The Horrors of Oakendale Abbey. A romance.

THE HORRORS OF OAKENDALE ABBEY.

IN the gloomy month of November, when the mountains in Cumberland were almost con|cealed by the heavy black clouds which hung be|low their tops, and a thick drippling rain scarce|ly left the few scattered cottages of Oakendale discernable, the peasants were all retired to their habitations; and through this thick atmosphere the stately ruins of the antient Abbey appeared like a black mass of immense length, and could only be distinguished as a building, by the glim|mering twinkling of the small panes of glass from some of the many windows which were dispersed, without uniformity, in this gloomy structure.

The church clock had struck five, when a loud knocking at the cottage of Aaron Giles (who was intrusted with the keys of the Abbey) roused him from a slumber to which the labours of the day, and the stillness of the evening, had composed him, and caused a strange alarm to the rest of his family, consisting of a notable Dame, now seated at the spinning-wheel, a beautiful girl about fourteen years of age, and two stout boys, who were quietly eating a piece of brown bread.—"Lord," cried the wife and daughter, both in the same breath, "what can that be!—Don't open the door, father," said the girl, "for fear it should be one of the spirits from the Abbey."

The repeated knocking sufficiently awakened Aaron, terrified the rest of the family, and a voice demanded instant admittance.

Aaron, half bold, and half afraid, regardless of the entreaties of those about him, ventured to undraw the bolt, and ask "Who was there?"

"You must open the door," replied a quick voice, "and deliver to me the keys of the Abbey."

Aaron, who had by this time opened the door sufficiently to distinguish a servant well mounted

with a livery great coat on, entirely lost all fear and replied, "The keys of the Abbey! why, no|body would venture there at this time of night what can they be wanted for?"

"For a lady," replied the servant, "who will be here within two hours, and you must go with me; and your wife must come also, to make a fire, and get things in a little order and comfort for my Lady."

"Order and comfort for my Lady!" said Aaron, (holding the door fast in his hand) "I am sure there is no order or comfort to be had there."

"No, no," said his wife, advancing fearfully; nobody don't like to go there in day-time, much more when it is dark; and master must not deliver the keys to any but my Lord himself, or to Muster Acre, the steward."

"Prithee, give me the keys," said the servant "and keep me here no longer; for I have orders, both from my Lord and Mr. Acre, to ••••••••ive them; so do not trifle for no time is to be lost."

Aaron, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 his head, know not what to do; but told the man "he had better come in a

bit; as for going to the Abbey, it was sooner said than done.—Why," said he, "you do not know what you ask; we might be carried away, and never heard on any more. I never ventures in there without two or three as stout as myself with me, and then we be just frightened out of our lives."

"Never fear," replied the footman, who had by this time dismounted, and was advancing into the house; at the same time taking a pistol from his pocket, which he held in a menacing manner, saying, "What the devil are you afraid of? Why, I will engage to blow up all the ghosts in the country, if you will give me a draught of some|thing to drink, for I am devilish dry."

The good woman, tremblingly replied, "She would give him some cyder, provided he would put up the pistol, and not be blasphemous; and the poor little girl, who with her brothers had fled to the further corner of the room, on seeing the pistol which he still held in his hand, advanc|ed, fell upon her knees, and begged him not to kill them, for none of them had done any harm.

The beauty and innocence of this girl softened the valiant boastings of the footman; and he in|stantly returned the pistol to his pocket, saying. "No, my pretty dear, I have no intention to hurt you."

During this time, Aaron was reading a letter the servant had given him, which contained an order from Lord Oakendale, for his instantly pre|paring the Abbey for the reception of a Lady, who would be there on that very evening. Aaron, terrified at the idea of the undertaking, and yet seeing the necessity of his obedience, instantly summoned two of his neighbours, who, together with the footman and himself, prepared with lant|erns to venture into that Abbey, which, even in the day-time, none of the inhabitants ever dared to enter, and which had been the terror of many generations. Some of the rooms were habitable, and it occupied in length many hundred feet of ground. A great part of it consisted of low crumbling walls, long passages, or cloisters, and it had a communication with the village church. It was likewise supposed that there were vaults and subterraneous passages under the whole build|ing. The thickness of the walls bespoke the anti|quity

of its date, and the strength of the work|manship defied the ravages of time; indeed no person in these parts pretended to trace its origin. For the last hundred years it had descended with the Earldom of Oakendale; but was never re|membered to have been inhabited for more than a few days.

The tradition of the country recorded a dread|ful murder that had been perpetrated in one of the rooms, which was evidently stained with blood; and various tales were handed down to posterity, with additional wonders according to the prolific fancy of the relater.

One circumstance had lately impressed the minds, of the villagers with an assurance of its being un|der the dominion of supernatural powers, which was, that of a young man (about three months before the present period) having arrived at the village, demanded the keys, and determined to explore the Abbey alone, and no trace or vestige having ever since been discovered concerning him. The keys were found in the doors; nor was the horse he came upon ever enquired after! To this place then, and at this season, sallied forth the 〈◊〉〈◊〉 mentioned four men followed by 〈◊〉〈◊〉

Giles, with bed-clothes and other necessaries, In order to prepare for the expected Lady. The children followed with trembling steps, equally afraid to be left at home as to proceed with their mother.

Upon entering the great door, which was plac|ed in a porch like that of a church, its ponder|ous weight creeked upon its massy hinges, the echoes of which sounded with a tremendous noise. A small narrow passage led to a large hall, with high grated windows; at the four corners of which were narrow passages leading to different apartments. In the centre of the hall were two folding doors, which opened into a spacious room, the top of which terminated into a dome of great height; a staircase on the right led to various rooms, long galleries, narrow passages and clos|ets; long ranges of building extended on each side of the part they had entered, which appear|ed to be the only habitable place in this immense pile of building; and in these the walls were so damp, and even of those that were covered, the hangings were so ragged, and the whole so des|titute of furniture, that not the most distant idea of comfort could be imagined for the poor Lady.

who was the expected inhabitant of this gloomy mansion.

After having swept away the cobwebs, and cleared some of the dirt, the good woman began to consider where the poor Lady was to sleep, for as yet they had not ventured up stairs; nor did they know if there was such a thing as a bed-lodging to the Abbey. Not one of them would stir a foot without the rest attended; even the valiant footman would not proceed alone, altho he pretended to bluster and throw open the doors one after another, swearing at, and defying all the ghosts in Christendom; whilst the more timid inhabitants of the village stared with fear and astonishment at his temerity.

Beds there were, but scarcely in a condition to accommodate any one; and, when Dame Giles surveyed the tattered velvet of the curtains, and beheld the nodding tester of immense height, she derived a secret comfort from the comparison be|tween this, and much in favor of her own humble chamber at the cottage.

Having arranged every thing in as much order as the time and place would admit, and having

met with nothing to alarm or terrify them, they sat down in expectation of the arrival of the Lady. They had not waited long before a chaise and four horses (with some difficulty, on account of the weeds and briars which impeded their way to the porch) drew up. When the chaise door was opened by the footman a very beautiful young Lady appeared, eager to jump out. She was followed by another, who seemed older, and, as an attendant, every way inferior to the Lady herself; the attractions of whose person at once inspired the hearts of the beholders with equal wonder, pity and astonishment, that so charming a young creature should be consigned to so dreary and wretched a solitude.

If they were lost in wonder and surprise at her beauty, how infinitely more was their admiration excited when, in the most melodious accents and engaging manner, she addressed the woman and the gazing peasants, by asking them "If they re|sided there, and if they could assure her there were no other persons in the Abbey?

"Lack-a-day!" said Dame Giles, "we be none on us to stay here; we only comed to make a fire, and get a little ready for your Ladyship

and I'm 〈◊〉〈◊〉 as how you'll find it very lone|some being in this dismal place by yourselves."

"Not at all," returned the Lady, "provided I am unmolested."

Dame Giles looked grave, and thought within herself that was not certain; but she would not say any thing that might occasion fears of evil spirits to this young Lady, who seemed entirely free from any such apprehensions, and for whom she conceived the highest veneration, mixed with the tenderest pity, for being destined to an abode in her opinion, so dangerous.

When she attended her to the apartment where the bed was, and apologized for the coarse|ness of the sheets and bed clothes, which had been furnished from her cottage, the Lady gave a look of surprise at the antiquity of the bed, and the gloomy magnificence of the room, which was large, with an immense fire-place; a long gothic window on the right, on the small pains of which were painted serpents, dragons, and such unmeaning and hideous monsters; a smaller window was placed in a corner on the left, and the ragged tapestry represented still more horri|ble figures, all of which waved in life-like move|ments

as the air (admitted by the door) fanned the loose hanging on which they were represent|ed.—She surveyed in silence the dismal appear|ance of the whole; and then said (with a sigh) "I shall find no fault I believe; but shall proba|bly sleep quieter than I have done for many nights past, in pleasanter rooms, and beds that seemed better calculated for repose."

The person who had come with her seemed to survey every thing with a countenance of horror, and an expression of fear; and, turning to the young Lady, said, "My dear Madam, is it pos|sible that we can stay in this melancholy place alone? Why, I never saw any thing half so dis|mal; I shall not, I am sure, close my eyes in that frightful bed. Cannot you," addressing Dame Giles, "stay with us to night?"

"No," replied the other; "I cannot, at the same time thinking she would not, for all the world."

The young Lady, whose name was Laura, said to her companion, "Why, surely you are not afraid of ghosts! and at present: I see nothing else to fear here; but, addressing herself to the

daughter of Dame Giles, who was close to her mother, she said, "Perhaps you will stay with us, my little maid; and when there are three of us we cannot be afraid."

"No," said Peggy, "I wo nut stay."

"Well, as you please," said Laura; "and as I am much fatigued, I will not detain you any longer."

Dame Giles replenished the fire, left them a sufficient number of lights, and departed, pro|mising to come there early in the morning to pre|pare their breakfasts. Meantime the footman had been giving orders to Aaron to go to the next market town, and provide them with every neces|sary for their accommodation. He then deliver|ed a letter into the hands of Laura, and then res|pectfully withdrew. He returned to the cottage with Aaron, and the other two men; where, mounting his horse, he rode away. The cotta|gers spent some time wondering at the strangeness of the adventure, and expressing their fears, lest the Ladies might be carried away by the evil spi|rits which were said to haunt the Abbey.

Having left Laura and her companion in the Abbey, and the inhabitants of Oakendale quietly taking their repose, it may be necessary to give the reader some account of the family to whom the Abbey belonged, and how Laura came to be its present inhabitant.

The present Lord Oakendale had succeeded in a lenial descent to the Earldom and estates of Oak|endale. His great-grandfather was the only one that the oldest inhabitant of the village could re|member, and that memory was impressed by wicked and atrocious deeds, said to have been committed by this old Earl, since which time it had never been inhabited more than for a few days, when the present Lord's father brought down a beautiful woman, who was his wife, and mother to the present Earl; her picture was said to be still in one of the rooms.

It was currently reported, that various figures had been seen flitting about after twilight; ghast|ly visions had appeared, smeared with blood; and the ghost of a lady, who was supposed to have been murdered in one of the rooms, was usually seen after it was dark looking through the win|dows, with streams of blood running from her

throat. Tales of this nature had filled the minds of the simple villagers with dreadful apprehen|sions; but what had given more reasonable colour and strength to these fears were, two circumstan|ces, which had happened within only a twelve-month of each other; one was, that of a young gentleman's never being heard of after going to explore the Abbey; the other, of another gentle|man's endeavoring to sleep there, who was so extremely terrified by noises, howlings and phan|toms, that, although a determined and resolute man, he was obliged to relinquish the design, and to pass the remainder of the night with one of the villagers in a cottage.

Lord Oakendale, the present Earl, had never seen the Abbey; he had no doubt heard the re|ports, but, being a very dissipated man, he gave no heed to them, much less had any desire to have them investigated. He was the eldest of two brothers, who were the only surviving sons of a numerous progeny. Their dispositions, manners, persons and sentiments, were, from their earliest childhood, so totally opposite, that not the most distant similarity could ever be discovered. Rob|ert, the elder, who was the present Earl, was

haughty, imperious, vindictive, vain and artful, and, if any spring of latent virtue arose in his heart, it was suppressed and overpowered by these vices. His person was far superior to his mind; for there, indeed, the graces shone forth with conspicuous lustre. He was tall, well proportion|ed, and of a bold and manly countenance. His brother William, though less in stature, was equal|ly well made, and had the most engaging and at|tractive features. An expressive countenance dis|played a mind fraught with every manly virtue that could adorn a christian and a soldier. At a very early age he entered the army, and distin|guished himself in the service of his country by more than one noble and gallant action; during which time his brother was leading a life, not only of inactivity, but of unlimited debauchery of every kind. Two years after the death of the late Earl, he found himself so embarrassed and his fortune so little equal to his expences, that he was under the necessity of repairing it by a mar|riage, in which love formed no part of the con|tract.

