wee

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Vol. XEL.

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LT TS A 5 = 7

“LITERATURE.

THE WITNESS.

IN THREE PARTS .—PART

rit.

Grace had no doubt remained to sleep that night in the dressing-eloset. { understood it all in an instant. She had been roused, and had crept out.and knew what had been done. She saw the dead man—she saw me—those eyes 90 full of dread and terror were fixed upon me. 1 made an involuntary movement tuwards the foot of the bed, to go roand to ket, but before I could reach it, [ heard a heavy fall,and I found her totally insensible. What was to be done? I lifted her up, and stood with her light weight upon my arm, gazing around,as if the large silent chamber, or the bed with its ghastly barden, could give me counsel. Suddenly the secret cham- bers oceurred to me; they were of easy ac cess, along a wholly anfrequented part of the abbey. 1 searcely know how | bore her thither; and I remember some difficulty in carrying @ light, and unfastening the secret modes of oe ; but | was naturally very strong, and | suppose the fearful necessities of the moment gave me more than ordinary power. At length, 1 reached the room. The ehild was still insensibie. I laid ber on the door, and dragging out a mattress and blank- ets, | placed her there, with her head raised ou a pillow, and hurried back to fetch her clothes and some restoratives. IL sprinkled her face with water: and after I had re- turned to her a few moments, she began to recover, and moaned and murmured some words. I placed wine and water by her side, and a light in a carefully safe position, with some of the store of wax-candles by its stand, and waited in the entrance till [ saw she was evidently reviving, Then I crept softly from the chamber, and closing it securely, hurried back to Sir Thomas's room.

I remade Grace's bed, and removed every sign of her having slept there ; and leaving ali things in their customary places, I went into my own chamber, pat my light ona table, and sat down, and tried to realise the events of the Jast half hour. Certainly, my first calmer feelings were those of tr.umph and exultation. I was free! My daily and hourly curse was gone forever. It was not then, nor indeed for a considerable time afterwards, that I began to learn that a new, daily, nightly, hourly curse was to be for ever present with me. I glossed over in my theughts the existence of little Grace. told myself repeatedly how easy it would be to account fur her absence, to frighten and bribe her into silence. I would not suffer myself to see the drificulties, the impossibili- ties before me; I thrast them aside, to be thought over avd cleared away hereafter. Nevertheless,l went back again to the chaui- ber, and put some biscuits throug! the door, by means of the machine contrived for that purpose. I heard her utter a faint exclama- tion, and | came away sv far satisfied. Sle was alive, she had food and clothing; and } told myself that I would think ne more of her fur the present. I went to bed, and lay awaiting the news of the morning.

Iteame, and surprised no one. The ser- vants had sent fur the ductor before they came to me, and he arrived by the time | wus dressed. Le told me the event had oc- eurred exactly as he had always expected, and took every trouble and arrangement of my hands. There was a magnificent funeral ; and I mocked at myscif when the mirrors showed me my widow's cap and mourning weeds. In the ordinances of this strange world of ours, I sappose the most perfect free- dom a woman can enjoy is that of a rich widow like myself, without father, brother, or asingle creature in existence who had a right to utter even a comment, much less a remonstrance, on any part of my conduct. All would have been the brightest sunshine round me but for that unhappy child. I had hoped by bribes threats,and persuasions, to silence her, and remove her to some dis- tant place; perbaps another omer I searcely knew what I intended to do; i had no settled plan, but a vague sort of impree- sion that it was impossible that poor young git! could be dangerous to me in all m wealth and importance. I heard little about her disappearance. I had careiully removed every trace of her having slept at the abbey that night: and in the course of a few days,

(

“This is true Liberty, when Frceborn Men, having to advise the Public, may spea

Charlottetown, Prince Edward Island, Monday, July 14,

S62.

k free.”---Euripides.

