and knocked at the door of a hut; it was a peculiar knock, as if made by each set of knuckles in turn. It had the effect of calling to the door an old negro, whose woolly head was white with age, though he seemed strong and hearty. He was familiarly known through the city as Old Joe, and knew every inhabitant, Dutch as well as English. Such therefore was his astonishment at meeting a stranger that he instinctively drew back, and was about to close the door.

"Hold," interposed Ury in a voice of authority. "You are Joseph, the fisherman, formerly the slave of Mr. Holden, of Albany, and freed by him at his death."

"Yes, massa, dat my name; Old Joe."

"I have business with you."

"Me, massa? me no business, me poor fisherman--keep boat--catch clam."

"It is with you and immediate. Let me come into your house."

"Me, massa? me poor house; no fit for gentlemen; me go with massa," replied the black in a tremulous voice, and still opposing the stranger's entrance. But Ury seized his hand and pressed it, laying his little finger on the other's palm. The effect was instantaneous. Old Joe immediately retreated, and drew his visitor as fast as possible into the hut, where a crucifix, lying on the table, explained his reluctance to admit strangers."

"Me at prayer when massa call," he said, replacing the crucifix in a concealed drawer; "no hab time to hide dis--fraid massa heretic--dat why?"

And sitting down on a mat (Ury had taken the only stool), he composed himself to hear the stranger.

CHAPTER III. {small text, verse}

I'll tell thee truly; And if thou ever yet, heardst tell of honor, I'll make thee blush. {right aligned with the verse} BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.

The intolerant nature of the laws against Roman Catholics in those days, rendered the utmost secrecy necessary to all the votaries of that religion. A popish recusant convict (that is, one found guilty of not attending the service of the Church of England), was, in addition to various immediate penalties, called upon within three months either to renounce his errors or to leave the realm; and in case of return was liable to death as a felon. These laws, though not unfrequently evaded in Great Britain, were enforced with almost savage rigor in the colonies; and their severity rendered it necessary for those of the proscribed religion to resort to a sort of freemasonry in all their private intercourse; and this they had carried to such perfection, that a complete communication could be kept up under the appearance of the most desultory conversation. This must suffice to explain the preceding chapters.

Albert Farquhar, having passed the morning at the old mansion house, returned about four o'clock to the city. He passed with indifference the objects which had attracted Ury's attention; and hastened to his own house in the lower part of Broadway, where he lived in company with a younger brother, his sole surviving relative, except a sister married in England. Finding his brother absent, he soon left the house, and retraced his steps to the residence of Mr. Walton, his friend and former guardian. This gentleman was the representative of one of the oldest families in the then youthful city of New-York. He was, moreover, one of the wealthiest merchants. His counting-house, in which he took special pride, was the largest in Dock-street;* but, perhaps because he was a widower, he paid little attention to display in his house. Unlike the majority of his fellow-citizens, he cared nothing for show--declaring himself content with a substantial three-story brick mansion in the lower part of Broadway, commanding a pleasant view of the Hudson, and having a small garden for occasional recreation. Notwithstanding these eccentricities, there was not in New-York a landholder more universally beloved than Mr. Walton. The instinctive refinement that belonged to his family; the perfect simplicity of his character, and above all, his invariable affability and benevolence, conciliated universal affection. It was impossible to doubt that clear blue eye, and the expansive benevolent forehead, bald at the top, with powdered curls waving over his ears. The most casual observer must have seen that the owner was a gentleman by birth as well as by education; and to be respected as well as loved.

He had not always been a resident of New-York. Some ten years previously, while the business was conducted by a brother then living, he had resided at a

*Now Pearl.

country-seat on the Mohawk; but whether near Albany or Schenectady, was not generally known. Rumors of other causes for his deserting it than the desire of continuing the business, were current in New-York; a story of a lovely daughter who had died of a broken heart, owing to disappointment in a proposed marriage. Be this as it may, the estate was never visited by either father or son. This son, and a daughter in England, completed at present his family.

Albert crossed the Bowling Green, scarcely pausing to look at the gilt statue of King George, which stood in the centre, and glittered in the light of the setting sun; and familiarly opening Mr. Walton's door, made his way to that gentleman's study. Mr. Walton was there seated at his desk, and listening with exemplary patience to the harangues of his friend, Squire Horsemanden. Be it known that Squire Horsemanden was a magistrate, who believed the rigorous enforcement of the laws to be the only means of saving the country; also, that he was one of those pompous, puffy, self-important beings, who consider their own dignity compromised by the slightest lenity, individual or official. Francis Walton, Mr. W.'s only son, a fine, manly-looking youth about Farquhar's age, was seated at a little distance, reading a letter with a foreign post-mark; but on Albert's entrance he threw it aside and joined him. Mr. Walton also rose from his seat, as if not sorry to interrupt the harangue his visitor was dealing forth.

"My dear boy," he said, addressing Albert, "it gives me real pleasure to see you here. Feeling towards you as a son, it seems as if Clara were as much your sister as Frank's; and, if I can understand her letters aright, she has herself the same feelings, although you have never met."

"We have just heard from her," interrupted Frank, in an explanatory tone.

"You have then mentioned me to her?" said Albert, a deep blush overspreading his open countenance.

"Often," replied Mr. Walton; "how could it be otherwise, with one in whom we all feel such interest? Her last request when she left us was, that we should keep her informed of all our proceedings. She said that by that means, she would learn to feel almost as if among us."

"Is it long since you have seen her?" inquired Albert, in whose newly-awakened interest for Miss Walton, it is to be feared even Isadora was for the moment forgotten.

"Ten years," said Mr. Walton with a sigh; "almost immediately after our removal to this city, her aunt, who was returning to London, represented to us so forcibly the advantages of an English education, that she prevailed upon us to send Clara. I have never seen her since."

Albert's countenance now showed undoubted interest.

"Poor Clara!" said Mr. Walton, musingly, "what would I not give to see her bright face and sunny hair once more? I fear this will be but a dull home for her, but I could not live without my treasure. One year more, and she must return. I cannot wait longer."

"Neighbor Walton," interposed Mr. Horsemanden, striking the desk with his heavy hand, "you never come now to our Citizens' Assembly Meeting. There is one to be held at this time to-morrow, when I shall bring forward my motion for the further suppression of Popery. The body of a suspected Popish priest hangs on a giblet immediately opposite the window; and I have a fine allusion to it ready for my address. You will hear me move the people."

"Is it not very far?" inquired Mr. Walton, who had no relish for such exhibitions.

"Oh, by no means" (each word separately emphasized). "It is only an agreeable drive through Dockstreet, and Great Queen-street, to the fields where our meeting is held. I drove there myself the day of those Papist executions, with Mrs. Horsemanden and Virginia. We allowed little Jenny a day of recreation to see it; and we took the occasion to impress on her tender mind the horrors of that abominable creed. Beloved child! and she now says a prayer every night in addition to her devotions, that the good God will punish the wicked Papists, and send them all to hell!"

At this harangue, Francis Walton looked up with a countenance of mingled amusement and disgust. But Albert Farquhar could contain himself no longer, and broke out with a torrent of indignation.

"And you call this Christian teaching," he said with indignant emphasis; to invoke the curse of Heaven on an indignant emphasis; "to invoke the curse of Heaven on an unoffending church, because her devotions differ from your own. You talk of Popish bigotry and intolerance; where is any to equal that you have shown? you, who make the death struggles of a wretched priest, butchered for doing his duty, an occasion to indulge your vanity in the display of a new equipage; and not content with persecuting them to the confines of this life, follow them with your prayers into another, and perhaps a better one than you will ever know."

"Albert!" remonstrated Mr. Walton.

"Do you think?" continued Albert, who in his excitement forgot all customary restraints, "that offerings of blood and cruelty are the sacrifice of righteousness demanded by the Scriptures? Do you believe that you further the interests of the colony (if you regard these more than the voice of your religion), when you pursue a course that will entail disgrace upon her long after you are in your grave? Heavens! can the heart of a man be in your bosom, when you gloat over the idea of your barbarities as if they were a matter of congratulation, instead of deserving everlasting disgust?"

"Mr. Farquhar," interposed the magistrate haughtily, recovering from his first surprise, "you forget yourself. I must remind you who and what I am."

"Who you are, sir, I am perfectly aware; and what you are, I perhaps know better than yourself. Do you lay claim to a religious motive for your unparalleled severity in executing the most barbarous law that civilization ever penned? A child could see through it, Mr. Horsemanden: and it is no matter of conjecture, that your overbearing self-importance imagines an accession of consequence in every exercise of your magisterial functions; and selfishly preferring your own aggrandizement to the lives of your fellow-creatures, you take every opportunity of exalting yourself, even at the price of blood."

Mr. Horsemanden had listened to this harangue, at first with unmixed astonishment, and then with a haughty reserve; but this last home-thrust was too great for him. The color mounted to his very forehead; his eyes sparkled, and his whole frame trembled with suppressed rage. He even made a movement, as if to rise and take vengeance on the audacious youth who thus stood and defied him.

"Good morning, sir," said Albert. "Come, Francis," and without another word the young men left the house.

"I greatly fear," said Mr. Horsemanden, recovering his dignity as soon as Albert was gone, "that that poor youth is tainted with Popish doctrines. The zeal with which he defends them is very suspicious; and others have noticed his continued absence from church. It seems a matter for serious investigation."

Albert Farquhar and Francis Walton, having left the house, proceeded, as it were instinctively, to the Mansion House, which was at that time the principal hotel in New-York, and stood at the extreme end of the Broadway, near what is now called Battery Place. It was, like most of the buildings in that fashionable street, of brick, and built in the English style. It was a long, but not very lofty building, painted yellow, with a very lofty hospitable looking door opening immediately into the bar-room, which was, as is the case in most small cities, the favorite lounge of the young men about town.

The keeper of this hotel was a dark-browed Italian, who had arrived in the city some five years previously, and though apparently flush of money, at once opened this establishment, which he took care to render the most fashionable in the city. His first arrival was a fruitful source of gossip; it was remarked that he bore an air of mystery; that there was a double meaning in everything he said; that he was, in short, no ordinary landlord. Some people had even gone so far as to say that Signor Nozzalini was a Papist; but this suspicion was promptly repelled by his regular appearance in church. At all events, the hotel became the most popular in the city, and Signor Nozzalini one of its most important members. Even the elder and less convivial spirits came at last to mingle with the crowd of loungers who assembled for the purposes of smoking, drinking, and playing cards. Many of them seemed to have established an understanding with the Signor, and were admitted to private confabs behind the bar, or in a little apartment, with a glass door marked "Private," in very large letters. Here they enjoyed many a tête-à-tête, from which the rest of the world were rigorously excluded.

The room was, as usual, full of visitors when Farquhar and Walton arrived. At the upper end appeared the stately form of the Signor Nozzalini, a man about forty years of age, whose athletic figure, expansive forehead, immense dark eyebrows, coal black eyes and raven hair, as well as the mysterious tones of his voice, and his manner so far above his station, might have offered fair ground for the speculations of the New-York gossips.

"Welcome, Mr. Walton," said Nozzalini in excellent English, though with a strong foreign accent. "This day we ought to mark with a golden letter--your visits are so rare." Then turning to Albert he said, raising his hand, "Salve, figlio miò"

"Salve ancora voi, mio padre," replied Albert, with a reverent inclination of his head; then leaving him with Frank Walton, withdrew to join a group of disputants who stood at the privileged end of the room. Meanwhile Nozzalini continued his stately civilities to young Walton.

"You visit us so rarely, Mr. Walton," he continued, "that it is absolutely incumbent on you to do honor to the house, by calling for something to drink. Try this Cognac. It is a late importation, and of superior eccellenza. And here are the wines of Xeres and Cyprus, and the vintage of Oporto."

"Sherry will do for me," said Walton, carelessly. "'Avoi,' as I believe Albert would say."

The sherry having been discussed, Walton was called away to settle a dispute that had arisen over a game of cards. Nozzalini was at his post in a moment; and under cover of an invitation to try the Cognac, called Albert Farquhar to his side. As Albert accompanied him to the bar, they passed the little private apartment, the glass door of which was partly open. He started back; for within the room he distinguished the tall spare form and bright restless eye of the pale stranger of the preceding night.

"He arrived here this morning from the North," said Nozzalini, with a meaning glance. "He was brought to this place by old Joe, the fisherman."

Albert filled his glass without speaking; but seeing that the landlord paused for a reply, he asked in an indifferent tone, "Who is he?"

"His name is Ury, and he comes from one of your northern villages. Séné--Schéné--"

"Schenectady?" suggested Albert.

"Ah, si,--Shenectadi--that is the name. My son," continued the innkeeper, lowering his voice, and speaking in his own tongue, "what part are you endeavoring to play? Do you not divine that this stranger is a believer, and comes hither to carry on the great work? or do you in truth care nothing for its prosperity?"

"Truly, padre mio," replied Albert, in the same language, "I love and honor the cause; but how the advent of this person should help to further it, I do not understand."

"Do you still attempt to mislead me?" rejoined the Italian, fixing his dark, searching eye upon him. "Do I not tell you that his mission is to extend the cause in other parts of this heretical land? is not this an object of interest? But this is not all; you would not generally receive such news with indifference. Ah, I perceive. You started when you saw him just now. You have seen him before."

"Padre mio?"

"And where did you see him? Nay, palter not: in the city? you turn pale. You have seen him in the country where your negro love is hidden."

"Hush! father, hush!" and the young man looked anxiously round.

"Ah, now I comprehend it all. You have seen him there, and his sight is odious to you, as reminding you that your secret is known."

"Father, respect the seal of the confessional."

"Need you remind me of that, my son? Do you fear lest I violate so solemn a pledge? No, Albert Farquhar, though it were to rescue you from the destruction to which you are fast tending, the secrets of the confessional shall not be disclosed by me. But it is my solemn duty, Albert Farquhar, to warn you from the way of peril you have chosen, smooth in its course, but leading to perdition. And you believe yourself a Christian; offer prayers to Heaven, and come to me for absolution; while this abandoned woman--"

"She deserves no such name, father," said Albert, with difficulty repressing his indignation. "She is pure as the day I first saw her; but should you still refuse to unite us--"

"You will fall into open sin. I understand your meaning. You would have my aid in violating the law, divine and human, in joining you to one of a race whom God abhors, and whom the law refuses to acknowledge; with whom marriage would be a mockery, and profanation of the holy ceremony. And if I refuse to aid you in destroying your own soul, you threaten me with plunging yet deeper into mortal sin. Be it so, Albert Farquhar. Follow your own course. I have no more to say. The day may come when you will remember what I say to you, and wish you had heeded it in time. Yes; and I foresee the period when you will turn with loathing from what you now desire, and fling your wretched victim from you to perish in the streets. Man of impulse--without self-control--be warned in time from the course you are pursuing. Albert Farquhar, I say, beware!"

CHAPTER IV. {small text, verse}

"Be not cunning; For those whose faces do belie their hearts Are witches, ere they arrive at twenty years." {right aligned with the verse} WEBSTER. THE WHITE DEVIL.

"You seem to take great interest in the account of that stranger, Albert;--quite absorbing, I should imagine."

The speaker was a young man about nineteen, shorter than Albert, and of a slight figure, who was leaning carelessly against the bar, watching a game of seven-up that was going on near him, rarely venturing to bet, but when he did always winning. He held a small cane in his hand with which he occasionally rapped his teeth. A lighted cigar was in the other hand, which, however, he was not smoking; and a glass of nearly untasted liquor stood beside him. His voice roused Albert immediately.

"Ah, are you there, James?" he said, endeavoring to speak in his usual manner, "it is a rare thing to see you here; to what are we to attribute this occurrence?"

"Yes," observed Nozzalini, looking up, "this day is to us one of sunshine: we have Mr. Walton, and Mr. James Farquhar, among our conviti--a thing not usual."

"Oh, I am a frequent visitor enough," said James Farquhar, listlessly; "not quite so regular as you are, though, Albert. I am not one of the privileged, you know," with a slight sneer.

"I have no particular privileges," returned Albert, coloring. "The Signor likes to see me here, because I can speak to him in his own language. But you might do the same, James. We are own brothers, and you have as much Italian blood as I."

"Aye," replied James, with a half laugh, "but you have all our mother's Italian nature. I am content to remain a Yankee, like my father--not quite so poetic, perhaps, but better fitted to get on in this world. You have the Italian face, Albert, and are welcome to all the Italian blood in the family."

"Ah, James, you hardly do yourself justice. You are not so cold as you would be thought."

"Perhaps not--but I have a Yankee's curiosity, and should really like to know something about this stranger. Come, Albert, tell us all about him; you seemed just now to hear enough from the Signor."

"The Signor will tell you himself, Mr. Farquhar," said Nozzalini, coming forward to Albert's relief. "He arrived on Monday, and is not certain how long he may stay. He is a native of Schenectadi, and calls himself Uri. Basta! that is all I know of him."

"He appears to have established himself on a pretty good footing here," remarked James, who evidently suspected that Nozzalini had not told him every thing.

"Santa Maria!" said Nozzalini to himself. "I do not comprehend you, Signor Farquhar."

"No? well; I cannot always comprehend myself," replied Farquhar junior, who new felt assured of the truth of his suspicions, and had tact enough to perceive that there was no chance at present of learning any thing more. He took a puff or two at his cigar, and stooping to knock away the ashes, took an opportunity of peeping through the back of the chair into the hand of one of the players. "Horsemanden,"--and he rapped his teeth, to which a young man opposite replied by sucking in his cheek, "I will lay you ten guineas that Peterson wins the Jack."

"Don't ask me to bet," replied Horsemanden. "I am cleared out already."

"I'll bet with you," interposed the young man into whose hand James had peeped. "Ten?"

"Agreed. Double?"

"Treble, if you will."

"O perdonatemi! The chances are not quite strong enough to bet higher," replied James. "I am almost afraid to double."

"No! double it is," rejoined the young man eagerly, and looking at the two remaining cards in his hand, "double we have agreed on."

"Done," said James with a smile.

"And you are done

Look here," and he showed him the Jack of trumps in his own hand, supported by a King.

"Oh, my unlucky genius!" exclaimed James Farquhar, looking at Horsemanden with a meaning glance. "You should not hold me to the bet, Roberts. Be a magnanimous conqueror, and let me off."

"Never," said Roberts exultingly (he was a fair-faced, flaxen-haired, simple-looking youth, and very new to the world). "There are twenty guineas in my pocket already."

"And out of mine. Heigho! but you keep the game waiting. Queen of trumps against you. Take it with your King."

The simple Roberts promptly threw down his King, and as eagerly gathered up the trick. Alas, his triumph was of short duration. As each player laid down his last card, the ace which Horsemanden had seen in Peterson's hand, and telegraphed to Farquhar, appeared. The Jack was swept triumphantly into Peterson's hand, and the poor fellow, who had expected to win his wager, turned round despondingly to pay it over."

"Ah, then I have won after all," said James, carelessly. "You should have let me off, Roberts. However, I'll be more generous than you, and take ten guineas."

"Not at all," said Roberts (he had a high sense of honor, as Farquhar very well knew). "I have lost the whole bet, and will pay it." And he handed him the entire sum.

Poor Roberts! he had won five guineas at cards, and lost twenty by his wager. He was, moreover, in straitened circumstances, and had intended this very sum for increasing his slender wardrobe. But he put a good face on the matter, and marched out between Farquhar and Horsemanden.

The other visitors were rapidly disappearing. Among the last to retire were Albert and Francis Walton. As they passed the door of the host's sanctum, Albert observed the bright eye of the stranger gazing at them as if petrified. He turned away with a gesture of impatience; but it was not on him but on his companion that the stony glance of the new-comer was resting with a mingled expression of amazement and acute pain. Long after did Walton remember that look--often in his dreams did he awake with the belief, that the stranger's eye was watching him through the darkness.

Extract from Ury's Diary, written in his lodging at the Mansion House, New-York.

"Night! a profound stillness rests on this great city--this Babel of tumult and heartlessness--this empire of heresy, where a bishop of our holy church must shelter himself under an innkeeper's disguise. No sound reaches my ear except the cry of the screech-owl from the opposite shore--foreboding sound! it seems a presage of evil. I love this hour far better than the garish day--the joyous crowds--the echo of gay voices,--the sight of the pleasure-hunters, with whom New-York is filled--all strike a discordant note in my breast; I hate this great and wicked city. It has no soul. My first approach to it was marked with disaster; it struck me almost as an augury--a warning to go no farther. Yet what better object could I pursue, than that which has brought me hither? to receive the blessed sacrament of orders, that I may spread the true faith at home. The children of the church are as sheep wanting a shepherd. Can I forget the last words of our blessed pastor Holden? 'Death is taking me from you, my children; and you, Bernard Ury--son of my love--be it your mission to fill my place. Be to them more than I was: be all I would have been had Heaven been pleased to spare me.' I am here to fulfil his last command--the command of Heaven, through his mouth. Let that be fulfilled, and I will gladly quit this worldly town for ever.

"All around me seems changed--I seem to see Holden's mild face once more. His white hair looks like a glory around his venerable head. He bids me go on and prosper. His parting words are sounding in my ears. Again I receive his blessing, and my evil visions vanish at the sound. Sainted spirit! be still my guide lest my heart sink within me.

"Is it a wreath of the cloud illumined by the moon? or do I see your angel form, Florence, greeting me from above? Long loved and lost! is your spirit allowed to visit me from the blessed regions to which you have flown? Come, daughter of heaven, and ease my sinking spirit. You were the last tie that bound me to earth; yet, shall I regret your departure? Had you been spared to me, my happiness on earth had been complete. I had forgotten heaven, or found it in you alone. My mission--that mission of love it is now my privilege to fulfil, had then never been accomplished. It was in mercy that you were taken away--and Heaven be praised for that loving, though bitter dispensation. May my spirit meet thine in another world. It is my only hope now. God grant me to live worthily of thee in this life, that I may still enjoy thee in another.

"I had a startling adventure to-day. A crowd of young men were assembled in the bar-room. I heard myself alluded to, and commented on as a stranger; and an irresistible impulse prompted me to look through the door. I saw among them the stranger youth who befriended me when waylaid by robbers, and a young man with him. Heavens! I could not mistake him. It was Her face, Her oval countenance, Her chiselled features, Her smooth expansive forehead--all there. And there was that deep blue eye which I thought I should never see again; but instead of her holy, almost unearthly expression, his eye beamed with mirth. It was her face again on earth. His name is Walton--ah! name ever fatal to my peace of mind.

"I have just had an interview with the holy Father. He came to me while I was writing, that he might talk with me unobserved. His manner is noble, but stern. I reverence and fear, while I love him. I have told him my whole history; he knows all the struggles that are in my mind--of the rebellious thoughts which twelve years of trial have not been sufficient to subdue. His tone is kind, but unyielding. He bids me wait six months, in which prayer and penance may have their due effect; and then promises that if nought occur to prove me unworthy, he will admit me to Holy Orders. No ship will sail for Albany before that time. May I, by prayer and fasting, render myself less unworthy of the station to which I am called!"

CHAPTER V. {small text, verse}

Mine orbed image sinks Back from thee, back from thee, As thou art fall'n, methinks, Back from me, back from me. {right aligned with the body of the text} A Drama of Exile, by Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

We will not follow Ury through the course of his six months' probation. The vigils, the fastings, the penances, as well as the protracted interviews between himself and the Bishop (whom the reader must by this time have discovered to be no other than Nozzalini), can scarcely be very interesting to others. Suffice it to be generally understood that these penances, etc., were neither faint nor few; and that the votary grew daily more spare in person, more abstemious in diet, more subdued in manner, and more enthusiastic in his purpose. It did not consist with his plans to form many new acquaintances--indeed his tastes lay scarcely that way; but by degrees a closer intercourse with some of the younger citizens grew up during his stay. The nearest approach which he formed towards intimacy was with the young man called Roberts; who, being like himself, an adventurer in the city, came by degrees to be his closest companion.

Roberts was evidently much younger than Bernard, and his general appearance was boyish to a degree. He was fair, round-faced and flaxen-haired--not at all handsome, but with a simplicity of manner that was prepossessing. His extreme singleness of heart, a simplicity not unmingled with shrewdness, but with little worldly wisdom, and an apparent incapability of thinking evil of any one, was a great attraction in the stranger's eyes; and they soon acquired a great fondness for one another's company. Roberts soon let his new acquaintance into all the secrets of his life. His father was a farmer; he lived on the banks of the Hudson, at a considerable distance from New-York, and had made great sacrifices to give his son a collegiate education. He was now in the city, doing all he could to support himself in business; but Squire Horsemanden gave him a very small salary for his duties as clerk, and he was sometimes quite straitened to make both ends meet. In his own simple manner he then begged Ury not to tell him any thing he wished kept secret; for he was a miserable hand at a secret; and James Farquhar could always get any thing out of him that he chose. This led Ury to inquire about the Farquhars. Roberts did not know much about them. Their father was a Boston merchant, who had married an Italian lady. He owned a large quantity of land in different parts of the State of New-York. He lost his wife while his second son was but an infant, and survived her for about fourteen years, during which interval he removed to New-York with his family. Roberts did not like Albert; he thought him reserved and haughty. James, the younger brother, had known Roberts at college, and was a greater favorite with him. He was affable and good-humored. Roberts was attached to him from having received his notice at college, where most of the students despised him for his birth. Farquhar and Horsemanden, he said, had always noticed him, and often taken him into their frolics; but they were much cleverer than he was, for generally they would totally elude detection, while he was always found out and punished. He did not see them so often now, but they had been of great service in introducing him where he could not otherwise have gone--not exactly to private houses, but to public places of fashionable resort, such as faro-tables, billiard-saloons, and so forth. All the young ladies, Roberts added, were on the qui vive for Albert, who had inherited the bulk of his father's property: but he paid them little attention, and it was supposed he would marry Miss Walton, when she returned from school, in England.

This information was imparted to Ury during a sail which he and Roberts took one afternoon in the direction of the Sound. They had hired old Joe's boat, and were some little distance beyondHurlgate, when the rapid failing of the short twilight into darknesswarned them to return. Notwithstanding their dispatch, it was quite dark by the time time they reached Hurlgate; and there, to their disappointment, discovered that the river was at half-tide, and the whirlpool at its full fury.

While waiting there, Ury was attracted by a small sailing-vessel, but apparently heavily laden, which came slowly into sight on the opposite shore. He pointed it out to Roberts, who appeared much alarmed.

"The smugglers!" he exclaimed. "We are lost if they see us. Let us be silent, and escape observation."

These words explained themselves. Ury knew that a band of smugglers used Brooklyn (or Breuckelen, as it was then called) for their rendezvous; and many tales of their ferocity and daring were current in New-York.

Before the tide had reached its height the moon shone out brightly, and rendered it hopeless that they should cross unperceived the path of the smuggling vessel. She pursued her course slowly and steadily, cutting them off from the New-York shore, and looking in the silent moonlight like a spectre ship bound on her unearthly course: but Ury could clearly distinguish various gaunt, stalwart figures on her decks, though not a sound was heard.

"It is of no use," said Roberts at length, "she will never allow us to pass her. This will end by bringing us to Breuckelen, and then good-bye to all hope of escape."

"Can we do nothing?" asked Ury, in the same breathless whisper. "There are three of us."

"And perhaps a score of the others. No, no, there is no chance of that. The best course we can follow is to put into some of these coves, and lie by till morning. They will not venture to attack us by day."

Roberts' suggestion was the best that could have been offered; and they promptly pulled into a cove more retired than the rest, and completely sheltered from observation. Here they felt more at ease, when Joe, whose position enabled him to see out into the river, suddenly exclaimed that the schooner was veering round. A moment of breathless anxiety ensued; when the vessel having made a considerable circuit, bore slowly round, and made seemingly for the very cove in which they were.

The three men instinctively sprang from the boat, and made their way to the top of a thickly wooded hill which rose above the water. Bernard, who in spite of his danger, found a strange pleasure in the excitement of the scene, stole to the brow of the hill, and taking his stand behind a tree, looked cautiously after the vessel. She was making not for the cove where their boat lay sheltered, but for a larger inlet adjoining. Making a sign to his companions, he moved softly along the hill till he had their landing at his feet. Here, to his disappointment, the woods ended, and he was obliged to retire under their shelter in case any one should happen to look up.

The smugglers in the mean time, had brought their craft to the landing and were disembarking. They were rough but powerful-looking men, some English, others apparently of Dutch extraction. They wore red flannel shirts and blue trousers, having their faces blacked, and skull-caps on their heads. Some of them carried torches, the rest spades, mattocks, and other implements of like nature.

"Come; bear a hand here," cried one of them, who appeared to be in authority. "Make short work of it, for we have no time to lose."

"Der duyvil," said a rough voice, proceeding from a short, square-built, beetle-browed man, with a strong Dutch accent. "What for do come here one night to bury what we take up te {"e" doubtful} next?"

"Silence," replied his leader angrily. "Have you yet to learn to obey orders without question? Much the people of Breuckelen would endure having any thing of value in their possession unless they had some part of it. And did we not agree that they should know nothing of this?"

"Breuckelen be--" said the other with a horrible oath. "Tousand tuyfel! bear a hand here and be--"

While this conversation went on, a couple of men with pickaxe and shovel were busily digging at the foot of the rock. Another party had ascended what appeared to be a narrow defile between the rocks, and were rolling down casks of wine to the shore.

"Dat be der Squire's cask," said the Dutchman, who had stood moodily watching the proceeding.

"The Squire's?" interposed the other sneeringly; "do you imagine that he would be satisfied with one cask, of whatever quality? No, no; we are too much in his power to put him off with any small bribe. He reaps a richer crop from our labors than from any of those he employs."

"Der duyvil! if he is so troublesome, why not make short work with him at once?"

"Hold your tongue, De Ruyter. He is one of our best friends, and many a time has he got us out of what would else have been a bad mess. But his services must be well paid."

"Donner and blitzen! overpaid, you had best say. And how long are we to be at his beck?"

"Till we have him in ours; and that time may not be long in coming. He is ripe for it."

"And when it do come," said De Ruyter, rubbing his hands, "Gluck zu, Horsemanden."

Ury bent forward instinctively at the sound of this name. In doing so, he shook the bush by which he was holding, and several large stones were precipitated to the bottom of the hill. The noise roused De Ruyter, who grasped his pistol and looked up. Fortunately the young men were not perceived in the shadow of the wood.

"There is nobody there," said the leader. "For Heaven's sake be quiet, unless you wish to alarm the country."

A ponderous chest was now brought forward and lowered into the newly-dug pit. Two of the men who bore it appeared ruffians of the deepest die. Their hard features, bushy beard and eyebrows, and reckless bearing, gave them an expression of almost savage daring. Bernard did not know them; but Roberts whispered that they were Isaac and Martin Hughson.

"The most dangerous ruffians in the country," he added. Ury shuddered--he remembered the name.

The smugglers in the meanwhile were busily employed in lowering the chest into the pit. It was a work of some labor, but was finally accomplished. Other bags were afterwards thrown in, evidently filled with some heavy material, and the ground was covered over. From their conversation, the unwilling listeners discovered that they were pirates as well as smugglers; and that as Breuckelen was the place of deposit for their smuggled goods, this was the dépôt of their plunder. Roberts suggested to his companion, that this would be a good time to escape.

"Is it practicable?" said Ury.

"Trust me," said Roberts, "I know this hill, and can easily find the boat. They are so busy that we can reach it without being heard."

They stole softly along the hill; but old Joe was less noiseless in his movements, and was overheard by De Ruyter, who had lingered near the foot of the hill. In an instant the hawk-eye of the pirate had made out their forms, and giving the alarm, the whole band swarmed up every path of the ascent, in search of the witnesses of their proceedings.

Ury and Roberts were gone in an instant, hastening in different directions in vain search of shelter. Old Joe was slower. It took him a moment to collect his thoughts; then observing that the hill descended inland, and was in this part free from trees, he deliberately rolled to the base, where after lying quietly for an instant and seeing that the chase took a different direction, he slunk back to his boat.

Ury, meanwhile, was urging his flight through the wooded part of the hill in the vague hope of reaching his boat. Rendered light of foot by his country life, he soon distanced his pursuers; still he hastened onward, till arriving at a glade, such as is often found in the heart of our northern woods, he stopped short and felt that he could go no further.

He was utterly ignorant where he was. A confused vision of trees, tangled thickets, open glades and long vistas alternating in quick succession, passed through his brain. His ears seemed yet stunned with the shouts of pursuers, the heavy tramping and the yells of rage with which they had followed him; and the glare of torches was yet before his eyes. There was no sound save the faint murmur of the autumn wind; no light beyond that of the full but clouded moon. Once, indeed, Bernard thought he heard his name pronounced; not above a whisper, but distinctly. He looked round, but saw no one; and at the same moment a figure appearing from the woods caused Ury to draw back from observation.

The new-comer was a tall man, strongly built, and carelessly dressed, but with great elegance as well as robustness of figure. His features could not be distinguished; but his air was that of one accustomed to command, and he wore ascarf loosely tied round his body, in which a pair of pistols and a poniard were stuck. He did not see Ury, but looked about as if expecting some one to arrive. Before long his look was answered by the appearance of one of the Hughsons, from the side at which Bernard had entered. Ury himself had sunk down exhausted at the foot of a large tree, the shadow of which concealed him from the leader's eye.