Miss. Rainsford, the only child of Lord W••••••|haven, was the exact counterpart of her lover, if the appellation of lover could be given to one whose motives were guided by the desire of wealth or ambition; an union, founded upon such a basis, could be productive of nothing but satie|ty and discord; her fortune was perfectly con|venient to him, and having secured that, he con|ceived a determined hatred to her. She followed her inclinations entirely; and, as they entertain|ed a mutual indifference for each other, contempt and aversion soon followed.

Meantime William returned from the field of battle crowned with laurels and universal esteem. His many virtues called forth the envy and hatred of his brother, who could by no means bear to see himself so far eclipsed; and as this jealousy rankled in his heart, under the specious cover of love and regard he continued to undermine his advancement, and prevent his gaining that rank to which his merits so justly entitled him.—Unsus|picious, and judging of every heart by his own, William could not see through the hypocrisy of Lord Oakendale; and with a contented mind he pa|tiently waited the dispensations of fortune. Thus

looking forward with hope, with tender adieus to his brother, to whom he looked as his only relation and best friend, he embarked with his regiment for the East Indies. In the mean time Lord Oakendale continued his dissipated life, and, having no children, he had formed no ce|ment of conjugal felicity. He had met with Lau|ra in a very obscure part of South Wales, where he had been bathing the preceding autumn. He was wonderfully struck with her beauty, and al|together pleased with her manners. From the first moment he beheld her, he was determined to possess her person; and finding, upon acquaint|ance, that an uncommon, delicacy and virtuous principle governed all her actions, he carefully concealed from her that he was a married man till he had learned her situation, and had, as he thought, made an interest in her affections, and secured every bar which might oppose his happi|ness. But, as her history will make a principle part of this work, we shall only at present inform our readers, that he had sent her to this dismal abode, under the idea that the horrors of the place, and the obscurity of the village, would sooner dispose a mind, like hers, to coincide with his wishes, 〈…〉〈…〉.

The letter the footman had left with her was from his Lordship, containing an apology for his having consigned her to so melancholy and rude a situation; assuring her that he should not intrude upon her retirement without her permission, and concluding with his unalterable love and respect.

After Dame Giles and the other villagers had left Laura and she heard the gate of the Abbey locked upon her, a sound which terrified her more fearful companion, she opened and perused Lord Oakendale's letter, which having carelessly read, and gathering satisfaction from his pro|mise of not coming there, she proposed going to bed, with the idea of enjoying a better night's rest than she had experienced for many of the past: but her companion wished to sit up, being, as she declared, afraid to consign herself to sleep in so dismal a room, and still more dismal looking bed. Laura, who entertained no fears of this na|ture, determined to undress herself, and seek that repose of which she stood in need; and Mary, her companion, being equally afraid to sit up, if Laura should go to sleep; therefore, however re|luctantly, prepared to do the same. Laura, whose body was fatigued, and her mind totally divested

of fear, soon fell into a profound sleep; but Ma|ry, without ever having heard any tales concern|ing the Abbey gave way to the fancies she form|ed from its appearance; and a thousand appre|hensions, of she knew not what, made her afraid to open her eyes, or to shut them, and by that means destroyed every idea of rest. She several times attempted to awake Laura, but found it impossible; she was therefore obliged to attend to the various noises which assailed her ear, without being able either to communicate her fears, or receive any comfort from her companion. The account she gave in the morning, was, that soon after she had been in bed, she plainly heard the sound of doors opening and shutting, and upon listening more attentively, she heard voices whis|pering, and footsteps at, or very near, the cham|ber door. All these relations, when repeated in the morning to Laura, she treated as idle chimeras of a fearful apprehension; declaring she had never in her life slept better, and that it was her fixed resolution to explore every part of the Abbey be|fore the ensuing night.

Dame Giles, attended by her daughter, arriv|ed at the Abbey with their breakfasts; and

pleased at finding them safe where she had left them, began making the fire, and moving about with more alacrity than she had done the preced|ing night; but gave little or no answer to the in|terrogatories of Mary concerning the Abbey, and who or what beings besides themselves were sup|posed to be the inhabitants of it.

Dame Giles said, "She knew of nobody being in it but themselves;" and, not willing to in|crease her fears, added, "That the passages were long and narrow, and the wind might whistle and draw through them like voices."

Laura, whose beautiful countenance, refreshed by sleep was animated with uncommon lustre, laughed at their conversation; again declaring her intention of taking a survey of the Abbey, as well as walking round the hills which seemed to sur|round it; the beauty of which she admired as she viewed them through the small casements of the windows.

The sun shone upon the tops of the hills, and its silver rays, which reflected upon the frosty turf with a dazzling whiteness, gave it a cheerful appearance.—"Tell me not, said she, of voices

and noises, here is nothing to create fear; hark, how the robin twitters his gentle note; and see how the frost glitters upon the verdure! The winds only bespeak the wintry season, but noth|ing to inspire notions either of fear or dread. Ah! would fortune but smile upon me with the same benign aspect that the face of nature does, how little I should have to regret; and how well should I be pleased to remain all my days in this sequestered retirement? But, alas! no such hap|piness awaits me—a poor unprotected orphan, without a claim upon any human being, nothing but my own courage and virtue to guard me from the power of a villain! Ah me! my own reflec|tions are the bitterest accompaniments of my sol|itude." During this soliloquy, which burst in|voluntarily from the oppressed heart of Laura, her two companions stood in mute attention, the one knowing or partly guessing, that she had just reason for her complaints, and the other staring at her without well understanding the meaning of her speech; which, being uttered in a pathetic voice, and in sentiments rather above her com|prehension, induced her to entertain the idea of her being mad, and brought there for confine|ment;

but when Laura turned her lovely face to|wards them, and the pearly tears chased each o|ther down the fairest cheeks that nature ever formed, whilst her expressive eyes seemed to ask for pity's soothing voice, the gentler passions stole upon the heart of Dame Giles; she felt the most tender pity for the fair object before her, and, in a melting strain, she replied, "God help you, my poor young lady; sure no body would go to hurt so sweet a creature!" and looking at Mary, as if to gather some information from her concerning who and what they were, she conti|nued, "Ah, ye must comfort one another, seeing, as I suppose, ye be sent here by our Lord's or|ders; and to be sure it is a melancholy place, and som how I never thought as I could a been in it so long at a time; but use makes perfect, and I bent so feared now as I was last night; and when I comes again to get your dinners, I thinks I shant be afeard at all."

"No," said Laura, "here is nothing to be afraid of; and I must desire you will give me the keys of all the rooms in the Abbey, that I may have the satisfaction of going over them."

"Why," said Dame Giles, "then here they be (at the same time giving her a bunch of rusty keys); but I think as how you had better be con|tented with this here room, and them that ye see below, for I believe the others be but dismal pla|ces, by all account; for I never seed them since I was a little un, and then went but a little way, and we was a good many on us."

"And what did you see?" said Mary, impa|tiently.

"Laws, Madam!" said Dame Giles, "I cant remember;" and so saying she hastened to leave them to make the search by themselves, lest they should have requested her to accompany them.

She was no sooner gone, and their breakfast over, than Laura, taking up the keys, said, "Come Mary, let us begin our survey. I pro|mise myself great amusement from the employ|ment, and I desire you will have no fears."

Mary looked as if she had rather have been excused; but casting her eyes round the room with a fearful kind of observation, the sun, which glimmering through the narrow panes of glass,

diffused a cheering light, and rendered every ob|ject less gloomy than it had appeared the night before by only the light of the candles; she therefore consented to attend Laura, who led the way; and having left their chamber, she proceed|ed to her right along a low dark gallery, on the sides of which some doors opened into small rooms, most of them dark, and others admitting but small portion of light, entirely without furniture except an old high backed chair, or the remain of an old stuffed couch.

The end of the gallery terminated in a narrow stone stair case, down which Laura, followed 〈◊〉〈◊〉 her trembling companion, descended. When 〈◊〉〈◊〉 came to the bottom, a door presented itself, to the lock of which she applied one of the keys, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 then another, until she found one that opened 〈◊〉〈◊〉 and, although the key was exceedingly rusty, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 lock turned with great ease.

The room, into which they now entered, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 one of the most dismal they had yet seen. It 〈◊〉〈◊〉 paved with stone, was long and narrow, with gothic window in a recess on the right side. 〈◊〉〈◊〉 dim light which it admitted was almost 〈◊〉〈◊〉

〈◊〉〈◊〉 the ivy on the outside; and the dark and over|••rown boughs of a yew tree hanging close to it, ••ave a most melancholy appearance to the whole. ••ndeed Laura, for the first time, felt a shuddering 〈◊〉〈◊〉 the idea of she knew not what; and Mary beg|••ed her to leave the room, and proceed no further; 〈◊〉〈◊〉 a dark passage, or cloister, without a door, presented itself at the end of the room, and was either floored or paved, but seemed to lead to ••ome subterraneous abode.

Laura endeavored to summon all her courage, and, regardless of her companion's entreaties, was venturing to explore the cloister, when a rustling noise made her start, and retreat from the low arch which led to its entrance.

Mary screamed with affright, and stood with her hands held before her eyes, left they should encounter some sight too terrific for her to sup|port. Laura likewise trembled; the boughs of the yew tree waved their dark branches against the window, and the whole appearance of the place augmented her fears. She took her com|panion's arm, and was hastily preparing to return, when a large trunk, or coffer, which stood in one corner of the room, attracted her notice, and she

instantly accounted for the rustling, by supposing that a rat or mouse might be withinside of it; and, as this idea dispelled her fears, and renewed her courage, she advanced to the place where it stood, determined to lift up the lid, and see what it contained. She did so; but how was she struck with horror and astonishment, when the skeleton of a human body presented itself to her affrighted view! She gave an involuntary scream, and drop|ping the lid from her trembling hand, the sound, echoing through the hollow roofs, vibrated with terror upon her palpitating heart; and she had just sufficient power to say to Mary, in a tremulous voice, "Let us be gone."

Mary, who had not seen what the trunk con|tained, but remained some paces behind, with her hands covering her eyes, on perceiving that Laura had discovered something frightful, was still more alarmed, and hastily advanced to make an escape from a room, which, from the first mo|ment she beheld it, had filled her with apprehen|sions.

Laura had just strength enough to lock the door, and then proceeded back again to their own apartment, which, in comparison with those they had been viewing, appeared light and pleasant.

Mary congratulated herself on her return, and told Laura she hoped she had now enough of ex|ploring the Abbey, which presented nothing but dismal places and frightful objects; and she had no doubt was haunted by some of the people who had, she was sure, been murdered there; nor had she any doubt but their ghosts would appear at night, and inform them who were their murderers.

Laura begged she would not give way to such idle fancies. "That I have been frightened," says she, "I confess; and I also confess, that I am ashamed of myself for being so. A little rea|son and recollection will conquer my fears, and enable me, at some future day, to put my design in execution, and survey every part of the Abbey. What was there to fear in seeing the bones of a fellow-creature, whose peaceful ashes were as qui|etly deposited there as in the mouldering earth? As to ghosts, she believed in no such thing; it was not the dead from whom she had any appre|hensions, and she would never believe that the righteous Judge of all the earth, and on whom alone she placed her confidence, would suffer her to be visited and terrified for the sins of former

ages. If any necessary discoveries were to be made thro' her means, she might, and ought to be thankful for being considered as an instrument worthy to bring good out of evil. That we should be alarmed at the sight of our fellow-crea|tures, when they had no longer any power to hurt us, was a sad proof of the weakness and de|pravity of our nature, and she owned she felt the force of that depravity in having been so much frightened at what she had seen; and although she could not boast of any superior courage, yet it shewed her the necessity of making the utmost of that reason which had been so liberally diffused in our compositions for the best and wisest purpos|es." Thus she reasoned, and having no one to oppose her arguments (for Mary sat in silent ad|miration of her judgement and eloquence), she had worked herself up to a kind of enthusiastic courage, and said she would again venture to complete her design, and would not even ask Ma|ry to accompany her, if she had any fears; for her own part she felt equal to the attempt, and was rising in order to put her design in execution, when Mary besought her to desist: "Pray," says she, "defer it till Dame Giles comes at dinner time, and perhaps she will go with you; for, as

to myself, I cannot accompany you; and I should be as much afraid to stay here alone."

Laura allowed herself to be persuaded, and had less difficulty in getting Mary to take a walk with her on the outside of the Abbey before the sun went down, for she had no sort of objection to turning her back upon so dismal an abode, and would have been heartily glad never to have set her foot in the inside any more. They according|ly proceeded down the staircase, and out of the door through which they had entered the preced|ing night.

Laura had now an opportunity of observing, that the Abbey was situated in a deep valley, sur|rounded by hills of an enormous and stupendous height, whose craggy tops seemed to bend over the space that contained a few scattered cottages, which, with a small old church and the Abbey, formed the whole of the village. She proceeded to a rising ground to the right of the building, from whence she had a more perfect view of the Abbey, the length of which appeared to be some hundred feet, though it seemed much longer than it really was from the lowness of the structure. The church was a building of the same date; du|ty

was sometimes performed in it by a neighbor|ing clergyman, but it appeared, as well as the Abbey, in a very decayed state. A low arch, or cloister, seemed to run from the right wing of the Abbey, and joined the church-yard.