=

slitics, Literature, and slews.

eo

ee ae ee —=—-——S —

SEE

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os

New Series.---No., 27,

into her prison,

almonds, and raisins, and any sort of food senses ; I should be mad.

| that would keep for a long time, besides the daily meals which I contrived to provide for ‘her by taking my breakfast, luncheon, and supper in my own apartments ; and from the first day of her confinement, Ll begaa to draw up details describing the means of access to her prison, and placed them where, though secure during my life, they would be certain | to be apeedily found if were to die suddenly. For a long time I bore up well under this bewildering charge, this crushing burden. At first, it was light in comparisun with the

The impossibility | with her.

I should betray everything ; myself.

will come. crime.

when I long to say: ‘*God help me!’’ But) fore, and never will be again. I forget myself. existence, and never could what is called in| by her coldness and resolution. pious jargon a sinful act be more justifiable | ‘than mine. Its miserable consequence was a haughty, and determined ; then rising from

I should surely lose my | nouncing myself. Sinclair happened to be was acting under an irresistible of saving her would be distracting. I believe | impulse ; hereafter, { may be better able to I cannot trust | recall the particulars. My impression is that L drive the thought from me, yet it I accused her in plain, terms of her twofold 1 know I spoke of the murder of Sir

There are times when I yearn for the su- | Thomas, and of Grace Wilson's concealment. perstitions I have been taught to despise, | 1 believe there never was such a woman be- I was fairly I know that sin has no real | roused from my own trance-like sensations She looked at me with an unmoved countenance —cold,

misery | had endured with Sir Thomas; and)

till some months had elapsed after my second marriage, | continued to be able to indulge vague hopes that I should graduslly become ‘more and more accustomec to my office of jailer, and tried to accustom myself to the idza of quitting Greyfriars sometimes for short periods, during which she could live on the food that I should leave with her. 1 often reasoned with myself,and tried to bring the sort of arguments which I had heard in my younger days to bear on my present position. Here was a poor girl who had literally no creature belonging to her who eared whether she were living or dead. Only two beings could claim kindred with her; and of these, her mother would think her reappearance a misfortune ; and her

grandmother, in her intense selfishness, would | | and starts.

crime, the young creature who had passed |

feel anything but pleasare in the idea of being again troubled with her, and obliged to clothe and feed her. Llow many in her | station of life passed their days in toil and wisery, ill-used, half-starved, oppressed, and neglected. If she was deprived of some ad- vantages, she was at least freed from ail the evils of poverty and the sufferings of a labo- rious lite—well fed and clothed, and provided with much to amuse and gratify her. These

| Oh, what months and years of misery | can /now look back upon! | endless sehemes and plans | projected to break or lighten my heavy seli-wrought chains ! -Spirits,health, strength, all gradually yielded ‘to the insatiable enemy that preyed apon my

heart.

for some remote solitude, leaving behind me the details of the means of access to the se- eret chambers and letting Grace tell her own story. I confidently believe that no selfish motive bas deterred me from putting the idea /imto practice. L had little happiness to sa- crifice, but [ foresaw the heavy affiiction I should bring upon the only being I had ever loved. Shame, disgrace, and unspeakable grief and horror would be his portion, and

he and his children would be reduced to ab-|

sulute penary. All he poss sssed was his small Indian pension, and [ knew too well his noble nature to entertain a hope that he

would ever soil his hands with a touch of the So L went on

wealth I had secured to him. in my slow and secret torture, sufering more

and more,and apparently becoming more and

more strange and self-willed. I took all my mncals in my own apartments, and could thus easily supply my prisoner ; and it must have | been supposed that | was always eating bis- cuits, sweetmeats, and fuod of a like nature, for I was never sutistied if L did not go on | increasing the stores | sapplied ber with. | In course of time,the contrast between the

' quantity of food which L appeared to cun- |

sume, and the increasing haggardness of my person, and reluctance to exert myself, at- ‘tracted more and more attentien, aud I was

. . ° . ‘ ° | , obliged to submit to the farce of an interview |

with the family physician. 1 could have

'grimly smiled at bis watchfulness of my |

| pulse, inspection of my tongue, and inquiries into my symptoms and feelings. Blundering as he was in the dark, he nevertheless per- suaded himself that he had ascertained the | nature of my complaint, and be gave it some ‘name of much sound and little meaning, con- nected of course with the nerves,aud chiefly ‘characterized by a craving appetite for food.

chance,a mere accident; but for that wretch- | her seat, she lifted up the lid of a writing- ed, little, unwilling witness, I should now be | box on the table before her,and taking thence

specious reasonings, however, utterly failed. | My burden increased instead of diminishing. |

What various, what |

her.