"Have you found them?" said the first-comer, inquiringly, to Hughson.

"Not yet," repled the harsh voice of the latter. "We have followed far and wide, but they are light of foot, and have got the better of us."

"Let the men scour the woods," said the other with an impatient gesture. "There were two of them, you say?"

"I saw two only," was the reply. "How many more there are I know not--but I saw only two."

"Those two must be found," said the leader; "scour the woods till they are discovered. If our secret should be known, we are done for. This is our rendezvous. Let them all understand that they must bring their prisoners here."

Ury's heart sank within him; for even should the pirates give up all hope of their prey, how could he hope to escape discovery if all assembled at this spot? He strove to move away, but was unable to stir.

"Away, Martin," said the leader, "we have no time to lose."

Martin was gone at the word. He hastily crossed the glade, and in another moment would have disappeared in the woods. But his quick eye had caught sight of Bernard, and with a shout of triumph he sprang on his prey.

Their eyes met. Ury saw that he was recognized, and a diabolical smile played on the ruffian's face.

"Down, down!" he said, as Ury struggled to rise. "This will pay off old scores." Bernard saw the steel glitter in the air; and in another moment it would have pierced his breast, but for the interposition of a stranger, who, springing from a tree in which he was concealed, dealt the assassin a blow on the head with a large stone, which brought him senseless to the earth. Before Ury could see to whom he owed his safety, his preserver was attacked in his turn by the stranger who had first arrived. The contest was short, for the pirate was well armed, and his opponent fell to the ground after a little while.

"Dead men tell no tales," said the pirate; and drawing his poniard he approached Ury, and bent over him with evidently a murderous intention: but scarcely had their eyes met, when the weapon fell from his hand, and both exclaimed, the one "Arthur!" the other "Bernard!"

"Do I find you thus?" said Arthur, extending his hand, and raising his intended victim from the ground. "In such a condition, too?"

"Do not speak of my condition," said Ury, "but oh! Arthur, in what a state do I find you? The captain of a band of desperadoes; the daily violator of the laws of his country and his God; the companion of robbers and assassins. Heaven grant I may not have to say a robber and assassin yourself."

"You may call me what you will, and not be far wrong," answered the other moodily. "I am an outcast, a despised, miserable wretch; the rejected and hated of the world, and the hater in my turn."

"The hated of the world," said Ury, emphatically. "Is there no other world, Arthur? What is the hatred of this world? What are the sorrows of this world but afflictions that cannot last? Blessed are those whom the world hates--blessed, when they come to the land where the wicked cease from troubling and the weary are at rest."

"There is no such land," said Arthur, with bitterness; "or, if there be such, it is not for me; it is too late."

"It is never too late," was Bernard's solemn rejoinder. "Remember Florence: was there no such land for her?"

"It has been too late ever since then," said Arthur, furiously. "You have good cause to hate me, Bernard. Though not the hunted hound that I have since become, you owe to me the great sorrow of your life."

"I do not hate you, Arthur. I have loved you as a brother. Long as I believed you dead I still thought of you; and even now, that I find you worse than dead, I feel for you, and love you still."

Arthur's face softened, and the tear stood in his eye; but he dashed it away indignantly.

"Well, well; you are a good fellow, Bernard," he said, with a miserable attempt at indifference, "and I am glad to find that some one still feels an interest in me. But I must give you a safe conduct among these people; and see who we have here."

With these words he stooped, and held a light to the faces of the persons at his feet. Martin Hughson was dead--the blow had crushed his head, and he was past recovery. The other still breathed, and as Arthur turned him over, Ury saw that it was Roberts.

"He is only stunned," said the pirate captain; "I struck him with the butt end of a pistol. He closed with me too soon to draw my sword. Is he your friend, Bernard?"

The pirate crew had gathered round in the different vistas of the glade, and were looking with astonishment at their leader. On Ury replying in the affirmative, he ordered two of his men to carry him in their arms. One of them was Isaac Hughson, and as he carried the insensible Roberts, he looked on his brother's corpse, and scowling fiercely at the stranger, vowed that he would have his revenge.

Ury was now kindly guided by the pirate captain to the shore, where the vessel was moored. Having pointed out the cove where his own boat was stationed, he was taken there, and found the boat still where they had left it, and old Joe asleep in the stern.

"Hark ye, friend," said the pirate to Joe, as he caught him roughly by the arm; "you see this," pointing to his poniard; "let a word with regard to this night's adventure be whispered to any one, and this blade will be buried in your breast. There; you understand me I see: be careful, and remember."

"Make him sensible of the necessity of secrecy," whispered Arthur, as the still insensible form of Roberts was placed in the boat. "Your secrecy I can depend on. You will not let me save your life only to forfeit my own. These men will guide you. Farewell."

And pressing his hand, he turned off from the shore. Two of the men, leaping into the boat, took the oars in charge, and with scowling brows and averted faces, sullenly rowed them home.

CPAPTER VI. {small text, verse}

The mysterious union of soul and sense in which the lowest dew-drop reflects the image of the highest star. {right aligned with the verse} LYDIA MARIA CHILD

Ury's nocturnal adventure had the effect of curing him of all desire for nightly excursions, either by land or water. Indeed, the increasing severity of the season soon forbade any amusements of the kind; for the weather, as is not uncommon in the northern part of America, made one rapid stride from the almost excessive heat of the Indian Summer, to the severe cold of December. His duties now occupied him incessantly; he looked anxiously forward to the spring for admission to holy orders; and with prayer, reading, and self-discipline, his time was continually employed.

His companionship with Roberts also diminished. True, they were as friendly as ever when they met, and felt for one another, at all times, a very warm attachment. But Roberts' occupations, likewise, increased during the winter. Mr. Horsemanden was aware of his straitened circumstances, and under cover of raising his salary, contrived to load him with extra work, which kept his whole time employed. Roberts, in his simple way, believed it to be a favor, and was grateful for it; but he owned that he found the work very hard.

In this manner they both passed their time till the winter season was ended, and the spring far advanced. During all this period Ury had seen little of Albert Farquhar. Occasionally they met in the street; but Albert, on these occasions, showed no sign of recognition; adhering firmly to his first resolve, that they were to meet as strangers. Sometimes, during the Romish services, which were carried on secretly and in disguise, he thought he could distinguish Farquhar's rich, sweet tones among the responsive voices; but these meetings were necessarily secret, and he could never tell whether his imagination was correct.

One afternoon in May, Ury, weary of the city's clamor, rambled out into the adjoining country. The small size of the suburbs at that period rendered rural enjoyment much more attainable to the citizen than at present; and our ancestors were accustomed, each pleasant evening, to fly from the town to the verdant groves and romantic vistas of the Ladies' Valley, which, with its adjacent woods, offered far greater attractions (at least in their opinion), than the pavements of a hot and crowded city. Ury, however, paid no attention to the sounds of mirth and laughter which rose from the Ladies' Valley of the Peach Orchard. It was a sombre-looking spot, about which many were superstitious, even by day; but the interior was open, and, though cut off from all view of the road, allowed sufficient space for a ramble. He was disappointed, however, in his hope of a solitary walk; for scarcely had he entered the valley when he discovered Albert Farquhar.

His first impulse was to withdraw from the spot; but Albert, the instant he recognized him, rose, and hastened to where he stood.

"I have long wished for this meeting," he said, extending his hand. "Ceremony must be waived between us, Mr. Ury. I have much that I would say to you."

Ury was astonished at the eagerness of his manner; and let him lead him to a seat at the foot of a tree.

"We are not the strangers we seem," said Albert. "You see in me a member of your church--of the church in which you expect to receive holy orders."

"There is, then," said Ury, "a closer bond of union between us than I was aware."

"Yes, the closest bond; the bond of a persecuted church. My heart warmed towards you from the moment I saw you use the Catholic form of devotion the day of our meeting."

"Why did you not tell me at first? You caused me a terrible fright by divining my secret, and letting me believe that it could be used against me."

"You did me great injustice on that occasion; I would have explained to you my position, but I do not trust that neighborhood. However, my object now is to make the only amends in my power, by telling you all about it. I shall be obliged to enter rather into detail--but as you are the only person who can be of service, I trust you will not refuse to listen."

Ury, who had begun to feel a warmer interest in his companion than he cared to express, reseated himself on the mound from which he had risen, and composed himself to listen to Albert's narrative.

"I do not know whether you are aware, Mr. Ury, that I am not by birth a New-Yorker. My father was a merchant of Boston, which was then, in a commercial point of view, the first town on the Continent. He was a thoroughly shrewd, practical New Englander, with little of poetry or romance in his composition, but with the national concentration of purpose; and his mind was so constantly fixed on the main chance, that he accumulated a large fortune while I was very young. His first wife was one of his own countrywomen, who died, leaving a daughter approaching womanhood. After her death, my father travelled many years. While abroad, my sister married an English gentleman, and my father himself brought home an Italian bride. This was my mother. She possessed in a high degree the poetry and sentiment of her native land; and I think I can discover in my feelings at this day the effect of the songs she loved to sing, and the thoughts she often uttered aloud. I was her constant companion, and imbibed no small portion of her spirit; but she died when I was five years old. I think the want of sympathy, and the absence of any one that could understand her, must have hastened her death.

"Life was a blank to me when she was gone. My father was not deficient in heart; but he was a thorough business man, and chilled all my approaches by his hard, cold, New England manner. True, he combined with this much of the sterling worth of character, which the people of those provinces possess: but he was devoted to business; and so long as I was well fed, well clothed, and well educated, he thought there was no more to be done.

"James was but two years old at the time of his mother's death, and her character had but little influence upon his. He grew up under his father's training a thorough New Englander, cool and cautious, and reserved in the expression of his feelings. I loved him truly and sincerely, as I do still; but it was not the love of kindred spirits--for there was that in each of our minds to which the other could not respond.

"Can you wonder, that under these influences I became reserved and moody--shunned my companions with whom I felt no sympathy--and grew daily more and more wrapped up in my own thoughts? My books and musings were my sole companions; a small case of books which my dear mother had brought with her from Italy, and which I treasured with a miser's care; and often when the tasks of the day were ended, and the voice of my school-fellows rose from the Boston Common, would I steal unperceived to my mother's little cabinet, and there pore over legends of pure, tender, and chivalric love, till it became too dark to distinguish the letters apart.

"When I was fourteen, my father sent me to college. He did not, as was expected, choose Harvard--perhaps on account of his peculiar dislike to Unitarian tenets. On the contrary, he sent me to Yale--where there is now the pretty little village of New-Haven, but where, at that time, there was scarcely a house to be seen. This was, in fact, my residence for four years; sometimes returning to Boston for the vacations, and sometimes passing them at the college, in the company of my old friends, the Italian books.

"My life was not improved by this change. The students of the college were not such as to offer sympathy to one so reserved as myself. Many of them avoided me, thinking me haughty and reserved--others, with boyish love of mischief, sought to annoy and disturb me at my employments; but I had not been remiss in cultivating strength of body, and an appeal to the strong arm soon freed me from their annoyance. Others again, and a majority of the professors among the number, sought to conciliate me in consideration of the large fortune to which I was heir; but I saw through their hypocrisy, and repaid them with contempt. Thus I was solitary as before.

"I had been about a year at college, and was approaching my fifteenth birthday, when the first change in my daily life occurred. It was on a mild spring afternoon, that, having finished my day's occupations, I set out for a ramble in an adjoing wood. My fellow students had gone on a fishing excursion; but so averse had I become to their society, that I invariably declined joining their expeditions, and they now rarely invited me. Having the whole afternoon to myself, I resolved to devote it to exploring a path that I had lately found in the woods: so, taking my flute under my arm, and a volume of Tasso in my pocket, I set out on my expedition.

I found the path I had undertaken to explore very beautiful, though apparently little trodden. It lay through the very heart of the wood, shutting out the view of the college, but with occasional vistas affording views of more attractive spots. When at length I came to where the opening pathway showed that the forest ended, I acknowledged to myself that nothing could be more beautiful; and throwing myself on the ground, with my loved volume in my hand, I wished that I were able to pass my life thus, and forget the hated college altogether.

"I had become absorbed in the story of the enchanted forest, when I was suddenly recalled by the sound of some one singing in an adjoining field. So exquisitely musical was the voice, that I almost fancied Armida to have brought her lyre to enchant me; but the simple nature of the song assured me it must be some ordinary mortal. So I resolved to draw nearer, and discover the singer. I climbed a tree that stood on the border of the forest which commanded a view of the adjoining field. There was a meadow, separated from the wood by a stone wall; a pond of some extent was on the other side, by which I could see the musician sitting. She was a mere child, womanly in appearance, though she had not then completed her eleventh year. To my eyes she appeared the most beautiful creature I had ever seen; and the very sight of her opened a new world to my imagination. She was reclining on the bank beside the pond, in an attitude of unconscious grace, twining a wreath of wild flowers, and singing to herself. I was enraptured; and forgetting every thing but the minstrel, I bent forward so incautiously that the bough beneath me snapped, and I was precipitated into the pond.

"The child's first impulse was flight; but seeing how helpless I was (for I had not learned to swim), she returned to extricate me. A long thorny bramble was the first plant that came to hand. Heedless of the wounds it inflicted on her fingers, she tore it up, and throwing me an end, succeeded in bringing me to the shore.

"It was not difficult to become acquainted. She was but a child, and I was little more.

"I did not, till afterwards, find who she was. She was a Quadroon--do you start, Ury? yes, it was the same one. She was the property of a scoundrel, who made his living by bringing up young slave-girls till they reached a certain age, and then selling them, for what vile purpose you may well imagine. She, however, was at that time ignorant of the purpose for which she was destined--she only knew that she had always lived in this secluded spot, seeing no one except the woman who had charge of her, and a man who was called her husband. She was kindly treated, that is, she was well fed and well clothed, and little looked after, except to see that she did not stray from the place. She had no name. The people with whom she lived always spoke of her as 'the child.' This would not do for me, so I resorted to my books, and chose from a Spanish poem the name of Isadora.

"Our meetings were now frequent. I put in practice an art which I had formerly learned, and arranged a small bower near her residence, arranging the entrance so as to escape one unacquainted with the secret. Here was our place of meeting. I taught her to read and speak the Italian language as well as her own. I read to her the poets which had charmed me, and cultivated her mind into sympathy with my own. For the three years that I still remained at college, our intercourse was unbroken. In the interval my father, alarmed by certain failures among the Boston merchants, retired from business, and laying out his money in lands on the Hudson, removed with his family to New-York. James was accordingly sent to the King's* College, in this city, instead of joining me at Yale. Meanwhile, I had emerged from boyhood to youth. Isadora was still a child; but her mind, in these three years, had taken the tone of mine, and I loved her more than ever. It was with many tears that we parted; and I vowed that when of age, I would return and claim her as my wife.

"When I was nineteen, my father died, leaving me heir to all his landed property.

"My resolution was now formed; and I waited with impatience until I came of age. The very day on which my twenty-first year was completed, I flew to New

*now Columbia

Haven, resolved to possess Isadora, and make her mine for ever.

"I followed the old path towards the home of Isadora, purchased her from her master, and made her mine.

"You will now suppose our difficulties at an end; but no, they were just begun. The law of our land will sanction no marriage with those of negro blood; but I sought to bind her to me by a tie that would unite us in the eye of Heaven, andin her own. I brought her to this neighborhood and placed her under Hughson's charge at the farm-house, where you saw her. I then applied to the Father Nozzalini, to solemnize our union; but would you believe it? he sternly refused to unite me in a marriage which it would be ever in my power to break at will. To all my entreaties he made but one answer; and thus, for upwards of a year have we been as far from happiness as ever. You have my story."

Ury had listened with intense interest to his companion's narrative; but at the close of his story, his feelings overcame him, and he rose and cast himself into his friend's arms.

Albert strained him to his bosom. "You sympathize with us," he said; "do you not see how it is in your power to assist us?"

"How?" faltered Ury, fearing for what would follow.

"To-morrow," said Albert, "you receive the sacrament of orders in our holy church. Come, then, and unite me to my beloved; and I shall have cause to bless the day that brought you to this city."

"Albert," said Ury, hesitatingly, "do you wish me to commence my course as the minister of God, by an act of disobedience to our Bishop? an act of open rebellion?"

"Why do you call it so? Our marriage is not forbidden by the law of God; it is but an unauthorized decision of the Holy Father."

"Dare you call his decision unauthorized? And is it consonant to the law of God to put you in a situation that may involve the ruin of a helpless girl?"

"It is enough, sir," said Albert, rising haughtily. "I will ask you nothing more." Then in a softer voice, "It is a bitter disappointment, but I see you are like the rest. Farewell, Bernard, may we never meet again."

Ury hesitated a moment between conscience and affection; but alas! affection triumphed; and again throwing his arms around Farquhar, he whispered, "I cannot resist--be it as you will."

CHAPTER VII. {small text, verse}

"Fire that is closest kept burns most of all." {right aligned with the verse} TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA.

"Where are you going in such haste, Albert?" said James Farquhar, as his brother was starting up after dinner. "Have you any engagement this afternoon?"

"Only for a walk, James."

"Only a walk, eh? well, I suppose then, you have no objection to a companion," taking his arm as he spoke.

"Excuse me, my dear James, I remember just now that I have a special engagement, and must hasten to keep it."

"Oh, you unconscionable wretch! were you not regretting only yesterday, that when there were only two of us, we should be so little together? And now that I propose to be your companion for the afternoon, you put me off with an engagement."

"My dear brother," said Albert, taking James's hand affectionately in his own, "I am truly sorry that it should be as you say; but this evening I am really bound by an imperative engagement which will prevent our being together. I wish it were one I might tell you; but I will take care not to disappoint you another time. Good-bye."

"Good-bye, you mysterious being," replied James, laughing, "you have more mysterious than I care to fathom. Where on earth is he bound now?" continued James, as he watched Albert from the street door, with a peculiar smile upon his pale face. "What a distance he keeps up the Broadway. Is he going through the gate? No; upon my soul, he has turned down Flattenbarrack Hill. What on earth can he have there?"

As he walked musingly along the side-walk, he was nearly run over by young Horsemanden, who was engaged in his usual fashionable "Broadway lounge."

"Why, what the devil ails you, man?" said Horsemanden, who had a swaggering, devil-may care manner, with a very knowing expression beneath it. "You must want to be run over, and have an end put to all your plucking. Eh, Farquhar?"

"Did you meet Albert?" inquired James, his ideas still running on the old subject.

"Where should I see him?" returned Horsemanden. "I'm just from the Mansion House. He isn't there, I suppose. Nozzalini isn't."

"Oh, no, I saw Albert turn down Flattenbarrack Hill this instant. I cannot conceive what took him there."

"Ask him, you stupid fellow. He'll tell you, I dare say."

"No doubt," replied James laughing, "but seriously, you know."

"Seriously then, I'd advise you to ask Roberts. He lives in Garden-street,* where the advent of an English-man must create a sensation. Every body will be looking out to see what he wants."

*Exchange Place.

Roberts at this instant appeared from an adjoining street.

"There he is. Talk of the devil and his imps will appear," said Horsemanden laughing. "Hallo, Roberts, you're well met. What has astonished you so? Your eyes and mouth are both wide open."

"For seeing and speaking," added James. "Come tell us, Roberts."

"I have seen a sight," said Roberts, seemingly gasping for utterance. "I never could have imagined it."

"Why, what is it, Roberts?"

"Down Garden-street, somewhere near the ferry-house. I shall never get over my surprise."

"Hang your surprise!" said Horsemanden impatiently, "do let's have the news."

"Well, as soon as I can. I was going down Garden-street, I don't know why, for I very rarely venture beyond my lodgings."

"Hang your lodgings! What then?"

"Why, do let me tell it my own way. I was down at the foot of Garden-street, standing by the ferry-house, when old Joe's boat came round from the island, and drew up right by the wharf. I wanted to ask him a question or two about the fishing; but he shied off like all the world, and drew up on the other side, where he thought I could not see him."

"Well, for Heaven's sake go on. You would tire a saint with your long stories."

"Let him take his own time," whispered James Farquhar, who saw that there was more to tell.

"Well, I didn't care about watching him, and so was going away, when the door of the ferry-house opened, and who do you think came out of it? I'll give you a guess now. One, two, three."

"Albert, perhaps," said James Farquhar.

"No it wasn't. I'll tell you at once. It was nobody more or less than old Nozzalini."

"Why, do tell!" said James, mimicking the New England accent.

"It was the Signor Nozzalini himself, wrapped in a great shapeless old cloak that looked as if Bloody Mary might have worn it, and his hat pulled down over those beetling brows of his, as if he thought nobody would know him."

"But do tell me," said James, "Did the old Signor get into the boat, cloak and all?"

"Yes, every inch of him. I saw old Joe rowing as if for dear life, and the Italian sitting in the stern, as straight and dignified as ever."

"Horsemanden," said James, in a whisper, "I have no doubt Albert has something to do with this. You know he is one of Nozzalini's set."

"I'll be bound to find it out," said Horsemanden. "I shall laugh to see old Nozzalini at any pranks out of town."

"Let us go down to the old ferry-house," suggested Farquhar. "I dare say we shall find some of them there."

"Very well. Good-bye, Roberts," and the two young men turned abruptly down a side street.

Left once more to himself, Roberts strolled up Broadway in the direction of the Ladies' Valley. He was not attracted by the gay company there, but continued his walk to the fields, which were then neither inclosed nor planted, but extended over a much larger surface than is at present occupied by the Park. The groves of elms with which the fields were studded looked peculiarly inviting on a warm spring afternoon; and Roberts was tempted to enjoy their shade. He thought, however, that it would be more agreeable not quite so near the hot dusty road; so he shaped his course towards a more secluded grove, which stood near the site of the present Hall of Records.

To a mere casual observer, this clump of trees looked much as the others in the neighborhood. The interior, however, was cleared and smoothed, as if by a workman's hand; and there was a large mound in the centre, with a door in the side resembling that of some family vault.

It was a matter of surprise to Roberts, that any family should have placed a vault in that sequestered spot, instead of the adjoining churchyard of St. Paul's. He could not imagine whom it belonged to; for all the leading families in the city had vaults either in St. Paul's or Trinity; while the Dutch families, as Roberts very well knew, had burial places in the neighborhood, and all made a point of carving the family name in each vault, carrying thus their pride to the very tomb. But this was no common vault: it showed no signs of decay, and there were footprints of recent visitors before the door. Examiningit more carefully, Roberts observed that the door had been lately opened, and the bolts on the inside slipped so carelessly that they had not caught. Curiosity prevailed over his reluctance to disturb a burial place, and he pushed the door open.

To his great astonishment he saw no signs of burial within. A flight of stone steps descended from the very opening, but the darkness prevented him from seeing whither they led. A chill shot through him, at the thought that this might be the stronghold of smugglers; but curiosity prevailed over fear, and he descended.

The staircase was dark and steep; and as Roberts had taken the precaution to close the door after him, it was with great difficulty that he groped his way to the foot. But what will we not do under the impulse of curiosity? Despite his late misadventure from intruding into the secrets of others, he still pursued his way until the staircase ended in a dark, narrow-vaulted passage. A light glimmered at the other end, and following its guidance he at last arrived in a large vaulted apartment with a stone pavement, and an altar at the upper end surmounted by a crucifix, before which a couple of tapers were burning.*

Roberts had now little doubt that he had discovered the place of worship of the Roman Catholics, who were suspected to exist in large numbers, though secretly, in the city.

He had not completed his survey of this subterranean temple, when a sound of music from a distance caught his ear. Some one was certainly approaching. Roberts hastened to conceal himself, and awaited their appearance.

A train of worshippers soon appeared from an opposite passage. There were the musicians, the boys swinging censers, the figures bearing the host, and all the paraphernalia of Romish worship. But the worshippers, the better to escape detection in case their place of worship were discovered, were shrouded in thick black robes, concealing both face and figure. But at their head, disdaining disguise, walked the stately form of the Signor Nozzalini. He wore the Bishop's robes, and the mitre was on his head.

He took his stand at the altar, and went through the sacrifice of the mass. The watcher himself was awed

* New-York at this day contains many such subterranean apartments.

by the nocturnal service. The insufficiency of persecution to suppress religious worship, even though that worship be idolatrous and corrupt, struck forcibly on his mind. It was with breathless awe that he watched the ceremonial. But now his interest was more strongly excited--for the Bishop proceeded to consecrate a candidate for Holy Orders. The candidate advanced, and cast off his disguise; a solemn ceremony was gone through, and Bernard Ury rose, a clergyman of the Church of Rome.

It was with sadness and sinking of heart, that Roberts stole from the subterranean temple. The secret of his friend's life was in his hands, and he dreaded lest it should prove too heavy for him to bear.

CHAPTER VIII. {small text, verse}

There is an awe in mortal's joy, A deep mysterious fear, Half of the heart will still employ, As if we drew too near. To Eden's portal, and those fires That bicker round in wavy spires, Forbidding to our frail desires What cost us once so dear. {right aligned with the verse} KEBLE'S CHRISTIAN YEAR.

It was on a cheerful spring morning, shortly after the scenes above related, that Bernard Ury emerged from one of the alleys that in those days answered the purpose of a porte-cochère.. He was mounted and spurred, and apparently bound on an excursion. His face, however, told of a mind by no means at ease; and his manner, as he guided or rather allowed his horse to turn up Pearl-street, was drooping and languid, as of one who went reluctantly to an act his conscience condemned. This was in truth his object. Unable to resist the pleadings of friendship, he had yielded to Albert Farquhar's importunity, and was now about to unite him to Isadora.

The perplexities of Pearl, Dock, and Grea Queen streets, soon drew his attention from his own thoughts. The windings and separations of these three thorough-fares (now united into one), perplexed him not a little. Once he fairly lost his way; then stumbled upon it quite unexpectedly; was again immersed in the winding of Dock-street; lost all idea of the points of the compass; and finally, casting a bewildered glance at the little Dutch houses, with their stair-shaped gables, and moss-grown roofs, which lined the street on either side, stopped short in despair of ever finding his way out of the labyrinth in which he was entangled.

He had remained in this predicament for about five minutes, when he was greeted by the cheerful halloo of Albert, who appeared from a neighboring street.

"Quite lost, I perceive," said Albert; "I confess I feared as much. But, now I have found you, let us proceed."

His cheerful, happy face completely put to flight all Ury's resolution. He could not say the one word necessary, but quietly followed him on.

They followed the direction of Dock-street till they came to the walls of the city, where a little gate admitted them to the outside. The road above the gate was marked Great Queen-street on the chart of the city, but was as yet neither paved nor built. Soon they passed the Vly* or Marsh Market, which, with the Bear{cross} Market on the opposite side of the Island, were the principal and indeed the only dépôts of provisions for the citizens of New-York. Soon after the road, which was as winding as the street that led to it, came out upon the high road leading to Boston (it is now known as Chatham-street). Here at the junction of the streets stood Gallows Hill; the black gibbet reared its unsightly form on the summit, and at the foot was a sort of hollow, where it was commonly supposed the Indians, in old times, offered sacrifices to their infernal deity.

* Now Fulton Market. {illustration of a cross} Now Washington.

Before long they reached the Bouwerie Road, as it was then called, which was lined on either side with the country seats or bouveries of the Dutch. The only place where the line was broken was where the English had established a small public garden called Vauxhall, after its prototype in London. This was a favorite place of resort while the people were in their country seats. A little further to the north the Bouwerie Road joined the Broadway at a spot then known as the Upper Meadows (now Union Place), at the other extremity of which parted the roads leading to Haarlem and Blomendael, connecting the city with the remainder of the province.

Turning off from the Meadows, the ruined building which had given Ury shelter on a previous occasion was before long reached. Externally, Bernard remarked little alteration, except that the windows of the northern wing were newly glazed. In other respects it wore the same dilapidated air as before, and showed little improvement since his former visit.

"This should be the door," said Albert, as giving his horse to a negro he passed to the front of the house. The huge door slowly opened and admitted the visitors into a large open hall, which to Ury's surprise was clean and in thorough repair. A side door opened with equal ease, and Ury found himself in a suite of apartments newly and richly furnished in the taste of the times, and in a degree of splendor few houses in the city could boast. An elegantly-furnished parlor opened from the anteroom where they stood; beyond this the subdued light fell through pale rose-colored curtains upon a small boudoir. Books, pictures, a piano, a flower-stand, a harp, and all the different luxuries of the wealthy New-Yorkers, were scattered in profusion round the room. Every thing bore the stamp of refinement, luxury and elegance.

"This is her abode," said Albert, approaching the door of the boudoir. It opened; and with a wild cry of delight, the young Quadroon flew into his arms.

To Ury's eyes she appeared still more beautiful than on their first meeting. A delicately-wrought dress of white gauze was gathered round her waist, and fell in simple folds to her feet. The bodice gathered loosely over her voluptuous breast, displayed the finely-moulded arms and neck, but veiled the bosom. A bouquet of newly-gathered flowers lay in her bosom, and her whole appearance was calculated to vanquish stronger scruples than either Albert or Ury entertained.

"I would not wear your gift," she said, "before you arrived. Come with me."

And drawing Albert with her into the boudoir, she took a blonde lace veil that lay on the couch and put it on her head, fastening it with a wreath of orange blossoms. "Does this please you?" The answer may be left to the imagination.

But Albert did not forget Ury. "Come back with me, Isadora," he said, "this is the man who is to make us happy."

Isadora smiled and bashfully extended her hand. "I owe the Hughsons some thanks for once, Mr. Ury," she said, "for giving you the wound that brought you here."

"Isadora!" interposed Albert, sternly.

"The Hughsons?" replied Ury. "Is it to them, indeed, that I owe the assault I underwent on my first approach to the city?"

"Do not talk of it, Bernard," said Albert, "he, Martin Hughson, was the guilty person, as you say. But he has gone to his last account. It is of little use to speak of it now."

"I bear no ill will against the dead," replied Ury. At this instant Mother Hughson entered, and announced that all was ready for the ceremony.

And there in that solitary dwelling, where the city even now scarcely reaches, and at that time a scene of perfect loneliness; in that solitary abode, with no other witnesses than Hughson and his wife, and in the presence of one, himself the secret priest of a proscribed religion, the city youth and the Quadroon maiden plighted their throths to cleave to one another so long as they both should live.

The last words of the marriage service were yet sounding in their ears, and the happy bridegroom had just impressed the first salute upon the lips of his bride, when Mother Hughson, who had just left the room, rushed hastily back:

"You're called for," she gasped. "You're called for by--"

"But ere her sentence was finished, a tall figure appeared in the doorway and confronted the astonished party. Nor was their surprise diminished when the unknown, throwing aside the cloak in which he was shrouded, revealed the features of Arthur, the dark-browed pirate chief.

CHAPTER IX. {small text, verse}

O'er the bright waves like a child of the Sun See the tall vessel goes gallantly on. Who, as she smiles in the silvery light, Spreading her wings in the bosom of night, Alone in the deep--like the moon in the sky-- A phantom of beauty, would deem with a sigh That so lovely a thing is the mansion of sin, And souls that are smitten lie bursting within? {right aligned with the verse} HARVEY

Albert Farquhar was the first to recover from his surprise at this unexpected apparition.

"Whence this intrusion?" he said, haughtily advancing towards the new comer. "To what am I to ascribe this visit from a stranger?"

"I may be a stranger to you," replied the pirate in his deep, full voice, "but you are none to me. But it is not you that I seek. Bernard Ury," he continued, approaching Ury, who had drawn back as if in pain, and covered his face with his hands, "rouse yourself, my friend. There is need for exertion, and promptly too. Can you look on me and hear me?"

"I hear you. Go on," said Ury, breathlessly.

"Trust me then. You are in danger in this city."

"To what danger?" interposed Albert, haughtily, "is Mr. Ury exposed, while under my roof?"

"How long has he been here?" inquired Arthur with no sign of displeasure.

"Since this morning, only."

"And are you not aware of what has happened this very day?"

"What? What?"

"A terrible disclosure. Information has been lodged of the nightly assembling of a band Roman Catholics for purposes of worship; and the Signor Nozzalini, who keeps the Mansion House on the Broadway, is discovered to be their priest. He has been put under arrest, and a warrant is issued for examining his house."

"Well, and what then?" said Ury, endeavoring to appear unconcerned.

"What then, Bernard Ury? do you think me ignorant that you are likewise a priest of their order? Do you think to escape detection when you are already suspected, and your papers must be exposed in the general search?"

"What is to be done?" gasped Ury, completely stunned by this unexpected news.

"I sought you," said Arthur, "immediately on hearing the proclamation. This portion of your papers I also saved," handing him a small desk which Ury recognized as containing his most important papers. "Come with me. My vessel waits on the shore and will carry you back to Albany, where perhaps you may be safe. You, Mr. Farquhar, may be of service to your friend by hastening to the city. You are unsuspected, and perhaps may rescue the remainder of his papers, and whatever else might be used against him. Promptness is every thing."