Upon examining the situation of the windows, and particularly the yew-tree near one of them, Laura was convinced that this arch was the same that enclosed the passage, or cloister, which led from the dismal room wherein she had seen the skeleton; and she again reprobated her fears when she considered that, as the cloister communicated with the church-yard, it was easy to suppose a skeleton might well be conveyed to a place so near it, for want of room, or for some other reason; and vexed that this idea had not occurred to her sooner, she again condemned her fearfulness, and determined to make a second attempt as soon as another day presented itself.

The hour now approaching when the day be|gan to got dreary, and observing Dame Giles coming to prepare their dinner, she proposed to Mary to return to the Abbey, who followed her companion, although with reluctance; for she

had much rather have encountered the inclemency of the weather, or any other inconvenience, than again venture into the gloomy Abbey; the whole of which Laura was so desirous of exploring, that she was with difficulty persuaded from making the attempt, even though the day was shutting in.

The night passed like the preceding one, ex|cept that Laura, when awakened by Mary, almost fancied she heard a faint whisper at the chamber door; but she was unwilling to give credit to such improbable alarms, and was resolved to place them to those impositions of fancy, which the stillness of the night, and the situation of the place might naturally inspire.

Her courage completely returned with the light of the morning, and she arose pleased with the scheme she had projected of examining every corn|er, as well as every room in the Abbey, feeling herself superior to any fears the enterprise might occasion. For this purpose she requested Dame Giles would stay with Mary during the time she should be gone; and she really felt so courageous that she preferred going alone, lest Mary's fears, by suggesting foolish fancies, might create some|thing like them in herself.

She first proceeded down the great stair case, and examined the rooms below, of which she had not taken sufficient notice either on her entrance, or when she went to walk. The hall was large, dark, and the paving decayed; a rusty helmet, and a large sword of an immense length, hung against a wall half covered with green damp, a folding door, with a top pannel broke, opened to a large room, in the form of a rotundo, with a high arched win|dow, on which were emblazoned many coats of arms on painted glass. Heraldry was Laura's fav|ourite study, but she could not give up the present time to investigate the arms of the house of Oak|endale, so much was she bent upon making dis|coveries more gratifying to her curiosity. On the left of this room, a door, which appeared in better preservation, and more modern form than any of the others, attracted her notice. She in|stantly opened it, and a full length picture of a Lady, in a Vandyke dress, arrested her attention. The frame had been gilt, and was of heavy carv|ed work; but seemed falling to decay, and the canvass in some places was loosened from it. The portrait exhibited a countenance of the most at|tractive kind; the complexion was beautiful, and

the features regular. Laura's eyes were rivetted to it. She could not account for the fascinating expression which allured her attentive observation; she stood contemplating the soft features till she almost fancied the sweet mouth smiled upon her, and she was reluctantly withdrawing herself from so pleasing a portrait, in the countenance of which she felt, she knew not how, interested; when a faint expression of surprise burst from her lips, at observing upon the floor near the picture, a sattin letter-case of her own work! Ah! well did she recognize the parting gift she had present|ed to Eugene—her earliest lover—her first friend—her long lamented Eugene! What sensations did the sight produce! "Ah!" says she, "he must have been here; what could have brought him to this sequestered place, and where is he now?"

The last idea rested with a fearful pause upon her terrified imagination, which instantly ran through a train of melancholy and sad reflections. She stood lost in wonder and amaze, and her thoughts bewildered in a labyrinth of strange perplexity! The idea of the skeleton in the trunk rushed upon her recollection with a terrible pre|sentiment that it might be Eugene's and she felt her blood curdle with horror at the thought. She lo••••

all fear of her own situation in the surprise the above circumstance had occasioned. She stood fixed with the letter-case in her hand, the identity of which she could not doubt, having the name of Laura worked, not only by her own hand, but in her hair in the inside, upon which her eyes rested in a kind of stupor; and in this situation she would have remained had not the sound of footsteps down the great stair-case roused her from her reverie, and made her turn her head not with fear, but in expectation of seeing some new wonder; it was, however, only Mary and Dame Giles, who, hav|ing thought every moment an hour since her de|parture, and dreading lest something had happen|ed to her, their impatience and curiosity for once conquered their fears, and by an effort of courage they ventured down the great stairs in search of her. Laura could have excused the intrusion, and, upon finding her pale and trembling, they con|cluded she had been fearfully alarmed, and be|sought her to return with them up stairs. Her in|coherent answers to their questions confirmed their belief that fright had affected her senses, and they offered her all the consolation they could. When she returned to the chamber she recovered in some degree, but still remained low and lost in recollec|tion.

The next day she told Mary she had met with a surprise, but no fright; and added that she had so little fear, she should again walk over the Abbey, and begged she might not be interrupted. Thus some time passed, and, although she made several attempts to visit the room, which contained the skeleton, she never found her courage quite equal to the enterprise; and, though she reasoned upon the absurdity of her fears, and determined to go there, yet her steps generally led to the room where she had found the letter-case, and where the beautiful picture always attracted her admir|ation, and engaged her stay.

Meantime Lord Oakendale grew impatient that he heard nothing from her. The footman had several times been dispatched to the village in or|der to enquire how she bore her solitude, and if she made no complaints; for Lord Oakendale was in hopes that, by placing her in this dreary Abbey, with no companion but Mary, (whose education and manner of life had not been such as could render her mind congenial with Laura's) as she could have no resources from books, or a|ny other amusement, her spirits would become so

depressed, and her mind so enervated, that she would gladly fly to him for succour and friend|ship, rather than be condemned to a hateful soli|tude, like that of Oakendale Abbey.

Laura's character he had quite mistaken, or rather he had no idea of so noble a mind inhabit|ing a form which he considered only as a volup|tuary. Finding, therefore that the footman al|ways returned with accounts of her being content|ed, and making no complaints, he determined, as soon as the spring should be a little advanced, to make her a visit at the Abbey; and not without the diabolical idea, that, if he could not prevail upon her to be favorable to his wishes, the Abbey was a place well calculated for the very worst designs.

These intentions, however, were confined to his own breast, as the fittest receptacle for them. Not the most distant hint was given of his inten|tion, least Laura, upon hearing it, might medi|tate an escape, although that was a circumstance next to impossible to be effected, from the situa|tion of the place.

Meantime as the days grew longer, she fre|quently walked with Mary to the distance of a

mile or two; the views were picturesque, wild, and romantic; and when she climbed to the top of the hills she had a prospect of a beautiful lake, which sometimes afforded her a distant hope of escape, as she had heard that these lakes were vi|sited in the summer by the admirers of picturesque landscape. The Abbey lost much of its horrors by being inhabited by so fair a form, and the peasants of the village would now venture as far as the gate, and even peep in at the windows, divested of their former fears. When the weather was rainy, Lau|ra made a long gallery in the Abbey her walk, and Mary grew so fearless that she would remain in the chamber by herself, although she still per|sisted in saying she heard noises and whispering in the night.

Laura had never yet been in the room which contained the skeleton, she often designed it, and had once or twice made the attempt; but the idea that it might be Eugene's always threw a fearful gloom upon her heart; and having questioned Dame Giles concerning the visitors to the Abbey since her remembrance, she once told her of a gentleman's never having been heard of after having the keys to let himself into the Abbey. This account filled Laura's heart with cruel ap|prehensions,

and confirmed conjectures which at times her imagination would raise up. In those moments she supposed a gang of banditti conceal|ed in a subterraneous vault, who rushing upon Eugene at the moment he was exploring their secret haunts, having robbed and murdered him, had put his body in the trunk, had carelessly drop|ped the letter-case in the room where she found it.

These sad reflections sometimes deterred her from making the attempt, and other times raised her resentment and her courage at the same time; and when the thoughts of her situation occurred to her, it gave her a contempt for life; she would say, "Yes, I will brave the ruffians, and gladly share the fate of my dear Eugene. Per|haps my bones may then be deposited in the same trunk with his, and in death at least we shall not be divided." But such wild imaginations were generally suppressed, and deemed improper by her better judgment; and she would then be thankful to Providence, who had given her strength of mind to resist such idle delusions, and submit, with resignation and gratitude, to him, whose dispensations had, in many instances, been so manifested in her favor.

She was ruminating upon subjects of this nature one evening, when she was walking alone in the gallery by moonlight. The brightness of that luminary shone full upon the apartment, and she was amusing herself with observing its reflecting the narrow casements to almost the breadth of the gallery. She next contemplated her own shadow as she walked; but, how was she astonished, and how did she stand aghast, when she saw another shadow besides her own, which appeared larger, and to be that of a man! Her fortitude at once forsook her; she flew to the door of the gallery, and in a faint voice called Mary. Mary was in the chamber; she stood motionless with surprise and terror; but having a little recovered she pro|ceeded to the chamber, where she found Mary almost as much frightened as herself, at being left alone at that time in the evening.

Laura, as soon as her trembling breath would allow her to articulate, related the cause of her fright, and begged Mary would return with her to the gallery, in order to investigate this phe|nomenon; but no persuasion could prevail on Mary to accompany her; on the contrary, she

was for fastening up the door of the chamber, as soon as possible, to prevent either the shadow or the real substance from visiting them.

Laura ruminated upon the circumstance till (as usual) her fears became less; she considered that, by some oblique reflection of the moon, two figures might be reflected from one; and she de|termined to go to the gallery again, and try, in every direction, how her own shadow might be reflected, and lead her to the mistake; and she easily fancied that her fears had magnified the figure, and likewise given it the resemblance of a man.

Vexed at the idea of being appalled at her own shadow, and resolving instantly to be cconvined she again set forward to the gallery, which she found still and quiet as she had left it. This en|couraged her boldly to advance to the end of it, and to try, in every direction she could place her|self, in what manner her shadow might be reflect|ed, so as to give it the representation of two figures; but, after walking, standing still, both towards the windows, and at a distance, crossing the gallery in every different part, and placing herself in every light, yet still she could perceive

nothing but her own single shadow! Having tired herself with conjectures, and vexed that she could make no discovery, she hastened back to her ap|partment, where she passed the night, restless and uneasy, vainly endeavouring to account for the appearance she had seen, without the most distant clue to lead her to it.

The unaccountable appearance of this shadow occupied her thoughts for several days, and she at last persuaded herself that it must have been the deception of her own sight, which, although pretty good, might for once have deceived her, especially as she made the same experiment the succeeding night at the same hour; but it led to no discovery, for she could see but one shadow; and having, by degrees, and by reasoning upon the impossibility, conquered every idea of fear it had at first occasioned, she again resumed her in|tention of looking at the room which contained the skeleton.

One day, that had been uncommonly rainy, which had prevented her taking her favorite walk upon the hill, and her mind was unsettled, from having no employment to fill up the time, or to

chace away the melancholy which her situation inspired, after much consideration, she determin|ed to bend her steps down the stone stair-case. For this purpose she summoned all her resolution, and having, with fervent devotion, recommend|ed herself to that Power, who always protects the innocent, and whose mercy is infinite, she pro|ceeded to the room, the lock of which turned easily as before; she surveyed it with composed attention. The trunk stood exactly in the same place; she lifted up the lid, and the same ghast|ly skeleton presented itself to her view. She con|templated it with a mixture of horror and pity. "Ah!" says she, "would I could know what bo|dy-enveloped these bones; perhaps thou art en|titled to my tenderest regards." The idea that it might be the remains of the murdered, loved, Eugene, occurred to her sad memory, and the tears fell from her eyes in large drops upon the object which excited them.

From this melancholy spectacle she turned to the dark cloister which, as she supposed, led to the church-yard. The gloomy appearance of the entrance for a moment intimidated her, and she was almost inclined to go back, when a ray of courage enlivening her spirits, she grew resolute▪

and determined to proceed. She stooped her head as she entered the arch, and found it quite dark; but as she advanced it grew lighter, and she perceived that she descended, and the roof then admitted of her standing upright. She likewise found that the light proceeded from some open|ing at the end, which she conjectured was the open air, and that the end of the cloister would bring her to the church-yard; she therefore bold|ly advanced, when, upon a nearer approach, she perceived that the light glimmered through some loose boards in the form of a partition, without a door, or any apparent opening. She looked through the cracks, and perceived it was a room, and that the light proceeded from a casement at the end of it. She pushed hard against it, in or|der to get in; but it seemed beyond her strength. She felt disappointed, and was turning back the way she had come, when an impulse of curiosity impelled her once more to look through the cracks of the boards, in order to take a more accurate survey of a place which seemed fenced off for some particular purpose. She then fancied she saw something like white linen hang up on the opposite side; but she could not distinguish it per|fectly,

as the confined place through which she looked prevented her. She likewise fancied that she heard a slight noise; but she was determined not to let any trifling sound, occasioned, perhaps by the wind, or a thousand other causes, alarm and divert her from her purpose; so keeping her eye fixed, and close to the disjointed boards, whilst her body was perfectly still, her eye en|deavored to scrutinize and investigate every ob|ject it could collect through a space so narrow; when, after a slight noise, and a shade of some|thing rather darkening the view, a large rolling eye-ball met her own, and she instantly sunk down; at the same time giving a faint inward scream: the shock was more than she could bear. For a few moments all her faculties were suspend|ed, and her limbs, which had refused to support her, seemed stiffened with fright and astonishment. She attempted to rise several times before she could accomplish it; and when she stood up, she made several efforts before her trembling legs could support her sufficiently to walk. Her mind was a chaos of horror and confusion; she invol|untarily bent her steps to return; and, having feebly tottered 〈…〉〈…〉

sit down upon the trunk which contained the skel|eton, in order to rest, and prevent her falling a second time.