Sometimes I even c»ntemplated the) possibility of quitting my home and husband |

a happy and prosperous woman. I know

this life is all: death is simply annihilation, | ve

and indifferent |# mingling with the elements, a dispersion, sheets of taese papers ; and take me away.

into atoms insensible to the past, the present, and the future. Ob, feeble wretch that [| am! I still long to say God help me! God help me!

I know not how to describe the state of mind in which I was left when lL had finished this manuscript. Itnow appears very strange

'to me that I was not more shocked by the

dreadful crime it narrated, by the miseries

ideseribed by the unhappy lady, and by the ‘almost supernatural detection of her guilt. | All was fearfal, harrowing,

overwhelming. Yet these thoughts came to me only by fits It was the living wituess of her

.

seven or eight years, from childhood to wo- manhood, without sight or speech of human | alone in those remote chambers night | and day, summer and winter, the long years) | passing oa without change and without hope ! | separated, by her own singular determina- ‘tion, from the only being she could have

kind:

looked upon or spoken to—'*She is here ! she is under this very roof,”’ I repeated to myself. ‘She is now at this instant, perhaps, within

a few yards of me, dragging through one of |

ed her, intending to seek pers ‘Sinclair, when I met you.’’—I told Have her) the servant had been to her master, and I | believed be was actually going to take Lady Dighton from the abbey. ‘the parlour in which 1 had left Sinclair, and | found bim again reading the manuscript. Ife

her many handred long and weary nights; a few hours, and [ shail see her, speak to What will she be like? senses failed? Will she understand our words? Will she believe us, and admit us ?”’ I-remembered the little thin pale child in that picture at the cottage; I portrayed to myself such a face and figure, only taller and older-looking— looking perhaps,prematurely

|}man ina dream. ‘thinking that she might perbaps return or

| gry tone ; ‘matter with her that I can see. _ strange whims, this is the strangest ; bat I

‘alarge packet, gave it to Sinclair, saying

ry quietly; * Read the two or three last

«She then passed, with a slow and steady step, into the adjoining room. Sinclair left the room with the papers in his hand, like a I waited for some time,

send for me. In truth, | was glad to be alone, and sit down, and endeavour to collect

‘my thoughts, and consider what it would be

best todo. Soon, however, 2 maid-seryant eame from the inner chamber in haste and disturbance. She started at seeing me, but appeared too much vecupied with her own

il troubles to think much about it. and seeming 5

giad to pour them out to anybody,she began teliing me that she believed her lady had gone out of her mind. She had suddenly or- dered horses to be put to the carriages, and preparations to be made for an immediate departure from the abbey. 1 asked if her lady was ill.

** Not a bit of it,’’ she answered in an an- ‘there is nething in the world the Of all her

shall go to the captain, and bear what he says to it.’ ‘“‘She then left the room,and I soon follow-

unhappy him that

We then went to

was manifestly overpowered, and unable to

‘think or even to speak collectedly. We made

vld — a worn, withered woman of nineteen ! | him tike some wine, and reasoned with and

Sleep was impossible that night ;

joined by Mr. Davis very early in the morn- ing. Ile looked as if he had as little rest as myself. At first, we only shook hands, and were silent. The unfolded papers lay on the table. We turned our eyes involuntary to- wards them, and at length | said, ina kind of whisper: ** What ean be dune? What shall we dv ?’’