"Go, Albert, go," cried Isadora.

"Take his advice, Ury," said Albert, "it is the best that can be done. I will to the city and do my best for you. The regular summer packet leaves New-York in a fortnight. Stay in Albany till she arrives, and you shall hear all that has taken place. God bless you, my dear, dear friend, Farewell."

Albert threw himself into Ury's arms (the cold conventionalities of modern times were not then, as now, allowed to overpower every natural emotion), and kissed him on the cheek. But there was little time for adieus. Arthur seized his hand and drew him to the river side, where the piratical vessel stood in readiness. A spring to her deck, a cheerful shout from the mariners, and they are gone.

Ury stands on the deck waving his handkerchief to his friends on the shore. But the pirate is at his side, and his hand rests on his shoulder; and he whispers in his ear with a deep and sorrowful voice--

"Bernard, if in after life your thoughts recur to me, think of me as I am now--wretched and remorseful, but as of one who has been so far blessed as to save the life his former deeds embittered. Forget the pirate, the smuggler, the assassin; but think sometimes of one who has been your friend."

"I have always considered you as such, Arthur," replied Ury; "but wherefore speak so despairingly? If so fully alive to the evil of your situation, wherefore remain in it?"

"Who can return when every man's hand is against him, when none will receive his repentance, or extend to him the hand of sympathy? No, Ury. You, who have never fallen, may talk of repentance; but for me, the reprobate, the outcast, there is no hope!"

"No hope, Arthur? Who was received even on the cross, even while paying the penalty of his crimes? No, Arthur, my dear friend, I have little eloquence; but let me persuade you. You will be safe at Albany. The arm of the law will hardly reach you there. Return with me to the interior, and there, unknown and unsuspected, you may work out your own salvation."

"Do not mistake me, sir," replied Arthur, drawing his fine figure up to its full height, and his dark eye flashing fire. "The flames of remorse are burning in my breast--they are consuming my life away--but to return--I scorn the world. I leave my brave fellows who have followed me through difficulty and danger--I leave them to the tender mercies of the law, and sneak away to live tamely as a penitent--make myself an anchorite, or a country schoolmaster?--a quiet and respectable life, truly. Had any other man proposed me this, he--"

The pirate stopped--his passion was frightful to see, and convulsed his whole frame. Ury turned sorrowfully away.

"But not thus," exclaimed Arthur, seizing his hand. "Let me say one word more. Once arrived at Albany, our courses lie far apart--we may never meet again. But let me carry with me the assurance of your forgiveness. To me you owe the greatest sorrow of your life. It has haunted me through all my wanderings, and driven me to many of my worst crimes. Let me have now the forgiveness you refused me then. It will be a light upon my too dark path, and will free me from some of my most miserable hours."

Ury took the pirate's hand between his own, and spoke with sincere affection: "May God forgive you every thing, dear Arthur, as entirely as I do here."

"Thanks, thanks," said Arthur. The tear trembled in his eye, and he turned away.

"How little do we think," said Ury to himself, as he retired into the sleeping-place assigned him, "of the good or evil a single word may do. Had I listened to this unhappy man when first he came before me, humbly begging my forgiveness; had I then granted it to him instead of rudely casting him aside, how different might have been his career! Heaven forgive me that I should have been indirectly the means of making him what he is."

By degrees he fell into a slumber, from which he was awakened by feeling his throat roughly grasped; and looking up, he saw a tall, powerful man, bending over him.

"What would you?" said Ury.

"What would I," replied the man, in whose coal-black beard and hair, and sinister expression, Ury recognized the person of Isaac Hughson. "You may well ask. You, for whose sake I was despoiled of one of the best pickings I ever made in a night. You, in whose defence my brother was killed, and who know all our secrets, and were just now trying to persuade our leader to desert us. I have you now. This will pay off old scores."

And he aimed a blow at him with his knife. But ere it could descend, his arm was arrested from behind, and he found himself in the presence of his chief.

"Take him into your custody," said Arthur calmly to the men around him. "You know the penalty for such an act."

Ury interceded for Hughson. But the men, accustomed to obey their leader's orders on the spot, had already dragged the offender to the stern of the boat. Here, with rapacious eagerness, they stripped off his clothes, each seizing for himself such parts of it as pleased him. A shot was then fastened to his heels, and he was thrown from the deck.

The sound of the splash roused Ury. He sprang from his cot and hastened to the deck; but he only saw the calm waters closing over the head of the drowning man, and the hills of the Palisades disappearing in the distance.

CHAPTER X. {small text, verse} Come home!--there is a sorrowing breath In music since ye went, And the early flower-scents wander by With mournful memories blent. The tones in every household voice Are grown more sad and deep, And the sweet word--brother--wakes a wish To turn aside and weep. {right aligned with the verse} FELICIA HEMANS.

About a week or ten days after the marriage of Albert Farquhar and Isadora, two travellers on horseback might have been seen approaching the village of Schenectady. The setting sun on that clear summer evening, threw a red light over the hop gardens and peach orchards of that little settlement, which, with its well-tilled farms, and calm, cheerful aspect, presented a pleasing contrast to the wild woods all around it.

One of these horsemen was Ury; the other was a gentleman between forty and fifty years of age, uncommonly strongly made, and of the Dutch build. His dress was homespun, but his manner in all respects that of a gentleman. His face was worn and clouded, as if with constant anxiety--indeed, every one who knew Adam Vrooman, of Schenectady, agreed that his anxiety to establish a good provision for his wife and daughters, was wearing out his existence. The consciousness that his wife, originally a New-Yorker, had left the comforts of home to follow him to a place where she must suffer so many privations, proved a stimulus to incessant exertion; and the one motive of his life had become a monomania, of which his face bore tokens.

Ury had remained in Albany until the arrival of the regular packet from New-York. It brought the expected letter from Albert Farquhar, and the remainder of his effects; it brought also the news of the execution of Nozzalini, who was convicted, beyond a doubt, of being a Romish Priest, and an emissary of the Pope and the Pretender. Nothing had been discovered to criminate Ury; but as his mission in New-York was completed, he preferred to return to Schenectady with Mr. Vrooman, of whose family he was an inmate.

It was still light when they reached Mr. Vrooman's residence, a large, half-Dutch, half-English building of stone, at the further end of the hamlet. The door stood invitingly open, and admitted them into the large, hospitable kitchen, with its huge Dutch fireplace, and bright, cheerful fire. So cold were the nights in that part of the country, that a fire, even in the month of June, was no unnecessary comfort.

Two of Vrooman's daughters--the eldest and the youngest--were seated on either side of the fireplace. They were genuine Dutch girls in form and face; buxom and short in stature, with eyes like sloes, cheeks like cabbage roses, teeth white as ivory, and hair black as the raven's wing. They were dressed in the English style, but in the Dutch taste; wore scissors, pincushion and needle-book, at their girdles; and were like the kitchen in which they sat, patterns of cleanliness and order.

On the entrance of their father they rushed up to him, kissed him tumultuously, and offered their cheeks without embarrassment to Ury's salute. Having seen the new-comers seated by the fire, they took up their work and resumed their seats in the corner.

"Where are your mother and sister?" said Mr. Vrooman, when he had taken his seat.

"They are above," said Minchen, the eldest daughter. "We did not expect you till later in the evening."

"Shall I call them?" said Miss Frederica Vrooman, who sat in a flowered chintz gown, and her hair tucked up under a little quilted cap, demurely knitting stockings in the chimney corner.

"No, no, Ricka, we will wait--or, stay, I will go for them myself," said Mr. Vrooman, rising. "Bernard, I must hand you over to the girls." And he withdrew.

"Did you like New-York?" inquired Frederica, who felt no small disposition to gossip about the news of a strange place.

"It is a much greater place than Schenectady," replied Ury, gravely, "and in many respects a finer; but I would much rather be here, for I viewed New-York as an Empire of Heresy; and when a Bishop of our Holy Church is forced to hide under the disguise of an Inn-keeper, the place whose law compels him to do so, can have few attractions for me."

"That is true, Mr. Ury," replied the elder sister. "Were New-York a paradise in other respects, I should have no desire to go there while our holy Church is oppressed."

"Oh, I am perfectly crazy to go there," exclaimed Frederica, eagerly. "I have been perfectly in love with Mamma's account of it. She says they have balls there--actually balls. And I think you would like it too, Minnie; for I remember how your face brightened when Mam [Problem] ma told us of the Trininty Church, with the gold angels on every pillar, and the grand organ that plays there."

"But it is an heretical place of worship," said Minchen, shaking her head doubtfully.

"Would you be willing, Frederica," said Ury; {";" doubtful} gravely, "to reside in a town where your very devotions must be concealed, and your whole life one of secrecy? Would you be willing to attend at least once a month, as their laws require you to do, on a place of worship which you consider heretical? And would you be driven, whenever you fulfilled the duty of hearing mass, to meet in secret in a cavern under the earth, to perform those services which should be held in the open day?"

Minchen Vrooman looked grave, at this account of the Romish Church in New-York. But Frederica was attracted by the romance of holding secret service in subterranean vaults, and bent eagerly forward to listen to the account of the midnight mass. Ury saw the tenor of her feelings; and wishing to alter their direction, related the story of the Italian Bishop's discovery and execution. As he proceeded, both girls were affected; but Frederica was finally so overpowered, that she covered her face with her hands and burst into tears.

"Mrs. Vrooman will be here directly," said Mr. Vrooman, re-entering. "But hey! what is the matter with Frederica?"

"She was agitated by my account of the Bishop's death," Ury replied. "It excited her too much."

The coldness and severity of Mr. Vrooman's manner entirely disappeared as he advanced to console his daughter; and nothing but the fond father could be seen as he bent over her.

"Cheer up, my pretty," he said. "The time shall yet come, when thou shalt figure in some of these cities as fine a lady as the best of them. They shall see thy carriage in the Broadway, as fine as any of them can boast, and thyself a gay lady, who shall stand with any. Yes, the day will yet come, when we shall leave this miserable farm, and flaunt as gayly as the best. It will come yet--oh yes! it will come yet."

The eyes of Minchen Vrooman filled with tears as her father muttered these last words, over and over again; for she saw in them the working of the monomania which was destroying him. For near a quarter of a century it had been growing upon him with his increasing family; and now it had become so strong as to render recovery hopeless. But her thoughts were interrupted by the entrance of Mrs. Vrooman, with her daughter Emma, who came to welcome the stranger to his future home.

Emma was the second daughter. Her whole appearance proclaimed her at once a stranger, on one side at least, to the blood of Holland. Her figure rose far above the average height; her dark hair, parted smoothly, without band or other ornament, gave additional loftiness to her high, expansive forehead. There was something noble in her firm port, and regular, chiselled features; but her complexion was deadly pale, and there was no trace of color even in her lips. In strange contrast with this was the expression of her large dark eyes, which shone with a light it was difficult to describe. It was not enthusiasm, it was not insanity, it was not devotion; but yet in these ever restless orbs there was something not belonging to either, and yet resembling all three. It was as if a strange and unnatural life had been given to a statue, and was shining through its marble eyes. This added to the pallor of her complexion, and the plainness of her white nun-like dress added apparently five years to her age, which, in reality, was not past twenty. She was accompanied by her mother, a quiet, lady-like person, with nothing remarkable in her appearance or manner.

The first words of Emma Vrooman displayed the difference between her and her sisters. Ury had risen to greet her; but she took no notice of his offered hand, and kneeling reverentially before him, said, "Your blessing, Father."

For the first time, Minchen and Frederica called to mind the character in which Ury had returned. No reproach had been intended by Emma's action, but it was the instinctive prompting of her heart on seeing Ury. An enthusiast in her religion, she saw not an old friend, but the priest of her church. Her sisters, however, both felt it as a reproof.

"Our priest," said Minchen, devoutly kissing the cross she wore. "True. Give me your blessing likewise, Father."

"And me." The three sisters knelt humbly together to receive the Church's benediction.

"At last," said Minchen, when the ceremony was concluded, and they were seated at their evening meal, "we are all re-united. This will be a happy meal."

"And the Church is re-united," said Emma. "She is no longer a fold without a shepherd."

"Never again to wander, I hope," added Ury. "I am happier here than elsewhere."

"And you are a priest, now," observed Frederica.

"A priest," said Emma, "yes, he is a priest." And her eyes glanced wildly around.

"Why, what ails you, Emma?" said Mrs. Vrooman, "you draw your breath as if you were in pain."

"No, no pain," replied the daughter; but her lip quivered, and her cheek grew pale. Minchen handed her a glass; her teeth chattered against the glass.

"You are ill, dear Emma," said Minchen, starting up. But in an instant it was all over, and Emma sat at the table pale and cold as marble.

"It is all over--it is nothing," said she, hastily. And becoming perfectly calm, she lifted the kettle from the hob; and filled the tea-pot with a steady hand.

"We will all be happy now," said Frederica, as, having finished her supper, she took her seat at her father's feet, and laid her head upon his knee.

All hastened to say something cheerful in reply. But Ury's glance fell upon the dark, deep-set eyes of Emma Vrooman, and there was that in their expression which checked the half-uttered sentence on his tongue.

CHAPTER XI. {small text, verse}

There are some folks who suffer for a fault ever so trifling, as much as others whose stout consciences can walk under crimes of almost any weight. {right aligned with the verse} THACKERAY'S PENDENNIS.

The solemn and stern warnings of the Italian Bishop had been almost unheeded by Albert Farquhar, at the period of their delivery. The eagerness with which he pursued his object, and the joy of its successful accomplishment, had driven these warnings further from his mind; but the sudden and fearful end of his monitor awoke them in their full force. The solemn tones of that warning voice were now ever beside him; even in his happiest moments that hand seemed raised before him with a threatening gesture of admonition. The words "Beware," seemed ever in his ears, and his very dreams were haunted with a vague presentiment of evil.

One afternoon not long after the sailing of the Albany packets, under the influence of these feelings, he wandered solitary and reflective along the Broadway, instead of seeking, as was his wont, the society of Isadora. There was little to attract him in the heat and bustle of the city; so, following the direction of the Broadway beyond the gates, he walked with hurried steps, as if flying from his own thoughts, till the sights and sounds of Gotham were left far behind. He had little eye for the objects around him; the Ladies' Valley, the Murderer's Dell, St. Paul's Church, and the King's College were passed by unnoted; and when at last he raised his eyes from the ground, the first object that met them was the tall, black, unshapely gallows. A blackened corpse hung from it in chains. It was the corpse of Nozzalini.

The suddenness of the sight made Albert recoil with horror. A small thicket lay between him and the place of execution. Above this towered the hideous object on which his eyes rested; while, at a little distance, he could discern the gibbet to which was fastened the body of the poor old fisherman who had shared his Bishop's fate. At this moment a voice fell upon his ear. It was familiar, and yet he did not recognize it. Its tone was of intense anguish, mingled with self-reproach.

"Put it up--put it up. I will not grow rich on the wages of blood. My hands are stained too much already."

Albert did not hear the answer, as it was made in a very low voice.

"Would to Heaven I could cast off the stain of blood as I do its reward. Take it away--away."

There was a sound of footsteps departing, and Albert, waiting till they had ceased, continued his path to the gallows.

To his surprise a figure was seated at its foot--his head bowed on his knees, stifled sounds of pain proceeding from him. Nor was Albert's surprise diminished, when the prostrate figure, raising his head, displayed the countenance of Roberts.

So wretched, so utterly woe-begone was his face, that Albert was touched. He approached Roberts, and with a tone of sympathy inquired the cause of his distress.

"The curse of Judas is upon me," were the first words uttered in reply. It could scarcely so much be called a reply as an expression of the bitterness of an overflowing heart.

"The curse of Judas is upon me. I have taken the price of blood, and bartered a life for gold."

"What do you mean?" said Albert, perplexed more and more by his companion's manner.

"I shall never dare to look upon the sun. My heart is crushed, and I feel as if all the world scorned and contemned me."

"What is the matter, Roberts?" said Albert, kindly. "Cheer up, man. What has happened?"

"It is still a secret, a secret," muttered the young man, restlessly. Albert looked on in amazement. But presently he stopped, and, seizing Albert's arm, whispered,

"Do you see that man?"

"Where? What man?" inquired Albert, beginning not unnaturally to suspect that his companion's mind was affected.

"That man, there," and he pointed tremulously to the body on the gibbet.

"Yes," said Albert, resolved to humor him, "that is the unfortunate Signor Nozzalini; the last victim of our law."

"I am his murderer."

The words were spoken in a breathless whisper. Albert drew back amazed.

"You his murderer? Why, Roberts, you are beside yourself. He was condemned by law, as an emissary of the Pretender, and a Popish Priest. You should not be trusted alone in this state of mind."

As he said this, he took Roberts by the arm to lead him home. The young man did not attempt to resist him; his head was bowed down upon his breast, and he murmured,

"A murderer--yes, his murderer. I betrayed him, and he died through me. Oh, woe is me!"

"What is all this?" said Albert, turning suddenly and seizing Roberts' arm in his powerful grasp. "Did you betray these men to government?"

"Yes, I did--I did," replied Roberts, in a vacant manner. "I learned the secret by chance, and I betrayed them--I betrayed them."

"Wretch!" exclaimed Albert, recoiling; "you have indeed murdered one far better than yourself. You are as truly a murderer as though your own hands had shed the blood of that sainted man. You are worse; for you have given up to death one who never injured you, and are now worse than Judas, fattening on the price of blood."

At this reproach the self-condemned and miserable young man appeared slightly roused. He drew himself up to his full height, and steadily meeting Albert's gaze, replied--

"Before you condemn me, Mr. Farquhar, you will do well to inquire how far it is deserved. The secret was learned by me accidentally. I sought to confine it in my own breast, but it was too heavy for me; and it was your brother, yes, it was James Farquhar, who, by his artful inquiries, drew the secret from me. Yes, and it was he and Charles Horsemanden who afterwards dragged me almost by force to make a deposition before Mr. Horsemanden, of the time and place where it occurred. Yes, and they have pocketed the reward; while I, rejecting even the small share offered me as hush money, have nothing but the misery and the stain."

"Poor, senseless fool!" replied Albert, scornfully. "This basely forged excuse, coined only for the sake of involving others in your own infamy, will never be received. It shall be promptly inquired into, and your conduct exposed."

With these words he turned from the spot, and hastened to the Ladies' Valley, where he knew he should find his brother. The Valley was, as he expected, full; and presented a scene of life and brilliancy very unlike the hot, dusty, crowded street which now fills its place. Its undulating surface extended to the very river--little picturesque groves studded it here and there, under whose shadow the pleasure-hunters from the city took refreshment at the little cosy-looking tables that stood beneath them. The high trees of the surrounding forests shaded the visitors from the sun; and the paths cut through them afforded exquisite rambles for such as preferred locomotion to refreshments. Groups of young ladies and gentlemen were scattered through the lovely valley, partaking of the refreshment of tea, which, before the introduction of ices, was the favorite summer luxury. At one of these tables Albert saw his brother James and young Horsemanden in attendance on a lady and her daughter, whom he recognized as the fiancé of young Francis Walton. At another table sat two beauless fair ones regarding their companion with envy.

"I wonder what those poor Dutch do with themselves at this hour," remarked the fair-haired damsel on whom James was attending. "How do they contrive to get rid of those long afternoons when it is too hot for any occupation?"

"What do they do?" rejoined Horsemanden. "Why, I'll tell you. They sit on their stoops and puff away at their long Dutch pipes, without speaking a word for two or three hours. They then make an enormous supper of tea, fried pork, doughnuts, pie and sourkraut; and go to bed at half-past seven."

"Go to bed at half-past seven? Why, they would not be able to sleep a wink."

"They don't--they sleep without winking," suggested James.

"La! you don't say so. But really, Mr. Farquhar, I think our life the pleasantest."

"Mine could not be otherwise were it always thus employed," replied James, gallantly.

"La!" said the young lady, simpering. But, upon my word, Mr. Farquhar, I don't think you gentlemen enjoy it much. I am afraid you prefer Signor Nozzalini's bar to the simpler delights of the Valley."

"Poor Signor Nozzalini!" said James, compassionately. It's another bar he's gone to now."

"Oh, what a horrid man he was! Do you know, Mr. Farquhar, they said he was a Papist? kept wooden shoes and warming-pans, and wanted to give New-York to the Pretender. Pray, what are Papists, Mr. Horsemanden? Papa says they are something very dreadful."

"They offer human sacrifices," said Horsemanden.

"And eat human flesh," added Farquhar.

"They dig up dead bodies to make candles," continued Horsemanden, winking at Farquhar to carry on the joke.

"And they steal children, and make their flesh into pies," said James, "and flavor their wine with blood."

"Oh, mercy!" screamed the young lady. "Ma, don't you remember the basket of port that dreadful Nozzalini sent us when he rented our house? You know what a queer taste it had. Only think, if we have been drinking blood."

"It is very terrible, Miss Seidlitz," said Horsemanden, gravely shaking his head. "You little thought what you were drinking then."

"Oh, my! no. Why, don't you remember that rainy day he asked me to come into his parlor, and sit till the rain was over? If I had not seen Mr. Walton with an umbrella, and got him to take me home, I should have gone in."

"My darling child! What an escape you have had," said Mrs. Seidlitz, shuddering. "My poor Seraphina!"

James Farquhar and Horsemanden looked at one another, suddenly recollecting that Frank Walton was engaged to Seraphina Seidlitz (who, though a simple, was a very amiable girl,) and might call them to account for quizzing her so unmercifully. James was indeed on the point of making his parting bow, when his eyes suddenly met those of his brother Albert, who was regarding him with a grave countenance.

"If you have quite done, James," said Albert, with forced calmness, "I shall be glad of your company."

"My dear brother," said James, good-humoredly, taking his arm, "you know that I am always glad of your company, and that only your own engagements prevent my seeking it oftener. Now, then, if you are ready."

"What I have now to say to you may not be so agreeable," said Albert, in a low voice, as they left the Valley.

"James Farquhar will catch it now," tittered one of the young ladies at the adjoining table.

"La! what for?" asked the other.

"For making such a fool of Seraphina Seidlitz. His brother disapproves of quizzing, I understand."

"Well, I wonder Mr. Farquhar listens to his lecturing."

"What nonsense you talk, Emily. Don't you know that Albert Farquhar has nearly all the property? James has only a younger son's portion, and his brother is so generous to him that it is well worth his while to keep in his good graces."

They were here interrupted by Horsemanden, who turned abruptly from Miss Seidlitz, and invited the fair Emily to promenade with him; which she did, much to the discomfiture of her companions. In the meanwhile the brothers continued their walk up the Broadway. Albert's step was hasty and agitated; James's timid and uncertain. They walked some time in this manner, when Albert turned suddenly to his brother, and said,

"James, I am come from Gallows Hill."

James took out his handkerchief and wiped the perspiration from his brow. If he were confused, his manner did not betray it.

"I hope you don't think of going there now, Albert?"

"Listen to me, James. I have been to Gallows Hill, where I saw your young friend, Mr. Roberts. He was in great distress of mind."

"Poor fellow! what ailed him?" inquired the younger brother, lighting a cigar.

"He acknowledged to me that it was on his information that the Signor Nozzalini was executed."

"The devil it was!" exclaimed James, with a start of surprise , which, if not genuine, was certainly extremely well counterfeited.

"You know nothing of the matter, then?" pursued Albert, looking at him keenly.

"Not a word. Well, who would have thought of it? Such a straightforward fellow as Roberts, too. I always thought him too simple to do any thing of the kind."

"He told me something more, too."

"Dear me! What was it, Albert?"

"That you were his abettor and counsellor in the act," said Albert, sternly grasping him by the arm, and looking into his face. "That you were the leader of the information, and still pocket the rewards of your baseness. Speak: --Is it so?"

"You confuse me. What do you mean?"

"No equivocation, James Farquhar. Let me know if I have been mistaken in you; if I have a brother who would stoop to take the wages of blood,--who is an informer."

"My dear Albert," said James, freeing himself from his brother's grasp, "do you know what you are talking about? I an informer? why, my dear brother, I should not know myself were I to assume that character. This news of yours startled me at first; but, indeed, I never knew of it before."

"Thank God!" ejaculated Albert. "Give me your hand, James. The slanderer must be exposed immediately."

They immediately retraced their footsteps to the town.

The disgrace of being known as an informer was, however, for some time unfelt by poor Roberts; for a violent fever deprived him of his senses for upwards of a week, subsiding at last into a steady illness which confined him some time longer to his bed. At length he recovered his health, and went about his daily duties with a heavy heart, feeling as if there were a stigma on him, which separated him from his fellow-creatures. Mr. Horsemanden, as an act of distinguished magnanimity, consented to retain him in his office, at the same salary as before. It was with a heavy heart he worked on at the pen; as if his spirit was fairly crushed by the memory of his one great error.

CHAPTER XII. {small text, verse}

"Oh, agony, fierce agony, For heart so proud and high, To learn of fate, how desolate It may be ere it die." {right aligned with the verse} MOTHERWELL.

Seldom has been a greater enthusiast than Emma Vrooman. To Ury's eyes she appeared more inexplicable than she had ever been. That she was a devotee in religion, he very well knew. Her voluntary penances, and self-imposed restrictions, had often to his knowledge been so severe, that the priest himself was obliged to restrain them. No one of the family was so regular in the performance of her manifold household duties; and yet she seemed scarcely ever employed. The wild hills and dense forests round the village, were her daily and hourly resort; and yet she appeared to find no enjoyment there. Unlike her sisters, she was never heard to sing; and while they, in their leisure moments, were rambling side by side, gathering flowers to twine in each other's hair, and causing the woods to echo with their voices, Emma was seen wandering restlessly in the most secluded portions of the forest, taking little heed of any thing around her, her pace never slackening, and her look ever the same. In the evening, when Minchen and Frederica had taken their knitting, and sat down in opposite corners of the broad, cheerful fireplace, Emma would withdraw with her work into the outer porch, where, whatever the season, she steadily remained, avoiding all intercourse with the family, and retiring if any of them approached.

To Ury had been committed the culture of this singular being; and with consummate tact and delicacy he had endeavored to draw her into communication with those of her kind. He saw in her but too plainly the germs of that insanity which he knew to be hereditary in her father's family. By slow and almost imperceptible degrees he established his influence over her; and seeing the absolute necessity in her mind of some object on which to concentrate itself, he directed her thoughts to the subject of religion. It acted like a charm. Emma Vrooman became, from day to day, more subdued and more rational. Her wanderings were fewer, and she ceased to withdraw herself from the society of her sisters, and learned to sympathize with them.

Now, however, she was changed. She seldom spoke to Ury; avoided his society; yet her dark unearthly eyes ever followed him, as if she longed to speak, but dared not. When his priesthood was alluded to, an expression of positive anguish passed over her face. To Ury she was again a riddle.

One afternoon he was seated at his window, which looked out immediately upon the forest. The family had gone to the village, and he expected to pass the remainder of the day in solitude.

Emma suddenly appeared in the forest. Her look was no longer mysterious; it told of intense suffering. She sat down on one of the strange mound-like elevations, that have long perplexed the American antiquary.

Her body rocked to and fro, convulsively, and contortions passed over the face that made it fearful to look upon. Fearing that her reason might be leaving her, Ury sprang from the window and hastened to the spot. But she heard his footsteps, and rising at the sound, her features resumed their marble-like calmness, and she met him with her wonted reverential demeanor.

"What is it that ails you, Emma?" said Ury, taking her hand kindly. It was quite passive, but a thrill seemed to run through her whole frame.

He led her unresisting to the seat which she had left, and sitting down beside her, spoke in a soothing tone.

"I have long wished for a moment's conversation with you, my dear," he said. "Since my return to your father's house, I have seen that you are not what you were."

A momentary shiver convulsed Emma's frame; but she was silent.

"I fear," resumed Bernard, after waiting in vain for a reply, "that I have to say in the words of the Prophet, 'Her soul is vexed within her, and the Lord has hidden it from me.' She of whom this was spoken went herself to the Prophet for consolation, and it was hers. But you refuse to seek it even where it is offered."

Emma was still silent; but it was easy to see the conflict in her mind.

"Have you heard news that distresses you?" inquired Ury, "or have you that upon your conscience which you have scrupled to confess? Dare you, preparing for the Holy Eucharist, appear at the confessional, yet keep back part of the truth?"

Emma grew pale; but she made no reply.

"Come, my child," said Ury, tenderly, "you are in need of comfort, and hesitate to apply for it. Come to me, your priest, who stands in the place of God, and whose mission is to comfort the broken-hearted."

"Oh, father, father! you can give me no comfort," exclaimed Emma, vehemently. "You of all men."

"This is strange," said Ury, mildly. "But if you will not confide in me, there is still your mother, your sisters. Why should they be kept in ignorance of what distresses you?"

"It is too horrible. They must not know it," said Emma, with a shudder. "They would hate and despise me."

"It is as I feared, then," said Ury, rising gravely. "You have some fearful sin upon your soul. I can say no further; but remember, Emma, that to her who dies in mortal sin, unabsolved (and there is no absolution without confession), the gates of salvation are shut."

Emma started up and seemed about to speak, but did not.

"In this belief," pursued Ury, "I must, however reluctantly, exclude you from the Holy Sacrament, until reconciled to the Church."

"Oh, father, father! pity me!" exclaimed Emma, falling on her knees before him.

"Indulgence to you were no mercy," replied Ury, severely. "Did you seek forgiveness by the true path, it might be accorded; but while you reject the only means the Church holds out, I may pity, but I must condemn you."

Emma remained motionless on her knees till Ury had departed; but as his footsteps died away, her expression of mute despairing anguish was greater than ever; and she sank heavily upon the earth.

"He condemns me," she murmured. "If he knew all--Oh Heaven! this is too horrible; to be banished from the Communion, when in will at least I am innocent. But to make it known. Oh Heaven! I cannot."

She was aroused by the approach of an Indian girl, who belonged to an encampment near by, and whom Emma had known from childhood.

"The White Dove is sorrowful," she said, "and concealeth the arrow in her breast. Who hath wounded the White Dove?"

Emma looked up with surprise, and would have walked away. The Indian laid her hand on her arm.

"The Young Raven," she continued, "had watched the White Dove. She saw the arrow and knew the bow that aimed it. And the Great Spirit loved the White Dove, and sent the Young Raven to heal her."

Emma would have withdrawn, but the last words of the Indian recalled her.

"What does the Young Raven know of the White Dove?" she inquired; for in her constant intercourse with the Indians, she had learned to use their modes of expression.

"The Young Raven loved the White Dove," replied the Indian girl. "She saw when the Eagle came to the forest; and the White Dove was mournful and alone, for the White Dove loved the Eagle. But the Eagle could not love the White Dove; for his flight was among the stars, and hers upon the earth. But the Young Raven knew where the Fetish dwelt; and she flew to his altar, and bore from thence the spell that would bring the Eagle to the lowly nest of the Dove."

And she pressed into Emma's hand what appeared to be a sort of mineral powder. "Let the White Dove take this," she said, "and she will win the Eagle."

"But, shocked and indignant, Emma cast it from her and would have left the spot. But the Indian followed her.

"The White Dove is not wroth with the Young Raven," she said submissively. Emma was disarmed by the tone.

"Then listen to her. There came vultures to the nest of the Young Raven. They came to spy the abode of the White Dove, and destroy both her and her race. They were sent by the Kite of the Ottowa, who hated the race of the Dove. But the Doves were warned by the Young Raven, and when the Kite came to the Dove's nest he found that his prey had flown."

She turned away, and disappeared in the forest. Emma scarcely heeded her. Her face now showed marks of a severer struggle than she had yet undergone; but at last she rallied; and picking up the charm she had thrown away, fled hastily from the spot."

In the course of the evening, however, she took occasion to inform her father of the warning she had received. Mr. Vrooman was extremely alarmed. The war between the French and English in America was now raging furiously; and it was easy to infer that an attack was meditated upon Albany and Schenectady. Suspicion was increased to certainty, when about three days afterwards the Indian camp was found to be deserted. Emma never saw the Young Raven again; but she had good cause to remember her.

Mr. Vrooman, however, lost no time in acquainting his fellow-citizens with the warning he had received. A general panic ensued; all the arms and ammunition in the village were put in readiness, and orders for more sent to Albany. Some few withdrew from the neighborhood, and those who remained were perpetually on the watch, and never retired without making preparation for a night attack.

The summer and autumn however passed away, and no attack was made; and the people, wearied with such constant vigilance, began to relapse into their former security.

CHAPTER XIII.

The third of July, 1722, was one of the hottest days ever known in New-York. The sun shone with the heat of a furnace; the air was so still that not even a leaf could be seen to move. The bricks with which New-York was at that time paved, positively scorched the feet. The streets were not watered in those days, and the dust lay inch thick upon the pavement. The very oldest inhabitant could not recollect a day that equalled it; and the sufferers moaned in unison as they asked one another, "Is this to be the character of the summer?"