Her heart throbbed as if it was bursting, and a violent flood of tears afforded her some relief. She sat for some minutes looking stedfastly at the entrance of the cloister, expecting every moment something to arrest her affrighted senses. All continued still; nothing more horrible could ap|pear than she had already seen, and she found her|self quite unequal to the task she had undertaken. After finding herself a little recovered, she hasten|ed back as fast as her trembling limbs could car|ry her, determined never more to endeavor at an investigation which she found had too serious an effect upon her spirits.

When she returned to the chamber, her pale and terrified countenance, with her eyes red, and almost starting from their orbits, convinced Ma|ry that she had encountered something extremely horrid, and she was as much afraid to enquire as the other was incapable of answering, left she should hear more than her weak mind could sup|port.

Laura threw herself upon the bed in an agony of grief and terror; her mind was too much dis|composed by what she had seen, to let reason bear any influence. She found her spirits had received a shock, which they could not well bear; she now blamed herself for having attempted to make an investigation which had led her to encounter so much terror.

Mary could get but few answers to her ques|tions, and therefore gave up asking her.

Laura continued many days in a motionless kind of apathy, and a slow fever preyed upon her spi|rits. She made many melancholy reflections up|on her cruel situation, which only added to her depression. From this, however, she was roused by the daughter of Dame Giles, who, as she was one day setting the room in order, and seeing Laura look grave and low, assumed a delighted countenance, and said, "This ould place will be quite another thing soon."

"Why," replied Laura, "what should make it another thing?"

"Oh!" said the girl, "but I believe I should not tell you."

"Yes," said Laura, "You may tell me any thing; I shall not betray you."

"Why, then," says the girl, "but 'tis a great secret, and mother would kill me if she knowed as how I talked about it; but my Lord is a com|ing, and some o'the rooms are here to be made so foin!"

"And who told you so?" replied Laura. "And when does he come? and are you certain of it?"

All these questions she asked Peggy in a breath, and with a wild surprise; but Peggy could not, or would not, divulge more information than she had already communicated; and Laura was left to meditate upon the intelligence with as many, or, perhaps, more cruel reflections than her re|cent fright had occasioned.

Various apprehensions assailed her imagination, and not a ray of comfort shone upon her recollec|tion; all was dreary in the perspective. Her mind was now as active as it had been before pas|sive. Her fears of supernatural spirits, and sup|posed murderers, gave way to those of more cer|tainty; and she fearlessly traversed many parts

of the Abbey, although she did not venture to the part of it where she had been so much terrifi|ed. Indeed she never could persuade herself to believe in ghosts. That there were beings in the Abbey besides themselves she had received ocular demonstrati••••s; but of what nature they were, she was totally ignorant; and her mind had been too much confused and oppressed to form the most distant conjecture. Now that her fears had, by Peggy's intelligence, been rendered alive to rea|son, the retrospection furnished her with some in|ferences not altogether impossible; and, upon rea|soning with herself upon the subject, she thought it more than probable, that Lord Oakendale had caused and ordered these appearances, in order to intimidate her, that she might fly to his arms for refuge against alarms which seemed so incom|prehensible. She knew the whole village was his property, and all the inhabitants were his vassals. From such a combination it were easy to place people in unfrequented parts of the Abbey to whisper and make noises to occasion terror. The skeleton, the shadow, and the eye-ball, might be managed by his Lordship's contrivance; conse|quently they lost their terror, and she looked up|on

all that was past as an artful delusion, pre-con|certed to further and complete his purpose; she, therefore, as heretofore, condemned herself for being so easily imposed upon, and determined henceforward to disregard all appearances, and, if possible to think of making her escape.

With respect to Mary she did not think her suf|ficiently in her interest to trust her with any scheme she might project; neither did she possess cou|rage, or strength of mind, to be of service to her in any dangerous enterprise; she therefore thought it most prudent to rely upon her own manage|ment, and entirely trust to her own contrivance for the furthering of any plan, by which she might hope to escape from a situation so perilous.

She had, by these suggestions, worked up her mind to a degree of boldness, bordering upon desperation; and, in a rhapsody of distressed cou|rage, she exclaimed, "Would some airy spirits did indeed inhabit this Abbey, who would pro|tect innocence, and shield me from the snares of villainy and terror!"

As she finished the last words, she was startled by a noise like the shutting of a door, and a dis|tant footstep; but, as she had made up her mind as

to disregarding the noises, and indeed fear of that nature seemed to be entirely banished from her breast, she only turned about with a contemptuous expression of countenance, and fell into a medita|tion on her escape. As she had never been pro|hibited walking round the Abbey, up the hills and in the vicinity of the village, she formed the resolution of extending her walk so as to get quite away, taking the first path that offered, after she had got from the village.

The idea charmed her, and but one difficulty arose to prevent her design; and that was, the walking out by herself, as Mary had always been her companion in the walks she had hitherto tak|en, and indeed would be afraid to be left alone in the Abbey.

The idea of leaving one, whose fears she knew would nearly overpower her senses, was not on|ly matter of difficulty, but of regret; and she truly felt for the distress Mary would experience when night approached, and she found herself alone, deserted by her companion.

The tender and affectionate heart of Laura could not endure the idea of acting so cruel a part to one, who in no instance had ever shewn

her the least unkindness. To be sure her virtues where of that negative kind, that she could form no reliance upon her friendship, but then, on the other hand, she had been in some degree, the cho|sen companion of her solitude, and to leave her a prey to sufferings her mind was not able to sup|port, was a cruelty of which Laura was incapa|ble, and could not put inpractice, even if her es|cape had depended upon those terms; she therefore, after much consideration, told Mary, "Not to be alarmed if some of the spectres, which haunted the Abbey, should entirely carry her off, as they had done the gentleman concerning whom Dame Giles had told them, for that she was determined to venture over every part of it, and it might be she might never return; for she had already seen and heard enough to know that something besides themselves resided there, and she therefore advis|ed her to be prepared for her absence."

Mary, terrified at hearing her talk in this man|ner, begged her to desist from any such design representing, and recalling to her recollection, how much she had been alarmed at her last at|tempt, as well as by the circumstance of the sha|dow.

Laura, however, was not to be persuaded, and told Mary she was prepared for any alarm, and only advised her, in case she should not return be|fore night, not to stay in the Abbey by herself; but, before the evening was far advanced, to go down to the cottage of Aaron Giles, and beg his protection.

Mary did not hesitate to promise she would not stay there by herself; for nothing, indeed, would have induced her to be there alone.

Laura, having arranged the plan so far as con|cerned Mary, whose comfort was by no means her least object, left the Abbey in order to recon|noitre, and, at the same time, use Mary to the custom of her going out without her; and, had any thing encouraging offered, to pursue her plan. But the evening being remarkable fine, the peasants were all out of their houses, and she did not think this a time favourable for facilitat|ing her design; she therefore gave up the at|tempt, and returned to the Abbey, waiting im|patiently for a more favourable opportunity.

Meantime some of the rooms were cleaning out, and evident preparations were making for his Lordship's arrival.

Some days had now elapsed since Laura had spoken to Mary on the subject of her being car|ried away. She had formed various plans, but as yet had put none in execution; time wore a|way, and she was in continual fear of being sur|prised by a visit from Lord Oakendale. This kept her mind in a constant perturbation, and has|tened her determination. On a fine afternoon, therefore, she strolled out by herself, and Mary impatiently awaited her return.

The evening began to close, when Mary's fears for Laura, and still greater apprehensions for herself, arose to a pitch of misery and uneasiness she could by no means support! She flew down the stairs, and, opening the great door, she threw her eyes about with a wild stare of amazement; and, being afraid either to return, or to follow any of the paths she had sometimes frequented with Laura, she ran as fast as her legs could carry her to the cottage of Aaron Giles, and terrified and surprised the whole family, by saying, with wild affright, "That the ghosts had carried a|way Laura, and she would not for the world con|tinue in the Abbey by herself, for she was sure they would take her next."

They knew not what to make of her story, and, partly believing, and partly incredulous, they sallied out to the Abbey, where, vainly waiting, wondering, and calling to no purpose for near two hours, they concluded poor Laura had met with some cruel disaster, and they returned dis|consolate to the cottage. They lamented the fate of the unfortunate Lady, and still more their own, when his Lordship should not find her at his arrival, which was now hourly expected; in which expectation we shall, for the present, leave them, to give some account of Laura, for whom our readers may probably be more interested.

The evening, on which she left the Abbey, was uncommonly fine, and invited her to descend the other side of that hill, from which she had more than once taken a view of the lake and the adjacent country. She would round the hill, and followed the first path to her left▪ it turned in several directions, and she was puzzled which to pursue. After ascending and descending amidst a woody covert of brambles and high bushes, she found herself in a thick wood at the bottom of the hill, which she still thought looked very near her. She was now in a close dell, and looking about to see the way she thought best to follow, she

perceived an arch overgrown with ivy, and think|ing it might lead her into a more open and ex|tended tract, she fearlessly entered it. The arch narrowed upon her; she nearly touched the roof, and it grew dark, yet she proceeded;—it was a hiding place from her pursuers, if it was nothing more. Fear seemed to make no part of her composition, and, having walked a considerable way, she perceived some broken steps; and, hav|ing ascended them, a small door half open, seem|ed to invite her to enter; and a room, extremely resembling those she had seen in the Abbey, led her to suppose that the winding of the wood had only brought her back again to the same place from which she had taken so much pains to escape. She felt vexed and disappointed; but curiosity compelled her to prove the certainty of her con|jecture.

The room afforded but little light, and that on|ly admitted by chasms in the wall; yet she thought she perceived a door at the end; and, as she was now almost certain it was the Abbey, she was in hopes of returning to the apartments they occu|pied before Mary should have quitted them; for, although her fears were pretty well subsided, yet the idea of being alone all night in the Abbey

was not altogether so comfortable; and she thought, if Mary was gone, she would follow her to the cottage of Aaron Giles. She was not de|ceived as to the door at the other end of the room; it was fastened on the side next to her, and she undrew (as she thought) a rusty bolt, and was advancing into another appartment, when a sight, more horrible than imagination can form, pre|sented itself to her. The dead body of a woman hung against the wall opposite to the door she had entered, with a coarse cloth pinned over all but the face; the ghastly and putrified appearance of which bespoke her to have been some time dead.

Laura gave a fearful shriek, when a tall figure, dressed only in a checked shirt, staggered towards her. The face was almost black; the eyes seem|ed starting from the head; the mouth was widely extended, and made a kind of hallow gutteral sound in attempting to articulate.

Laura stood motionless; the figure passed her, and went through the door-way by which she had entered, and the sound of the footsteps dwelt up|on her ear till they seemed lost by distance. She trembled exceedingly; she was afraid to follow and she was equally afraid to stay. After some

moments of dreadful suspence, she turned her eyes to the shocking figure of the dead body; nature shrunk from the sight, and recoiled at the idea; she moved slowly to the door, thinking, if she could once morce regain the wood, she should be more safe than where she was. Alas! how were her fears increased, and her situation rendered still more dreadful, when she found (upon at|tempting to open the door) a spring lock on the other side had been mistaken for a bolt; that it was now close shut, and she had no possible means of getting it open. The horrid creature that had passed her had gone through with so much violence that the door clapped after him, whilst she was contemplating the other dreadful figure with which she was now shut up; nothing could be conceived more full of terror! The room was damp, and a small grated window only served to shew her the ghastly appearance of the body, ren|dered still more terrific by the faint light which reflected on the face, and served to shew Laura that night was approaching. Her fears increas|ed; she crept about the room as far as possible from the melancholy object, and kept her eyes turned to the door of this dismal place, from

whence she had not the most distant hope of mak|ing her escape.

With a mind tortured by the most cruel ap|prehensions, she could think of no expedient whereby to relieve her distress. She made seve|ral attempts to open the door, but all were inef|fectual. The little strength she had was become still less by trembling, and a faint sickness occasi|oned by terror. She shut her eyes to avoid the painful object before her. She fancied she heard groans. The idea of perishing for want was the least of her fears. About midnight she heard footsteps gently approaching the door; a glim|mering light shone under it, and displayed more fully the horror of her situation, all her courage was summoned to her aid, and all her courage could scarce support her in this extremity of dan|ger. She had turned her back upon the dead bo|dy, as an object too shocking to look at; and she now crept up in a corner of the room, on the same side with the door, where she stood close, still hop|ing to escape from she knew not what; but the love of life is so strongly implanted in our nature, that when the ••larm of death comes, under what|soever circumstances, we make the last attempts to preserve it, however feeble they may be.