“Sit down my dear Miss Vernon,” said he ; and he drew a chair and seated himself be- side: Captain Sinclair bas left the whole management to us. pour victim of that wretched woman’s guilt, must of course be our first object; but it needs much consideration. liow to effect it, without exposing the truth, seems almost im- practicable ; yet poor Sinclair's last words to

|e, wringing my hand in his, were an en-

treaty t) prevent exposure if possible. W hint

would you propose 2? Can you suggest any- | | thing?

M:Livar, who is now perfectly com- posed and clear in mind, thinks we had bet- ter confide in the Dalton’s.’’

“That is just what I was going to propose,” |

said [. ** It seems to me that we can scarce- ly, unaided, remove this poor girl, and pro- vide for her even a temporary refuge without some help. The rector and his wile are ex- cellent and thoroughly trustworthy people, warin-hearted and sensible.

woman to justice.’’ As I spoke, 1 saw a

strange and peeuliar expression pass over Mr. |

e }

I did not |

even go to bed, but only refreshed myself by | ' washing and a change of dress, before I was

‘we must talk this terrible business | | quietly over.

T slease the; . : oo a ee | with Lady Dighton at the hotel at L—-.”

| difficulty. | insurmountable.

{ am sure that) they are kind, and they are safe; they will | harbour no idea of bringing that wretched |

tried to eonsule him, but it was some time

before he could comprehend what we said, or | speak rationally biimself ; and when at length |

he was calwer, and eould listen to us, he ac- quieceed in everything that we proposed wich

| the Le'plessness of a child. | |

Mr. Davis here paus d,and taking up Cap-

tain Sinelair’s letter, he showed .me a post- | 1¢ implored him and Mr. | M:llvar and myself to uct for him in every |

seript, in which !

particular, and on the opposite page was an order to a large amount on his banker’s in London. ‘This agrees,”’ the terms on which we parted; we were to undertake the painful and perplexing busi- ness here, and he to remain for the present

Mr. Davis stopped with a visible shudder. -¢ It is terrible to think of her,’’ he said, ‘seither living or dead; but & is impossible not to feel that her death removes one great That which remains seems alinost What is to be dune with that unfurtanate child ?”’

“Child!” 1 interrupted; ‘‘she must be nearly twenty.’”’

**Ves,’’ said he thoughtfully ; ‘*true—too true. We must act quickly, Miss Vernon, for the measure we had recourse to in order

to relieve our late perplexities is no small | addition to those of the present moment; |

he continued, with |

obvious to all that the communication by let ter in the firet instance would be most advi- sable and considerate.

After the Daltons had left us, therefore, ] wrote in as kind terms as I could devise, pre- paring her for good aud wonderful news. I then informed her of Lady Dighton’s death, and enclosed one of the papers she had left behind her, with a minute description of the access to the secret chambers, and a confes- sion that there was a person imprisoned there. [ told ber who I was, and how deeply I felt for her, and that she would for the present have a refuge with Mr. and Mrs. Dalton, whom she could no doubt remember, at the rectory ; that there was not a thought of taking her to her grandmother, bat that she would be entirely provided for in futare by

friends who would treat ber with the tender- |

est care, and urge nothing upon her contrary to her wishes. I explained tu her the plan for her removal that night, and implored ber in the most earnest and affectionate terms to remove the inner fastenings of her chamber at the appointed time.

that time, nor till after the family were in bed When wo were sure that all the servants

I said her friends | would return in an hour for hee answer, and |

that no attempt would be made to see her at |

SUCRE

colonies—that if the Loyalists of '83 who settled | to general prognostication, New-Brunswick, or if the New-England fillibus- ters who took Nova-Scotia from the French twenty | ¢4

odd years before, had kuewn there was such

healthy climate aud such a productive soil in: thes country as there is, they would have emigrated hither en masse and left Acadia to the Acadiana. Our candid impression is, that with all the disac- vantages which the pioneer emigrant may laber under in either of these colonies, there is a better show for the Provincial emigrant—bred to trade or inured to labor—to realize a competeney here | The lowest temperature this winter in Vancouver Island has been 5° above zero; in British Co- But this has been an unusually severe winter—aothing like it has oc- popeue for the last: twenty-