About half-past two, a change came o'er the spirit of the weather. A dark cloud made its appearance in the horizon; gradually it extended above the Bergen Hills, overshadowed the bay, and cast its gloom upon the city. The birds, who had been fluttering their wings lazily in the sunshine, flew screaming to their nests. A death-like stillness ensued; when suddenly the eyes of those who were gazing, were dazzled by a vivid flash of lightning, followed by a deafening peal of thunder. Ere long the rain fell in torrents, and the inhabitants of the ancient city of the Manhattoes were witnesses of the most furious thunder-storm that it ever fell to the lot of historian to recount.

It is needless to describe the terror of the old Dutch wives, who fled in consternation to their cellars; the anxiety depicted on the faces of the farmers, whose crops would inevitably be beaten down by the rain; the misery of the merchants, to whom a storm at the hour for closing their offices was no small inconvenience, at a period when omnibus and hackney-coaches were alike unknown. At last the sky cleared; the mutterings of the thunder became more distant; and the sun shone once more brightly in the west, making Manhattan Bay a sea of liquid gold.

It was about this hour that a trimly built vessel suddenly made her appearance in the Bay. No sooner was the word given from the Fort, than the inhabitants, Dutch and English, crowded in the direction of Whitehall Slip, to look at the new arrival. She could not be the half-yearly packet from England--the build of the stranger was altogether different. A whisper was circulated that she might be the Flying Dutchman, of whose existence, in that age of superstition, nobody entertained a doubt. Others grew pale at the thought of the Storm Ship, which was believed to make her appearance whenever some great evil was portending; and was always, it was said, preceded by a storm like this. Meanwhile, the vessel having passed Governor's Island, stopped suddenly and let down a boat.

Now there could be no doubt. It was the Flying Dutchman. It was well known that she always sent out a boat bearing letters for persons long ago dead. A general panic seized the beholders; and with one accord they drew back as the boat approached.

A tall, finely formed man was the first to spring on shore, who immediately assisted two ladies to disembark. It was observed that he exchanged a few words with the shorter of the ladies, holding her by the hand; after which he sprang into the boat, and disappeared in the direction of the ship.

So great was the astonishment of the crowd, who were not yet decided whether they saw spirits or human beings, that they took no notice of the two ladies who were thus left standing on the shore. At length the lady who had first landed advanced, and endeavored to make some inquiries of the gaping Dutchmen who stood near her: but not understanding English, they replied with a stolid "Ich kenne nicht," and then hastily moved away. Her companion had now joined her, and clung trembling to her side.

The ladies might have remained long in this unpleasant position but for the timely arrival of Albert Farquhar, who, attracted by the crowd, had made his way to the wharf. Seeing two ladies who seemed in need of assistance, he hastened to them, and said, "Ladies, you appear to be in trouble. If you will trust a stranger so far, let me entreat you to command my services as far as they can be available."

"We are strangers, sir," said the first lady, in a voice of the richest melody, "and our way in this city is unknown. We would have inquired it of these good people, but they shrink from us as if we brought pestilence or disease."

"Let me be your guide, then," said Albert. "I know all the ways about New-York. If my name be any guarantee for my good faith, it is Albert Farquhar."

"Tell him all, Adela," whispered the other lady in a voice tremulous with agitation.

"We are in search, sir," said the first speaker, bending her head in acknowledgement of his offer, "of the residence of Mr. Walton; can you direct us to it?"

Albert saw that the lady who was addressing him was much the taller, and that her companion was timid and of a slight figure. He promptly offered to conduct them to Mr. Walton's; and giving the first lady his arm, they proceeded up Broadway.

"This is a strange place, Clara," said the taller lady, glancing contemptuously round.

"It is home,--home" replied the other, with an earnestness that made Albert start; "my native land."

"A strange one," said Adela.

"My own home--the home of my father and family," repeated Clara; "I shall enjoy it, whatever it may be."

Albert only caught a few words of the above conversation, but these inflamed his curiosity so much that he could not refrain from expressing it.

"You appear to be strangers in this city," he said, "and yet you do not speak like ladies of New England. Have you never before been in New-York?"

"We are both New-Yorkers, sir," replied the lady who held his arm, "but it is more than ten years since we were here. We left this place when we were mere children, and were sent to school in England, whence we have just returned."

"Your arrival will probably be unexpected. The packet does not appear to have arrived."

"No, we came in a strange way--strange indeed," replied the lady, her form swelling with indignation as she remembered it.

"A sad one," murmured her companion.

Further inquiry was stopped by the arrival of the party at Mr. Walton's door. Albert pointed it out to his charge.

"We have to thank you, sir," said the lady turning to Albert on the door-step, "for the courtesy you have shown us distressed damsels. Without your aid our situation would have been most painful."

She threw back her veil as she spoke, and gave Albert her hand. Albert started with surprise at the dazzling beauty revealed. To a complexion of unrivalled brilliancy, eyes dark and flashing like diamonds in the sun, and features faultlessly regular, the young lady added a form that might have been chiselled for a Juno. She appeared to be little over eighteen, but the development of her figure, and the tone of her manners, were like those of a woman of mature growth.

"One word more," said Albert, gently retaining her hand. "Pardon me if the question seem impertinent; but have I now the happiness to be speaking to Miss Walton?"

"Miss Horsemanden," said the young lady. "This," turning to her companion, "is Miss Walton."

At that moment the door of the house opened, and Clara Walton was in her father's arms.

The unexpected arrival of his daughter was almost too much for the old man. For a moment he could hardly believe the evidence of his senses. He looked like one in a dream. But when convinced of the reality of his vision, nothing could exceed his transports. He welcomed Miss Horsemanden with kindness, and ordered the carriage that she might go to her father's. In his delight he seemed to have quite forgotten the strangeness of their arrival.

In the mean while, Albert was enabled to observe the young ladies more closely.

Clara Walton was not what he had expected. A school life of ten years had done its work; and the bright, sunny child of seven years old, had become a pale, pensive-looking girl. Her sunny hair had sunk into a subdued auburn; there was an indefinable melancholy in her deep blue eyes; and her regular features had acquired a pensive cast. There was something indescribably plaintive in the very tone of her voice, and her expression was at once melancholy and reflective. She was dressed tastefully, but in the most subdued colors; and it appeared to Albert that even now, when the excitement of meeting with her father was over, she had relapsed into the same dreamy state as when they met at Whitehall.

Adela Horsemanden, on the other hand, was a picture of life and animation. To a brilliant beauty which threw all others into the shade, she added a style and elegance of manner which had rarely been seen in New-York. Clara Walton was tall, but Adela's stature rose to the majestic. Her large, dark eyes gleamed with a thousand fascinations; the brilliant bloom of her cheeks gave them double lustre. A perpetual smile played on her delicately curved lips, displaying teeth white as pearls. Her jet-black, wavy hair, combed back from her forehead, and powdered according to the fashion of the times, gave additional character to her haughty brow. At first sight, her beauty appeared faultless. But a close observer might discover a slight coarseness of skin beneath the brilliancy of her complexion, a slight hardness about the lower part of her face, and a too great voluptuousness in her freely swelling bosom. But these were unperceived by most beholders, in the splendor of her general appearance; and few ventured to criticise where all admired.

The carriage was soon at the door, and Mr. Walton insisted on taking Miss Horsemanden round to her father's. Clara, unwilling to separate so soon from her father, accompanied them; and Albert, whose interest was excited by the new-comers, readily accepted Mr. Walton's invitation to make one of the party.

"But how did you come here, my child?" said Mr. Walton. "The packet has not arrived--and why are you unattended?"

Clara turned deadly pale. "Tell him, Adela, I cannot."

"It was a strange adventure," said Adela, coloring with excitement at the recollection. "We left England in the half-yearly packet, as you wrote to us. Old Phillis and black James attended us. But when within three days of our journey's end, our vessel was attacked by pirates."

Albert and Mr. Walton started with surprise. Clara covered her face with her hands, and the tears made their way between her fingers.

"Poor child! it is too much for her," said Mr. Walton, compassionately.

"It was a terrible time," continued Adela. "Clara and I were the only ladies on board. They made us hide ourselves in the hold of the ship, while the contest went on above. The suspense was horrible. At last the firing ceased, and we learned that our vessel had surrendered."

"Heavens!" exclaimed Albert.

"We were taken on board," resumed Adela, "expecting only death or something worse. The Captain questioned us separately with regard to the amount of treasure on board. What Clara said to him, I cannot tell. I told him all I knew. But what was our surprise when, instead of insult and disgrace, we were treated with the utmost gentleness and courtesy."

"Strange, indeed!" exclaimed Albert and Mr. Walton at once.

"We were lodged," continued Adela, "in the most sumptuous manner, the Captain giving up to us his own cabin. Our wardrobe was rescued for us, and they insisted on our accepting quantities of jewelry, and rich Spanish mantles which were on board--probably the result of former captures. We never saw any of the pirates. The Captain was continually with us, and his conversation was delightful. The ship lay in at her usual moorings."

"Where is that?" inquired Albert, eagerly.

"That, sir, I will never tell," rejoined Adela, firmly. "She unladed her cargo, and then brought Clara and myself to New-York. The Captain accompanied us to the shore; but he dared not expose himself in New-York, as Captain Kidd did once in Boston. So Clara and I were left disconsolate at the wharf, where we might have remained till this hour but for Mr. Farquhar's kindness, who, though a stranger to us, volunteered his services and brought us to your door."

"It was like him," said Mr. Walton, grasping Albert by the hand.

"Our wardrobe the pirate Captain promised should be left to-night at a place which he appointed."

"And there he shall be seized," said Albert, "and justice shall have its due."

"No, no!" shrieked Clara, springing from her seat, and grasping her father imploringly by the arm.

"It shall never be," said Adela, in a decided tone. "The spot is known only to ourselves, and shall never be told while the possibility of what you have suggested exists."

They were now in sight of Mr. Horsemanden's residence. It stood at the corner of Garden-street, nearly opposite Trinity Church. It was a double house, painted yellow, and loaded with every ornament, appropriate or otherwise, that imagination could devise. The doors and windows were loaded with the heaviest carving in wood, coarsely executed, but showy. The attempt at show was too evident; and gave the whole mansion a pompous air which had given rise to a saying in New-York, that Squire Horsemanden's house looked like himself in stone.

The magistrate was walking up and down the pavement in front of the door. His thumbs were hooked in the armholes of his waistcoat; his laced coat, ruffled shirt, and purple inexpressibles, all seemed to have imbibed his self-importance. The air, the dress, the gait, all bespoke the Squire.

"And this," said Adela, turning to Albert with the least possible contempt in her voice, "is my Father!"

CHAPTER XIV.

Adela Horsemanden became, ere long, the "bright particular star" of society in New-York. Her dazzling beauty, the elegance and fascination of her manners, and the fortune it was supposed she would inherit, gave her an éclat few ladies attain. The gentlemen worshipped her; the ladies envied, flattered, caressed, begged the pattern of her dresses, and followed her lead in every thing. Clara, on the contrary, remained at her father's house, quiet and almost unnoticed. She seldom appeared in public, and showed little interest in any thing. Her father feared that the events of her journey had left too deep an impression on her mind.

In some degree this was the case. Clara was unlike the rest of her family. True, she possessed, in a high degree, the gentleness and refinement which belonged to all the Waltons; but her mind was of the nature of wax, soft and yielding, yet retentive of every impression. Had she been always with her father's family, the cheerful, healthy tone which reigned there, might have been effective in supplying that elasticity of character, the want of which was her great defect. But alone, in a crowd of unsympathetic natures, her mind had been left to prey upon itself; the delicacy of her feelings had become morbid; and the melancholy at first indulged as a luxury had become more and more her torment.

Adela Horsemanden had been placed in the same situation; but its effect upon her was exactly the reverse. Her very loneliness had taught her self-reliance; and if it blunted feelings whose delicacy had never been very great, it fostered the aspiring tone of her character, and rendered her independent. Cast with a community whose love she held to be worthless, her object was to command admiration; and this desire followed her to the Western World.

"What a glorious creature!" was the general exclamation, when about a week after her arrival in New-York, Adela appeared one afternoon in the Ladies' Valley, leaning on her brother's arm. "What eyes!"--"What hair!"--"What a figure!" "And what a beautiful green silk!" whispered a young lady, glancing enviously after it.

"La!" said Miss Seidlitz; "Clara Walton promised to get me the pattern, and said she had no doubt Miss Green could make me one just like it."

"Then you have seen Miss Walton?" inquired her companion.

"To be sure I have," replied Seraphina, who the reader may recollect was engaged to Frank Walton. "Between ourselves, Emily, Mr. Walton came over to our house the day after her arrival, and told me his sister had come from Europe, and I must go and see her."

"Is she pretty?" inquired Emily, who was herself a handsome, dark-eyed girl about twenty, and very lively in her manners.

"Oh, yes! quite so; but she's as quiet as a mouse, and so demure that I could make nothing of her. I even asked her whether balloon hats or toques were most fashionable for evening visits, and she could not tell me."

"What a pity! and she just from Europe."

"There is Mr. Farquhar joining her; and as I live, Mr. Walton, too. What a shame!"

Frank Walton, however, only paid his respects to Miss Horsemanden, and then flew to join his fiancée. Albert remained with Adela, whose brother before long left them together, rambling off to join a party at the bar.

"They have left me entirely to your care, Mr. Farquhar," said Adela, smiling slightly.

"They could not lay me under a greater obligation," was Albert's reply.

"You mean a compliment, {"," doubtful} of course; and I ought to acknowledge it as such. But it would require no very great effort of vanity to believe, that a man of intelligence might prefer my society to that of the ladies here," glancing contemptuously on the giggling groups that filled the Valley.

"It is true, we are but provincial," rejoined Albert. "But to what are we to attribute the want of education, the deficiency of general information, and the narrowness of ideas, which characterizes the ladies of New-York at the present day?"

"To its distance from the rest of the world, I suppose," replied Adela.

"Pardon me, Miss Horsemanden. I think it may be attributed to another cause--the selfish policy of the mother country, which, for the sake of its own aggrandizement, has placed restraints on our commerce which in effect destroy it. It places a bar between us and the rest of the world, and renders us, socially as well as politically, dependent on her for every thing. Should she continue her narrow-minded policy, the mother country must make up her mind to one of two results. Either the colonists of New-York, losing more and more their original refinement, will become worthless to her; or else, feeling their own necessities, will throw off her yoke, and declare themselves free."

"That should be my choice," said Adela, her eyes flashing with excitement. "But what do you think will be the future?"

"It is impossible to say. But one thing is certain. Were New-York ever to burst the bonds that enslave her, her character would be totally changed. Instead of a feeble provincial capital, a few years would see her among the great commercial powers, not only of this continent, but of the world. We should see the waters of our beautiful bay, now only ruffled by the fisherman's oar, studded with the vessels of every clime. The language of all nations will be heard in our streets; the ceaseless hum of business will rise perhaps from this very valley; and our society, no longer contracted and provincial, will rank, for cultivation and refinement, with the polished communities of the Old World."

"You are warm, Mr. Farquhar. It surprises me that you should think a woman worthy of hearing such thoughts."

"There are not many to whom I would speak as to you. The latest fashion for dress, commonplace gossip, and vapid compliments, find a readier avenue to the ears of most of our ladies"

"Like poor Clara," said Miss Horsemanden, compassionately. "But you are right, Mr. Farquhar. Short as has been my stay in New-York, I have seen that the accomplishment of conversation is not thought worthy of cultivation. The young men here (perhaps every where--for of those in England I know nothing), seem to consider any thing of a higher tone than the merest commonplace of society, to be above the powers of us poor women; and they reduce their conversation to a degree of insipidity that I should think more trying than the highest flight of powers superior to our own."

"Here comes one who will deserve exception from your general censure," replied Albert. "My brother James."

James now made his appearance, and was presented by his brother to Miss Horsemanden. As they met, their eyes looked into one another, and each felt that their characters were fathomed.

"I trust," commenced James, in his voice of silky softness, "that I find Miss Horsemanden fully recovered from the fatigues of her eventful voyage."

Adela bowed shortly. "I am perfectly recovered," she said, "else I should not be here."

"It appears to have had more effect upon Miss Walton," James resumed. "Perhaps Miss Horsemanden is not aware whether she has been seriously affected by her voyage."

"I know nothing of Clara's movements," replied Adela, coldly. "I have not seen her myself since our arrival.

"Ha! but then a great deal depends on the motives we have to arouse us. Had Miss Walton any object in view during her residence here, she would probably have shown us more of the light of her countenance."

"I cannot comprehend you, Mr. Farquhar," was Adela's haughty rejoinder. "It were strange, indeed, if either Clara or myself were to find any particular object to pursue, after little more than a week's residence in New-York.

"True," replied James, with composure, "it would be extremely strange. Though you always had New-York in view as your final destination, and of course had reference to it in all your visions of the future, it would be exceedingly strange. Though you had correspondents in this city, who doubtless kept you aware of all that went on here, of the fortunes made or inherited, of the births, deaths, and marriages, as well as of the character and qualifications of such of either sex as would be your companions, it would be strange. Though it was (at least so Miss Walton's letters said) your favorite amusement to picture to yourself the fellow-citizens described by your correspondents, and to figure to your own imagination which you would prefer, it would be strange--very strange."

His cold blue eye was fixed steadily on Miss Horsemanden as he said this: though she never flinched, he could see her lip quiver, and knew that every word told.

"Do you refer to me, sir?" inquired the young lady, drawing herself up to her full height.

"No; to Miss Walton."

A quiet smile played about his lips as he said this; and he was silent.

Albert could not but notice the air of mingled contempt and fear with which Adela turned from his brother. Unskilled in reading a woman's countenance, he attributed the young lady's manner to contempt for a younger son.

"Has my brother been so unfortunate as to offend you, Miss Horsemanden?" he inquired, more gravely and coldly than his wont.

"Not at all," replied Adela, recovering herself, and giving James her hand. A chill, however, ran through her as his cold fingers touched hers. For his insinuations had found their mark.

As she turned again to Albert, her eyes fell suddenly on the face of Roberts, who stood at a little distance, his eyes, as if in a vision, fixed upon her beautiful face.

Glad to find some object on whom she could safely vent her displeasure, she turned from Roberts with a look of proud disdain. A sorrowful expression came over the young man's face, and he withdrew.

Albert was again displeased. "She knew nothing of Roberts," he thought; "why then should she treat him with such scorn?" At this moment he recollected that it was half an hour after the time he had promised to be with Isadora, so he excused himself to his companion, and retired.

Adela followed him with a smile, till he left the Valley; but with him the smile departed, and she stood proud and motionless on the spot where he had left her. James stood in silence beside her.

"Take me back to my brother, sir," said Adela, at length, with chilling coldness.

"Perhaps my arm would be of service," said James, mildly. Adela walked beside him without noticing the offer. "Miss Horsemanden," resumed James, "you have come to live among a people who have, perhaps, less refinement than those you have left; but I never heard that we were inferior to them in acuteness of observation, or concentration of purpose. You are, perhaps, not aware that there are persons within this city, who have made the study of character the business of their lives; and who have learned to note each variation of the countenance, and to trace it to its origin in the mind."

"What does all this mean, Mr. Farquhar?" inquired Adela, with haughtiness, yet trembling as she spoke.

"Merely, this, Miss Horsemanden," replied James, "we discover much which the persons it concerns believe to be hidden in their breasts. We do not pretend to be better than our neighbors. We can conceal, and we can betray--we can love, and we can hate. We can assist, and we can impede. We do not require the confidence of those we assist; we are satisfied in their consciousness that we know them thoroughly; and it is their fault if they do not know us."

"Am I to apply this to myself, Mr. Farquhar," asked Adela, subdued by his language, but struggling to retain her haughty bearing.

"No; to Miss Walton," replied James, with the same quiet smile as before. Adela was completely conquered--she felt that he was cognizant of much more than he expressed.

"I have nothing more to say, Miss Horsemanden," resumed James, "except to ask your pardon for any thing I may have said to offend. I hope the day will come when we will know each other better."

"I hope so," stammered Adela.

"And should I hereafter be fortunate enough to render any assistance to--to Miss Walton--or to yourself--"

"I shall be grateful," replied Adela.

The appearance of Roberts at this moment, suggested to the bold mind of Adela Horsemanden a means of escape from the painful colloquy in which she was engaged. He was gazing on her with the same rapt air of fascination as before. As she passed him, Miss Horsemanden dropped her handkerchief. Roberts started, as if from a reverie, and presented it to her.

"Thank you," said Adela, with her sweetest smile. Then in an audible sottâ voce, to James Farquhar, "Introduce me."

"Mr. Roberts," said James, coldly, for between him and Roberts there had been no communication since Nozzalini's death.

"Mr. Roberts," said Adela, graciously, "you are in my father's office, I believe. Will you have the kindness to give me your arm to his door. That hopeful brother of mine has disappeared somewhere. If you see him, Mr. Farquhar, please tell him that I have gone home."

And taking Roberts' arm, who was in Paradise, she left the Valley.

"You're a handsome woman," muttered James, looking after her, "and a proud woman. But courage may be crushed, and beauty made a prize by the skilful fowler. You will not soon forget me."

Roberts in the mean while, having seen Miss Horsemanden home, returned to his own lodging in a sort of dream. He continued in the same state during the following day (which was Sunday). The beauty of Adela had absorbed all his faculties; her image haunted his dreams, and followed him in his waking hours. She had smiled graciously upon him, taken his arm, accepted his escort home. That he, poor and despised, should attain to the affections of the proud and wealthy Miss Horsemanden, seemed a dream too extravagant to be realized; yet from time to time it recurred to him. Monday saw him early at the office. But as to work, it was out of the question, and the law papers he was engaged on were so full of errors, and had to be re-copied so frequently, that he made but little progress.

"In the name of Heaven! Mr Roberts," exclaimed the pompous magistrate, "what the devil makes you so long about them papers? You ought to have done twice the number in the time you have been at it."

Roberts handed him one of the papers without reply.

"One only? in all this time? Upon my word, Mr. Roberts, you grow more useless every day." Then running his eye along the paper, "Deed of sale of the lands in--what's this? Ladies' Valley! On my soul, Mr. Roberts, you would provoke a saint. Lands in the Ladies' Valley--in the Ladies' Valley--on my life!"

"I should have said in the Smith's Vly," replied Roberts, blushing deeply. "I will correct it."

"And what's this?" continued the magistrate, looking over the unfinished papers on Roberts' desk. "Record of judgement, entered against Peterson and Co., in the Court of King's Bench. Whew! The Devil! Upon my honor, Mr. Roberts, if you can't copy correctly from a paper directly before you, you had better take up your hat and walk. Court of King's Bench! On my salvation! when you know as well as I do that it was in the Court of Common Pleas."

"I was wrong, I admit," said Roberts, in the tone of a delinquent schoolboy.

"And what is all this scribbling?" continued Mr. Horsemanden, as he took up a sheet of paper that lay on the desk. "If I remember rightly, Mr. Roberts, you are paid in my office for copying papers--and then your services are not worth the ink you use--and not for scribbling over my best foolscap. And a name, too. I wish, by the way, you would write more legibly. I can hardly decipher it, A---D---"

Here, luckily for poor Roberts he was interrupted by the entrance of his daughter, Adela, who arrived unexpectedly, in the midst of his objurgations.

"The carriage is at the door, sir," she said. "It waits your pleasure."

To Roberts' eyes she appeared more beautiful than when he saw her before. She was dressed in a pale gold-colored negligé of some delicate and transparent material, at that time unknown in New-York. Her under-dress was of white silk, the usual morning costume in those days. Her magnificent arms were bare, and the voluptuous bosom, though sheltered from too curious observation, was seen to swell freely beneath its frail covering. Her jet black hair, carelessly gathered over a black silk roll, gave additional height to her figure. Roberts watched her as if entranced.

"I suppose there are servants enough in the house to bring me word," said Mr. Horsemanden, testily. "This is no place for women."

Adela Horsemanden drew her fine figure up to its full height, and confronted her father with a steady gaze. The pompous magistrate himself cowered before the beautiful girl.

"I am indebted to this gentleman," said Adela proudly, turning to Roberts, "for bringing me home on Saturday, when my brother Charles had rambled off and forgotten me. Courtesy appears to reign among the gentlemen of New-York. I am sorry Charles has so little of it."

"He shall certainly be reprimanded," said Mr. Horsemanden in his most magisterial tone. "I do not choose you to be walking with all sorts of people in the city." But seeing his daughter's eyes flash, he prudently changed the subject. "I am going out to Hampton Court, Adela, so you may put off dinner an hour or so." And with these words he marched out of the office accompanied by his daughter.

After they were gone, Roberts sat at his desk in an attitude of reverie. He tried to write, but could not. It was impossible. Nor were the difficulties at all diminished when, on raising his eyes, he discovered Miss Horsemanden standing by him.

"If my father will not thank you, I must," said Adela, giving him her hand. Roberts was in rapture. He could find no words to express himself

"You appear busy. May I inquire into its nature?" continued Adela, taking up some of the papers.

"They--they are some copies I was making for Mr. Horsemanden," stammered Roberts. "They should have been finished; but my wits are wool-gathering today, and they are full of errors."

"That is a pity," replied Adela, smiling, and taking up the pen, which Roberts had laid down. "I wonder if my wits are nearer home," and sitting down, she commenced transcribing the manuscript.

"There," she said, turning to Roberts, the expression on whose face she perfectly understood. "It is a fortunate thing, Mr. Roberts, to have a friend in need. Even women may be of use sometimes. Is that correct?"

"Perfectly, perfectly," said Roberts with enthusiasm. "How can I ever thank you, my dear Miss Horsemanden?"

"Oh, I have laid you under no very weighty obligations," returned Adela, smiling at his warmth. "But why have you never been to see us, Mr. Roberts? How comes it that you should be the last in New-York to pay your respects to your patron's daughter?"

"Alas! Miss Horsemanden," said Roberts, "you little know the estimation in which I am held in your father's family. Were I to attempt to visit at their house, it were only received with displeasure."

A slight flush came over Adela's face, "You cannot but be aware, Mr. Roberts, that such an invitation from me, is sufficient to atone for any coldness on their part. At all events I can only repeat, that we go out to our country-seat (Hampton Court, I believe it is called) in a few days, and that I shall be happy to see you, whenever you call there."

With these words the young lady withdrew. She did not see the passionate manner with which Roberts grasped the paper she had copied, and pressed it to his lips; nor did she see how carefully he re-copied it, that he might keep her writing in his own possession; but of the feeling which prompted it she was as fully aware as of she had been present.

While poor Roberts in the full enjoyment of a fool's paradise, thanked Heaven in his heart for the beautiful and gifted being who had shed a gleam of light on his existence; and returned to his lodging with a heart far lighter than he had enjoyed for many a day.

CHAPTER XV. {small text, verse}

Break not tryste with tender hearts, They ask not oaths for trust; A look, a sigh to them imparts What, answered with a tear that starts, Is sealed if thou art just {right aligned with the verse} COXE

The flight from the city which has always been of annual recurrence in the months of June and July, had now taken place. For some weeks the town population had been gradually thinning; but it was not till the beginning of August that the city could be fairly said to have put on its summer aspect. At this season, New-York was entirely abandoned to its Dutch inhabitants, who, we may be sure, were far from regretting the circumstance. As for the English, they were dispersed among their country-seats in different parts of the island. Among them were the Farquhar and Horsemanden families, whose estates lay side by side on the banks of the Hudson.

It was impossible that Adela Horsemanden should not have made a deep impression on Albert Farquhar. Her wonderful beauty--the elegance of her manners--the intellectual tone of her conversation--equally removed from the poetic rhapsodies of Isadora (with which he owned to himself he could not always sympathize), and the insipid commonplace of the New-Yorkers of that day--and finally, the distinguished favor with which she noticed him, could not be without effect on a youth of his ardent temperament. Though he had been too short a time married to entertain thoughts of any other than his bride, he could not but feel that his position was peculiar--that his interviews with Isadora must be stolen and short; in fact, he had a great deal of unemployed time, which could not be better spent than in the company of his enchanting neighbor.

Several days passed away in this agreeable manner. Among her other accomplishments, Miss Horsemanden was a highly cultivated musician. She had brought with her from Europe a collection of the newest music--arias and cavatinas from operas in Albert's native tongue. To him, in his passion for music, this opened a new world. Day by day was passed beside Miss Horsemanden, listening to her execution of the chefs d'oeuvres of the fine old Italian masters, and from time to time accompanying her with his voice. James was also occasionally present, and on one occasion Adela, looking suddenly up from her music, caught his eye steadily regarding her. He was not at all embarrassed by the discovery, but nodding markedly as she looked at him, turned a glance of intelligence towards Albert, and left the room.

It was on the afternoon of that very day that Albert, remembering that he had been remiss, turned his horse's head in the direction of Hughson's. It was not without some feelings of compunction that he did so; for he felt that he had been guilty of a neglect to his wife, which he had never shown to his betrothed. As he drew near his destination, the charm that Adela Horsemanden had cast round him appeared to vanish like a mist. At each step his heart warmed more and more to the lovely and gentle being who had committed her life to his care. So strongly did this feeling increase upon him, that as he drew nearer to the house, he almost feared lest he should find her no longer there; but this fear vanished at the sound of her voice--and the next instant he saw her.

She was sitting under an old tree whose wide-spreading branches shaded her from the heat of the sun. When Albert first saw her, she was binding a wreath of wild flowers in the hair of a little girl, Hughson's youngest child, and singing at the same time, her voice mingling harmoniously with the feebler notes of her young companion. But the first view of Albert put an end to all her employments; and springing from her seat, she was in an instant in his arms.

"How could you leave me so long?" she asked, fondly, laying her head upon his shoulder. A kiss was his only answer; but Isadora was not satisfied.

"Go away, Sarah dear," she said hastily to the child. "How I have watched for you," she continued, "until the sun went down, and whispered to myself, 'he will come yet,' and watched till midnight, thinking you had been delayed on the way. And oh! how sadly it came into my mind that you might be dying, and I not beside you. And then a more dreadful thought came into my mind--the memory of my fearful dream, but it is gone, and you here." She laid her head upon his bosom, and looked at him with restored confidence. Albert was confounded. His selfish forgetfulness of her, and her ceaseless remembrance of him, smote him sorely as they rose to his mind. He redoubled his caresses, with a view to banish all feelings of mistrust from her mind: and was soon rewarded by seeing the bright, cheerful smile upon her face, which he had known and loved of old.

The remainder of the day passed much as other days when they were together. They read aloud from the Italian Poets; they rambled by the river side to watch the setting sun, and enjoy together the communion which hearts that love never share so truly as at this hour; and Isadora sang her "wood-notes wild" to the harp her husband had given her. But his ear, now accustomed to Adela Horsemanden's rich and cultivated voice, had lost its relish for Isadora's simpler strains. For the first time in his life, he wearied of the harp before she did; and the eyes of the Quadroon filled with tears, as she saw Albert withdraw from the harp, and sitting down on the sofa, open a volume of Tasso and begin to read.

"What ails you, Isadora?" said Albert, as his wife abruptly rose from the harp. "Are you unwell?"

"No! but I thought you did not care to hear me," replied Isadora, struggling to speak proudly and repress her tears.

"Oh yes: I can hear you very well as I read," said Albert, turning a page as he spoke.

"It was not then the harp, but me you did not care for," exclaimed Isadora, now really hurt at her husband's manner.

"You have yet to learn, Isadora," replied Albert, laying aside his book and joining her, "that you cannot expect your husband, now that he has assumed that name, to pay you the devoted and unremitting attention that you received from him as your lover. We have now a life before us, and are to lead it as such--not in the dreamings of a romantic attachment, but in the sober realities of a union for life."

"It will be long, I fear, ere our life will be led together," observed Isadora, her lip quivering.

"Possibly," replied Albert, resuming his book.

The eyes of the Quadroon flashed for a moment with unaccustomed fire, and her form trembled with indignation. It was but for an instant, however, and the next moment she fell heavily to the floor.

Albert sprang from his seat. This incident had roused his affection in its full force. He raised her in his arms, kissed passionately her cold lips, called her by every endearing title that affection could suggest; but all in vain. At length he was obliged to summon to her assistance Mother Hughson and the child, whose good offices soon restored her to consciousness.

"And you will not speak to me thus, again?" murmured Isadora, nestling closer to her husband's breast, as he carried her up stairs, and the chamber door closed upon them.

"Never, never!" responded Albert.

Isadora laid her head upon his shoulder, and was satisfied.

CHAPTER XVI.

Albert was obliged to leave Isadora on the afternoon of the following day; for he had promised to be present at Mr. Horsemanden's great annual ball at his country-seat, which was this year to be uncommonly splendid on account of his daughter's arrival. For some days the house had been in a state of disorder; the existence of bedrooms had become a thing unknown, and every thing betokened preparations on a grand scale; so much so, that both Miss Horsemanden and Miss Walton, who had come to stay with her, declared their joy that the fête only came once a year, and hoped that it would never occur oftener.

Albert arrived rather late from the farm, and in fact found nearly all the guests assembled. Clara Walton was seated in a window listening to the prattle of the voluble Miss Seraphina Seidlitz, and Adela was surrounded by gentlemen whose voices were raised as if in discussion.