Thus she stood trembling, awaiting a fate which she every moment expected would be decided, when the door gently opened, and two men en|tered; the one carried a lantern, and the other a large board; and, as with astonished looks, they advanced towards her; her heart died within her, she sunk down, and saw and heard no more!

On recovering she found herself laid on a coarse bed, with an old woman standing by her, whose looks testified satisfaction when she opened her eyes. As soon as she could speak, she inquired "if she was still in Oakendale Abbey?"

"No," said the woman; "you are in my cot|tage, and I have been fearfully frightened lest you were dead."

"Thank God," said Laura, "I am once more with a human being; and pray tell me by what, or whose means I came here?"

"Lawkaday!" said the woman; "I knows no more than you do: Christian charity made me take you in, when two men brought you here to be recovered. They assured me you was not dead, and would be better in a short time; I was

loth to trust them, and now I'm afraid I shall get into trouble; for I thinks you be the same Lady that has lived so long with the spirits in the Ab|bey."

"Whatever I am," said Laura, "I entreat you to tell me how far I am from that hateful Ab|bey, and if there is a road leads to it from the little wood?"

"Aye, sure there is," said the woman, "and it is hard by. Laws! I don't wonder you have been almost frightened to death, if you have been in that shocking place; why, nobody before ever ventured to stay there."

Laura felt herself extremely weak, and begged the woman to give her some water. She brought her other refreshments; and, after she was a little revived, her thanks were most devoutly and a|bundantly offered to Providence, not only for her preservation from danger, but also for enab|ling her to preserve her senses under circumstan|ces so truly frightful, and sufficiently calculated to deprive her of them. She enjoined secrecy to the woman on the subject of her having been in the Abbey, as well as of her having been now under her roof. She felt her mind more easy on

the woman's assuring her, she herself should be afraid to have it known that she was there, be|cause my Lord was a powerful rich man; and yet she should never forgive herself to be the cause of sending a fellow-creature to the Abbey, which was not fit for christian folks to live in.

The morning was now far advanced, and Lau|ra thought it would be best to wait the return of the evening before she again attempted her es|cape. She likewise found herself too much en|feebled, and too low, from the sufferings of her spirits, to begin another enterprise till they were, in some degree, recruited; she therefore compos|ed herself, as well as her situation would admit of, till the evening; although she by no means thought herself safe so near the Abbey, and no|thing but her inability would have prevented her from quitting the cottage immediately. In the evening she found herself tolerably refreshed, and her desire to escape, aiding her resolution, she re|warded the old woman; at the same time en|treating her to be secret, and, with amazing for|titude (considering what she had suffered) set forward on her second expedition.

She saw the Abbey at a small distance on her left; and she was determined to take such a di|rection, as to steer clear of again encountering so frightful an abode.

Behold her then once more endeavouring to gain an asylum from tyrannic power and superna|tural terror. Truth and innocence guided her steps, and conscious virtue shielded her from cow|ardice. The rays of the evening sun, shone up|on her beauty, and she followed the first path to her right, which led her along a fine valley. The air revived her spirits; she walked very fast, without seeing either village or house of any sort. The evening began to close in, and every mo|ment seemed to thicken the atmosphere. She feared she should be obliged to some tree or hedge to shelter her from the approaching dews of the night; yet she did not repent her enterprise; on the contrary, she was thankful that fortune had thus favoured her escape, and that she was in a country where she had nothing to fear from wild beasts, and she could meet with nothing more ter|rific than she had encountered the preceding night. With reflections like these she continued her walk, and casting her eyes round to find some spreading tree, or sheltering bush, under which

to rest, she spied a few scattered cottages almost concealed under the side of a hill; her speed re|doubled, and she soon found herself within sight of the hamlet. A girl, about twelve years old, dressed in a coarse blue woollen jacket, without either shoes or stockings, who walked at some distance before her, and a parcel of geese, which came stretching their necks and hissing at her, were the only objects she saw.

The girl turned into a cottage, and Laura cou|rageously followed her; an elderly woman sat near the chimney carding some wool, and the cot|tage, though clean, had every appearance of ex|treme poverty. The woman started at the ap|pearance of Laura, whose dress and deportment were superior to what she was generally accus|tomed to see; and throwing aside her work, and dropping a courtesy, she asked her "if she was come from the Grove, and what she was pleased to want."

Laura, with a sweetness peculiar to herself, re|plied, "that she wanted nothing but shelter for the night; and if she would have the goodness to allow her to sit in that room till the next morning dawned, she would in no way incommode her."

"Lawkaday!" said the woman, "you might sleep with our Mary-Ann for the matter o'that; but if so be, as you have lost your friends, or missed your way you'd better go up to the Grove; ould Madam has a power of money, and is main good to strangers. When John comes home from work he'll go and shew you the way."

Laura thanked her, but said, "she had rather stay where she was, at least for this night, and perhaps she might get them to shew her the way to the Grove in the morning."

During this time Mary-Ann had given the a|larm to the little republic, and several ragged children were gathered round the door. The good woman soon dispersed them, and telling her daughter to bring in some fire-wood, she set a|bout making a cheerful blaze, which gave her cottage such an appearance of comfort, as a more splendid apartment seldom exhibits:

The cricket chirrups in the hearth; The crackling faggot flies.

Laura felt herself pleased, and safe, which brightened every object before her; and she was contemplating the simplicity of the whole, when a rough-looking, hard-featured man, who was

the owner of the cottage, made his appearance. His wife said to him, "Master, here is a gentle|woman comed to stay all night with us; but I'd fain persuade her to go up to Madams."

John stared at Laura, but said nothing; when she ventured to ask him, how far they were from Oakendale?

"Nine miles," said John; "and I would no go there at this time o'night for all you could give me."

"Nor I neither," thought Laura to herself, surprised that she had walked so far.

"No," said the wife, "that is a fearful place by all account; such frightful sights ha been seen there, as makes a body shake but to think on; and bloody murders ha been committed there former|ly no doubt!"

If Laura was satisfied and pleased with her host and hostess, they were not less so with her gentle manners and obliging behavior; and entertained no suspicion to the disadvantage of their guest, whom they pressed to partake of the best they had to produce; and she joyfully shared the coarse, but clean, bed of Mary Ann.

The next morning, not knowing where to bend her course, and thinking she should be more secure from Lord Oakendale's search, should he be disposed to make any after her, under some safe protection, she listened to the advice of the cottagers, and begged they would conduct her to the Grove, where resided the good lady of whom they had spoken so highly, and whose name was Greville. The Grove was situated about a mile from the cottage, and the towers of an antient structure peeped from between the lofty elms and oaks that encompassed its structure, and gave it its name.

As they approached the mansion, Laura rumi|nated on the mode of introducing herself to the lady of the house, and could devise no better than by declaring the truth, and entreating her protection, which from the cottager's reports she was encouraged to hope would not be denied her.

When they arrived at the house they were re|ceived by the house-keeper, a comely looking woman, about fifty years of age, dressed in a plain old fashion style, with a bunch of keys by her side. When Laura requested to be introduced to Mrs.

Greville, the house-keeper 〈◊〉〈◊〉 who she was to name?

Laura blushed, and a tear started into her eyes upon the recollection that she knew no name to which she had any just claim; and, with a sigh returned. "I have been taught to believe that the name of Unfortunate will introduce me to your lady, and secure me a favorable reception."

The house-keeper, glancing an eye of pity on her, led the way, and introduced her to Mrs Greville, a venerable old lady, who, taking off her spectacles, politely said, "I have not the ho|nor of knowing you, young lady; but that, I dare say, is owing to the defect of my sight and memory."

"Alas! no," replied Laura; but here her for|lorn situation recurring to her mind too forcibly to be suppressed, she again burst into tears. Per|haps this was the best introduction she could have chosen, as a passport to the tender heart of Mrs. Greville. She looked at Laura with the eyes of pity, and taking her by the hand, said, in the kindest accents, "Sit down, young lady, and compose yourself; you seem fatigued, and shall take some refreshment before you gratify a curi|osity,

which is, I own, strongly excited, and be assured, prejudiced in your favor.'

Saying this, she dismissed the house-keeper for some chocolate; and, in the mean time, Laura so far recovered herself as to say, "Dear Madam, you see before you a forlorn creature thrown up|on the world, without country, friends, or for|tune, to protect me; not even a relation from whom I can claim either name or affinity!"

"Then," said Mrs. Greville, "surely you are the more entitled to the protection of strangers."

Laura thanked her by the most grateful ac|knowledgements; and, having drank her choco|late, began the following history of herself:

"My infant remembrance," said she, "fur|nishes me with ideas of a country different from this. A gentleman, caressing me, in scarlet clothes, with a sash and gorget, and other glitter|ing appendages, dazzled my young sight, and made an impression on my memory like a distant dream. I can recollect a beautiful woman snatch|ing me to her arms when the gentleman was gone; and, as she kissed me, the tears fell from her eyes in drops upon my frock. I remember too that I

was called Laura. The next circumstance that dwelt upon my recollection, was that of sitting upon the lap of a black woman, who told me I should see my papa and mama no more; that I must be very good, and she would love me. She taught me my prayers, and the meaning of words; but she omited to tell me my name. She treated me with great tenderness, and I conceived an af|fection for her. Soon after she put me on board a ship with several people of my own color; and, after hugging and embracing me with great af|fection, she left me. I cried after her as the only being of whom I had any knowledge, and I could not easily be reconciled to any other. The motion of the vessel first made me sick, and then lolled me to sleep. When I awoke I cried again; but was soothed by some women on board, and told that I was going to see my relations. I soon grew accustomed to the ship, and to the people about me, although I was too young to under|stand any of their conversation, or know whither we were going. As far as my early age, and dis|tance of time, would allow me to judge, we were some months at sea; when one morning I was frightened by a confused noise, which was follow|ed

by a continued firing of cannon. The whole ship's crew seemed in alarm, and I was huddled with the rest of the women, into a dark part of the vessel, which I had never seen before. Eve|ry one seemed terrified, and felt the contagion of fear, though I knew not what we had to dread. In a short time a number of men, who spoke in a different language to that I had been used to, and were almost without clothes, rushed into the place where we were confined and began to drag the women about, in whose screams and cries I joined: All appeared in confusion, when two or three better dressed men came, and, speaking in a commanding tone, there seemed to be more re|regulation observed; but they did not trouble themselves with me, except to shut me in with the rest.

"Previous to this ceremony, and upon hearing a shout, in what I afterwards knew to be the French language, one of the women took a seal|ed packet from a trunk, which she said belonged to me, and with a string fastened it round my bo|dy, telling me (for I shall remember her words) that was the only testimony of my name and pa|rentage; adding, that I must never let any body take it from me. Her intention was no doubt

good; but she would no doubt have done better to have taught me my name, and so impressed it on my memory, that I might not now have been the destitute and forlorn creature I feel myself; but I was then too young to observe the omission.

"Soon after this we arrived, as I supposed, at our destined port, where we were dragged out of the vessel, and put into waggons; when, after a tedious journey of several days, during which I suffered cold and hunger to the extreme; we were at length brought to a large city, which I heard was Paris. If I was before wretched, though at that time I felt the sensation without knowing by what name to describe it, how much was my mis|ery increased when we were all crammed into a French prison!

"On my first being taken out of the waggon, a tall frightful man, with a wide mouth, held me in his arms, and made a motion as if he would eat me! I was terrified, and cried; but no cries were regarded, and we were hurried into the pri|son, which contained some hundreds of wretches like ourselves. My clothes and linen were of a finer texture than those of my companions; I was

therefore, regardless of my cries, stripped, and clad in a very coarse and filthy garb. I held the paper, which was tied round me, fast with my little hands; but I was brutally forced to relin|quish my hold, and it was wantonly torn from me. After this I remembered nothing for many days; I turned my head this way, and that way, to a|void the stench of the prison; but could in no di|rection find a wholesome air. When I recover|ed, from what I suppose was a fever and deliri|um, I found myself stretched upon a wretched bed with several others, and some of the dead bodies were removing to their last abode. I un|derstood none of the language, and my first wish was for fresh air. As I was lying in this misera|ble condition, a gentleman entered the room, whose countenance and appearance was different from any I had seen before. He felt the pulse of some of them, and spoke the language I under|stood. I wished to attract his notice, and my eyes followed his countenance whithersoever it turned. At last he approached the bed on which I was laid, and coming to the side of it, examin|ed my features with attention.

"I longed to speak to him; but I had scarce strength, and still less courage to make such an

effort; but when he took my burning emaciated hand in his I ventured to clasp his fingers whilst the tears streamed from my eyes.

"He tenderly returned the pressure, saying, "Poor child, to whom dost thou belong? and what is thy name?"

"I faintly answered, Laura; and I am very sick. He gave me something which he poured out of a bottle, and which seemed of a reviving quality; and when the person, who attended the room three or four times a day, and locked us up, came in, he conferred with him several minutes in the French language, frequently pointing to me as he spoke.