Oid residents set down the return of hard winters at ten, twelve, tweuty-one years. Usually the winters last two months — not more |—are very mild, very little snow, and stock is The experience of the present winter will ne doubt induce farmers to lay up a Grazing, however, is generally yery profitable ; im fact can- Horses are worth from $50 to B00 ; oxen per yoke $100 to $150; cows $3) to 40; sheep $4 to 5; hogs Wheat is sown in Oc- tober, February and March, and is eut in July and | It yields about 33 bushels an aere; |

Barley, eats and peas are

than in either of the Eastern Provinces.

lumbia, 15° below zero.

curred on this coast one years.

never housed. store of fodder for their stock hereafter.

not be otherwise for many years te come.

on foot 2 to 8 cents per Tb.

August. average weight 64 Tbs,

were at dinner, a very important and length-|

ened business at Greytriars, Mr. Davis and ‘s guided by the clear and minute directions of Lady Dighton, threaded the curious labyrinth leading to the secret chambers, and arrived

at the apparent solid wall which communi- |

cated with them. He soon discovered the. spring which revealed the turning-iwachine, | and put the letter within it. In breathiess silence, we awaited the event. I trembled

so much, that L was obliged to sit duwn on

the fluor of the passage, and he leaned against

the wall with elenched hands and eyes nailed

upon the outer door of the machine. A

pause that seemod interminable—a silence

that might be heard—followed. I know not how long it lasted. At length the wheel

moved, and a piece of paper fell through to the ground, upon which was written in a good plain, though evidently trembling hand :

‘+ | will unfusten the bolts at ten o'clock to-

night. God pardyn you if you are deceiving

me.””

There was something very touching to me in these few words—timid trustfullness, yet natural misgiving. It may seem strange to siy, but I was siartled by the conyiction they

afforded that the whole. dreadful story was real. ‘There she was, within that wall, | Grace Wilson, the pour child, the witness of |

the murder, the prisoner of eight years, 1) should soon see her, speak to her. These |

thoughts and feelings crowded so upon me that Mr. Davis had to speak almost barshly | to me ere he could arouse me to the exertion of rising and leaving the place. All our plans were successfully putin practice. Mr. Davis! came to me when the children were gone to} bed, and all was quiet in the abbey, and we | immediately enelosed ourselyes within the | passage leading to tho secret chambers. Tacre we waited in silence till the old abbey clock tolled out the hour of ten, its deep hoarse tones deadened by the thick walls around us. Mr. Davis had previously moved the spring, which caused the surface of the apparently massive wall to slide aside, dis- covering a strong narrow door in the actual wall of the chamber. We drew near to it and listned, and very soon we heard harsh grating noises within, like the removal of heavy bolts and bars. The sounds ceased and Mr. Davis laid his hand upon the handle of ihe door, and after a moment's hesitation, turned the lock. It yielded to bis touch, and turning to me, he gently drew me through

M'Livar’s brother may be here the day after | the door at the same moment with himself,

to-morrow.”

* Oh, he may indeed,”’ never thought of that.’’

‘© | think.’’ said Mr. Davis, after a pause

said J; ** I had

of some few moments, ‘that we cannot do | [ was entering a lighted chamber, | better than adopt yuur first suggestion. We, | it.

inust have sume help from without to assist

which supplied no nutriment, accompanied Davie’s cfuntenance, and I paused.

2 in the seeret removal of our poor prisoner by a gradual wasting away of flesh and!) ‘That wretched woman,”’ said he, ‘is safe I P :

and to secure her some asylum for the pre- sent; and you think so highly of the Dalton’s,

strength, and a consequent depression of from every evil of this world.” : j “ Oh!”? Lexclaimed, ‘‘she had poison with her; she implies it in her story.”’