In fact, just before Albert came in a discussion had arisen, of which he was in part the cause.

Among the arrivals in the train of Mrs. Seidlitz, Mr. Horsemanden had spied the form of Roberts. It was accordingly, with no small increase of pomposity, that he moved towards the intruder; but passing in his way the spot where his daughter stood, he stopped and said to her, in a very audible sottâ vocé, "To what am I to attribute the presence of Mr. Roberts at my house this evening?"

"To my invitation," replied Adela, haughtily, and aloud. "Mr. Roberts," she continued, as the young man drew near, "you are just in time, as I expected you to lead off the first minuet with me." And she placed her hand in his.

But as they were about to begin the dance, James Farquhar, who had watched from a corner the progress of the above scene, stepped calmly forward, and interposed.

"I beg pardon," he said, in his soft, sweet voice; "but this dance was promised by Miss Horsemanden to me."

"I recollect no such promise, Mr. Farquhar," replied Adela haughtily.

"Miss Horsemanden is right," replied James, more softly, "as she always is. But she must remember that this dance was promised to my brother Albert when--"

"When what, sir?" inquired Adela, her eyes flashing.

"Miss Horsemanden remembers what," replied James, calmly. "Knowing that he might be detained late in town, he commissioned me to fill his place, in case he should not return in time."

"As Mr. Farquhar has not appeared to assert his claim to my hand, I may bestow it on whom I please," said Adela, giving her hand once more to Roberts. At this moment, however, Albert appeared, on whose arrival, Roberts, after a few whispered words from Miss Horsemanden, accompanied with a slight pressure of the hand, and a promise to dance the next contre-dance with him, retired. James also withdrew, only pausing for a moment to say, in a tone inaudible to all save her for whose ear it was intended, "You have nearly won him."

Adela started, blushed, reddened, and displayed by the alternations of her countenance, the very state of feeling James had intended to produce; and then giving her hand to Albert, began to thread the mazes of the minuet. A murmur of admiration rose from the crowd. Her beauty, her elegance, the stateliness of her figure, and the grace with which she moved--qualities which go for nothing in the modern Polka, Redowa, or Schottische--were all shown to great advantage in the dignified measure of the slow minuet. Instead of the affectionate embrace licensed by modern society, her fingers only touched those of her partner. The motion was likewise graceful--not a sort of hop, skip, and jump, but a series of slow and graceful evolutions, which the modern fashions have entirely banished. Speculations were soon afloat with regard to the handsome couple performing the minuet. "How handsome they are!" "Are they engaged?" "Perhaps he will propose to her to-night?" "How will Miss Walton like it? you know he was said to be waiting for her," and a variety of sage remarks of the like nature.

"Oh, he will certainly propose to her," exclaimed Miss Seidlitz to Clara.

"Indeed! why do you think so?" inquired Miss Walton--not very distinctly, for a slight cough seemed to trouble her.

"Oh, there is no doubt of it. Emily Brookes, whose place adjoins this, says that his whole days are spent over here. He sings with her, rides with her, walks with her, and if he hasn't proposed already, Emily says there is no doubt he will. But oh! my goodness gracious; why, Clara, you are as white as a sheet, and your eyes are full of tears. I hope I haven't said any thing to distress you." And the affectionate girl seemed ready to cry herself at having pained her friend.

"No, dear. It was only a slight feeling of sickness, which is over now," said Clara, recovering herself. Where is Adela? I left my fan with her."

The minuet being ended, Seraphina and Clara took the opportunity of crossing to ask for the fan. Adela had it in her pocket, and unwilling to interrupt her conversation, drew it out so hastily as to bring with it a small volume bound in red morocco, which fell upon the floor. Albert picked it up, and finding himself unable to return it to Miss Horsemanden, on whom the impulsive Seraphina Seidlitz had opened a battery of questions with regard to some points in the English fashions, on which Clara had been unable to enlighten her, naturally opened it; but what was his surprise, on finding that he held in his hand one of the most licentious productions of the French press; a press, which, though at that time far purer than at present, was, even then, distinguished for its profligacy.

The gay smile with which Adela turned from Seraphina to renew her conversation with Albert, disappeared as she met the grave brow with which he returned the book.

"It is Clara's," she said, hastily. "I borrowed it this morning. Do you think it worth reading, Mr. Farquhar?"

"It is a book," replied Albert, gravely, "into which I regret to see any lady of my aquaintance cast even a look."

"Is is possible!" exclaimed Adela, with an accent of astonishment "I hope Clara has not read it--though she has a number bound just like it, she may not have read this."

"I shall take the liberty of an old friend of Miss Walton's family," said Albert, "to warn her against retaining such a volume in her possession." With these words he bowed and withdrew.

Adela's eye followed him as he crossed the room, with an expression of great embarrassment, and as nearly amounting to fear as was ever seen upon her haughty brow. She still held the book in her hand, and her fingers played mechanically with the leaves.

"This is unfortunate, Miss Horsemanden," said a voice close beside her."

Adela started, looked round, and beheld James Farquhar leaning against the wall, and playing with the sprig of a rose-bush, which he had gathered from a neighboring window. A smile was upon his face as Adela turned round, which promptly changed into an expression of the deepest sympathy.

"This is a most unfortunate occurrence," he repeated, as Miss Horsemanden looked towards him.

"What is, sir?" responded Adela, with indignation. "How am I to look upon this constant and unauthorized intrusion into my private concerns? In what light, pray tell me, do you expect me to view the looks of intelligence directed to me on your part; the significant remarks made by you so constantly, and your evident assumption of an understanding between myself and you, whom, Heaven knows, I never saw until within the last two months. This may be the most agreeable style of conversation for Miss Seraphina Seidlitz, or Miss Emily Brookes, or the other ladies of New-York. I know nothing of their tastes, or feelings: but it is in no way suited to mine, and I insist that it be discontinued."

"Alas! Miss Horsemanden," replied James, in a tone of humility, "how little do you know of my real feelings. Of what interest to me are the fortunes of Miss Emily Brookes, or Miss Seraphina Seidlitz, with regard to any object they may have in view? But when Fortune has put in my power the means of being of service to the sister of a friend, and at the same time of furthering the happiness of a near and dear relation--"

"On what ground do you suppose that I have any object in which you can assist me?" interrupted Adela, stamping with excitement. "Begone, sir!--or choose a style of conversation more suitable to the lady you are with."

"I hear you, and obey," replied James, without changing countenance; "and now to change the subject. It is likely to prove unlucky for Miss Walton, that Albert has seen this specimen of her library."

"How so, sir?" demanded Adela, still haughtily.

"It has always been supposed," returned James, with great deliberation, "that Albert Farquhar and Clara Walton were destined for one another. Yes," he continued, remarking the sudden glance more befitting a fury than a woman, which Adela threw towards her quondam schoolfellow, "he remained single, untempted by the attractions of our New-York fair ones; and I know that his thoughts, as well as Mr. Walton's, looked forward with anxiety to Clara's return. She came; but in place of being won by her attractions, I found that his eyes were set upon another, whom I believed to feel far from indifferent to him. In this last respect, I fear I have been mistaken--but it was not too late for Albert's happiness, and I would gladly have persuaded him to fix his thoughts on Miss Walton, who, it is easy to see, would not repel him."

"But what has this to do with the French Novel?" inquired Adela.

"Merely this," replied James. "Albert Farquhar might have been induced to think of Clara Walton. But this book will place a gulf between them for ever. So high does he rank the purity of a woman's mind, that let him believe a lady deficient in this, and his heart is a stranger to her henceforth."

At these words Adela turned her eyes towards Clara, while a momentary gleam of pleasure lighted up her countenance. James's eye followed her closely.

"Miss Walton," he remarked, "appears uncommonly animated. Were I to judge from her gestures, I should say that she was denying all knowledge of the work."

A deadly pallor shot over Adela's features, which was almost instantly succeeded by a look of positive rage. James observed the variations of her countenance.

"Permit me," he said, taking the book from her unresisting hand, "to return this to Miss Walton. The suddenness of the act will take her by surprise, and convict her of the falsehood with which she has charged you."

Adela Horsemanden was silent; but James read consent in her face.

"Let me see," continued he, opening the novel, "if there is any name in it. No. Miss Walton, I perceive, has had the prudence to omit any proof of the ownership." And taking out a pencil, he wrote "Clara Walton" upon the title page. "I have often," he continued, "amused myself with imitating the handwriting of my friends, and occasionally tried my hand upon Miss Walton's letters; but I never expected it would be so useful."

The imitation was perfect. Adela glanced at it, and made a mute sign to James to carry it to her school-fellow.

"I am come, Miss Walton," said James, politely, "by Miss Horsemanden's request, to return the book that you lent her. She desired me to say that she was ignorant of its character when she borrowed it, and does not wish it to be in her possession any longer."

"There must be some mistake, James," said Albert, "Miss Walton denies all knowledge of the work."

"There is certainly a very great mistake somewhere," replied James, "but judging from the name written on the fly-leaf, I should say the mistake was not mine." And he handed the book to Albert, while Miss Seidlitz ran off to tell "the girls" that Clara Walton had been reading improper books.

"Hold your tongue, you fool," said Miss Brookes, to whom the news was first imparted. "You believe every thing--you even believed that the Papists ate human flesh. Eh! don't you remember, Julia?"

"To be sure I do," replied Julia Peterson, "she believed every word of the nonsense that Charley Horsemanden told her. But, upon my word, there is something going on now."

And indeed there was--for Clara Walton no sooner beheld her name in, as it appeared, her own hand, than she sprang from her seat, her whole languor of manner changing into the most indignant energy. "This is some vile plot, sir! I am as ignorant of the work as if it had never existed; and that name was never written by my hand." And breaking from them, she crossed hastily to Adela, while Emily Brookes, Seraphina Seidlitz, Julia Peterson, and a number of others gathered round to listen. "Adela," she continued, not angrily, but in a voice faltering with emotion, "when was I other than a friend to you?"

"Never, to my knowledge," replied Adela.

"Then why," said Clara, growing warmer as she spoke, "do you seek to lower me in the eyes of our acquaintance, by attributing to me the ownership of a book from which I would shrink with abhorrence? and to charge me with putting it into the hands of a friend! For shame, Adela--unkind school-fellow--false and unfaithful friend."

"Upon my word, Clara, you must desire to create a sensation among the natives, that you harangue me in this way," replied Miss Horsemanden. "Can you deny that you have a set of French books bound in that style?"

"I have," said Clara, boldly, "and so have you."

"And have you read them all?"

"No."

"Then what is all this scene about?" said Adela, peevishly throwing the book upon the table. "You did not know that you had it, I suppose; but it was among the books you brought here with you; and that is all I said."

It was now Clara's turn to beg pardon; which Miss Horsemanden granted after just a sufficient amount of indignation. But the scene was sufficient to destroy the pleasure of the evening; and the company, after a faint attempt to renew the mirth, dispersed, though it was scarcely twelve o'clock.

Albert and James were the last to leave. As they were making their adieus, James thought he noticed an expression of intense impatience in Miss Walton's face, which puzzled him. When they had walked about half-way home, James suddenly recollected that he had left his watch-key, and thought it must have dropped off in the porch.

"Had you not better wait till to-morrow?" said Albert.

"No. It is a clear, moonlight night, and the house is not far. I will run back and look for it."

Having reached the piazza of Hampton Court, he paused and looked at the house. All was dark. James had waited about five minutes, when one of the doors opened, and a slight figure muffled in a cloak, came out, and stole softly towards the river.

"That must be she," said James, and muffling himself in his cloak, he followed her unobserved.

CHAPTER XVII.

The remainder of the summer was not, as far as any of our characters are concerned, marked by any important event. Clara Walton continued with her friend; she did not improve in her spirits as her father had expected; on the contrary, she became every day more pensive and solitary. Adela still continued to monopolize the admiration of the neighborhood, much to the dissatisfaction of the beautiful Miss Brookes, whose father owned the adjoining country-seat, and who, having been most undeniably the belle of New-York before the new arrivals, consoled herself by keeping the strictest watch on their proceedings, and retailing every piece of gossip concerning them for the benefit of her friends, Miss Seraphina Seidlitz and Miss Julia Peterson. Roberts was also seen frequently on Sundays driving past the house; he always contrived to meet Miss Horsemanden at the door of the little country church, and to receive a smile and shake of the hand, which sufficed him to live upon through the week. On other days the favorite amusement at Hampton Court was riding--the party being composed of Albert and Miss Horsemanden, who usually headed it, while young Horsemanden followed as Clara's escort. With his characteristic mixture of cunning and roughness he had resolved to make himself master of the young lady's person and property; and was equally ready to use fair means or foul to accomplish his end.

"She's an infernally tame concern, Farquhar," he said, in confidence to James, "thinks of nothing but romance and sentiment, and looks so devilish melancholy, that I'll be hanged if it don't give me the blues to see her. But what matter! she's the richest girl in the province, and I'm--(and he swore a tremendous oath), if I don't have her."

"She's hardly the girl for you, Charley," answered, James, with a shrug and a sneer.

"No, hang it! Give me Emily Brookes. She rides like a jockey professed, and takes a five-barred gate with a leap. That's the sort; but hang these puling things, who seem only sent into the world to cry their eyes out over a novel, or some d--d misfortune in real life."

"Then you have made up your mind?" said James.

"Yes," replied Horsemanden, with a shrug in his turn." I want the money, and if I can't have it without the girl, why then-- But I must have her, whether she fancies me or not, if I have to win her by--any how, I'll try fair means first."

With these words he rejoined the gentle Clara, on whom he flattered himself he was making some impression; for she listened without apparent reluctance to his talk of dogs and horses, and showed no signs of weariness at a long story he related to her, relative to the best modes of worming a dog. Poor child; her thoughts were far enough away during the narration. As for James, he put the spur to his horse, and galloped after his brother and Miss Horsemanden, who were a little way ahead. They were so busily conversing that they did not hear his horse's hoofs on the ground, now hard with the first autumn frost, and he overtook them as Adela was saying,

"I am so anxious to speak Italian. I read it easily, but cannot speak it at all. I would give any thing for an instructor."

"There is one not far from you, Miss Horsemanden," interposed James, riding up. "I believe it is already known to you that I am, on one side, an Italian, and of course you know that any service it is in my power to render you, would be its own reward."

"I will not trouble you so far," replied Miss Horsemanden coldly, but a moment's reflection made her add more graciously, "unless you have really the time to spare."

"There is no aid I could render Miss Horsemanden, for which I have not time sufficient," replied James, whose voice never lost the quality of seeming to express more than met the ear. "I consider it time advantageously laid out."

"I shall expect to be sometimes a sharer in the advantage, James," interposed Albert, laughing, "that is, if Miss Horsemanden will occasionally permit me to assist in the instructions."

"I shall be very glad," replied Miss Horsemanden, graciously. "Indeed, if Mr. Farquhar is not too tired, I should like to take my first lesson as soon as we reach home."

Both gentlemen expressed their readiness.

"But I am really afraid of putting too great a tax upon your kindness," resumed Adela. "I would not ask too much at your hands."

"Surely," replied Albert, "you cannot doubt--"

A cry, shrill and piercing, interrupted him. It appeared to proceed from some person on the bank immediately above, which so overhung the road at this point, as to conceal those above from Adela and her attendants. But Miss Walton and Charles Horsemanden could distinguish a female figure, who appeared to have fallen into a fainting fit. Urged by curiosity, they spurred on to join their companions.

"What can it be?" said Adela, as they came up.

"It appeared to be a woman," said Clara, "a young woman, who was seized with a fit of some kind."

"So I supposed," rejoined Adela; "but do you know, I can hardly keep Mr. Farquhar from going to look after it. He appears to take great interest in the affair."

"I was only about to inquire if any one was hurt," said Albert. "The lady may need assistance."

"Pooh," said Adela, smiling, "it could hardly be expected that the illness of a trumpery country girl should interfere with our ride. Come, Mr. Farquhar, you are growing too remiss. I shall have to be offended."

"The fair one above has been removed," said Horsemanden. "I saw them carrying her away."

"I beg pardon," said Albert, suddenly recollecting himself. "We will go on, of course; but I cannot agree with Miss Horsemanden, that the illness of a trumpery girl is not worth the interruption of our ride. Every woman has a claim when in distress; and I should feel it as a disgrace to have neglected any woman in need of my assistance."

"Mr. Farquhar must be aware that I spoke in jest," said Adela, drawing herself up haughtily.

"I am rejoiced to hear it," said Albert, gravely.

"At all events," rejoined Adela, her temper for the instant getting the better of her prudence, "it is not for any one in this city to comment on my proccedings. If they desire that privilege, they had better apply to those who are mean spirited enough to grant it."

"I grieve to have offended you, Miss Horsemanden," said Albert calmly; "you have nothing of the kind henceforth to fear from me. In the mean while, let me relieve you of my presence. James, I am going to the farm, to make some arrangements with Hughson. I shall be back to-morrow." And he leaped the neighboring fence and disappeared.

Adela was so provoked at herself, as well as indignant at Albert, that she before long proposed a return to Hampton Court. She would gladly, likewise, have omitted the Italian lesson, now that Albert would not be with her; but as there appeared no good grounds for declining it, and as James accompanied her into the drawing-room, as a matter of course, she only begged him to excuse her while she laid aside her hat and riding-habit, and retired with Clara to their dressing-room.

She was that day unusually petulant--a fault of which she was not often guilty--and it appeared impossible to please her. At last she descended to the drawing-room, laughingly summoning Clara to play propriety.

"D--d if she does," said young Horsemanden, who had been lounging in the hall; "or if she does, I'll follow and play propriety for her. Eh, Ady?"

"Well, come in," replied Adela, laughing, "only remember that this is a special favor;" and she led the way into the drawing-room, which to her surprise she found empty.

"Where is Mr. Farquhar?" she inquired, turning to her brother.

"'Pon my soul I don't know," replied the young man, "unless he's flitted. How long, in the devil's name, did you expect him to wait, while you were titivating up stairs?"

Adela did not answer, but retired into a small apartment, half boudoir, half library, which she called her own. The door leading from the parlor necessarily concealed a portion of the apartment while opened, so that Miss Horsemanden had closed it before she perceived that there was another person in the room.

"Mr. Farquhar!" she exclaimed.

"Even so, Miss Horsemanden," replied James, advancing toward her with an air of gallantry, he had never displayed in her presence before.

"To what, Mr. Farquhar," demanded Adela, with a tone of intense haughtiness, "am I to attribute what I must term this most unauthorized intrustion into my private apartment?"

"I am waiting to give your Italian lesson, fairest Adela, replied James, in the same familiar tone.

"And what, sir, in my conduct," returned the young lady, "has led you to imagine I would receive you here? or any where, without a third person? Leave it, sir, and return no more."

"Beautiful Adela," commenced James: but the young lady impatiently interrupted him, exclaiming, "Leave me, sir. Our Italian lessons are at an end. Go, or I will call my brother."

"I take you at your word, Miss Horsemanden," replied James, in the grave tone of an injured man. "I leave you--to the enjoyment of your library."

He pointed as he spoke to the books on the table, which he had evidently been examining. They were works in the Italian and French languages--the Decamerone of Boccacio, and many a volume of the luscious poetry of the South.

"This, then, is what I am to understand by your library, madam," repeated he, in the same calm tone.

Adela's eyes flashed with indignation as she repeated, "Go, sir." James moved slowly to the door; but ere he reached it, Adela's courage appeared to give way, and she caught him by the arm, exclaiming, "Wait,--I must speak to you."

"Why do you recall your sentence of banishment?" replied James, letting himself be drawn back with apparent reluctance.

"I must speak with you," she repeated vehemently. "Mr. Farquhar," she continued in a voice calm from very excitement, "what have I ever done to make you my enemy?"

"Me, your enemy, Miss Horsemanden?" said James, in a surprised tone.

"Yes, sir, my enemy. Wherefore, from the first moment of our acquiantance, have I been made to feel that you were a spy on all my actions--a reader of my very thoughts, and the possessor of all which I would keep secret! By what strange art, I ask you, James Farquhar, have you ensnared me in a labyrinth of your own, and with a refinement of cruelty spread the net in the sight of the very bird you have entangled in its toils."

"You mistake me, Miss Horsemanden," said James, "most cruelly mistake me. I am not your enemy. I would fain be your friend--your ally in a subject you have forbidden me to name. Natural interest in the sister of a friend, general benevolence--Christian charity itself would prompt--"

"To what purpose this insolent hypocrisy?" interrupted Adela, stamping with rage, "when, in the bottom of your soul, you know that it is believed by neither; and that we both understand each other's feelings with a penetration that no hypocrisy can beguile."

-

"You are right, Miss Horsemanden," said James, his guarded manner becoming suddenly bold and candid, "we do understand each other. We agree in penetrating and despising the miserable hypocrisy of the world, and the wretched affectation of generosity for which so many are distinguished. Now listen to me for once, lady, and for all. You love my brother, Albert Farquhar. Did you think this a secret? I saw by your face in the Ladies' Valley, that I had read your heart aright. I saw the vindictive jealousy and fury with which your eye followed Clara Walton, when I suggested that her object might correspond with yours. I saw the eagerness with which you fell into a scheme that would lower her in Albert's eyes. I have seen all this, madam, and more--do you still think you are not known to me?"

Adela Horsemanden had stood during the above speech listening as if spell-bound: but the moment it ceased, she sprang forward, as if to ring for her attendant. Her strength, however, vanished with the effort, and sinking upon the sofa, she burst into a passion of tears.

James Farquhar waited calmly till the first burst had subsided. As her sobs became more gentle, he drew near and attempted to console her. He even ventured to take her hand and press it between his own. Adela made no effort to withdraw it, nor did she resist when James took the seat beside her and drew her gently towards himself. He smiled to see how the spirit of the proud woman was broken.

"You have heard me tell you," he resumed, "what object you are pursuing--let me now tell you what is mine. I make no pretensions to generosity. I have also an object, and a selfish one. You wish to marry Albert Farquhar. I wish you to marry him. I am not obliged to disclose my reasons. Had I no other, my aversion to the Walton family would be sufficient. I would not, nay, I will not, see Albert married to the pale, dreaming girl, to whom report and his own expectation had engaged him. Your eyes flash, Miss Horsemanden. I see that you sympathize with me here. Let us unite against the miserable hypocrisy which we both despise, and owning to one another our joint object, go fearlessly forward to its attainment."

There was something in the boldness and seeming candor of this speech, which influenced Adela Horsemanden. She rose, and giving James her hand, replied, "I am in your power, sir, and must submit to your conditions. I can only rely on your mercy, and trust that you will make no unkind use of the discoveries you have made."

"On condition," said James, smiling, "that our Italian lessons be resumed; and this," taking up a volume of Boccacio, "shall be our first class-book."

Miss Horsemanden made a sign of acquiescence, and they were presently deep in the pages of that fascinating author.

CHAPTER XVIII.

{small text, verse}

All day within the dreamy house The doors upon their hinges creaked, The blue-fly sang i' the pane; the mouse Behind the mouldering wainscot shrieked. She only said, My life is dreary, He cometh not, she said, She said, I am a weary, a weary, I would that I were dead. {right aligned with the verse} TENNYSON.

ISADORA sat in her chamber solitary and pensive. The narrow compass of its four walls was filled with every luxury that imagination could devise; but she heeded them not. Her harp had been for days untouched--her books, usually so carefully stored, lay scattered about the room, yet she heeded them not. Her canary hung neglected in its cage; her very work lay unheeded in her lap, while her eyes strained themselves in the direction of the road. Thrice in the course of the day had she ascended to her sleeping apartment, to get a better view of the road, in hopes of seeing her husband approach; but in vain. Finally, wearied and disheartened, she sat down by the window, fixing her eyes still in the same direction.

"Three weeks to-day, and he has not been here," she murmured. "The like was never known before."

A voice from without aroused her; and raising her head, she saw the shrivelled form of old Betty Luckstead, Hughson's mother-in-law, standing beneath a large tree near the window, in earnest conversation with her daughter. The ill-omened appearance of this sibyl, universally feared and hated in New-York as a witch, was not without effect upon the Quadroon. She was talking rapidly, her yellow, bag-like throat alternately expanding and contracting, her skinny finger gesticulating vehemently, and her usually stooping figure almost erect with excitement. Though unable to trace the purport of their conversation, Isadora could distinguish the words "beauty," "fortune," "marriage," "ill-luck," in the croaking accents of the old fortune-teller; and could see several stealthy glances on the part of mother Hughson towards the window where she sat, and an expression of malignant triumph in her eyes.

"What does that woman want?" was her haughty inquiry, when she had beckoned mother Hughson to the window.

"She is my mother, Miss," replied the woman, with an insolent emphasis on the last word. "She's come to see me."

"Bid her leave the premises directly," said Isadora, with the air of a queen. "Her presence is displeasing to me."

"Sorry for it, Miss," repeated mother Hughson, in the same insulting tone as before, "for you will have to lump it."

"Dare you--dare you refuse to obey me?" exclaimed Isadora, almost too astonished to be angry.

"Ay, ay! What for should I not?" was the cool reply.

"I shall inform my husband how you have treated me," said Isadora, turning proudly away.

"Aye, tell him; and who will be the loser then? It's likely he will listen to you, and he married to another lady."

"Married? and to another?" gasped Isadora, sinking into a chair.

"Yes indeed, my beauty; or going to be--which is the same thing--to a lady ten times as handsome as you, and fifty times as rich, besides being a white woman into the bargain."

"Yes, my pretty lady," interposed Betty, her face puckered into a thousand new wrinkles as she spoke; "and there is to be the brave match, and the red gold, and the bonny bairns for that wedding; and the gold shall be like mud, and the wine like water, when the bells ring for that marriage."

"Well, do you believe it now?" said Mother Hughson.

"It is false; and I will never believe it," exclaimed the Quadroon, springing from her seat. "It is a base lie, coined by this infamous woman, to drive me to distraction."

"That's right, my pretty lady," repeated Betty, laying her skinny hand on Isadora's arm; "never believe till you are told by those who can convince you, sure enough. But come with me, and you shall hear it from a better mouth than mine."

"It is false. I will not go with you," said Isadora, trembling.

"Very well," replied the old woman, "never say I did not warn you before," and she began to totter from the window.

"Come along, Sal. She will learn it fast enough," continued Betty, pulling her daughter away. The Quadroon hesitated; but fear overcame her displeasure, and springing from the window, she was soon at the old woman's side.

"Whither would you take me?" she inquired, as Betty pursued her walk, mumbling to herself, while Mother Hughson pushed rudely by her without the slightest respect.

"Where your eyes shall see, and your ears shall hear," responded the sibyl, in the oracular tone acquired by long experience in fortune-telling.

"What's the use of talking to her, mother? Let her come or not, just as she chooses. Its all one to us," interrupted the younger woman.

To this rude speech Isadora made no answer, but followed her companions to the brow of a sort of hill which overhung the main road. They stopped at this point; and the women saw that though Isadora was silent, her color was completely gone, and her breath came thick and short as though she had been running.

"Look out here now. They will be along soon," said Betty, stretching her long lean finger over the road. Instead of obeying, the Quadroon clasped her hands over her face; but Mother Hughson pinioned her in her arms and obliged her to look.

A gay cavalcade soon came in sight. At the head rode a lady of surpassing beauty, whose air and manner were those of a princess. A cavalier rode by her side, and as they drew nearer, Isadora recognized her husband.

"My dream! my dream!" she muttered, clinging with one hand to Mother Hughson, and bending over the bank. As they drew nearer, Isadora heard the lady say, "I would not willingly ask too much at your hands."

"Surely," was the reply, "you cannot doubt--"

Isadora heard no more. A wild cry burst from her overburdened heart, and she fell senseless into her companions' arms.

They carried her to the farm, and laid her on the couch; but the blow was struck. One fit succeeded another, until even the stony heart of Mother Hughson was touched, and she used all her efforts to restore her, until at last she was roused by the voice of Albert.

"What does this mean?" he said, sternly, taking the cold hand of his insensible wife. Mother Hughson was now profuse in appologies; but Albert thrust her aside.

"You have been playing some devil's prank with her, I know," he said, sternly. "Leave the room. Isadora, my love," he continued, taking her in his arms, "what is the matter?"

His kind words and affectionate embrace, restored Isadora to consciousness. But no sooner did she meet her husband's eye, than she pushed him from her, and hid her face with her hands.

"What does this mean?" inquired Albert, displeased. "Are you ill, Isadora?"

By slow degrees and with a faltering voice, the Quadroon related her story. The countenance of Albert, in the mean time, expressed the greatest displeasure.

"I thought it was my desire that you should not go off the farm," he said, coldly, when she had finished.

"True," faltered the Quadroon. "I should have remembered; but--"

"But your jealousy made you forget," interrupted her husband. "You are a child, Isadora, and deserve to be treated as such. Remember that I am now your husband, and cannot, will not be tied to the constant attendance that I submitted to before we were married. If I remain absent for a few weeks, or choose to fill up my leisure time by an occasional walk or ride with any lady of my acquaintance, I must and will be at liberty to do so. Is there any thing unreasonable in this?"

"No," said Isadora, timidly, "but the Hughsons---"

"True, true. I had forgotten," said Albert, rising and walking about the room. "Impertinent and officious fools! Their insolent behavior of to-day, will put me to greater inconvenience than any circumstance in my recollection. They must leave the place; and I don't know what to do with you, Isadora."

"Let me stay here alone," timidly suggested his wife.

"Impossible; you could not bear it. Stay; I will put two old slaves of mine on the place, and settle Hughson in New-York. He'll talk if I cut him entirely adrift. Oh! what a life it is!" with a sigh.

"You are sad, dearest," said Isadora, drawing closer to him.

"Let us talk of something else," replied Albert, kissing her. "What we have chosen we must endure, and make up our mind to its difficulties."

"What do you mean by that?" inquired the Quadroon, looking keenly at him.

"Nothing," said Albert; but the cloud was on his brow, and his manner constrained for the rest of the day.

He remained till the next day at the farm, with his wife, and treated her with the utmost affection. He left her once more happy. But he himself was not so. He felt that his love had passed away. It had been a boyish passion, founded partly on the romance of her situation, and partly on the uncongeniality of those around him. But the romance was at an end; the sympathy he had cultivated in the mind of Isadora dwindled into almost nothing, compared with the harmony of taste and feeling he had discovered in Adela Horsemanden.

And yet he did not care for Miss Horsemanden. The spell she had cast round him at first had entirely disappeared. Splendid as were her endowments both of mind and person, he looked beyond the surface, and could see beneath the brilliancy of her conversation traces of a mind without refinement, and a heart untouched by any of the nobler emotions. At the same time, her society had rendered him incapable of enjoying Isadora's, as of old; and he sighed to think of the life-long chain that bound him without the affection that had rendered it light.

The shortest road to his present country-seat lay across Mr. Horsemanden's grounds; and it had been his usual custom to take that road, as it did not pass in sight of the house. He had never on these occasions met any members of the family, and had no hesitation in taking that road; when a sudden turn brought him unexpectedly upon Miss Walton.

She was alone, and apparently in such deep meditation that the suddenness of the arrival found her directly in the horse's path. So terrified was the poor girl at the imminence of her danger, that she could neither shriek nor fly; but looking helplessly around her for a moment, sank senseless under the horse's feet.

To spring from the saddle, and raise the insensible form that lay there, without life or motion, was Albert's first impulse, and as he applied with natural tenderness and delicacy the means necessary for her recovery, he could not restrain his eye from a closer scrutiny than usual of her face. Clara Walton had not the magnificent beauty of her friend Adela Horsemanden; but hers was a countenance calculated to steal upon hearts that Adela's would fail to storm.

Her face and head were shaped with an elegance that told of natural refinement; her complexion was fair and delicately transparent; her features soft, modest and alluring. It was a face which in repose was not striking--a stranger might have passed it without notice, yet there was something in that delicate form and hanging head, from which Albert found it difficult to turn away; and when at last her deep blue eye opened, and she displayed signs of returning consciousness, he half regretted that she had not remained in his arms.

Her first impulse was to start from him, and, with a deep blush, to adjust a portion of her dress which had become astray. She was still weak and languid, so much so, that on attempting to walk her limbs failed her.

Albert was at her side immediately.

"You are hardly recovered yet, Miss Walton," he said, supporting her, "and will not be able to walk to the house. Let me assist you."

"I shall be better presently," said Clara faintly, endeavoring as she spoke to proceed; but her powers were not equal to the effort.

"You over-exert yourself," said Albert. "My horse is at hand. You will not be afraid to ride a man's saddle with my assistance?"

Clara would have declined; but her evident weakness made her acceptance of the offer necessary. He placed her gently upon the saddle, and walking by her side, guided the horse with one hand while he supported Clara with the other.

By slow degrees her agitation wore off, and she was able to thank Albert for his attention to her. The truth was, that she had gone out by herself, to escape the now rather troublesome attentions of Charles Horsemanden: and in her usual absent frame of mind, had missed her way. Willing to escape her expressions of gratitude, Albert led her to talk about England. She had seen little of it beyond the neighborhood of her school and her aunt's house in London. There was undoubtedly, she said, much more to admire in London than in a small provincial capital like New-York; but somehow she had always felt that the formor was not her home, whereas her heart warmed to New-York the moment she arrived there. She had always, she continued, been perfectly happy at the thought of returning home; but here she stopped, and a flush came over her face. Albert interpreted it.