"The next morning an old woman, whom I had before seen busy about the bodies of those that died in the room, came and took me from the bed, washed me, and put upon me some coarse but clean linen, led me out into the air, and gave me some better refreshment than I had lately tasted. I was then put into a coach in which sat the gentleman I had seen the day before. He spoke to me in the kindest accents, and I en|deavoured to shew my gratitude by a thousand childish endeavours.

"When the coach stopped, I was led by my benefactor into a handsome room, where sat a lady of a most benign countenance: "This my dear," said the gentleman, leading me to her, "is the poor child of whom I spoke yesterday, and whom you have so kindly consented to re|ceive; she has been very ill and is weak at pre|sent; but I am sure she has a greatful heart."

"I paid my respects to the lady in the best manner I was able; and she said, "Poor thing, she shall be taken care of; and I think she looks like a gentleman's child." I felt my heart glow with pleasure at this observation; and I will con|fess, that it gave me more delight than all the ca|resses they bestowed.

"In a few days I was still better habited; and I told my benefactors, whose names were du Frene, all that I knew and could remember of my history. They had no children, and they conceived a parental regard for me, which I re|turned by the most filial affection. They were French; but he was of English extraction, and both were Protestants. He had resided many years in Paris, where he practised surgery, and had been in high repute in that profession, and

which he now followed from motives of humani|ty rather than from lucrative ones, as he was in very good circumstances.

"My dear Madame du Frene was the only mother I had ever known. She grew every day more fond of me. She had me taught every necessary accomplishment, as well as every useful employment; and the principles of religion and virtue, which she practised in their fullest ex|tent, she instilled into my mind as the brightest ornaments I could possess.—Indeed, they appear|ed with such lustre, from her bright example, that I wanted no incitements to be at least an humble imitator of her many virtues. Were I to dwell upon all her excellencies, my story would not soon come to a conclusion. Nor had Mons. du Frene less merit; I know not which of them shewed me most fondness; and when I grew up, their tender care of me, as a child, was changed into unremitting anxiety and solicitude. When I was addressed by the appellation of Mademoi|selle du Frene, their eyes sparkled with pleasure; and this was often the case, for I knew no other name; and after all the enquiries M. du Frene could make, concerning the parcel which was

fastened to my breast on my entrance into the prison, no discovery could possibly be made re|lating to it; for which reason it was natural to suppose that it contained something valuable—besides the identy of my birth and name, which alone we should have no difficulty in recovering.—Whenever I expressed uneasiness at the circum|stances of not knowing to whom I owed my be|ing, with what enraptured fondness would these dear parents call me their adopted child, and as|sure me that I should never feel the want of such endearing ties! I hope I returned their affection by the most filial love and duty; but youth is giddy, and we never know the value of a bles|sing till it is no longer in our power to set a just estimate upon it. Ten years endeared me to this kind protection, upon which I look back with delight. I learned to speak the language fluent|ly, though English was as much spoken in M. du Frene's family as French. No expence was spared on my education, dress, or amusement, and I moved in a circle far above the sphere of life in which M. du Frene was placed; but it was their pride to have me introduced, and see me caressed by people of rank; and M. du Frene

was well received by these persons on account of his extraordinary merit.

"It was in the midst of these happy days, when M. du Frene received letters from his bro|ther in England, who was in the same profession, apprising him of the arrival of a young gentle|man, of the name of Rayneer, who was sent to be under his care, in order to be made a profici|ent in the language, and to complete his education.

"I was in the habit of hearing fine things from the beaux who fluttered round me in pub|lic places, and sometimes distinguished a man of sense and good breeding from the empty coxcomb and the licentious rake; but none had made an impression beyond the moment in which they ad|dressed me, and my heart had never as yet palpi|tated in favor of one man more than another; but the time was now approaching when I could no longer make this boast. Eugene Rayneer ar|rived; his figure, his voice, his manner, all were captivating in the extreme. He did not live un|der the same roof with me; but he had lodgings near us, and there were but few hours out of the twenty-four in which we were not together. Ah! how dangerous it is to throw into each

other's company two young people nearly of an age, and between whose dispositions a similarity of sentiments cannot fail to form attachment!—What pleasant hours did we pass together! But I will not, dear Madam, tire you with a repetition of our love, the remembrance of which is painful because it is past. Suffice it to say, that we ex|changed mutual vows without considering the im|probability there was of our ever being united. He seemed to know but little of his family, and still less of his fortune: but nature had been abun|dantly lavish of her favors, and his own endea|vors had not been wanting to render him a most accomplished young man. His temper was ge|nerous and good, but rather inclined to be impe|tuous. My dear M. du Frene used frequently to lament that he had not sufficient authority over him to keep him from errors occasioned by this disposition.

"One day that we were at dinner M. du Frene was suddenly, and with an air of mystery, called out. He instantly obeyed the summons, and did not return for some time. I knew not what pas|sed in the mind of Madame; but my own heart foreboded a thousand fearful images during an hour's absence of M. du Frene, At his return

we both expressed curiosity at the face of anxiety▪ with which he appeared: and, after a few mo|ment's silence, he said, "That foolish boy Eu|gene, has engaged in a disagreeable adventure, and has got an ugly wound in the recontre."

"At the mention of a wound I felt my blood rush into my face, and a violent beating of my heart succeeded. He went on by saying, "He hoped there was no danger in the wound; but he understood it was the consequence of a challenge given by Eugene to a person of consequence, who was likewise wounded, and whose friends he feared would not easily be appeased." What terror did these words convey to my already oppressed mind! Several days passed in this cruel uncertainty. Madame du Frene frequently visit|ed Eugene; but she always returned with a me|lancholy countenance, and I had scarce ever cou|rage to ask her any questions.

"One day she returned with cheerful looks, and mine caught the pleasing sympathy. She put out her hand to me, and said, "My dear Laura, I can now congratulate you on the complete reco|very of Eugene. At the same time I will inform

you, that you have been the cause of a wound which had nearly been fatal.

"How, my dear Madame," I replied, "can I have been the cause of such an accident? and, if I have, how ought I to rejoice that the danger is over?"

"Sit down, my love," said Madame; "be composed, and I will tell you the whole. Eugene was playing at billiards with the young marquis of—, only son of the Duke de St.—. They had played several games, and the marquis, hav|ing been successful, was very desirous that Eugene should win some of the games back again; but Eugene wanted to be with you, he grew impa|tient, and uttering some hasty words, the mar|quis replied, "Oh! you want to be with that little Bourjeoise, the surgeon's daughter; ah! she is a tempting little creature; but she may wait till our games are more evenly decided."

"Eugene heard no more. He instantly gave the challenge, and they as instantly ran each other through the body. Both fell at the same moment, and would have both died from loss of blood, had not one of the waiters fortu|nately discovered them. It would be impossible

to say which of their wounds was most danger|ous. The symptoms of the marquis were most favorable, because his mind was not so agitated as Eugene's; nevertheless they were both extreme|ly dangerous, and the Duke of—would have shewn no favor to his son's antagonist had he lost him. Thank God they are now in a fair way of recovery, and both have exchanged forgive|ness; and till this favourable event, M. du Frene and myself have preserved a strange and unplea|sant silence towards you; but, unless we could give you more favorable accounts, we were de|termined to keep you in ignorance. But now, that every thing is in so prosperous a train, we would have you partake in the general joy."

"I thanked my dear Madame, by the most grateful acknowledgements, for all her kind|ness; and my heart overflowed with praise and thaksgiving for my Eugene's recovery. I long|ed to see him, but I had not courage to make the request. Madame du Frene anticipated my wishes, and said, "There can, I think, be no impropriety in your going with me to see Eu|gene; I know the sight of you will complete his cure."

"I wanted no intreaty to pay a visit in which my heart was so much interested; and I had the pleasure of finding Eugene perfectly well, except weakness. To me he never looked or spoke in a more captivating manner. In a few days he walked out; our interviews were more frequent than ever, and I foolishly thought that all mis|fortune was comprehended in the illness of Eu|gene; and now, that he was well and again res|tored to me, I had nothing but happiness before me. Alas! how little do we know how fortune varies her favors, and dispenses a chequered scene to most mortals.—I could not divest myself of extreme partiality for Eugene, and found a plea|sure in his company, which I had never experi|enced from the frivolity of a Frenchman; and when the most sensible remarks, and the tender|est attentions, were received from a man whose external appearance bespoke the nobler qualities of his mind, my heart gave the truest testimony to his merits; nor did I affect to disown them to my dear Madame du Frene; to her I had confi|ded all my grief, and all my joy. She would allow me to expatiate on the merits of my be|loved Eugene with all the glow of affection which warmed my breast; she loved me too tenderly to

check the fond effusions which afforded me so much delight; and when I fancied that I was possessed of his affections, nothing I thought, could interrupt my happiness, or reverse my for|tune:—She would only insinuate in the gentlest accents, and with the most persuasive arguments, that I must not expect complete happiness; that all our lives were liable to the caprice of fortune, and whose changes human nature was born to encounter, and must submit.—Perfect bliss was the lot of none, nor was even a large portion of happiness possessed by many; she would there|fore wish to prepare my mind, and make it equal to meet the dispensations of all human events, that so I might secure that peace, which the world can neither give nor take away.

"Thus was I, by her dear precepts, in some degree fitted for those many difficulties and dan|gers I have already encountered; and to her, next to God Almighty, I am indebted for this fortitude which has hitherto sustained me." But to return to my story.

"One morning Eugene shewed me a letter he had received, which recalled him to England. He said it came from a gentleman who was his

guardian, and whom he was bound to obey. There were some sentences in the letter, which were couched in such terms as led us both to think, that when the writer talked of forming improper connexions, by remaining too long in one place, he alluded to our intimacy.

"Eugene at first declared he would not obey the mandate, and that he had long enough sub|mitted to the controul and caprice of those whom he really believed had no right to direct, or take any part in his conduct. As to myself, I was to|tally incapable of giving advice; but there was no occasion; M. du Frene decided for us. He also had received a letter on the same subject, and Eugene's fate was determined. If ever there was a moment in which my love for M. du Frene was abated, it was when he peremptorily told him he must not delay his departure. I felt as if I had received a blow, which deprived me of all my faculties; nor could all the assurances of Eugene's faith and everlasting love reconcile me to the idea of losing him. I considered his departure as the deprivation of all my happiness; nor could all the admonitions of Madame calm my feelings. Indeed those dear parents lamented his loss almost as much as myself; and when the day arrived on

which he was to take his leave, I scarce knew which of us were most concerned.

"M. du Frene pressed him to his heart, and conjured him never to forget friends to whom he was so dear; and Madame said a thousand kind and affectionate things to him. As to myself, I stood like the picture of despair; and when Eu|gene pressed me to his bosom, I felt as if my whole existence was at an end, and I could not articu|late a sentence. Ah! too just was my presenti|ment that we should never meet again. He pro|mised to write, and (if possible) to return; but never, from that sad hour, did we hear or see any more of him; and from that time happiness seemed to have fled with my lost Eugene.

"M. du Frene was a politician. What grief did that circumstance occasion to Madame! We used all our persuasions to keep him at home, and to take no part in the broils which began to be very general; but it was to no purpose that we urged him to be neuter; He was too much attach|ed to his king to bear quietly the disaffection which prevailed, and every where began to spread itself. All our entreaties were used in vain; a whole year passed in this unpleasant state, and no

intelligence of Eugene arrived to sooth the tedi|ous hours, rendered still more irksome by M. du Frene's frequent quarrels and uneasiness, by the melancholy which always pervaded his counte|nance, and the continual dread we were under of some new calamity happening to the state.

"In this distressed condition we continued till the fatal tenth of August, 1792; that era of ever|lasting disgrace to the French nation, when Paris was deluged in human gore. On that sad day M. du Frene had gone from home early in the morning, and I had been vainly endeavoring to persuade Madame du Frene that her fears were needless, when a loud knocking at the door, and a tumult, made me venture to look through the window; when ah! how does my soul sicken at the remembrance! I saw my ever dear, my more than parent's head, stuck upon a pike, reeking and clotted with blood! I uttered a scream, and hid my eyes with my hands; when Madame du Frene coming to my assistance, discovered the dreadful object which had occasioned my terror! She gave a piercing scream, which, methinks, now vibrates on my ear, and dropped senseless on the floor.

"Greatly as I was affected, I exerted myself to assist and recal her to life, which it was some time before she shewed any signs of. When she, in some degree, recovered, she observed a pro|found silence upon the subject of the horrible sight we had both of us but too plainly seen. Her sighs, indeed, were deep and bitter; but it seemed as if she could not bear to name the shock|ing circumstance which occasioned them, and to which she must have been witness. We had scarce time to recollect ourselves, and my dear Madame du Frene shewed but little signs of ani|mation, when some of our friends assembled at our house, and earnestly entreated we would lose no time in making our escape, if we wished to avoid the cruel fate which some of those dearest to us had experienced. We neither of us seemed suf|ficiently interested to prolong our wretchedness, or attend to their remonstrances, and we appear|ed rather to wish for death than to avoid it; but our friends used such pressing solicitations, and begged so earnestly, that we would leave Paris with them, that we began (though reluctantly) to put up our valuables, and to prepare for our de|parture. Little as I cared for life, or had any

prospect to invite its continuance, yet the name of England sounded with a sweet sensation. A thousand tender ideas were associated with that country; and the fond remembrance of Eugene played round my heart amidst the sorrows that encompassed me. I joined my endeavors to rouse Madame du Frene from her lethargy of woe, and to fly whilst it was yet in our power; and having succeeded, we left Paris that night, and travelled with as much expedition as the French carriages could make, till we got to Boulogne, where we found the town crowded with emigrants, waiting to cross the water.