“© Yes,”’ he said, ‘‘she was taken dead out of the carriage. An express arrived late last night with this note ;’’ and he puta letter into my hand. It was scarcely legible, but with some difficulty I read as follows:

‘Daan Davis—My wife is dead; she sat

spirits. ‘the change of air and scene, and the amuse-

ments and recreations prescribed for me,were both harrassing and perplexing. At length,

I was tormented into making a painful effort, and partly w ; really be enabled oeeasionally to lighten my

miseries in eme little degree, I consented to |

All this was plausible enongh ; but)

ith a blind hope that I might,

I heard casually from my maid that she had |

go fora few weeks (intending them to be

that we may surely venture to confide in them.”’

1 repeated my conviction of their worth Land good feelings ; and Mr. Davis soon after left me to go to the rectory, where he had an interview with Mr. Dalton. Great, as may well be imagined, was his horror and astonishment; and so soon as he was able,

in total silence till we were near L then

al

ee

ran away, and was be‘ieved to have gone off with some gipsies she had been seen with several days before. She hada good voice, and had been heard singing to them. old grandmother with whom she lived was of a dreadful temper; and her own mother having been portivned off by Sir Thomas to @respectable tradesman in a neighbouring town, had almost wholly cast her off since her marriage. It was generally believed that when she heard her only friend was dead, she had preferred the wandering gipsy-life to the miserable prospect before her. Both mother and grandmother appeared well con- tent to be rid of her. Their annuitics were weured to them hy Sir Thomas’s will, and that was all they cared about.

Ammediately after the death of Sir Thomas,

removed from the apartment which com-|

manieated with his room. This was a very obvious and natural step; but my choice of my new chambers surprised every onc. They were those which had been appropriated to the abbots in former days, and were gloomy and inconvenient, and far away from the later and inhabited parts of the abbey. I had easy access from them, however, to the Abbot's gallery in the chapel, in which lay :the initiating seeret of the intricate approach (%@ the concealed apartments; and could # thither at night, and even by day, taking Oy dour tame, without the slightest ility of interruption or eee: It

was nearly midnight of the day on which [ took possession of these rooms, being, as I have suid, that immediately after the death of Sie Thomas, when, taking with me rome food and wine.f atteuspted wy first interview

_ (With my prisoner; bat I could gain no ad jnittance. She had fastened afl the bolts and bare withinside, and the strength of twenty mea could not have forced an en- trance. After trying for some time in vain, aad hearing no sound, I put the provisions! had prepared for her through the machine, tad was satisfied that she was living, and Sble to move about, by the rapid disappear- Snee of the basket. iat the apartment throagh the opening, tod { know not if voice could he heard, but tpoke several times, and received no answer,

hor heard any kindof sound. I may as well how say, to shorten my painfal story, that the hag ubstinately persevered in thus exclud- ing me ; and that from the moment in which (left her litde form upon the mattrass, I ve never scen her, or received from her Say sort of communication. I made many Sttempts; L wrote to her repeatedly in the most urgent terms, but without producing the slightest effect; and J knew that shecon- tinued to exist only by the regular removal 9f the food, and by her compliance with my Teetions to “ out her linen for the laun- dress. I could, of course, oply supply her With my own wearing apparel, ia which ,not- Withstanding the great difference ip height tnd size she was obliged to contrive to clothe herself, I constantly supplied her with ma- for writing, an

Work, and useful and amusing books, which Were changed from time to time as s've re- 4sited them. 1 gove her stores of biscuits,

after listening to so fearful a secret, he re-

went thither accordingly.