"But the painful events of your return shed a gloom over your pleasure?" he added.

"Yes," replied Clara. The chord struck in her mind was evidently very painful, and she remained silent for some minutes.

"But you have been happy since your return I trust," said Albert at length.

"Yes," replied she hesitatingly; then recovering herself, and speaking more boldly,--"Yes, I have been very happy with my father and brother."

"I understand you," said Albert, coloring as he spoke. "You are disappointed in the society you have met."

"Oh no--indeed not," said Clara earnestly. "They have been very kind to me. I am not disappointed in that."

"Then you differ from your friend," rejoined Albert. "She speaks of our society with great contempt."

"Adela has such talents," replied Miss Walton, "that she is naturally disappointed at not having a wider field for their exercise. At school she always carried off the first premiums, and I have seen few women to equal her. She has a wonderful mind. And then so handsome,--is she not, Mr. Farquhar?"

Albert could not but compare her warm and affectionate praise of her schoolfellow, with the disparaging tone in which Miss Horsemanden always spoke of her. His short conversation with her, during this ride, convinced him that she had neither the commonplace nature nor the want of talent, which her friend attributed to her; and glad of something to call away his thoughts from himself, he determined to cultivate her acquaintance more closely on their return to town, and judge for himself how she compared with her friend.

Adela ran out, and scolded Clara sharply for the fright she had given them; and the fact that Albert had been with her, provoked Miss Horsemanden to mingle a bitterness with her rebukes, that drew tears from poor Clara's eyes; and Horsemanden, who had been also a witness of her return, shook his fist stealthily at Albert; resolved, in his own mind, that matters must be brought more speedily to a close.

CHAPTER XIX. {small text, verse} Coming events cast their shadows before. {right aligned with the verse} CAMPBELL.

The conclusion of another week found the majority of the New-Yorkers in their town houses, and ready to prepare for the winter's campaign.There was nothing then like the whirl of gayety which characterizes our modern fashionable seasons, when balls, concerts, the opera, and the thousand and one devices of this modern Babel,--"pour passer le temps,"--as they phrase it, leave little leisure for other ennui than that which necessarily results from the exhaustion of a routine of gayety. Society, in those days, wore a form more steady and sedate. The balls were few and far between--other forms of gayety were unknown; and the only public amusement was a single, indifferently stocked theatre. The difficulty of all this was, that books were as rare as the more trifling resources of idleness; and therefore, to a lady, resident in New-York, the winter was a very dull season indeed, only diversified by walking the Broadway, buying at the shops loads of articles that they did not want, and keeping up an incessant and wearying round of morning visits. The employments of the young men during their leisure hours, were of a much less harmless description. They skulked about docks, lounged in the bars of taverns, fought cocks in the Bowling Green; or even joined in the battles between the Broadway boys and those of the Smiths Vly.

Albert Farquhar had little taste for any of these amusements--neither had his brother James. The former, in particular, often complained of the winter as the dullest season of the year. His library was small--it had been read, and re-read, until almost committed to memory. He had little taste for visiting--still less for the ordinary amusements of the young men; so that those portions of his time not spent in the society of Isadora, were literally devoid of occupation. The present winter had apparently weaned him from even that resource. He rarely went to the farm, and when there, the complaints of the Quadroon, who felt his neglect keenly, alienated him from her more and more. Hughson he had removed from the farm, and bribed him to silence with the lease-hold of a small tavern in the city.

It is not surprising that, under these circumstances, a good deal of his time should be spent with his friends the Waltons, where his visits were particularly acceptable; for Frank, whose wedding day was near at hand, spent most of his time with the fair Seraphina Seidlitz, and was not sorry that Albert should take his place with Clara. Albert's first visit discovered so many attractive qualities in Miss Walton, that it was soon repeated; and in fact, before long, all his time was spent at their house. Pleased with his daughter's improving spirits, Mr. Walton never thought of inquiring into the nature of her feelings towards her companion, and thus their intercourse continued unchecked.

Of Adela Horsemanden, Albert had seen little since her return to the city. When they met, it was with a grave bow on his side, and on hers, a glance in which displeasure was mingled with a softer emotion. Her whole object seemed to be admiration; and in this she was successful. Poor Roberts was among the most desperate of her victims. Believing himself the object of her preference, he lived in the enjoyment of a Fool's Elysium. Adela encouraged him at times, knowing that his want of social position enabled her to do it without remark. Between her and James Farquhar a mute understanding had arisen. Neither of them alluded, in words, to their former explanation; but their conversation was significant, and much was conveyed from one to the other under cover of a compliment, a passing remark, or a jest.

"We have made some progress, Miss Horsemanden," said James, entering the young lady's library, where he still continued to give her lessons in Italian. This was about a month or six weeks after their return to the city.

"Yes," replied Miss Horsemanden, in the same tone, "but there is still much left to do."

"Unquestionably. But a winter may do wonders, when people are in earnest. Did I tell you, Miss Horsemanden," he continued, throwing himself into the seat beside her, "that I have found what keeps Albert so many evenings from home?"

"No. Is it fair to ask what?" inquired Adela.

"The attractions of your friend Miss Walton," James replied. "He spends, at present, nearly all his evenings at her father's; and I believe their meetings are generally tête-à-tête."

"How do you know that?" said Adela, eagerly.

"I know it," replied James, with an odd smile.

"You will, no doubt, be pleased, should it eventually prove a match; it would not be a bad thing for your friend."

Miss Horsemanden drew in her breath, and put her hand to her side, as if from sudden pain. It passed in a moment, and she said coolly,

"This is really surprising, Mr. Farquhar."

"It would be still more surprising should any thing occur to break off the affair," observed James, carefully watching the effect of his words on Miss Horsemanden.

"What do you mean, sir?" said Adela, starting.

"You, being Miss Walton's friend, ought perhaps to know.--But it is not for me to dash her prospects to the ground," said James, interrupting himself. "And it is time to go on with our Italian lesson."

Embarked upon the passage of the voluptuous Italian, their conversation seemed finished. James had watched Adela Horsemanden's mind forming under the influence of the constant perusal, in his society, of the luscious poetry of the Italian school--and he saw that it was not without effect. This day, especially, he marked the eager expression of her eyes, the feverish restlessness of her manner, and the quick mounting of the blood to her cheeks, not from modesty, but a very opposite feeling, which James perfectly understood.

The lesson being over, James rose, as if to go. But Miss Horsemanden had not forgotten their former conversation, and gently retaining him, said in a low voice, "Mr. Farquhar, I entreat, I command you to tell me whatever you know of Clara Walton; I care not for the consequences. Let me know it.

"For aught I know, you may be aware of it already," was James's reply. "Who was the man with whom she held private meetings on the river bank at Hampton Court?"

"Who?" echoed Adela, in amazement.

"Nay, then, you are ignorant of the fact. You cannot tell, then, with whom she meets continually at an appointed spot, by midnight, long after she is supposed to be in her own apartment?"

"Tell me," said Adela eagerly, "was it Albert Farquhar?"

"No, Miss Horsemanden. The stranger wore a sash round his waist, and a cap with a bright feather. He had a sword by his side, and came in a boat with one companion."

"Heavens!" exclaimed Adela, "it is he himself."

"You know him, then," said James, "and all is no doubt right. Good day, Miss Horsemanden."

Adela made him a sign to remain, and sat for some time in a musing attitude. At last the words broke from her as from one in soliloquy. "To discover her--to brand her in the presence of her admirer, and hurl her from the place in which she supplanted me. "Mr. Farquhar," she added aloud, "I must know the place of this tryste."

"In a place where no English and few Dutch ever go--a spot reputed haunted by the spectre of a pirate, and shunned by all on that account."

"I must go there. When, when--" she hesitated.

"On the third evening of the New Year," replied James, "they have appointed a meeting. I will be with you at eleven, and guide you to the spot. It is fit that you should know it, and save your friend."

And so they parted. Adela to resume her daily pursuits, her heart full of cruel triumph at the anticipated disclosure. James, to lounge in the direction of the Bowling Green, humming a tune as he went, and switching a little cane in his hand with his usual indifference.

As he passed Mr. Walton's, Horsemanden came out in a perfect paroxysm of rage.

"The jilt! the cursed gipsy!" were the first words James distinguished. They were spoken in a tone of fury exceeding any thing he had ever heard.

"What is the matter?" said James, taking his arm familiarly. "D--nation!" was the reply, followed by a volley of oaths that made a number of people turn and look back.

"Come across the street," said James, pulling him by the sleeve. "You will attract the attention of the passers by. I suppose you will not care to tell them all that you have been rejected by Miss Walton?"

"D--n it!" said Horsemanden, his fury breaking out afresh at the mention of her name. "I have played all my cards to no purpose; but I will be equal to her--I will."

"Are you mad?" said James, seeing that they were noticed. "You will attract the attention of the whole street." And he drew him almost forcibly to the opposite side of the street; but finding that they were still the objects of attention, turned out of Broadway into one of the by-streets, leading to the East River.

"You are older than I am, Horsemanden," said James, "and ought to have more sense; but you have not yet learned to conceal your anger till you can show it to good purpose. Now let us hear all about it?"

"She refused me with the utmost coolness--made no allowance for the shortness of our acquaintance, or the possibility of her feelings changing towards me; but told me in the quietest tone that she could never think of me as any thing nearer than a friend; talked about want of sympathy, and difference of dispositions--d---- me!" and he went off again with a series of oaths, which we need not commit to paper.

"So she took it coolly," said James, suppressing a laugh.

"Took it coolly? Like an icicle--said it was out of the question--recommended me to put the idea out of my head--damme!"

"Upon my word, it was what you might have expected, then," said James. "You are clever enough with the men, Charley, but it's clear that you know nothing of women. How can you expect the girl to be in love with you when you haven't known her a year? The best thing you can do is to let all that pass--be assiduous and unobtrusive in your attentions to the girl--don't urge her too much beforehand--and in a year or two more she may come to like you."

"No, blast my body!" replied the young man, kindling anew at this most unpalatable counsel. "I've had enough of playing fast and loose--and the stupid fool isn't worth it. I'm determined to have her in two days--willye, nillye--James Farquhar."

"Two days!--you are dreaming, man."

"It is no dream at all," replied Horsemanden, fiercely. "The day after to-morrow is New Year's Day, and that shall see Miss Walton's milk-and-water face in my power."

"I could have wished you had chosen some other time for your enterprise, Charley," replied James, "but I gave you my word to help you, should it be necessary; so put yourself under my guidance, and I can bring you to those who will help you."

With these words he retraced his steps, and accompanied by Horsemanden walked in the direction of Broad-street. As they turned into that spacious and Dutch-built thoroughfare, they nearly ran over a man who was walking in an opposite direction.

The sullen growl of displeasure with which the person turned upon the offenders, suddenly changed into what was meant for a tone of cordial surprise, as he recognized their faces.

"What, Master James!" he exclaimed, "why, the sight of you is good for sore eyes."

"Aye, aye, so it is," replied James, "and you turn up just in the nick of time, Hughson, I was just coming with this gentleman to your house."

"Aye, aye," said Hughson, nodding. "Glad to see you both."

"You must show us the way to your house, Hughson," said James, "for our business can't be spoken of in the street; and you know, my friend," laughing, "you're not exactly the person to be seen with in public."

Hughson seemed to take this as a compliment, for he grinned till he showed all his remaining fangs, and then led the way to Petticoat Lane (now Marketfield-street), where his present residence was. Farquhar and Horsemanden accompanied him, the latter sullenly biting his nails as he went, and the former engaged in a whispered conversation with Hughson.

"This is a new move; settling you in town," whispered James.

"Aye, aye," said Hughson, in the same tone. "You never came to see us at the Farm, Master James. But he did, oh, Lord, yes."

"Albert, do you mean?" said James, a light suddenly breaking in upon him.

"Yes, he. There's more things than agriculture to tempt a handsome young fellow--and little Miss Isador knows that I guess. By jingo, she can tell what's what, the little hussy."

"Halloa!" replied James, now really surprised. "Do you mean to say that that is where he used to go winter and summer, and stay for nights at a time?"

"To be sure I does. Why, there was plenty to keep him, I calculate," said Hughson, inwardly chuckling at the effect of his words upon the younger brother.

"The devil!" muttered James to himself. "Hold on there.--Have you ever seen hair the color of this?" showing him a lock of dark and glossy hair, which he carried in his bosom.

"It's Miss Isador's herself," exclaimed Hughson surprised, or Madam's, I calculate I ought to say. Why, how did you come for to get it, Master James?"

"Never mind," replied Farquhar. "Whose did you say it was?"

"Isador's--Madam Isadore's--your brother's nigger wife. Lord! Master James, who'd have thought you were so innocent?"

"Isadora, that is the name," said James thoughtfully. "I imagined it was only a nom de plume, taken by some of our New-York girls. Hughson," he whispered, "you have done me a great service. Say nothing about it, and I will reward you."

They had now reached Hughson's house, which was a low-roofed, mean-looking tavern, not far from Broadway. Opening the door, Hughson invited his companions to enter. Horsemanden followed at once, but James lingered behind.

"This will disarrange my plans," he murmured; "but I will make them work; and this over, I will pay my respects to my black sister-in-law. But who would have thought Albert's taste to be so low? A negro--pah!" and his handsome wore an expression of disgust as he followed his companions.

CHAPTER XX. {small text, verse}

Light thickens, And the crow makes wing to the rooky wood. Good things of day begin to droop and drowse While night's black agents to their prey do rouse. {right aligned with the verse} MACBETH.

Many and great were the hopes and fears which heralded the New-Year's day of 1723. The hospitable custom, now prevalent through the country, which had its origin in New-York, was in the last century confined to that city. The English residents had borrowed it from the Dutch, to whom it owes its invention. Owing to the small size of the fashionable circle, however, the visiting was over early in the afternoon; and the young men had time to prepare for the evening's amusement, which was invariably a sleighing excursion to some country farm, at the upper part of the island, where they finished the evening with a supper and a dance. The drive homeward always lay across a certain bridge, whose very locality is now forgotten, but at this bridge each gentleman demanded a kiss from his lady companion before he would drive her over, and from this circumstance it was called Kissing Bridge.

Let not our modern daughters of Eve recoil with horror at the state of society that permitted such a barbarous custom to exist. To measure refinement by the rules of etiquette, is in all cases a false and dangerous rule; and the very ladies who in the simplicity of their hearts permitted the liberties above named, would have been equally shocked at the public caresses now suffered by the New-York belles under the name of Polka, Redowa, Mazurka, or Schottische. And it may fairly be questioned which of these practices may be least consistent with simplicity and purity of mind.

But enough of moralizing. On the evening of the day of which we speak, all New-York, as usual, was out on the Broadway and Bouwerie Roads, much to the indignation of the honest Dutch farmers who resided along the latter. Innumerable sleighs, containing each a gentleman and lady, glided swifly in the moonligh, making the roads all ring with their merry voices. Horsemanden had of course no hope of obtaining Miss Walton for a partner; and consulting his own tastes, had chosen the beautiful and high-spirited Miss Brookes. James Farquhar was Clara's companion; and their two sleighs, after lingering some time behind the others, turned suddenly down Windmill Lane (now Cedar street) in the direction of the North River.

"Lord, Mr. Horsemanden, this isn't the way," exclaimed Miss Brookes, as their horses followed in the direction Farquhar had led. "Where are you going?"

"Never you mind, Miss," replied Horsemanden, putting his horses to their full speed and passing the other sleigh. In a little while they stopped before a wretched-looking hovel which stood on the very brink of the river.

"Now, Miss Emily Brookes and Miss Clara Walton," said Horsemanden, jovially, "get out and have your fortunes told."

"What?" said Clara, faintly, "our fortunes did you say?"

"Yes, to be sure," responded Horsemanden, proceeding to fasten the horse's head. "This is the residence of old Betty Luckstead, the most expert witch and soothsayer in the city."

"Oh, capital, capital!" shouted Emily, clapping her hands. "It will be rare fun. I have always longed to have my fortune told." And she sprang from the carriage and joined her companion.

"Come, Miss Walton," said Horsemanden, going to the other sleigh and offering to assist her.

Clara drew back. "Not for the world," she said. "We have no right."

"Nonsense, child," interrupted Miss Brookes. "You speak as if you really believed the hag could foretell the future. I only just wish Seraphina Seidlitz were here. Oh, I should like to see her large blue eyes wide open, and her mouth looking as if she could swallow it all. But you must come, Clara."

"Oh, no, no. Please drive away, Mr. Farquhar," said Clara, trembling violently.

"Silly child--come along," repeated Miss Brookes, pulling her by the arm. Very reluctantly, and with an undefined presentiment of evil, Clara descended from the sleigh, and was conducted into the house. Her companion's spirits did not reassure her--for she knew her to be one of those young ladies, not uncommon in small places, who will venture any where from mere love of fun. Old Betty Luckstead appeared to have expected them; for she sat by her deal-table by the light of a single lamp, surrounded by all the implements of her art; and her greeting was as to expected visitors.

"I knew ye would be here," she said in her harsh voice as they entered. "My art foresaw you at the bottom of the Lane--but ye are late. Woe to those who enter when the sand is out."

And she held up an hour-glass, the last sands of which were seen dropping through as she spoke.

"A truce with your ill-omened prognostications, good woman," said Miss Brookes, throwing her a shilling, "there's your fee in advance, and now read me a good fortune."

"Nay, nay, put up your money. I take no fees from pretty young ladies," replied the sibyl; "but stretch forth your hand, my bonny lassie, and I will read you what the fates decree."

Emily advanced fearlessly. The woman poured some water into a cup of tea-leaves, and allowing it time to settle, poured off the liquid and examined the grounds.

"Here are tears," she said," but not a great many--and here is gold enough to pay for all. And a wedding ring; and here are the signs of a bonny husband, who will wipe the tears away."

"Is he black-haired, dark-eyed, and ruddy?" said Emily, eagerly glancing at Horsemanden.

"No: he is fair and florid, with flaxen curls and eyes of the lightest blue," replied the sibyl. "He drove past this house to-night."

"Pshaw! it is only Jack Peterson," said Miss Brookes, in a tone of disappointment, "and I won't have him--that's flat."

"Let me look again," replied Betty. "No, he did not pass to-night--but one who looks as like him as two peas, and who hasn't one-half his money. This man shall come from beyond the seas, and is an Earl's son."

Emily's face brightened. "And now let me look at your hand." The remainder of the fortune was a series of blessings,--money--children--a long life, and a happy one--such as common fortune-tellers always promise to pretty young girls. Miss Emily drew back pretty well satisfied.

"Now, Miss Walton," said James, drawing her gently forward. Clara still shrank from the inquiry; but the old woman fixed a glance upon her that awed her into obedience, and she tottered to the table.

"Let me look at your left hand." Clara obeyed tremblingly.

"Your fortune depends on yourself," said Mrs. Luckstead.

"Many thanks to you for the information," replied Clara, trying to speak gayly. "I needed no witch to tell me that."

"Beware," said the old hag, bending on her visitor a look of such keen malignity that Clara shrunk back appalled. "A fair fortune is before you, but you will not accept it."

"Indeed," replied Miss Walton, faintly.

"A gallant youth desires your hand. No," answering the expression on the young lady's face, "it is not the one you think. This man is dark and ruddy, with a glossy beard and raven hair. He will propose to you to-night."

"Nonsense," said Clara, recovering herself. "You speak you know not what."

"You do you know not what," returned the hag, with a quick and withering glance. "Marry this man if you would secure happiness. But you will not: and now hear what will follow. Cast upon the town, dishonored and despised, and deserted by the man you love--aye, aye, never think that he cares for you--a wretched outcast you will sink lower and lower, until you pray for the hand of him you once despised. For, never think, lady, that fate can be resisted. You may evade it for a time, but it will be obeyed at last. Mark my words, lady."

She continued mumbling for some time after ceasing to speak, and then motioned her visitors to the door. Clara, now completely unnerved, was led out by James Farquhar, while Horsemanden, half laughing, threw a double douceur to the woman, and departed, followed by Miss Brookes, whose usual courage was almost subdued by the ugly and snake-like contortions of the hag's face and figure.

"You surely do not put faith in what that old beldam says, Miss Walton," remarked James, when they were once more seated in the sleigh.

"N-no," said Clara, faintly; "and yet--there is something awful about the woman."

"There is certainly something very extraordinary about her," replied James. "Strange as it may appear, her prophecies, in every instance that I know of, came true. On one occasion--"

He was interrupted by a scream from the other sleigh, followed by a burst of laughter.

"What is the matter?" said James, drawing in his reins.

"We are upset," said Horsemanden, scrambling up out of the snow, "and I fear our sleigh is broken. Yes," he continued, after examining it, "it certainly is. Farquhar, I must request you to take Miss Brookes into your sleigh, while I apply for assistance."

The change was made. James merely remarking that he feared it would be hard upon his horse.

"No great difference, such a light weight as mine," said Emily, springing nimbly into the sleigh--James put his horse to full speed, until they were out of sight of Horsemanden, and then drew in his reins, and proceeded at a slow pace.

"How far we have fallen behind the others," observed Clara, as they came out upon the Upper Meadows. "Why do we go so slowly, Mr. Farquhar?"

"Our horse has an unaccustomed burden, and we must not overtask him," replied James, increasing his speed, however.

"I do really believe, Mr. Farquhar," exclaimed Miss Brookes, pettishly, "that you are annoyed at my additional company. I believe you are afraid of having to receive double fare. Don't be alarmed I have no ambition to pay it, nor, I'll be bound, has Miss Walton. Isn't it so, Clara?"

They had now entered a deep forest, through which their road lay to Kissing Bridge. James was turning to make some lively answer, when four men with masked faces suddenly rushed forward, exclaiming, "Stand! your money."

James sprang from the sleigh, and drew his sword--his companions screamed, and covered their faces with their hands.

Miss Brookes, however, soon became aware that whatever mischief was designed her, her assailants were in no hurry to accomplish it. True, one of the gang had dragged her from the sleigh; but he made no effort to rifle her, or appeared to have any other object than to keep her perfectly passive in his hands. Suspecting from this that the whole affair was a frolic (such things were not then of rare occurrence), the town-bred young lady addressed the stranger with, "I know you. You are Jack Peterson."

The man made no answer.

"Come, come, Mr. Peterson," said Miss Emily, taking courage, "this is all very well, but you need not keep it up so long. I'll go with you, if that's what you want. But remember, Miss Walton is a stranger in New-York, and will be frightened half to death. Come," and she playfully endeavored to pull off his mask. But the fellow, anticipating her purpose, caught her by the wrists, and muttered in a tone very different from what she had expected. "You had better be quiet, by G---"

Miss Brookes, now really dreadfully frightened, attempted to shriek; but the ruffian, catching her round the waist with one arm, placed his other hand before her mouth. To add to her sense of the reality of her situation, she now perceived that Miss Walton had likewise been forced out of the sleigh, and that a couple of ruffians were conveying her into the forest.

James Farquhar, in the meanwhile, was defending himself against the remaining assailant. It did not look like a very furious combat on either side, for after a short skirmish the ruffian gave way and took to his heels. No sooner did the robber who held Miss Brookes see this, than, throwing down his fair burden, he likewise disappeared.

Emily, now at liberty, screamed in good earnest, and it was not till James came to her assistance that she discovered that she was not hurt.

"Where is Miss Walton?" he inquired, after assisting Miss Emily to rise.

"Gone; carried off by two ruffians," cried Miss Brookes. "Follow her; you may overtake them yet."

"It were madness to follow her and leave you here exposed to their fury. I will drive you to the farm and then return."

"It would be too late," replied Emily. "Give me one of your pistols, and I will take my chance while you are gone."

James, however, was resolute in his determination not to follow Miss Walton, until he had seen Miss Brookes in safety. Accordingly they proceeded to their destination, where they found their friends assembled and greatly alarmed at their absence.

"Oh Lor! here they are," cried Seraphina Seidlitz, who, as usual, was first in the gaping crowd of wonderers. "Some of them, at least. What has kept you, Emily? and where is Clara?"

"Gone; carried off by ruffians in the forest," shrieked Miss Brookes; and Seraphina, again uttering her usual ejaculation, "Oh Lor!" hastened into the house to tell the news.

It was not long ere Albert heard the story. Alas! it was not till then that he knew the full nature of his feelings towards Clara. Scarcely staying to gather the particulars which Miss Seidlitz was detailing to the wondering crowd, he rushed to the door and springing on his horse galloped towards the forest. His long experience with the Hughsons had taught him its localities; and with a beating heart he explored the different rendezvousrendezvous with which he was acquainted. At length he reached a sort of glade in the heart of the forest, where a light attracted his attention. He saw a number of men collected together playing with dice for a heavy purse that lay near them; while Clara was in the hands of a tall ruffian, cloaked and masked like the others, from whom she shrank with terror.

"Will you be mine, lady?" he heard the unknown say, as he approached. "Consider, I am not a man to be moved by soft speeches or turned by fair words from his purposes; neither am I now at your vantage, to be repelled as formerly with scorn. Speak. Will you be mine?"

"Never, never," replied Clara, pushing him away with all her force.

"There is but one alternative before you, madam," returned her companion. "Listen to the first I propose. Will you this night, while the coast is clear, return with me to New-York, and there submit to the ceremony of marriage? There is a priest in readiness, and need be no delay."

"Never, while I have breath to say the word," exclaimed Clara. "Foul, selfish miscreant! I will die before I accept it."

"As that is not in your power, I do not fear it," replied the ruffian, ironically. "But perhaps you will hear it more favorably when you know the other alternative. It is--dishonor," and he hissed the word between his teeth. "Say, will you accept it now?"

"Oh Heaven! have mercy on me," exclaimed Miss Walton, falling on her knees. "Deliver me from this hour."

"It is deaf," said the other, without emotion. "Answer me; and remember, Clara Walton, this is the last time. Will you be mine?"

"No," exclaimed Clara, springing to her feet with an energy that made her captor start. "Touch me if you dare, dastardly villain. I will not listen to your words."

"On your own head then be it, obstinate and ungrateful girl," said the stranger; and he was advancing evidently to accomplish his vile purpose, when Albert sprang to the rescue. The struggle being unexpected, was short; and Albert soon saw his antagonist senseless at his feet.

"My deliverer! my angel!" exclaimed Clara, springing into his arms. No other words were spoken; but from that moment each understood the other's feelings.

There was still a dangerous task to be accomplished; to bring Miss Walton in safety from the forest. The confederates, attracted by the noise, were now close upon them. They were hemming them in on every side, and their escape would have been attended with much difficulty, but for the timely appearance of a tall stranger whose arrival had evidently been unexpected.

"What do ye here, knaves?" he said, with a commanding gesture. They stood mute and abashed. Albert was left alone with his fainting burthen, the instant after.

"You are a brave and generous man," said the stranger, advancing to Albert. "You have done a deed of which you may well be proud. Had I but known of this--" he paused and looked at Clara. "Poor child!" he said, and a sudden expression of anguish passed over his fine features. "Take her away," he continued. "No one dare harm you now." And taking the hand of the unconscious maiden, he pressed it to his heart and retired.

A few moments passed there, and he was by the side of the fallen ruffian. Assisting him to rise, he threw aside the cloak and mask which had disguised him. It was Horsemanden.

"Rise, sir," said Arthur, "and thank Heaven that no worse has happened to you for the black work in which you have been engaged. At present you must remain a prisoner, until your intended victim is safe beyond your reach. You will then be at liberty, on your solemn oath never to attempt the like again."

Horsemanden listened in silence; then muffling his crest-fallen visage in his cloak, he followed his conductor through the mazes of the forest.

CHAPTER XXI.

The adventure of Clara Walton of course created no small sensation. Out of regard for her friend, the generous girl forbore to mention the name of her assailant; but a thousand stories were current in regard to it. In one point, however, they all agreed--that Clara and Albert were engaged; though in reality nothing of the kind existed. Albert knew too well the nature of his feelings towards Clara; but he felt that he was bound to another, and dared not break the bond.

"Is he really engaged, think you?" inquired Miss Seidlitz, of a couple of friends who had come to discuss this new topic.

"Why who should know as well as yourself?" responded Miss Brookes, "you who are, as it were, one of the family.

"Well," resumed Miss Seidlitz, "I can't say. I have seen no more than you have. However, I'll bet any thing that she loves him."

"For my part," interposed Miss Peterson, "I can't see what the men find to admire in her. She's not at all pretty."

"Not in the least," echoed Miss Seidlitz, in whose mind there lurked unconsciously, a slight jealousy of her sister-in-law elect. "She don't suit my taste."

"She's too tall and slight," continued Miss Peterson, who was herself rather short and stout, with a red nose and puffy cheeks. "There's no grace in such maypoles."

"I don't agree with you at all, Julia," interrupted Miss Brookes, drawing her tall figure up to its full height. "She is not in the least too tall; but I hate those fair, blue-eyed, light-haired people. They always want sense."

"Indeed and indeed it's no such thing," eagerly interposed Seraphina, shaking her flaxen ringlets indignantly. "They have quite as much sense as any black brow among you; and they sometimes contrive to get married sooner, any how."

Emily and Julia looked at each other and smiled at this temporary ebullition of affronted beauty; while Miss Seidlitz, recovering herself, proceeded.

"I think," she said, "Clara is too pale."

"Oh, too pale!" echoed Miss Brookes and Miss Peterson together.

"And then," pursued Seraphina, "she hasn't a great deal of sense."

"And extremely plain," added Julia.

"And so disgustingly free in her manners," rejoined Miss Brookes, whose own manners were more remarkable for their freedom, than those of any young lady in New-York.

It happened, as is not unfrequently the case, that each of these young ladies had attributed to poor Clara the very quality for which she was herself most distinguished;--Miss Peterson being ugly, Miss Seidlitz silly, and Miss Brookes notoriously free in her manners. But we must leave them to their morning's gossip while we turn to events of more importance.

The morning, fraught with destiny, had arrived when Clara Walton was to keep her secret appointment. On that day Adela Horsemanden was like an unquiet spirit. Her cheek was pale and her brow determined; and as she moved restlessly from room to room, she continually clenched her hands and muttered under her breath. No one knew what had occurred to her; and when her sister Virginia, a child of five years old, ventured to inquire, she received so harsh a rebuff, that no one dared repeat the question. Such was the state of her mind when about noon she descended to the parlor to receive the visit of Roberts.

It was part of Miss Horsemanden's policy to encourage this young man. It flattered her vanity; it gave her a sort of éclat among the ladies of New-York, few of whom were able to inspire such enthusiastic devotion; and soothed the pride which had been hurt by Albert Farquhar's neglect. Therefore she received him with cordiality, and even allowed him to retain in his own the hand which he had taken to lead her to a seat.

"I have brought the song you desired," said Roberts, in a voice that showed the state of his feelings--quivering between hope and fear.

"Thank you," said Adela.

"And now, Miss Horsemanden," said Roberts, "let me beg as a reward to hear that last song again. Our own duet--you know it."

Adela opened the piano and prepared to sing. It was one of those touching English ballads, now banished for operatic music. Its influence carried Roberts beyond himself.

"Angel of light!" he murmured, sinking on his knees beside her. "I love--I adore you."

Adela Horsemanden withdrew her hand, which he had grasped in his eagerness, and rose from the piano.

"Miss Horsemanden!--Adela!" exclaimed Roberts, urged to desperation, "do not leave me thus. I have loved you long in secret, idolized, cherished your image in my heart from whence death cannot tear it. Answer me, hear me. Will you not be mine?"

"Mr. Roberts," said Adela, turning coldly towards him, "are you aware whom you speak to?"

Her tone and manner silenced Roberts at once.

"Good morning, sir," said Miss Horsemanden, preparing to leave the room. But Roberts intercepted her.

"You have used me cruelly," he said, "yes, Miss Horsemanden, most cruelly. You have brought me to this. You have been the cause of my venturing to believe my attentions not unacceptable to you; and have wantonly destroyed the happiness of a heart that would have died to preserve yours from sorrow."

"Do you intend to leave me, sir?" inquired Adela, haughtily, "or must I ring for the footman?"

"Do not fear me, Miss Horsemanden," replied Roberts, sorrowfully. "I will no longer intrude upon you. Enough that you have destroyed the peace of one whose heart was devoted to you. May Heaven forgive you, as I do." And he left the house.

As the evening drew on Miss Horsemanden became ungovernably agitated with her hopes and fears. It was with difficulty that she constrained herself to remain in the room with the family; and when at last they retired, her excitement knew no bounds, as wrapping herself in a shawl she sat down by the window to wait for the appointed signal.

The bells of Trinity Church were tolling eleven, when a light as if from a flint and steel shone directly before the house. It was the signal named by James Farquhar; and softly opening the door, Adela was in an instant at his side.

"You are in good time," she whispered. "Under other circumstances, I should have refused you this meeting."