"When the wind was fair, and the vessels were ready, we were hurried down to the quay in such numbers, and put on board in so much confusion, that I was unfortunately separated from my dear Madame du Frene, and put on board of a merchantman.

"As soon as I found myself separated from her, I entreated, and offered largely to the captain if he would set me on shore again; but he was deaf to all my cries, and said he would not lose a mo|ment. My misery was not to be described! I found myself encompassed by strangers; and

what was worse, I understood we were to be set on shore on the Welch coast.

"As to the fate of Madame du Frene, from that hour to this, I have remained in total igno|rance about it; and it has been an everlasting cause of sorrow to me!

"We landed in Milford Haven, at a place which appeared almost uninhabited; and consist|ed only of an inn and a few houses. It might be considered as a bathing place, but of little resort. I fixed my residence in a small lodging near the sea, to which my eyes were incessantly turned, in the hope of seeing some vessel which might bring Madame du Frene to the same spot.

"Most of the people who landed with me, dispersed to different parts of England; but as I could think of no place to prefer to this, I thought it best, for the present, to remain where I was. I was attended by a young woman of the village, named Mary Morgan; she was neat, and well behaved; and I passed most of my time in wan|dering with her on the beach. I wished to go to London, as the most likely place to hear of Ma|dame du Frene; but I was afraid to go there

alone, there not being in that vast metropolis one person with whom I could claim acquaintance.

"It happened one evening that, as I was walk|ing upon the beach with Mary, I perceived my|self observed by a good looking man, who ap|peared to be about forty years of age, and who seemed to eye me with uncommon attention. There was something in his person and manners, which not only attracted my notice, but also my partiality. Our eyes met; and, as I was stand|ing still on the beach, I was not displeased at be|ing accosted by him with some general observa|tions upon the place we were in, and the sea pros|pect, &c.

"The next day we met upon the same spot, when our conversation was again renewed. We talked on various subjects, and he told me his name was Thoranby; that he lived in London, and generally came every summer to some place of this kind for the benefit of sea-bathing, and to be retired.

"Upon his saying that he lived in London, I imprudently replied, "That of all places I wish|ed to go there;" at the same time telling him that part of my history which had separated me

from my more than mother, and my ardent wish to find her again.

"He seemed pleased with the affectionate duty I expressed; and, after paying me some compli|ments on my extreme sensibility, he said, "He had a sister in London, who would, he was sure, be happy to receive me; and would unite her en|deavors to mine in order to discover Madame du Frene." How did my heart overflow with grati|tude at this unexpected invitation! Young and unacquainted as I was with the arts of men, I has|tily accepted his offer; and, indeed, my joy and impatience to begin my journey was too conspi|cuous to be concealed. Accordingly it was a|greed, that he should set out on the next day, in order to prepare his sister for my arrival; and that in three days after I should follow with Ma|ry, who had agreed to accompany me to London.

"Nothing could exceed my eagerness and im|patience for the arrival of the day on which I was to set out; and I scarce gave myself time for pro|per rest, and none at all for reflection. The hope of meeting my dear Madame du Frene, together with that secret wish which still glowed in my bo|som of hearing something of Eugene, was cherish|ed

with such fond imagination, that I had almost realized my wishes to a certainty; and when we entered London, my fancy had formed so many fair ideas, by which I was wholly engrossed, that I hardly attended to the astonished exclamations of poor Mary, at the sight of the streets, number of people, carriages, &c. &c. which to me, who had lived so long in Paris, was nothing extraor|dinary; but when the carriage drove up to a ve|ry magnificent house in Portland Place, my heart felt an unusual oppression; and, for the first time, suggested to me the impropriety of following to London a person of whom I knew so little; how|ever, reflections of this kind were now too late. The chaise stopped; the bell was rung, and two footmen, in splendid liveries, ushered me through the hall, up a stone staircase.

"My astonishment increased as I ascended the steps. Mr Thoranby had told me he lived in a handsome house in London; but I had no idea it was so superb, still less that his sister lived in this elegant style. I fancied there must have been some mistake, and a variety of reflections rushed with rapidity upon my mind, and a thousand forebodings, of I knew not what, agitated me so

much, that I fancied I did not hear distinctly whom the servant addressed.

"Mr Thoranby (who then made his appear|ance) by the appellation of "my Lord;" but when he approached to receive me, with a malig|nant smile of exultation, my heart died within me, and I faintly exclaimed, "I am betrayed."

"It was in vain that his lordship endeavored to sooth me, after having acknowledged that he had deceived me respecting his having a sister, as well as his name and rank. I at once saw my ruined situation; and I exclaimed on the cruelty of his conduct, demanding immediate release. He pleaded the most ardent love, protesting that he could not live without me. Finding me deaf to his vows, and resolute in my determination, this wretched Lord Oakendale confessed to me that he was a married man!

"Yes, my dear Laura," says he, "you should pity rather than condemn a man who is united to a woman for whom he can conceive nothing but aversion, and who is in no respect calculated for domestic happiness, whilst his heart is enraptured by your virtues, and absolutely devoted to your service; nothing but this prior 〈◊〉〈◊〉 should pre|vent

me from instantly offering 〈…〉〈…〉 at the altar. Let me, therefore, lovliest of women! secure to you any other contract which shall be equally binding, and a most sacred promise to marry you the very moment it is in my power."

"I had scarce patience to hear him to the end—"Marry me! (I replied) is it possible that your vanity can suggest such an idea? Did you bring me here to dazzle me with your splendor, as a means to gain me to your purpose? When I first became acquainted with you, it was your age which secured my confidence; and now that I find you are such a depraved character—" I was proceeding; but I found I had touched a string the most discordant to his ear, that of his age.

"Peace, madam," said he; "nor dare to in|sult me thus. Age, indeed! know, silly girl, that you are in my power; and if you provoke that power; I warn you to take the consequence." With these words he hastily quitted the room, leaving me to reflect upon my distressed situation, with the additional torment of self-accusation for having brought myself into his power.

"During two whole days I saw nothing of his lordship, though I learned from Mary (who was still allowed to attend me) that he was in the house, and that all the servants had orders to obey me in every thing, except assisting me to leave it. She likewise informed me, that lady Oakendale was no further from London than Hampstead. Various were my conjectures upon his conduct. Sometimes I thought he would relent, and give me my liberty; at others, that he was only medi|tating further mischief. I had no hope of making my escape; for the rooms I was allowed to occu|py were not in the front of the house, and only looked into a close paved court, from whence I could not possibly get out, were I to attempt the windows. My mind was harrassed by sleepless nights and continual fatigue.

"On the third morning Lord Oakendale enter|ed the apartment; he shewed some degree of compassion at my pale and altered looks; and then said, "You have foolishly rejected all my offers; but surely that must proceed from a hasty judgment, and because you have not well consi|dered them. However as I cannot bring myself

to part with you entirely, I have thought of a plan which will give you an opportunity of con|sidering my offers more deliberately; and let me add, with lese haughtiness. I mean to send you down to an old Abbey in Cumberland, with Mary to accompany you, or any other of my domestics whom you may prefer. It is true, you will be but ill accommodated; but for that you may thank your own obstinacy, and you will there have leisure to consider my proposals with the attention they deserve."

"The idea of an Abbey made me shudder; but when I considered I should be released from my present prison, and that he said not a word of going with me, I thought it most prudent to dis|semble; I therefore told him, in a milder tone than I had spoken before, that I was ready to fol|low whithersoever my destiny should lead me; that I chose Mary for my companion, and that I would consider of what he had said with more moderation. A smile of approbation sat upon his countenance as I uttered the last sentence. He took me tenderly by the hand, and said, "Then I will instantly order the carriage to be got rea|dy:"

and having assured him it should not wait for me, he quitted me to give the necessary orders.

"The moment he was gone, a gleam of satis|faction overspread my mind at the idea of leaving that detested house. At the same moment a trans|itory regret occurred at the thoughts of leaving London; that London, to which I had hastened with such rapidity, and which probably contained all that was most dear to me; yet, to gain, in some degree, my liberty, and to leave Lord Oakendale was my first object; and I resolved to make no more hasty determinations; nor even attempt to make my escape without a great deal of delibera|tion and circumspection. Mary consented to ac|company me; but it was evidently with reluct|ance. The splendor of Lord Oakendale's esta|blishment had attracted her admiration, and she wished to stay longer and see more; but she was a foolish uninformed creature, and on that score I excused her; and thinking she was a more trus|ty companion than any Lord Oakendale could furnish me with, I pressed her to accompany me; at the same time giving her some money for the services she had already done me, and in order to secure her future fidelity; we therefore stepped

into the carriage, which I found was loaded with provisions, that we might have no occasion to stop, except for change of horses. We were at|tended by two servants on horse-back, and such precautions taken, that it would have been in vain to have meditated an escape. How ardently did I wish to be attacked by robbers, as the only means I could foresee of gaining my liberty; but no such good fortune happening, we, after a fa|tiguing journey, arrived at Oakendale Abbey."—And here Laura continued to relate all the terrors she had experienced in that place, as well as the manner of her escaping; not omitting to inform Mrs. Greville the circumstance of her finding the letter case she had given to Eugene.

When she had finished her story, Mrs Greville said, "Indeed, my dear young lady, your story is replete with uncommon circumstances of dis|tress; and I am as much interested by it, as I am surprised and entertained. If your appearance prejudiced me in your favor, your uncommon suf|ferings and merit entitle you to my regard and protection, which you may be assured of posses|sing as long as you are disposed to continue under my roof.

"I have (continued the good lady) a nephew, who is married to a very amiable woman; his name is Sir George Orland, and they pass great part of the year with me; you will, I am sure, like each other, and if you pay them a visit in London, they will protect you from the attempts of Lord Oakendale as well as assist your inquiries concerning those so deservedly dear to you."

Laura could not find words sufficient to thank Mrs. Greville for her extreme kindness; and, having exhausted the effusions of her grateful heart, she began asking Mrs. Greville some ques|tions as to what she knew, or had ever heard, re|lating to Oakendale-Abbey.

"Why," returned Mrs. Greville, "when you named Oakendale-Abbey, as having resided there, I confess I shuddered at the idea; nevertheless I would not have you suppose that I believe in any of the idle reports current in the neigh|borhood; for they are carried to a degree of ab|surdity and superstition beyond all credit. When they tell you of men and women being seen car|rying their heads in their hands, and of monstrous eyes looking through the windows flaming with

fire, one is more inclined to laugh at such idle tales than to be alarmed by them. But I must own I have long suspected there was some myste|ry to be unfolded at the Abbey; but of what na|ture I cannot even guess. The surprising things you witnessed there confirms this belief, and I wish it were seriously investigated.

"It is now many years since I saw the inside of the Abbey; and it was by no means a fit resi|dence for the fair inhabitant whom I went to vi|sit; it must be now infinitely worse, and a fright|ful place to send a young person to! I only won|der how you could support yourself under such circumstances; and it is like the rest of Lord Oak|endale's conduct."

"My dear Madam," said Laura, "I under|stand the Abbey had not been inhabited since the memory of any person now living; who then could you go there to visit?"

"Indeed," replied Mrs. Greville, "I ought to explain myself; for what I said must seem as mysterious as any of the stories which are related. I went to see a picture of the present Lord's mo|ther, which, upon some family feuds, was sent down to this Abbey as a punishment, or rather

mortification, to the person it represented. He was allowed to be an uncommonly and well finish|ed picture, and was done by an Italian master; and the sweetness of the countenance exceeded any I ever saw, except that I am now beholding!"

Laura bowed her thanks for the compliment, and asked Mrs. Greville "if the picture did not hand in a room which she described; and if it was not in the Vandyke taste?"

Mrs. Greville replied, "that it was, and was a beautiful full length portrait."

"Yes," said Laura, "it was in that room that I discovered the letter-case; and I can never be persuaded but Eugene must have been in that apart|ment; for I think (she added, with a sigh) he would not have parted with it to any one else."

"That is, indeed," said Mrs. Greville, "a ve|ry extraordinary circumstance, and which time only can discover, and will, I have no doubt; for depend upon it, my dear, you will live to see the clouds disperse, which at present seem to hang over you; and you will one day meet with the reward your merit deserves.—In the mean|while make yourself easy under my protection;

and wait with patience the will of that all wise disposer of events, who never deserted the inno|cent, and who is a Father to the fatherless."

Laura said she had every reason to be grateful to Providence, who had, in so many instances, shewn a manifest interposition in her favor, and never more than by placing her under the pro|tection where she now felt herself so happily situ|ated; and in which secure asylum we will, for the present, leave her, and return to give some account of Lord Oakendale, who on arriving at the Abbey, and finding Laura had escaped, be|came outrageous, and almost frantic with disap|pointment.