The | e opiut asleep, after which found myself in the carriage returning

t was impossible to see |

varigus kinds of

days) to a neighbouring watering-place. We The first night, I took some opium, and I remember falling I know nothing till 1 home again. It seems [ had aroused the house by uy outeries in the night. They found me ‘in a heavy sleep, yet apparently suffering from some dreadful dream. I kept uttering wild and broken exclamations, of whieh they could only distinguish entreaties to be taken

she put her hand into mine. I could not re- ject it; she pressed it, and clasped it closely for a few minutes, when I felt the fingers re-

| just as we stopped at the hotel. L got out first, and the people came round. There was }some confusion and exelamations that I was |too bewildered to understand, till I saw her | lifted out—dead, quite dead. There wasa small phial in her other hand. I remain j here ; the people are very civil. Do what

\laxing from their hold, and L withdrew mine |

vealed it as cautiously as be could to his wife. She was a person of great good sense, warm- hearted and energetic, and was better able to collect her thoughts and arrange our plans than her husband. ‘They both remembered the d.sappearance of poor Grace Wilson, and had several times seen her ; but owing to the repulsive character of her grandmother, they had not much personal knowledge of her. Mrs. Dalton’s first suggestions removed seve- ral of our greatest difficulties. She said that

rf » words, ‘*She is screaming! ; - snare her if you c: ' ; j home, and the words, ‘* She é %'| you can for we; spare herif youcan. Con | i¢ was 4 common practice with her husband,

she is sereaming!’? ‘They at length succeed- ed in partly rousing and quieting me by the jam writing. assurance that [ should return home; but

1 scarcely know C.§S

|sult Miss Vernon. God bless you.

1 L had nearly arrived nets No further attempt was made to oppose | TE ctiee hadeindeiethaeantniiets | my wishes, and I remained afterwards in my | P°ies ® ee a ae me apartments withoutattempting a change. : M hen 5 amines * 5 — : one _ ‘Of course I could not permit a servant te | ain Sinciair in $he hall, 100 ms ap: Prasaen : : : of amazement and terror. He had a roll of sleep in my bedroom, and I was ne arly as, soestes bdo Gait’ wei adda wy due. be sulitary by day as by night. I shrank from a = acka ekee aneieds 8 1 "elie all familiar intercourse. The only persons || a ee a oe oe ae oi ai i ‘saw besides my husband and his children | he sat down, saying =, mee sesghatetn Sica were the governesses, who one after another I took a seat by his sice, seareely knowing tried to endure the gloomy seclusion of Grey- | what I did, and we looked together through friars. All were wearied out sooner or later ; | those details of Lady Dighton’s life which I ‘I believed I helped to frighten them away. left for you last night. His hands shook 69 'No doubt, they thought me more than balf | that I was obliged to assist him in holding ‘insane. The present governess scems likely | the papers. Is anxiety seemed to be to get ‘tu stay. She isa gentlewowan, sensible and | towards the end, and he passed over many agreeable, and | have sometimes felt that it pages, till his eye caught the name of Grey- ' might be possible for me to makea friend of | friars; then he seemed her, so far as my unhappy lot can permit, he read with comparative composure. lbut'she is full of prejudices; and 1 can see | with him as Isat by his side. As we ap- ‘that although she pities me, se is shocked eon the dreadful termination, be trem- iby many of my opinions. led all over, but he mastered his feelings | “Well, { bave done: there is no more to with more resolution than might have been ‘tell. lam still dragging on, year after year, jexpected from him. When we had finished, a life,every breath of which is poisoned. My | he was so still, that I believed, and | still victim in her silent prison is happier far than | think, he was nearly fainting. ; {.~most happy in never hearing human voice, At that moment, however, Lady Dizhton’s or seeing human face. Gladly would ones maid came suddenly in, saying, very abrupt- with ber. Everything brings pain to me. It) ly ; “Oh, you are here, sir; I have been all is pain to see the innocent children whose | over the house alter you. — What are we to love I ought to win, wearying through the )do? My lady is ordering things to be packed, |‘ half- hours they are sometimes obliged to pass | and the chaise to be got ready. Are we go-

| til

|

with me, and eseaping the first possible mo-| ing away, sir? What is to be done? sw aie ; : : 43 iment. it is agony to feel moreand morecer-| ‘ Yes,’’ said he in a low voice to m