"The importance of the event should overrule all ceremony," said James, in the same tone. "Take my arm, Miss Horsemanden. We are not likely to be observed, and if we are, will probably be taken for members of that class who most frequent the streets at this hour."

A pang shot through the proud mind of Adela Horsemanden at these words. But it was too late to recede; so, quietly taking her companion's arm, she followed silently along the Broadway till they had passed the Fort and stood on the lonely strip of land that divided its walls from the Bay.

"We will wait for them here," whispered James to Adela.

They had not long to wait. Before long a boat was seen cleaving the waves from Long Island. It touched the shore. One man alone sprang out, and the boat disappeared.

"It is himself," exclaimed Adela, in a low voice.

"Who? who?" inquired James.

"Hush!" said Adela, "here she is." And in fact, Clara Walton appeared from the opposite side of the Fort and flew into the stranger's arms.

They stood so far from the eager listeners that it was long before Adela could catch a word they said. At length they drew nearer.

"You will leave me, then?" were the first words she heard, spoken in Clara's melancholy voice.

"It must needs be," replied the other. "A greater power than mine commands, and in two days I must seek the Southern coast."

"A greater power than yours, Arthur? Are you not, then, chief of all the bands? I thought you told me that your office was to command."

"To command in this place, dearest Clara. But as your Scriptures have it, I am a man under authority, having also soldier under me. Our admiral (so we call him) is at Cuba,--my vessel has received strict orders to be there in a certain time; and the day after to-morrow we sail."

"Is he so powerful, then?" said Clara, looking up into her companion's face.

"Even to life and and death," was the reply.

Clara shuddered, and hid her face upon his breast.

"Do not go to him, Arthur. He may mean you ill."

Arthur raised her gravely, but kindly. "Clara," he said, "I fear no violence from this man; but were I positive that my arrival would be the signal for my destruction, yet I would obey the command. You little know the Buccaniers, Clara. Implicit obedience is the watchword of our band; and were I to command one of these fellows to plunge his knife into the bosom of his brother, or child, I would be instantly obeyed."

"Oh, Arthur, Arthur!" said Clara, drawing closer to his side, "how can such a life be yours?"

"Such a life as the demon's, who, ever bent on his errand of destruction, can never for a moment still the agony of his own breast. Life is of little value to us, Clara. To me it was worthless until I found you."

A strong convulsion appeared to pass over his manly figure. In a moment, however, it was gone, and he was calm.

"Shall we not meet again, then?" said Clara, anxiously.

"Yes, to-morrow, at the same hour I will meet you here. It must be our last for some time."

"To-morrow, at the same hour," muttered Adela. In her excitement she spoke louder than she intended, and the sound reached Clara's ears. James was alarmed; and seizing the hand of his companion, led her back into the city.

But as they were about to emerge into the Broadway, a sudden glare burst on their eyes. It came from a party of drunken rowdies, who, under the name of the Broadway boys, were used to infest that part of the city; and who, with their lanterns and cudgels, seemed by no means likely to let strangers pass unmolested.

"We are lost," whispered James. "They cannot but perceive us. Stay--we are safe in this dark lane." And they turned into Petticoat Lane, which, being dark and unfrequented, seemed a safe retreat. But they were again disappointed. The shouts of the Broadway boys were immediately echoed by their foes of the Smith's Vly; and the next instant a gang of rowdies, no less formidable than the first, rushed tumultously into the lane.

"I shall be discovered," exclaimed Adela, clasping her hands in agony. "Oh, Heaven! that I should be brought to this."

"There is yet a chance, Miss Horsemanden," whispered James breathlessly. "I know this house. We shall be safe here."

And seizing his companion's unresisting hand, he led her into the house. It was Hughson's.

CHAPTER XXII. {small text, verse}

The villainy you teach me I will execute.--MERCHANT OF VENICE.

IT was noon of the following day, when James Farquhar, serene and cheerful as usual, emerged from his brother's house. His manner was, as usual, unruffled, his dress jaunty, his step light, and his brow clear. But there was something about him which made him a different man from before. His expression of calm and patient expectation had entirely disappeared. His look was rather that of a general, who, after lying some time before a besieged city, finds at last the gates thrown open, and no impediment opposed to his entrance. His very knock at Mr. Horsemanden's door was different from the usual insinuating rap with which he prefaced his visits. There was nothing in it bullying or noisy, or ungentlemanlike; but its very sound conveyed the same expression of assured success which marked his whole bearing.

"Where is your sister?" he asked of little Virginia Horsemanden, who out of curiosity had run to the door.

"In her library, sir," replied the child. "Oh, she has been so bad. Her facce looks like a ghost's, and she speakes just so," lowering her voice to an almost unnatural depth.

"I will see her there," said James, and walked in.

Miss Horsemanden was seated at the table, her eyes apparently fixed on the book before her. Her dark hair, which, contrary to her wont, had been put up carelessly, had fallen down and lay in dishevelled masses on her shoulders. Her dress was disordered, as if she had been sleeping in it; and her color varied perpetually from the flush of fever to the paleness of death. She took no notice of James as he entered, but continued to fix her eyes upon her book.

"Miss Horsemanden," said James, standing before her.

She gave no heed to his address, but remained in the same position.

"Have you nothing to say to me, Miss Horsemanden?" he said at length.

"You do well to come here, sir," said Adela, turning upon him with sudden fierceness, "to exult in the ruin you have caused. It is manly, noble, worthy of yourself to come, not content with the ruin of a helpless woman, to triumph in the wreck to which you have introduced her."

"Miss Horsemanden! Adela!" interposed James.

"Peace! peace! I command you, sir," interrupted Adela, her fine face lighted up with indignation. "You who by your skilfully laid toils have lured me to destruction, what is your object now? To justify your villainy? to exult in its success? or to watch the affliction of--villain! traitor! doubly-dyed traitor! Fool, fool that I was." And sinking upon the sofa, she burst into a passion of tears.

"Miss Horsemanden," replied James, his manner as ever unruffled, "hear me before you condemn. Before you condemn, for you have little right to upbraid me. Upbraid your own vindictiveness--the spirit of malice and revenge which put you into my power. Upbraid yourself, and in the next place upbraid your brother. I was, at King's College, as innocent of guile as the babe that is unborn. It was your brother, who taking advantage of my inexperience first beguiled me himself, and then taught me the art of beguiling others. I was no dissembler till Charles Horsemanden taught me to feign. Can his sister complain that I have surpassed my tutor?"

"To hear the devil quote Scripture: oh! this is excellent," muttered the indignant girl, still burying her face in the sofa cushion.

"Do not exasperate me, Miss Horsemanden," said James, coloring; but the look of utter misery which Adela turned to him softened his displeasure.

"I am not here to insult you," he said gently, as he took the seat beside her; "still less to triumph in your present condition. No, Adela. I have come this morning for a very different purpose. To offer you the only compensation at present in my power--to make you my wife."

"Your wife?" said Adela, starting back from him with a look of abhorrence.

"Ay," repeated James, with a bitter smile. "Is there any thing so dreadful in that? Yesterday such an offer would have been repelled with scorn; but to-day it is one for which you may well be grateful."

"Villain! I see through your arts now," exclaimed Adela, the whole truth at once flashing upon her mind. "This was then the object of all your former intrigues, to bring the heiress of the proud and wealthy Horsemanden to throw herself at your feet." But suddenly recollecting her present situation, she resumed; "Mr. Farquhar, forgive me; I know not what I say, I am mad, distracted. Yes, I will be your wife."

"By this token, dearest Adela," said James, taking her in his arms, and impressing a passionate kiss upon her lips.

"One thing only, I ask, James," resumed Adela. "Let our engagement be secret for a week; and then, James Farquhar, I will be your wife."

"For a week then," said James, and kissing her hand gallantly, he left the house.

Hastily restoring her hair to its usual folds, and adjusting the arrangement of her dress, Adela Horsemanden hurried to her father's office in the opposite wing of the house. He was absent, as she knew; and Roberts was alone engaged in his never-ending task of copying papers. He rose and bowed as Miss Horsemanden entered, but made no attempt to address her.

"You do not meet me as usual, Edward," said Adela, calming with a vigorous effort the tempest that raged in her soul.

"Dare I do so longer?" replied Roberts in a cold, yet sorrowful voice.

"You have not been in the house to-day?" repeated Adela.

"Did you not forbid my presence?" said Roberts in the same tone.

"Ah, Edward! you little know the female heart," replied the wily girl, in a tone of well-feigned affection. "You little know how often they banish those whom they would gladly retain, and refuse only that they may be more earnestly sought. Edward, you have seen little of the world if you are not aware of this."

"Do I hear rightly?" exclaimed the young man, a thrill of joy shooting through his veins.

"Yes, Edward," replied Miss Horsemanden. "It is no longer time for feminine coquetries, or the false modesty to which we are all subject. I will not risk my happiness longer, Edward," taking his hand "I am ready to become your wife."

"My wife! my Queen!" rapturously exclaimed Roberts, clasping the young lady to his heart.

"On one condition, Edward," said Adela, gently disengaging herself. "It is none of my choice, but till it is performed I shall not be free."

"Oh name it," exclaimed Roberts fervently; "any thing by which I may prove my love for thee, Adela."

With her most seductive smile, Miss Horsemanden bent over the young clerk and whispered in his ear. It was but for a moment; and he drew back as if thunder-struck.

"Madam! Adela! do I understand?" he stammered.

"Yes, Edward," replied the young lady, "on this my all depends. I am a slave, a victim, the victim of a villain. Free me and I am yours."

And she would have cast herself again into his arms. But the young man thrust her back, and turned from her with loathing.

"Mr Roberts!" exclaimed Adela.

"Oh! now I know you. I know you for what you are," exclaimed Roberts, drawing back with horror. "Heavens! that a heart so fiendish should dwell in a form so angelic!"

"You refuse, then, sir?" said Adela, haughtily.

"Refuse you? aye, from the bottom of my soul I do," replied the young man. "That I should have been so deluded! Adela Horsemanden, were you now to offer me your hand with the dowry of an empress, I would refuse you: for with all your beauty and grace, you are an incarnate fiend."

Adela turned and left the office with an air of cold disdain. Roberts resumed his occupation; but his heart was crushed; and as he continued writing the large tears rolled down his cheeks.

It was near midnight of that same day that a small boat left the Breuckelen Wharf. It had but one passenger, and rowed in silence to the landing behind the Fort. A tall figure muffled in a cloak sprang out; but he had scarcely turned the corner of the Fort, when a female, disguised like himself, appeared before him.

"Clara!" he exclaimed.

"No, not Clara, Arthur of the Red Band," replied the new comer, "but a wretched woman, who, helpless and degraded, applies for the succor you lent her once before."

"Miss Horsemanden," said the pirate. "Is it your voice I recognize? What aid is it in my power to render you?"

"A great aid; and for which you may ask a great price," replied the woman. "I am the victim of a villain; ensnared in toils more wary than were ever spread for the linnet by the fowler. Will you not aid me?"

"In what way, madam?" said the pirate. "Command me."

"Kill James Farquhar," was the prompt reply.

"Madam!" said Arthur, astonished.

"Yes, Arthur. He is the villain who rules me with a rod of iron; whom I despise while I dread him. Slay him quick--give him no place for repentence--he cannot, shall not repent. Take his life; and I--oh yes, I, Arthur, will be your wife, or if that may not be, your companion; the companion of your wanderings--your slave. I care not for idle forms: I will trust to your honor. Kill him to-morrow, and I will fly with you to-night."

"Silence, woman," said Arthur, sternly. "You are, yourself, worse than the man you dread, or the pirate to whom you apply. Can you, a girl of nineteen, harbor in your bosom a passion so deadly? and do you think that even in a band of pirates there will be none found to condemn your accursed wiles? Go, worthy daughter of a worthy father; and know that the pirate--the robber--the assassin, has a soul above so base an offer as yours."

Adela Horsemanden, cowed, humbled, disgraced in the very quarter from which she had hoped for assistance, covered her face with her hands, and left the spot. But ere she disappeared, she turned upon Arthur a look such as only a desperate woman can give, and muttered, "I have yet a revenge in store for you all."

From that hour no word was said. Her cheerfulness returned; the week passed away; and she prepared to become the bride of James Farquhar.

CHAPTER XXIII. {small text, verse}

"In youth and beauty beaming, Celestial was it's ray: Love came with artful seeming, And stole that bloom away." {right aligned with the verse} ANONYMOUS.

WE must now shift the scene to Schenectady, and inquire into the fortunes of some old friends whom we have long left unheeded. Bernard Ury was still a member of Adam Vrooman's family. The repose and freedom from restraint which he now enjoyed, would have been a great relief but for his anxiety about Emma. The mind of this young woman had sunk since we saw her last into a state of torpid wretchedness. She now sat always alone, took little heed of any thing, and went through even her religious duties in a mechanical manner, that contrasted strangely with her former enthusiasm. Could Ury have seen her when alone, he might then have found some clue to her present behavior in the violent mental struggles to which she at these times gave way. But she now sedulously avoided him. The general belief in the village was, that she was possessed.

The other members of the family were little changed. Mrs. Vrooman, as usual, stayed at home, and said little; the girls knit stockings in the chimney-corner, and laughed and frolicked with all the young men. As to Mr. Vrooman, he still pursued his toil with indomitable energy, under the influence of the same one motive. But he often thought of the Indian girl's warning: and continued to keep his house in readiness for resisting any attack.

It was Christmas evening. Mr. Vrooman and his family were assembled in the kitchen, talking over the events of the day. It was an hour of universal merriment; even the solitary Emma appeared to have forgotten her troubles, and was laughing with the rest, more like her former self than she had been since Ury's return.

"Now I am going to try my fortune," said Minchen, throwing over her shoulder the long rind of an apple she had been paring. "It's an enormous U."

"Ury! Ury!" screamed Frederica, clapping her hands.

"My child," said her mother, reprovingly.

"Oh Minnie, I am shocked at your want of principle. What! marry a priest?"

A dark cloud passed over Emma's face, but it was unperceived.

"Nonsense, Frederica," said Minchen, picking up the paring. "It stands for his profession. It means an Undertaker."

"What! old Dietrich, who sells coffins in the village?" laughed Frederica. "Oh, that is worse and worse, Minnie. I'd marry some one who could give me a better dowry than a coffin."

"Heavens, Frederica, how you rattle on," said Minchen, rather annoyed. "What can have put so horrid an idea into your head?"

"You, yourself, to be sure, talking of undertakers. And, by-the-bye, let's see who'll want coffins before next Christmas. And she took a chestnut and threw it into the fire. "This is for you, Minnie."

The nut flew out with a grand explosion. "Bravo, Minnie," said Frederica, "you'll not want one of your husband's coffins this year. And now, Emma, for you."

She threw another into the fire, but instead of going off like the last, it burned slowly away. All looked annoyed at this termination; but Ury, who sat within sight of Emma Vrooman's face, was startled to see with what interest she watched the omen; and at its close she sighed, and raising her eyes to Heaven, seemed to pray for its speedy fulfilment.

"What is the matter, my child?" said Bernard, kindly, changing his seat for one adjoining hers. "It is long since I questioned you; but will you not let this night, blessed above all nights, be the one to ease your overburdened spirit?"

"Father, no," said Emma, firmly; then, as if to put an end to the conversation, she turned her attention to the group by the fire. Frederica was commencing some new experiment, but her father forbad it, saying, that "such things always made folks feel uncomfortable."

"For my part," added Ury, "I disapprove of all such things as done by young ladies. I consider them indelicate."

"Upon my word," laughed Frederica, who sometimes forgot the priest in the old friend, "you are quite a model of propriety. Now, I'll engage you wouldn't kiss me if you had a chance."

And she skipped up to him, her eyes beaming with youthful sauciness, and her cherry lips puckered up ready for a salute. Ury could not resist so tempting an offer.

"Now you shall kiss Emma," continued the girl, dragging forward her reluctant sister, and pushing her into Ury's arms. Bernard hesitated an instant; and then taking the pale face of the young woman between his hands, impressed a kiss upon her forehead, whispering at the same time, "May God bless my child, and deliver her."

He did not perceive the thrill that ran through Emma's frame, nor did he or any one see her when, the moment after, she drew a paper from her bosom, and emptied its contents into one of the cups of wine upon the table.

"It is time to take our parting cups and say good-night," observed Minchen, whose notions of propriety made her desirous of escaping the proposed salute. Emma took the cup she had prepared, and offered it to Ury, saying, "Take this from me, Father, and pray for me to-night."

"I will, my child," replied Ury, and drinking the wine he placed the cup on the table. "And now, good-night."

Emma withdrew to her room, which stood upon the ground floor. She was in no mood for sleep; but sitting down near the cradle of her infant brother, who slept in the same room, she abandoned herself to meditation.

"He has drunk it," she exclaimed at last, "and I, wretch that I am, have yielded to temptation. He has drunk the potion which should urge him to break his vows: and I, what shall I do? reveal my passion or conceal it? resist or yield? but have I not yielded already? Oh Heaven!" she continued, falling on her knees, "look down--punish--and forgive me."

She continued some time on her knees, and finally rose with a mind re-assured. She would confess her ill-fated passion--confess and receive absolution--and then never see home more.

Putting aside the window curtain, she looked out on the night. The snow lay deep on the ground; not a light shone in any of the houses; all was still silent and deserted.

She might have sat there for half an hour, when her attention was attracted by a shadow moving across the snow. It was the shadow of a man. So unlooked for an apparition, at this hour of the night, astonished her not a little. Her first idea was, that one of the servants was returning from some merry-making in the village. But this was evidently no Schenectadian. He was taller than any of the villagers; his step was stealthy and cat-like; a blanket wrapped his limbs, and a plume of feathers waved on his head. Looking further into the night, she could distinguish similar figures in different parts of the village, seemingly on the same errand.

The prophecy of the Indian girl rushed upon Emma's mind. These were the foes of whom she had been warned. She sprang from her seat, intending to alarm her father; but at this instant fires burst out from several of the houses, and the wild war-whoop told that the attack was begun.

Emma was naturally courageous; and seizing a musket which had been placed in her room, prepared to resist any attack that might be made. She could see the other members of the family prepared with their loaded weapons at the different windows. By the strong light of the fires, which now shed a deathlike glare upon the snow, she saw numbers of naked wretches rush wildly from their doors, in the vain hope of escape. Some were cut down by the Indians, others thrust back into their flaming houses; many who had forced their way vigorously through the enemy, fell down at last, benumbed and senseless in the snow. Suddenly, a wretched woman with an infant in her arms fled past the house. A huge Indian followed, and seizing her by the flowing hair, raised his tomahawk to give the fatal blow. Emma's blood curdled, and levelling her musket, she sent a bullet through his heart.

A wild cry burst from the Indians; and in an instant the whole attack was turned on Adam Vrooman's house. Emma prepared to meet it; and though her position was, perhaps, the most dangerous of all, she fearlessly reloaded her musket, and prepared to fire; when suddenly a bullet fired through the window from with out, passed through the top of the cradle in which the infant lay. This was too much for Emma, and seizing the child in her arms she fled from the house.

Ury, in the mean time, had been roused by the war-whoop, and was promptly at his post; but he saw that they could not stand out long. The house was filled with smoke; the fury of the assailants was increasing; and he was already despairing, when Mr. Vrooman entered the room, followed by his daughter Minchen.

"All is lost," he said, hurriedly. "The most we can do is to save ourselves. The house has been fired."

"Where can we go?" inquired Ury.

"There are deep cellars beneath the house," replied Mr Vrooman. "We may hide there till this work of devastation is over. I leave Minchen with you." And he hastened from the apartment.

"I will wait here for my sisters," said Minchen with calmness, "I will not fly while they are exposed."

Presently Mr. Vrooman returned, bearing in his arms the insensible form of his daughter Frederica.

"To the vaults--quick," he exclaimed. "I will but bring my wife and Emma;" and he departed.

Ury took Frederica in his arms, and offered his assistance to Minchen. But she declined, saying, "My sister needs all your care;" and led the way to the vaults.

She preserved her admirable presence of mind even in this retreat; devoting herself entirely, first to the recovery of her sister, and then to the calming of her fears. Ere long, Mr. Vrooman returned His face could not be seen in the darkness; but he sat down by himself, paying no attention to the others.

"Where are my mother? my sister?" cried Minchen, running to him.

"She is dead! killed at her own door," said Mr. Vrooman with a groan. "There is little to live for now."

"And Emma?" eagerly repeated Minchen.

"Vanished. Nobody knows where," replied her father, impatiently; then bending his head upon his knees he gave way to the anguish of his soul.

It was too true. Mrs. Vrooman, overpowered by the smoke which filled the house, had very imprudently set the door ajar. The action was perceived by one of the Indians; and levelling his gun at the opening, before the lady could close it, he killed her on the spot. Of Emma and the child no traces could be seen.

It was noon the next day before the remnant of the Vrooman family took courage to venture from their retreat. The sun shone brightly on the yet smoking ruins of the once happy village; and as they picked their way among the bodies, they recognized many an old friend, with whom they had shaken hands on the preceding day. By the side of Mrs. Vrooman they paused; and Ury having offered up a prayer, they deposited the body in the ground.

The next painful duty was to search through the bodies for traces of the rest of the family. Mr. Vrooman went through this with perfect indifference. His heart was crushed by the loss of his wife, and for others he seemed scarcely to care. Only those who knew the darling object of his life--to see his wife once more in the station which she had lost by marrying him--could comprehend his present feelings. His daughters did, and pitied them.

At last the body of the child was found. It appeared to have been killed with a blow from a stone. Of Emma no traces were found. They laid the child by its mother and departed.

A dreadful prospect now lay before them; a journey through the snow to Albany, on foot. Gathering together such food and clothing as had escaped destruction, they commenced their march. None ventured to speak.

It was not till now that Ury became aware of the full value of Minchen Vrooman's character. In all the horrors that encompassed her, not one expression of repining escaped her lips. Her father and sister were her sole care. she was alternately att he side of each, cherishing, comforting, assisting each in turn, entirely forgetting her own sorrows in her sympathy for them.

They did not get far that day. Their night's lodging was in a miserable barn, where they took some food and rested, hoping to find strength for the morrow's journey. Ury undertook to watch during the early part of the night, for fear of accident. At last, Minchen came out behind the partition, where her father and sister were sleeping; and gave way alone to her sorrow. It was bitter, as it had been confined. After a while she dried her tears, and came to where Ury was standing.

"I will watch with you," she said, "I cannot sleep."

A heavy snow had now begun to fall. It fell thick and fast, threatening to augment the difficulties of their journey. Ury and Minchen watched it in silence, until their ears were attracted by a distant sound.

"What is that?" exclaimed Ury. "It is a cry of pain."

They listened attentively, and could distinguish a distant moan.

"Some wanderer like ourselves has lost his way," exclaimed Bernard. And he hastened in the direction of the voice.

At last he came in view of a white figure that looked in the distance like a pile of drifted snow. Gently he raised it, and to his horror discovered a familiar face; the pale and clay cold features of Emma Vrooman.

Not dead, however. Some sparks of life were fluttering in her bosom; though Ury, as he bore her to their place of shelter, feared lest they should become extinct ere she reached it. But she was alive; and father and sister woke from their uneasy slumber to meet the dying form of their lost child.

The measures taken to restore her brought her for a while to consciousness; but the pulse of life was ebbing fast. Strange to say, she was more composed and natural than she had been for many years. She felt that she was dying, and asked Ury to confess her, adding that she was now anxious to confess all.

Then Ury learned for the first time, the fatal and destructive passion which Emma had cherished for himself.

He heard of the bitter struggles which the mind of the enthusiast had undergone; the secret counsel of the Indian; the sudden impulse which had made her yield to it--all were told him. As he gave her absolution, the head of Emma Vrooman drooped upon her breast; a film glazed her eye; and she sank scarcely breathing on the temporary couch they had prepared for her.

"Mr. Vrooman! Minchen! Frederica!" Ury exclaimed. They ran hastily to the spot.

"It is nothing," said Emma. "It will soon be over."

Raising herself from the arms of her sisters, a momentary brightness shone in her eye; then casting herself with a sudden effort upon Ury's breast, her head sank on his shoulder; and the spirit of Emma Vrooman took its flight to another world.

CHAPTER XXIV. {small text, verse}

Two sisters by the goal are set, Cold Disappointment and Regret; One disenchants the winner's eyes And strips of all its worth the prize; While one augments the gaudy show The more to enhance the loser's woe. {right aligned with the verse} SCOTT'S ROKEBY.

ALL the élite of the goodc ity of New York in the year 1723, were assembled at the country-seat of Albert Farquhar, to celebrate the nuptials of his brother James. It was the month of May; the first really spring-like month in the neighborhood of New-York, and one generally passed by the inhabitations in their town houses. This, however, was a great occasion; and in its honor Albert had collected all the friends of the two families, leaving the city almost as deserted as in the summer.

Seldom has any country-seat presented so brilliant a scene as on the present occasion. There was the bride with her two youthful bridesmaids, complimented on this occasion by unanimous suffrage with the title of the Three Graces of New-York. The association lent additional brilliancy to the charms of the bride; and it was difficult to decide whether her beauty shone out more brightly by the side of Miss Brookes--in style, not unlike herself, but less tall, less stately, with eyes and hair a shade lighter and a face rather animated with youthful sauciness, than lit up by the intellect that beamed in Adela's eyes; or when contrasted with the auburn hair, blue eyes, pale fair complexion, and melancholy softness of Clara Walton. The bridegroom looked proud, as he justly might, of the brilliant beauty he had captured; and the two brothers, who had acted as attendants, looked with such eyes on their bridesmaids, that many guessed they would ere long follow James's example.

Frank Walton was there with his pretty wife; for Miss Seraphina Seidlitz has, since we last met her, bid adieu to that euphonious name for ever; and Seraphina is quite unable to make up her mind whether her wedding went off as well as the present. And Miss Peterson and her brother are there; and Julia will persist in saying that this is the nicest wedding she has ever seen; which is not at all to Mrs. Walton's satisfaction. And there are numerous visitors, young and old, all casting away care for a week or ten days, and giving themselves wholly to amusement.

"We shall have two more weddings soon," whispered Miss Julia Peterson to her brother, as they sat at the table after the wedding dinner.

"What do you mean?" inquired Peterson gruffly; he was dying for the ladies to disappear that the drinking might begin in good earnest.

"Look at the attendants. Wouldn't you say that Charles Horsemanden was already engaged to Emily Brookes, and Albert Farquhar to Clara Walton?"

"Pshaw," answered Peterson, bluntly.

"Ay, you may 'pshaw,' but mark my words, they will be engaged before two months."

"At any rate, you're not likely to be," replied the young man, with a brutal laugh.

"That's just like you, John," said his sister, pouting, "you're such a bear." But at this moment her complaints were interrupted by the entrance of a servant, who whispered a word in Albert's ear, at which he sprang up and hastily left the room.

"Where is he?" he eagerly demanded.

"On the green, before the house," was the reply. "He would not leave his horse, but insisted on waiting there for you."

Albert hastened to the front of the house, and found himself in the arms of Bernard Ury.

"You here," he exclaimed, "a thousand times welcome. Why did you not let me know that you were coming?"

"It was a sudden decision," replied Ury. "I had no opportunity of sending word before the sloop sailed. I arrived last night in New-York, and not finding you there, came here to seek you."

"You are pale, my friend," observed Albert. "You are not well."

"I have gone through much," replied Ury, gravely. "Illness was the least I had to undergo."

"And you are tired too," said his friend. "Refreshments and wine in the Library," he ordered. "Stay for me there."

And returning to the dining-room, he said hastily, "I am sorry to disturb so agreeable a party, but a friend from a distance has arrived to whom I must devote a little time. His name is Ury."

Mr. Walton rose from the table with a face of ashy paleness, supported himself against his chair, and then staggered to the door. Seraphina and Clara anxiously followed; but he motioned them away with his hands, and withdrew alone.

"Lor!" what can be the matter?" cried Mrs. Walton, her eyes and mouth wide open.

"Papa must be ill--very ill," said Clara, anxiously.

"Do you know any thing of it, Walton?" inquired James Farquhar, blandly. "You may give us some clue."

"I know none," replied Frank. "The person who calls himself Ury, used to look at me with the most peculiar expression, but I never had any idea that he was connected with my history."

"Oh, the horrible man!" cried Mrs. Frank.

"But he is a fellow-citizen of yours," resumed James. "Have you no recollection of him in Schenectady?"

"Not the least. I always lived in New-York with my uncle except once, about thirteen years ago, when my sister Florence died. I was then a little while in Schenectady, and may have seen this man; but I do not remember him."

Albert, in the mean while, had rejoined Ury in the Library. He was anxious to learn the cause of his return to New-York. Ury told him frankly.

"You have heard, I suppose, of the dreadful massacre by the Indians at Schenectady?" he began.

"Yes," replied Albert. "The news was sent from Albany by express. I was in great fear lest you should have been among the sufferers."

"I escaped unhurt," answered Ury, sighing; "but the family with whom I resided was deprived of several of its members. Mr. Vrooman and his two remaining daughters found their way to Albany, where we took up our residence. There I had a severe illness; and on my recovery, finding to what poverty my entertainers were reduced, I resolved to burden them no longer; but to return to New-York and endeavor to find some means of supporting myself."

"Well, dear Bernard, you are welcome to our city. You will make this house your home, of course."

"For the present, yes. I trust, however, soon to find some means of working for my support. But, Albert," lowering his voice to a whisper, "where is She?"

"She is at the old place," said Albert, coloring. "I dared not bring her here. This company is assembled in honor of my brother's wedding."

"To whom?" asked Ury, with surprise.

"To Adela Horsemanden, daughter of Squire Horsemanden, whom you remember. It is not quite a year since she returned from school in England."

"There--there was a lady with her," said Ury, hesitatingly.

"Yes--Miss Walton. Come with me and you shall see them both."

A flush came over Ury's face, and he followed his friend.

The company in the banqueting-room had dispersed in search of amusement, and James Farquhar was left alone with his bride. James looked at her for a moment, as if in doubt what to say next. She stood at the end of the room, as if scarcely conscious of his presence.

"Come, my Queen," said the bridegroom at length, "they are waiting for us in the garden. Let me conduct you thither?"

And he offered her his arm. But quick as lightning Adela thrust him aside, exclaiming fiercely, "Stand off--do not come near me."

"What does this mean?" said James, looking at his wife with unfeigned surprise.

"Do not touch me. Is it not enough that I have gone through the odious ceremony that unites my lot with yours, but you must thrust yourself on my very privacy?"

"Come, come, Adela," said James coolly, "the time for all this is past. You will do well to remember that I am now your husband."

"My husband?" said Mrs. Farquhar, with a laugh of bitter irony. "Yes--the husband to whom I gave my hand to preserve my reputation; whose vile arts I despised and hated even while I feared them. Fool! you have carried your artifice too far. Before this day I was your slave--now I am free. Yes, my good name is safe, and for that I have given you the title of husband, but dare not think of me as in truth your wife. Begone, I fear you no longer."

With these words, which fell like a sword on the ears of him to whom they were addressed, Adela Farquhar gathered up her train and swept from the apartment. Thus ended their first bridal interview.

James remained a long time confounded at the words of his bride. To this point his schemes had been eminently successful; but now their very success turned against him. For several days he might be called a crushed man. But it was not his nature to give way to circumstances; and soon an event occurred which roused his energies in their full force.

It had always been James's hope that his brother never would marry; for, in case of his dying without heirs, James would, himself, inherit his property. With this view he had constantly disparaged to him the different ladies of New-York, ever and anon drawing his attention to the personal defects of one, the follies and ignorance of another, and the suspicious character of a third. Since the discovery made to him by Hughson, the mind of James Farquhar had been comparatively easy. He knew that the issue of such an union could never inherit by the law; at the same time, he trusted that it would restrain him from ever contemplating marriage.

But a few days after his own nuptials, he came suddenly upon Albert and Clara, in a retired part of the grounds. So absorbed were they in what was passing between them, that they did not hear his steps till they were close by; whereupon Clara sprang up, and ran hastily to the house, while Albert, rising, first angrily, and then with a bad pretence of not being taken by surprise, disappeared in another direction.

"This will never do," said James. "They are unquestionably engaged; or, if not, are so near it that it were folly to let them go farther. It is time for me to come in."

He hastened back to the house, and ordered his horse to be saddled. It was soon ready, and he took the road to the old farm. It was not the one by which Albert was accustomed to go there; though his visits were now so rare that even this might have been taken with safety; but a more difficult and devious path along the river side. His horse, however, appeared accustomed to the road; and he soon arrived at his destination.

The desolate aspect which we have described this place as possessing, was now increased tenfold. The little garden which Isadora tended was overgrown with weeds. Her apartments were neglected. Several strings of the harp were broken; the piano seemed to have been unopened for weeks; the dust lay inch-deep on the books. James walked carelessly through the neglected apartments till he came to the boudoir. The door was open, and he could see the Quadroon with her infant on her bosom. Her dress and person were neglected like the rest; and as she bent over the child, she uttered groans which might have softened any other heart than his who listened.

She expressed no surprise when James entered, but remarked calmly, "You are true to your word."

"To my word," replied the visitor; "I promised you my aid, and it shall be yours."

"Is this horrible story, then, true?" exclaimed Isadora, starting from her seat.

"Too true," was the reply.

Isadora looked him steadily in the face; but there was no falsehood in his eye. She rose and approached him solemnly.

"Stranger," she said, "I know not who you are, nor whence you obtained that knowledge of my sad story, which you have shown in your former visits to this place. At our first meeting you harped my fear aright as to the fidelity of my husband. You have told me much, whose truth I have no other means of knowing; but if in this you are sporting with the passions of one who has nothing else to live for--there is a heaven above us both, which will judge between us."

"In the presence of Heaven," replied James, "I can testify that all I have said is truth."

"Then may Heaven have mercy!" exclaimed the Quadroon, sinking upon a chair. In a hurried manner, and with a broken voice, she recapitulated the proofs.

"For three weeks he has not been here. He has taken away every medium through which I could hear of his proceedings. Oh Heavens! it is clear as the sun. What shall I do?"

"Present yourself before him and plead your own cause," responded her unknown adviser. "Or, if that be not effectual, expose him publicly--proclaim before the world that you are his wife."

"How can this be done?" inquired Isadora, earnestly.

"He is now at his country-seat, not two miles from this; and all the New-Yorkers are gathered there at a great festival which he has given. Let that be the scene of your complaint."

"Were it not better to wait till they have departed?" suggested the Quadroon, with hesitation.

"Ay, wait," replied James, with a sneer, "till his engagement is published to the world, and he cannot for very shame recede from it. I tell you he is already betrothed."

Isadora sprang up--her eyes flashing fire. "Yes, I will see him! proclaim him aloud before his promised bride, and show the world that he is the husband of another; or, in default of that will--yes by Heaven! I will have his heart's blood. But no," she added, "Albert will not turn from me. He shall see what I have become for his sake; hear me pleading before him; look upon this sweet pledge of our affections; and he will relent. Oh yes, he will, he will."

"Then you will come with me?" said James.

"Most willingly," replied the Quadroon. She was about to depart at once, when her visitor recommended that as she would probably be some time absent, she had better be prepared for a fortnight's stay. He also insisted that the child should be left behind, lest its crying should give premature notice of Isadora's presence; and the Quadroon with many tears gave it in charge to the old negress attending her, though without notice of her intended flight. James finally extracted a promise from her that she would be guided implicitly by his instructions. This accomplished, he conducted her to the river-side, and through the bye-path to his brother's place.

That very evening, Albert Farquhar appeared before the house. But no sign did he see of his Quadroon wife. All he could learn was, that she had left the place in company with a strange man. A flush of joy suffused his face.

"Thank Heaven!" he exclaimed, "I am again free."

Plunging the spurs into his horse's flank, he rode furiously back to his country-seat.

CHAPTER XXV. {small text, verse}

Now God be good to me in this wide pilgrimage! All hope of human aid I cast behind me. Oh who would be a woman?--who that fool, A weeping, pining, faithful, loving woman? She hath hard measure still, where she hopes kindest, And all her bounties only make ingrates. {right aligned with the verse} LOVE'S PILGRIMAGE.

ISADORA had imagined that the same evening would bring her to an interview with her husband. But in this she was disappointed. James introduced her into a small apartment only approached through his own, over the one window of which he had trained plants, so as effectually to conceal any person within. From this retreat, Isadora was able to look out on the pleasure gardens of her husband's country-seat, and overhear the conversation of any person in those grounds. Here her conductor gave her to understand it would be necessary to remain for a while; and having repeated his injunction that she should take no step without his consent, he left her.

She had been in this place of confinement about three days, when about sunset she saw two young and pretty girls walking beneath the window. They were the wife and sister of Francis Walton, whose conversation appeared to be on some subject of importance. Isadora heard the name of Albert frequently mentioned--playfully by Seraphina, but in a tone of embarrassment by her companion. At last they disappeared, and presently a company of a different description assembled beneath the window. There were James Farquhar and Emily Brookes, Jack Peterson and his sister, and Charles Horsemanden, and a number of other young people. They gathered round Adela Farquhar, who appeared at the same moment, and their voices were loud in discussion.

"Isn't it a nasty, plaguy thing to keep us so long in doubt?" were the first words that reached the listener, in the melodious though somewhat boisterous tones of Emily Brookes.

"Don't you know any thing of it, Mrs. Farquhar?" asked Julia Peterson. "Mr. Farquhar here won't acknowledge any thing."

"Yes, if we believed him," laughed Emily.

"Then he knows nothing on the subject, eh?" said Adela, in a tone of cold scorn.

"Not a word," replied the soft voice of James. "I am ignorant."

"Blast it! can't somebody tell us the truth?" interposed the rough voice of Horsemanden. "They've been keeping up the game for six or eight months, and nobody knows if it will come to any thing."

"She walks with him," said Emily.

"And sits with him," added Julia.

"They read Italian together every day," suggested her brother.

"And she looks sweet on him," pronounced Horsemanden.

"Come, do let us hear all about it, Mrs. Farquhar," exclaimed Julia, "you must know--you are so intimate;" and "oh do!" was echoed by Miss Brookes and all the other young ladies.

"I tell you," said Adela, almost fiercely, "that I know nothing. Yes," she murmured to herself, "I do know one thing." And turning suddenly away, she withdrew with long strides from the group. Some of the girls were about to follow and bring her back to take her part in the gossip, when they were interrupted by the apparition of Mrs. Frank Walton, who with eyes and mouth wide open came running to the party, screaming as she ran, "Oh Lor! Girls, what do you think? I've got to the bottom of it all, and it's a settled affair."

"What is it? Do tell us, Phiny," breathlessly uttered the girls, as they gathered round her.

"Clara Walton is really engaged to Albert Farquhar. She told me herself, a few minutes ago; and Papa Walton has given his consent, and it will be announced when we return to town."

A groan from the Quadroon reached their ears at this moment.

"Lor! what is that?" exclaimed Seraphina, her fair face becoming pale with fear. Panics are always contagious: and Mrs. Walton's terror spread rapidly through the group, and they scampered in various directions, followed by the young men, who ingeniously added to their fright by the variety of unearthly noises they contrived to produce.

Isadora sat motionless, her head resting on the window-sill, stunned by what she had overheard. In this posture James Farquhar found her.

"You here?" she exclaimed, passionately seizing him by the hand. "Take me to him, oh! take me to him, let me plead my cause face to face with him, and he will yet be softened. Do not, oh! do not keep me longer."

"You shall see him," said James, "but you must conform to my directions."

"But to-day! oh let me see him to-day," pleaded the Quadroon, passionately. "Let me see him this evening."

"You shall see him within an hour," replied James, steadily. "Follow me."

Reassured by this promise, Isadora followed her guide into a dark path which led from his room into the grounds. Having passed through this, they came into an open walk, planted on either side with willows.

"Place yourself at this turn of the pathway," whispered James. "And now look out. Do you see that lady?"

Isadora looked forth, and perceived a tall figure approaching through the vista.

"Tell her your story," said James. "Farewell, I leave you."

"But you promised that I should see him," exclaimed Isadora, with earnestness.

"She will bring you to him," answered James, and hastily drawing back, he disappeared among the trees.

Isadora stood, trembling as much with excitement as with fear on the spot where her conductor had left her. In the mean while the lady advanced, and had almost passed the spot, when the Quadroon, springing from her concealment, fell at her feet, exclaiming, "Help, lady! help!"

"What does this mean?" said Adela Farquhar--for it was she--looking with surprise on the suppliant at her feet.

"Help, lady! for the love of God! for the honor of your sex--for humanity," repeated the Quadroon, scarcely knowing how to give utterance to what was laboring in her mind.

"What kind of help?" demanded Mrs. Farquhar, impatiently. "Speak more plainly."

"Against Albert Farquhar," gasped the suppliant.

"What?" exclaimed Adela, suddenly aroused to interest. Her changed manner emboldened the Quadroon.

"Lady, dear lady," she said, "you are doing you know not what, and marrying, you know not whom. You are cruelly deceived. He you seek to marry, is the husband of another."

"What does this mean?" exclaimed Mrs. Farquhar, excited almost to fury. "Whom do you speak of?"

"Lady," said Isadora, "are you the betrothed of Albert Farquhar?"

"No, fool," replied Adela Farquhar, with scorn. "I aspire to no such honor."

"Thank Heaven!" exclaimed the Quadroon, falling on her knees and looking upwards.

"Heaven defend us, woman!" exclaimed Adela with impatience, "your incoherent ejaculations puzzle me more and more. Now tell me," she continued, with sudden fury--"for, by Heaven! I will not be trifled with. What are you to Albert Farquhar?"

Isadora's head sank backward on her shoulder, and her tongue refused utterance. But as Adela Farquhar grasped her by the shoulder, repeating her question with violence, she faintly murmured, "His wife."

"What?" said Adela, scarcely believing her ears, "his wife, say you? Speak out directly, and dare not trifle with me. You had better palter with a fury than with Adela Farquhar."

"In the name of Heaven!" murmured Isadora, "I am Albert Farquhar's true and lawful wife."

Adela scarcely waited for her answer; but grasping her by the arm, dragged her with eager strides to the lawn before the house, where the company were assembled in the piazza, and Albert was reading to them a translation, by himself, of one of Petrarch's sonnets. "Albert Farquhar!" she cried; "where is Albert Farquhar?"

"I am here," said Albert, coming forward. "Who calls me?"

"Where is your wife?" demanded Adela, in the same abrupt, impetuous tone.

"Nowhere, as yet," replied Albert, glancing with a smile at Clara. "That happiness is yet to come."

"Behold her!" said Mrs. Farquhar, violently thrusting Isadora forward into the group. Albert started, and turned pale.

"Behold her!" repeated Adela. "Behold the wife of him who would have been Clara Walton's husband. Look at him, as he stands pale and abashed, and see what he would have done. Look at him, Clara. He would gladly have made you such another as this poor creature before us. Look at him, Francis--Seraphina--Mr. Walton--and see how you have been deceived."

"Albert," said Mr. Walton, gravely, "what is this that I hear?"

"It is a base imposition," said Albert, recovering himself with difficulty. "I cannot understand it. Who is this woman? what has brought her here?"

"I found her in the garden," said Adela. "She came to me to tell the story of her betrayal--you know by whom."

"Pooh, pooh," said Albert, taking courage. "It is but an illusion; the crazy freak of a mad negro wench. Why do you bring her here?"

Isadora, who to this moment had remained passive where Adela left her, rushed forward at these words, exclaiming, "My husband! no, you will not forsake me; you will not deny her whom for ten years past you have trained to love you. Your Isadora--your wife--the mother of your child. Oh, Albert! speak, and silence these slanderous tongues that say you are betraying me."

"So! you are in the plot, it seems," said Albert, looking sternly upon her. Then turning to the company, he continued, "Why do you listen to this mad creature's ravings? Can you not see that it is all a device of yon woman?" darting a furious glance at his sister-in-law, "who chose formerly to fancy me, and now seeks to revenge herself for the preference I have shown to her companion."

"Albert Farquhar! I can forgive you even this," murmured Adela, "in the state to which I have reduced you."

"Heaven must aid me," sighed the Quadroon, "for I have no friend on earth. And it does," she exclaimed, suddenly starting up, "for there stands the man by whom we were united."

All eyes were directed to Bernard Ury, who stood pale and trembling by Albert.

"Speak, stranger!" said Isadora, animated with new hope, "and tell the world how truly I am his wife."

"I will," tremulously uttered Ury.

"Are you mad?" whispered Albert. "Will you destroy your own life, as well as ruin me?"

Ury felt that to acknowledge the truth, was to pronounce his own irrevocable sentence of death. The conviction was too much for his feeble mind. He did not deny the assertion of the Quadroon; but he muttered something that was understood as a denial.

"You are convinced, I hope," resumed Albert; "and now that she is silenced, listen to me. This woman is a slave on my estate, and subject to fits of derangement. Three days ago, on visiting the farm, I learned that she had escaped, leaving her child, a three months' old infant, behind her. From this you may judge of the sanity of her mind. It seems that she has been brought hither by my brother's wife, to create dissension between me and my affianced bride. You see the result."

"Albert--my dear brother," said James, advancing, "I trust that you exonerate me from having a share in this most nefarious scheme."

"So fully do I exonerate you, my dear James," replied Albert, "that I will intrust you with the care of this mad wench. Take her into your keeping, and let her be securely confined until this matter be fully investigated."

James arose, took Isadora by the hand, and led her from the spot, seemingly stupefied by what had passed.

"And now, dearest Clara," resumed Albert, turning to the object of his present love.

But Mr. Walton calmly interposed. "Albert," he said, "till this matter be fully cleared, you may not address my daughter in these terms."

"And it shall be cleared," replied Albert. "To-morrow shall see you fully satisfied."

With these words he withdrew, and repaired to the prison of Isadora; determined, by promises or threats, to force her to give up her claim. He reached the chamber in which she was confined. The key was on the outside; but hearing voices within, Albert stopped to listen.

"Have not I fulfilled my promise?" said James.

"You placed me before him; but, oh! what was his reception of me? And you took part against me--confined me in this place--did not speak before them all that you knew. Tell them every thing--no matter how you know it. Give them the proofs--and oh, stranger! my heart will bless you for ever."

"I intend to carry it through," replied James, in a quiet tone. "But what are your proofs? Have you no marriage certificate?"

"No, none whatever."

"I will certainly have it proved. I have no intention that Albert Farquhar shall ever marry. His property shall be mine--mine it should have been, in part, at first; and mine it shall be at his death. But what proofs can we bring? There is a child--"

"My child! my angel! oh, that I could see her!" exclaimed the Quadroon, with eagerness.

"You must give me a line to the servant at the farm, and I will have the child brought. And then there are letters?"

"Letters, oh! how many. But they are mostly old ones."

"And I have others from you to him. I found them in his desk with a lock of your hair."

"Here is one of his that he gave me. I have treasured it, oh! how long!"

"With these it may be proved. But, Isadora," drawing nearer to her, "there was a condition annexed to this."

"Not yet, not till all is completed," said Isadora, firmly.

"You promised me," repeated James, "that if I brought you before him, you--" the rest was said in a very low whisper.

"It is false," exclaimed the Quadroon. "Come no nearer."

"It is too late," coolly replied James; and with a sudden movement he caught Isadora in his arms. At that moment the door was thrown open, and Albert appeared surrounded by his guests.

Isadora uttered a cry, and rushed into her husband's arms. Coldly and without sympathy he placed her on a seat, observing to Mr. Walton, "See how she acts her part, even when discovered."

"It is useless, my dear Albert," said Mr. Walton. "You are fully exonerated now."

"You see," said Albert, turning to his guests, "what a piece of villainy has been designed. This man, my brother, sole natural heir to all my property, has, as you have heard himself state, plotted to prevent my marriage; and for this purpose has brought this slave here--one of his instruments, probably--to put forward a claim to my hand. It was his wife--nay, never color, madam; you are discovered--who first brought her before you. What you, yourselves, have heard and seen, must convince you as to who were the devisers of the whole."

Loud murmurs of displeasure arose from the group, and many a look of indignation was cast at James and Adela Farquhar.

Ury alone was unsatisfied. "Albert," he said," thing what you are doing!"

"Leave me," said Albert, fiercely; then turning to the guests, he added, "I must beg a few moments' privacy. My interview with my brother should be private."

At these words, the guests slowly, and with looks of half-satisfied curiosity, withdrew. Albert paused for an instant to turn the key of her apartment on the Quadroon, and then turned to confront his brother.

CHAPTER XXVI. {small text, verse}

"Thy passions will rock thee, As the winds rock the sea-bird on high; Bright reason will mock thee, Like the sun from a wintry sky; From thy nest every rafter Will rot, and thine eagle homeLeave thee naked to laughter, When leaves fall and the cold winds come." {right aligned with the verse} SHELLEY.

THEY stood some time in silence, each waiting for the other to speak; while Mrs. James Farquhar surveyed them both with an expression of bitter scorn. James's hypocrisy had entirely deserted him. He was pale as death; his knees knocked together, and the cold sweat stood on his forehead. Still, as he stood with folded arms and averted countenance, there was a recklessness in his very desperation.

"Have you nothing to say to me, James?" said Albert, at length, calmly and sternly.

"Not a word," replied the other sullenly. "You will say, I suppose, that you now know me for a villain. I knew you for one long ago. Perhaps it is as well that we understand each other at last."

Albert's face flushed deeply, but he made no answer.

"If you think," resumed James, following up his advantage, but preserving the same dogged manner, "that I don't know every word of what this woman has said to be true, and that you are regularly married to her, you are not so wise as you think yourself. I've got your secret fairly in my hands, Albert; and though you have contrived to get the better of me this time, I'll find means and ways to turn it to account--unless, indeed, you come to some arrangement with me."

At these words Albert Farquhar lost all command of himself, and made a hasty move, as if to attack his brother. In a moment, however, he recovered himself, and proceeded in a composed tone;

"James Farquhar, that I should ever again regard you with my former affection, is impossible. It is impossible that I should even be willing to see you under any circumstances. My house can be no longer your home. You have your own income of one hundred and thirty pounds a year, and on that you must depend for support. If, however, you should see fit to remove to Albany--which the late disgraceful exposure of your conduct in New-York renders highly expedient--I am willing to settle upon you the fee-simple of my lands in that neighborhood, which will more than double your income. This will be of course conditional, on your never returning to New-York."

"And he never shall," sternly interposed Adela. "Remain in New-York? where we have been contemned, insulted, disgraced? where every eye will be turned on us with aversion? where your actions," turning with sudden fierceness to her husband, "have brought lasting scorn upon yourself and upon me? No. I may have been compelled to unite my fate with one whom I hate and despise; but I will hide my misery from the world."

"I accept your offer," said James, in a constrained voice, "though made for no love of me. But, Albert," with a smile of bitter malignity, "be wary of your actions, and remember that I have other proofs of your first marriage, which may yet overturn your contemplated match. You will be offering me another hundred, I fancy, to get them into your own hands." With these words he departed, followed by his wife.

Albert watched them with a beating heart, for he felt that now the interview he most dreaded of all was to commence. Slowly and hesitatingly he entered the inner apartment. Isadora sprang up at his approach, and rushed to meet him.

But Albert's countenance was grave and severe. "You have again trangressed my orders, Isadora," he said.

"And what have you not transgressed?" burst forth the Quadroon. "The vows you made to me; the troth plighted between us; the faith due to the mother of your child. For weeks, nay months, you have not been near me. You have left me ignorant of your whereabouts; and now I find you on the eve of marriage with another."

"Isadora," replied Albert, in a voice of deep emotion, "spare your reproaches, for they find too ready an echo in my own breast. I am in a maze of right and wrong, and know not which way to turn. This has been your work, Isadora. Deeply as I loved Clara Walton--valuable as the connection would have been to me in every respect, nothing should have tempted me to break the troth plighted to you. You say that I neglected you. It is not a week since I rode out to the farm and found that you had fled--fled with another man. Isadora, I felt that your desertion had set me free: you see the result."

"My husband," gasped Isadora, falling on her knees before him, "forgive me, oh! forgive me."

"From the depths of my soul I forgive you, unhappy girl," replied Albert, raising her, "but I cannot return to you more. The engagement between Clara Walton and myself is completed, and I cannot recede from it."

"Marriage?" shrieked the Quadroon, and with another? You cannot, dare not."

"What I dare, Isadora, I am the best judge; and you know that our marriage is worthless in the eye of the law."

"But you can cast us off! your wife, and the child she has borne you!" returned the Quadroon, "abandon us to poverty, disgrace and shame! Be it so."

"To neither, Isadora, if you obey my directions. Withdraw this useless claim, sign me a paper to that effect, and I will establish you and your child among all the comforts to which you have been accustomed--and Isadora," he added, in a softer tone, "all need not yet be at an end between us."

Isadora uttered a shriek, and springing from his half-embrace, "This from you?" she exclaimed. "Oh, Albert! my eyes are open now. You never were what I thought you, or you could not have told me this. Oh Albert! why did you not leave me at the farm in Connecticut? Now--oh, Heaven! my heart will break."

"You refuse, then?" said Albert, who strove in vain to assume an unmoved exterior.

"Refuse? I will never renounce my claim. I will assert it on the housetops. I will cry it aloud in the streets of New-York. I will call it after your intended, and whisper it in her ear as she sleeps. Every child in the city shall know me, and say, 'Behold the two wives of Albert Farquhar.'"

"It shall never be in your power," said Albert, crimsoning, and abruptly quitting the apartment.

There are some dispositions capable of loving so intensely, that their love becomes a part of their nature; and when their love is crushed, the spirit of life appears extinct within them. Such was Isadora. The object of her life was gone; yet she neither shed a tear nor breathed a sigh. She was crushed, spiritless, heartbroken.

Madness succeeded stupor. Fits of frenzy arose in which no one dared to approach her. The house was filled with her curses. She heaped imprecations on the head of Albert, of Clara, and of all with whom they were connected. Might their marriage be childless! might jealousies and suspicions poison their daily life! might the newly-married bride be early taken from her husband, or live only to increase his misery. She poured forth additional curses upon her treacherous conductor; upon Ury, whose weakness had been instrumental in her betrayal. Had not the servants succeeded in binding her hands, she might have destroyed herself in these paroxysms.

From this state she arose, inspired with a new and fearful life, like that of the vampyre corpse restored to existence. Love, passion, jealousy, had all deserted her. One feeling alone remained; the sullen, deep-rooted desire of revenge. To this she solemnly vowed to devote herself through life.

On the evening after her recovery, as she sat solitary at her prison window, looking on the lawn so lately filled with youth and gayety, but now silent and deserted, the door opened, and she met the hated visage of Hughson.

"You belongs to me, now, my precious," said the above-named worthy, making a step towards her.

"Fellow, begone!" the Quadroon said, starting up and assuming a posture of defence.

"Come, come, Miss, there's no time for airs. You belongs to me, I tell you. Look at this paper. Do you understand? This is a deed of sale, in which Mr. Albert Farquhar makes over his slave, Isadora, for a consideration, to Jack Hughson."

"It's false!" exclaimed the Quadroon, eagerly snatching at the document.

"Not so easy that," said Hughson, coolly evading the attempt. "Come, come; you are mine, now, and I'll make you work, depend upon it. I'll get some good out of you for all your fine lady-airs. Phil," calling a man without, "come and put the darbies on this woman. She's to be brought to my ken in the city."

Isadora made no resistance while they handcuffed her. But after it was over she turned to Hughson and said, in an imploring voice, "My child?"

"What's the brat to me?" he replied, brutally. Didn't even know you had one. I can't spare money to buy children."

Having said this, he and his partner conveyed Isadora from the house. As they reached the gate, she turned; her eyes were fixed on the house, which stood out bold in the red light of the setting sun. Suddenly she raised her hands to Heaven--her lips moved, without uttering a sound--and she followed her new master.

CHAPTER XXVII. {small text, verse}

Thou wert the first, the first fair child That in my arms I pressed! Thou wert the bright one that hast smiled Like Summer on my breast; I reared thee as an eagle, To the chase thy steps I led, I bore thee on my battle-horse, I look upon thee--dead. {right aligned with the verse} MRS. HEMANS.

THE morning of Albert Farquhar's wedding-day had at last come. It was the anniversary of the day when, but a year ago, he had united his lot with Isadora. He did not think he could have changed so soon. Though dressed for the ceremony, and only waiting for the carriage that was to convey him to the church, his feelings were scarcely those of a bridegroom. The memory of former days came back upon his soul, and filled him with remorse.

"Mr. Farquhar!" cried a voice at the door; and Hughson presented himself.

"I say," he blurted out, "that there sale as you made a fortnight ago, is good for nothing, and if it isn't made right, I'm blowed if I don't split."

"What do you mean?" inquired Albert.

"Why did you sell me for sound a nigger wench, with no more life than a fish on dry land. It's no go. I wont stand it."

"What?" said Albert, "Isadora?"

"Dead as a herring--died two days since--had it in her when I first took her. But it's no go--I'll have the purchase money refunded, or damme if I don't blow on it all."

"Dead?" gasped Albert. "When? how?"

"Tuesday--of a fever. Come, no more words; I won't stand chaffering or argyfying. Pay me back my money, or, by Jove, I'll split."

Albert hurriedly wrote a cheque for the amount, and then said, gravely, "Where is she?"

"Put her in the potter's field. Couldn't afford a burial; I'm a poor man," replied Hughson, as he left the room.

"Poor Isadora! What a change!" murmured Albert. His thoughts were far enough from himself now. Once more he was by her side, as in the happy times of old. Hesaw himself as he was then, and now. He felt that her blood would be required at his hands.

"Are you ill, Albert?" said Ury, entering and laying a hand softly on his arm.

"She is dead," murmured Albert, without raising his eyes.

"Who?" said Ury, with sudden fear.

"Isadora."

James had likewise entered, though his brother had not perceived him. He remarked, softly, "And you are free, then, Albert?"

Albert started as if stung. "What do you here?" he said, gazing fiercely at his brother.

"You need not fear me," said James sadly. "I am a crushed man now. This is all my schemes have brought me."

"Look," said his brother "She you tampered with is dead."

"I would I were," said James despairingly, sitting down as he spoke. Albert eyed him indignantly.

"Is it your departure that affects you so strangely?" he asked, after a pause.

"No," said James, "the sooner the better. All is over now."

He covered his face with his hands, and remained in deep thought. At last he murmured, "Yet I loved her."

"Her!" exclaimed Albert and Ury at once.

"I loved her when we were married, Heaven knows. Yet in that marriage I evoked a spirit too strong for me."

Albert and Ury both felt that he spoke of his wife, and that he spoke the truth.

"I know I deserved it," said James in a reckless way, perfectly unlike his usual manner, "and I don't suppose any one will be sorry for me But that's all one now."

What Albert would have said is uncertain; at this moment he was summoned to the carriage. He pressed his brother's hand, and hurried away with feelings as little like those of a bridegroom as possible.

To his surprise, when he met Clara at the church door, she seemed as unprepared as himself. She was deadly pale; her cheeks showed traces of tears, and every limb trembled as she entered. So faint did she continue throughout the ceremony that she was unable to stand, but had to support herself against the font. The gloom of the wedding appeared to extend itself to the spectators. They were only half-satisfied with past occurrences, and viewed Clara with pity and Albert with suspicion. The only smiling countenance was that of Miss Emily Brookes, in whose ear young Horsemanden had, that morning, whispered the question she had a long time anticipated.

The first person they met on their return from church was Adela Farquhar, who who appeared in the hall of Albert's house, bonneted and shawled, and otherwise equipped for her journey.

She kissed Clara on the cheek and congratulated her; then turning to Albert, observed: "We sail in an hour."

"I am aware of that, madam," said Albert, gravely.

"It is soon to come between man and wife," resumed Adela, "but I crave one word--one word only, in private."

She spoke with such earnestness, that the bridegroom followed her into an adjoining apartment.

"Albert," she said, "I loved you long and deeply; aye, even before our first meeting. You never reciprocated my love; but it was always yours."

"To what purpose this?" inquired Albert, with astonishment.

"Leaving you thus, Albert, I cannot leave you in ignorance of what most concerns you. You are deceived in the wife you have chosen."

"Dare you tell me this?" said Albert, rising indignantly.

"Is it by your consent?" Adela replied, steadily, "that Clara meets by appointment, with the Captain of a pirate vessel?"

"She does not--she cannot," replied Albert, furiously, "I'll not believe it."

"Believe nothing but your own eyes," said Adela, firmly. "Go to the spot, and see if my words be not true."

"Why did you not tell me this before?" inquired Albert, disturbed.

"I knew it only last night. To-day I hastened to tell you--but you would not see me."

"Let me hear it," cried Albert, almost frantic, and seizing her by the arm.

"You know I have stayed with Clara since our return from the country," Adela began. "We slept in one room and shared the same pillow. Last night, supposing me asleep, she left my side, and dressing herself with haste, left the apartment. Scarce knowing why, I followed her. I saw her thread the pathway along the river-shore till she reached the Fort. Under its shadow a man awaited her; it was the pirate chief who captured us."

"What passed between them?" gasped Albert.

"She spoke of her approaching nuptials, and he asked if their connection were known to you? She said no, and bound herself by many promises ever to keep it secret. They appointed to-morrow night for their next meeting."

"What else?" said Albert, madly eager to catch the words as they fell.

"I know not," replied Adela. "The night was damp and I dared not remain. But it was near morning when Clara Walton lay down again by my side. Hark! I am called: farewell, Albert Farquhar; think sometimes of one by whom you will never be forgotten." And slightly pressing his fingers in her own, the wily woman withdrew.

Albert stood a moment as if stunned; then followed her into the hall. Clara was embracing her friend, and weeping over their separation. James watched them.

"Here James," said Albert, "are a hundred pounds, which may be useful in establishing your new home. Farewell, Brother." Even James Farquhar was touched; and as their carriage bore them from the door, the tears rolled down his cheeks.

Adela Farquhar had left a bitter legacy to Albert. Misery! that his marriage-day should be clouded with suspicion In vain he tried to believe it a slander; the story had a frightful consistency and verisimilitude. Then her behavior at the wedding; and the bitter thought, "I have deceived her, may she not be also deceiving me?"

Slowly, slowly the hours wore on, until the evening of the second day. An association to which Albert belonged was to meet that evening; Clara insisted that he should go, that she might not be thought to come between him and his old associates. With equal pertinacity she refused to spend the evening at her father's, but took up her position at the drawing-room window, saying, "that she would talk with him across the street."

The association rooms were on the opposite side of Broadway, and Albert, placing himself at the window, kept up a constant intercourse by signals with his wife. But all at once she withdrew.

This then, was the hour. Hastily excusing himself to his fellow-members, Albert hurried back to his house.

Clara was not there. He wildly rushed from garret to cellar in search of her. Madness! she is with her lover now.

Eagerly he rushed through the the alley-gate into Petticoat Lane. A handkerchief lay there; it was hers. She is at the Fort! He rushed to it. She was there.

Ury stood beside her; and she was in the arms of the tall stranger who had met Albert in the forest.

He waited not to hear their conversation; but madly rushing forward, plunged his sword into the stranger's breast.

"Die, traitor!" he shouted, as the other fell to the ground, "in thy villainy die." And he was about to repeat the blow. But Ury restrained his arm; and Clara, throwing herself before him, cried, "Turn your fury upon me, my husband. I deserve it. I have deceived you. But, for Heaven's sake, spare Arthur, for he is--he is--my brother."

The sword dropped from Albert's hand. "Your brother!" he repeated.

"Yes, Albert," said Ury, "the brother of Clara Walton; the friend of my boyhood--the brother of one who is now an angel. You have murdered a brother."

"Heavens!" groaned Albert.

"There is no time for delay," said Ury. "Aid me to carry him to the house." But Arthur moved restlessly, and uttered, "not that house--not that--to my father's."

"Our father shall come to you, dear Arthur," whispered Clara. This contented him, and he was brought through dark by-streets into Albert's house, while Ury hastened to Mr. Walton's, to break the dreadful news that his long lost son was alive and was dying. They hastened to the spot, where ARTHUR WALTON was lying pale and feeble.

"My son! my son! do I find you thus?" exclaimed the agonized parent.

"Father!" feebly uttered Arthur. Old memories had returned, and he wept like a child. The father and son remained clasped in one another's arms. Neither spoke a word.

"Oh Heaven! he bleeds afresh," exclaimed Clara, as the embrace ceased.

"It will not be long," said Arthur, smiling faintly. "Father," he continued, "to this good man whom we all so deeply injured (and oh! but for us, our Florence had been spared to us still), I owe the sole comfort that my heart has known. He has shown me that, even for me, the fallen outcast, there may be hope in Heaven. Let all be forgiven. Farquhar, I forgive you--love my sister--be happy. Clara, Bernard, farewell. This," taking a Bible from his bosom, "was Clara's gift. Let it be buried with me."

His mind ere long began to wander. He talked incoherently of his former days, and adventures by sea and land. But by degrees these ramblings of fancy ceased; his voice grew fainter and less audible. Consciousness returned, but for a moment. He looked round without speaking, and drew his sister's hand with the Bible upon his breast.

They buried him in secret upon the banks of the Hudson. Clara and Albert mingled their tears over his grave. But a lasting gloom was cast upon their married life, and the curse of the Quadroon seemed already fulfilled.

It was our purpose to have followed, step by step, the married life of Albert Farquhar, and to show the fruits of his ill-omened union. But the task was too mighty. Here, then, we will leave him for the present to the enjoyment of the prize, for which he sacrificed soul and honor.

To unfold the veil which rests upon his after life, and show forth in its details the fulfilment of the curse; to relate in full the early history of Bernard Ury, which has been but hinted at in these pages; and to follow the history of New-York through an episode, the darkest and most damning, as it is the least generally known, in the whole course of its annals, may be our office hereafter; while we commit this imperfect record of the early days of our Metropolis to the mercy of an intelligent public, trusting that their indulgence will be commensurate with the deficiencies of the work, and the unworthiness of Him who offers it.

THE END.