for whom I have sacrificed all | tyes, that will be best. I must go with her ; re be @ hereafter— | you will remain and act for me.”’ has never — no, never — loved me, and that, I told even his kind and gentle nature is troubled certain and perplexed when duty and custom compel | feebly, a ‘him to endure my presence. He little knows | guess with that my life is an unceasing sacrifice to bim.| ings | went towards her apartinents , | Nothing keeps me here but the knowledge of | the horror, elean, and Eivibetoes which | ath would cause to full so heavily upon | r : ites” I have means always about A that | Do you know all? : he said. | would rid me of life's agony in a moment, I answered, ‘* Yes. ‘and should any almost impossible casuality| ‘ nc reveal the truth to him, will not live a single | this place? F ; ' hour—not one more long, miserable day, not | “Yes, said I pan: ” ‘one more long terrible night. Often I ask! ‘It is well,’” he spowened s a be, what withholds me from a > ae of | ing. and I think she has decided wisely.

i rshi rops in her 1 | Se no aan: myself ‘and he shut the door and continued. ‘once; why nut again

that [ cannot. I have @ kt ‘ victipn that if L were once,to

' tain that he,

| here and hereafter—if the

Lady Dighton’s wishes : and signed for me to go. whut etrange and bewildered fae u

fectly cali and collected.

kind of frantic con-

pass such food

‘sketch this plan, when Mr. Davis pro | that she should accompany him to Grey to talk it over with me. During his absence,

to nerve himself, and | p

ir

he assented

You may | obliged to be supplied with linen and other -| necessaries by Mrs. Dalton, and also that the servants should be prepared for the arrival of an invalid lady, who would probably go im- ‘mediately to bed. During all our projects d arrangement, I could not help thinking holly in the dark we were talking and) +s In what state sball we find this | space prevents us from answering them so fully

Llow shall we communicate | as we desire. 3 and Neva-Scotians are a class of immi- |

t /M‘llvar met me on my way. He was per-

* HIave you been with Captain Sinclair? an | how w | deciding. « You know they are preparing to leave | poor creature ? | with her? | able to remove her?’ These and a thousand

‘it is her do- other anxious and doubtful questions were | continually forcing themselves upon my mind. It seemed to be tacitly accepted aa a matter of eourse that Mr. Davis and | were to be left to adopt whatever means of imparting to the | Lower Jrovisce _ prisoner the great change impending over her ‘should appear best to us, ang it was equally lwe speab after four years’ experience

] entered his chamber with him as he spoke, “When

i ly answer | reached the house, L went straight up to yn her apartments, and walked inty the sitting- ‘room without knocking. or iv any Way aa-

what 1 } when they expected guests at the rectory, to

. | go to meet the London coaches at a spot about : : aa I returned the letter to Mr. Davis in si-| of all this, as [have said, | knew nothing lence, for | could not speak. Ile then gave | wheeled chaise, built purposely to sait the ime the following account of what had hap-| ruts and obstacles in the narrow lanes which |

three miles from the village, in his own four-

led to the high London road. The last coach passed the junction with the lane between eleven and twelve atnight ; andshe proposed that he should leave home at the proper time, announcing that be should bring back a lady- visitor, for whom due preparations would be made at the rectory. Meanwhile, we were to prepare our prisoner for her release, and bring her to the place at whieh Mr. Balton would be awaiting her in his carriage.

Mrs. Dalton had done little more than

I had taken a hasty breakfast with my pa-

nor reverence from any one.

I was still giv:og directions as to the mourn- ing and other matters, when I was inforined |

of the arrival of the Daltons. I found Mr.

Davie and M Ilvar with them, and scarcely greeting each other, we entered at once upon the consideration of Mrs. Dalton’s proposal. | L suggested some slight additions to it— namely, that the expected visitor at the rec- him I would go and endeavour to as- | tory should lose her luggage by some means | ) ee otber on the road, and consequently be | ted from the Ist of October to the Lst of June.