Mary was interrogated with violence and sus|picion, as an accomplice in the plan; but she declared her innocence with so much simplicity, that his lordship's anger at length gave way to belief, and he consented to her entreaties of be|ing sent back again into Wales.

His disappointment added fresh fuel to his pas|sion and his resentment; for he vowed ven|geance on the poor devoted Laura, should he ever get her again into his hands, of which he enter|tained but little doubt; knowing that without

either horse or carriage, or any one to assist her, she could not have escaped far from the village; and that, by bribes and promises, he should very soon have her again in his power. He determin|ed to sleep that night at the Abbey, in the same bed which had been occupied by Laura and Mary. Another was fitted up in an adjoining room for his servant.

It was the first time in his life he had ever been in the Abbey. He thought it horrible and gloo|my; and he would have felt some compassion for Laura, for having been consigned to such a place, had not her recent flight steeled his heart with resentment, and shut every avenue to pity.

The idea of supernatural appearances had nev|er, since he was a child, disturbed his imagina|tion; he therefore, divested of all fear, compos|ed himself to take a refreshing portion of sleep, in order to be the better enabled to make a more vigilant pursuit after Laura the next day. He had not, however, been in bed two hours before he was very much surprised by a foot-step, and a low murmuring voice, which apeared to be not far distant. He called his servant.

The poor man readily obeyed the summons, for he had been equally alarmed. He entered the room pale and trembling, and was going to re|late his fears; but Lord Oakendale felt his val|our return, and being ashamed to confess his fright to his servant, he only said there were rats in the house; talked loud, blustered, and ordered his servant to return to his bed.

In about an hour the steps and the voice were heard again. The idea that Laura was conceal|ed in some part of the Abbey occuring to his mind, he hastily called up his servant, and order|ing him to bring lights, he prepared himself to search the Abbey. The man having heard the report of its being haunted, and being already very much alarmed at what had passed, was not quite so willing to enter into such service, and endeavoured to persuade his Lord to wait for the morning; but this suggestion only stimulated Lord Oakendale to begin the search, having worked up his mind to the firm opinion that he should find Laura. They each took a light, and proceeded through all the apartments; Lord Oakendale with his sword drawn in his hand, swearing to murder the first person he found, if

they should endeavour to screen Laura from his possession. He likewise exhorted his servant to be courageous, and to follow his example.

The man stood greatly in need of the exhorta|tions; for as he tremblingly led the way, and carried the lights, he expected to lose his senses by the sight of some tremendous apparition; and when Lord Oakendale opened the rusty locks and creaking doors, he thought his heart would have died within him.

When they approached the room, in which was the trunk and skeleton, Lord Oakendale made a stop.—The gloominess of its appearance, rendered doubly so by the still dark hour of the night, had a momentary effect upon his resolu|tion; but he resumed his courage, and surveyed the room. The servant trembled, and scarcely lifted up his eyes. They approached the trunk wherein the skeleton was deposited. Lord Oak|endale ordered his servant to lift up the lid; and the light had no sooner glanced upon the ghastly figure, than the man, dropping the lid from his hand, exclaimed, "God preserve us! here is a dead man, bigger than a giant, with saucer eyes, and huge limbs!"

"Ridiculous!" exclaimed his Lord, at the same moment examining it himself, though not without feeling a chill at this relic of mortality; and he was for a moment undetermined whether or not to proceed, when the idea of Laura again renewed his courage, and he advanced to the cloister, and following the light carried by the terrified servant, arrived at the partition, which presented neither a door, or any means of open|ing it, whatsoever.

This circumstance strongly excited his curiosi|ty, and this aided by disappointment, brought him to a desperate pitch of resolution; and ob|serving the boards were but thin, he set his whole force against them, and, with a terrible crash, they all at once gave way. A confused rumbling noise assailed his ears; but how were all his sen|ses stiffened with horror at the sight of a human body, apparently dead, but sitting upright in a coffin!

Lord Oakendale started at the sight; the sword dropped from his hand, and he stood petrified with terror and amazement. The servant had fallen down, and nearly extinguished the light; and as Lord Oakendale stooped down to preserve

it, he fancied a cold hand grasped him. His trembling legs scarce supported him from this scene of terror! The servant was nearly deprived of his senses. His master assisted him to rise, and hastily turning towards the cloister, they made the best of their way through the apartments they had before so minutely examined, rushed out of the Abbey, and alarmed the village!

The clock struck four, and some of the pea|sants were already rising to their work: and see|ing his Lordship, as they supposed, making his escape from the Abbey, they, concluding he had seen something to terrify and alarm him, gather|ed round, with a hope of being gratified by some marvelous adventure; but his Lordship was in no humour to relate wonders. He ordered horses to the carriage, and getting into it, bestowed something like a curse upon Laura, the Abbey, and all the infernal spirits that inhabited it.

In this disposition he pursued his way to Lon|don. Various were his conjectures during his journey; and he could form his ideas into no system of probability as to the strange and unac|countable sights he had beheld at the Abbey. He

resolved, indeed, to have them thoroughly in|vestigated on some future occasion; but he never intended again to encounter them himself. He suffered great uneasiness on account of Laura. He sound he loved her with sincere affection. Her idea dwelt upon his heart with more uneasy sen|sations than he had ever before experienced, al|though his love for her was neither founded up|on esteem or delicacy. But he was a mere sensu|alist; yet a something of tender anxiety was com|bined with his passion for her. "Where could she be, and to what evils and sufferings might she be exposed?" These were intruding questions that forced themselves with compassionate tender|ness, upon a heart but little alive to the softer feelings of humanity. In this state we will there|fore leave him for the present, in order to give our readers an account of some other personages who have as yet appeared but in the back ground of the history.

Lady Oakendale, of whom we have said that she was the only daughter of Lord Westhaven, and that her immense fortune was the only induce|ment Lord Oakendale had for making her his wife, was, as has been before related, by no means calculated to sooth the brow of care, by

which her Lord was now oppress•••• 〈…〉〈…〉 the con|trary, they had conceived an aversion bordering upon hatred for each other. But, in order to e|lucidate her history, we must go back to a very early period of her life. She was an only child, and had lost her mother when she was very young; and from that circumstance might date all her mis|fortunes, as she was consigned to the care of a governess, and other mercenary dependants, whose chief object was to inculcate in her the idea of her own consequence, by continually reminding her of her great fortune she would in future pos|sess, as well as the high rank she held in life.

After being taught the various accomplishments necessary for her situation, in so superficial a man|ner, that they could neither be an entertainment to others, nor any resource to herself, she sound a void in her mind, which she would sometimes endeavour to fill up by attempts at fancy-work, of some ingenious device peculiar to the sex; but on these occasions she was always informed, that such employments were by no means fit for her to engage in; and that there were people suffici|ent who would be glad to do such little services for the gratuity which she had it so amply in her power to bestow.

Thus was her mind (perhaps naturally good) withdrawn from every source of instruction or amusement, and left to the idle workings of phan|tastic conceits, which will always, if not subdued by rational amusements, lead to an indolent lassi|tude, totally destructive of every moral and social virtue.

As soon as she was of an age to appear at her father's table, and be indroduced by some of his acquaintance to public places, her whole mornings were spent in trying on various caps, and other dresses; consulting her glass, and assorting her ribbands and feathers to her complexion, and the color of her hair. Her person was neither hand|some or otherwise; her skin was fair, but her fea|tures were irregular and wanted animation; and she had acquired an air of hauteur, which, being unaccompanied by grace, bordered upon ill-hu|mor.

Lord Westhaven, after the death of his wife, grew fond of drinking, and engaged in a dissipat|ed way of life, neither consistent with his age or station. He loved his daughter, as something very nearly allied to himself; but he took no pains to regulate her conduct, or to improve her

understanding. He frequently brought men home to dinner, whose free conversation was nei|ther suppressed by her presence, nor regulated by propriety; and from these she heard toasts and sentiments by no means proper for her contem|plation; which gave her a bold assurance, but little consistent with the delicacy of the feminine character.

She was known to have an immense fortune, and of course was addressed by every man who wished to advance his own.

An officer in the guards, of the name of Vin|cent, was the most assiduous in his attentions to her; and, indeed, for a time, kept all the rest at a distance. He had an uncommon fine person, and was sufficiently well skilled in the science of fashion and flattery to render himself agreeable. He studied her disposition with the nicest atten|tion; and, being well aware that her father de|signed her for a man of rank, having no preten|sions of that nature at that time, he was resolved to supplant those that had; he therefore thought he had only to secure her affections as the prelude to the possession of her fortune.

She loved Vincent as a girl of her education and disposition would naturally do, who was cap|tivated by his person, and pleased with his atten|tions. But she knew he could not introduce her into the rank in life her ambition led her to sup|pose she must fill, and she could not endure the sound of plain Mrs Vincent; yet the idea of a tender lover, encouraged in secret, and met by stratagem, enraptured her imagination, and was so consonant to her wishes, that what she first ad|mitted as a charming amusement for her leisure hours, became a serious consideration, and in the end, a source of increasing misery.

It happened about this time that the Earl of Oakendale was introduced to her by her father; and, after a few interviews, she was told to consi|der him as her lover and destined husband.

Lord Oakendale was a man whom Miss Rains|ford might have liked, had not her heart been devoted to Vincent; yet the idea of being a Countess, with all the flattering appendages of a title, gave a preponderancy to the scale of gran|deur, and made her accept of Lord Oakendale's proposals, and her father's commands, without any seeming reluctance.

Meantime Vincent could not bear to lose the golden prize, and have the mortification to be|hold, what he had thought so well secured to him|self, given to another. Thus fired with jealousy, and disappointed in his ambitious views, he me|ditated mischief and revenge. First he thought to induce her to consent to a clandestine marriage; but the idea that, in case of high resentment from her father, she might, instead of a large portion, not bring him a shilling, proved a too weighty consequence, and he durst not risque such a chance.

The next suggestion wore a more feasible as|pect. Miss Rainsford loved him passionately, though he believed she loved title and splendor better; the only way then to supplant his rival, and secure his interest, was to make a marriage with him necessary to save her reputation. There were tender moments, in which Miss Rainsford's prudence might yield to love, and probable con|sequences might bring even the Earl to solicit a marriage, to which, under no other circumstan|ces, he would have consented.

Having concerted this plan; not indeed the most honorable one, but such as might well be ex|pected from the nature of the parties concerned,

he studied, at the next private interview, the most insinuating address, and the most pathetic com|plaints. He knew the exact state of Miss Rains|ford's heart, and upon what principle all her sen|timents were guided. He lamented, in terms of despair, his cruel and unmerited fate; he declar|ed his love was founded upon the noblest basis, that of affection for her alone; whilst Lord Oak|endale's was merely for her fortune, without the smallest particle of passion for that enchanting person, which was the sole object of his adora|tion; yet such was his regard, such his self-de|nial, that he would renounce all hope, and yield her to his hated rival; whilst he tore himself a|way, never more to behold her, and sought, in the field of battle, that death which alone could release him from the misery of his present suffer|ings.

This was a language too persuasive, and too powerful, for the tender feelings of Miss Rains|ford. Charmed with such flattering delusions she could refuse nothing to so fond and tender a lover; her melting heart acknowledged all his influence, and she became his mistress. For a|while the stolen enjoyments became sweeter by repetition; but what were the mortifying reflec|tion

she underwent, when a short time shewed the effects of their illicit connexion.

This was the boundary of Vincent's wishes, and he concluded his fortune made; yet such was the strange and unnatural disposition of Miss Rainsford, whether ambition got the better of all softer ties, or from whatever cause her mind was influenced, she no sooner discovered her situation than she conceived a mortal aversion to the au|thor of her disgrace; and, contrary to all his ex|pectations, and to his utter astonishment, she gave every encouragement to the match with Lord Oakendale. Struck with aversion and dis|gust to the woman, who could be capable of ac|ting so contrary to delicacy and every feminine virtue, his heart recoiled at the idea of a marri|age with her, and he secretly triumphed in the disgrace of his rival.

Meantime some embarrassing circumstances oc|cured relating to the settlements of estates, and necessarily delayed the match, which Miss Rains|ford could not, with propriety, hasten. Her situation, therefore, was become truly dreadful; and before the completion of the settlements, she found herself four months advanced in her preg|nancy,

by the man whom she had sacrificed to her ambition; and which ambition still urged her to complete the sacrifice by giving her hand at the altar to Lord Oakendale. The consequence of this marriage has before been described.

Driven to the last extremity, within two months of her time, every day making it more difficult to conceal her situation, and finding it impossible, from the date of her marriage to impose the fruit of her guilt upon her Lord, she had recourse to the counsel and opinion of a confidante—the woman who had been her favored attendant from her youth, and to whose pernicious flattery, and improper advice, she, in some degree owed her ruin!

This woman's name was Marcel; she was a native of France, and had improved the deceit and hypocrisy of that country by the lowest vices of this; she seemed, however the proper friend, upon this trying emergency. After lady Oak|endale had bribed her to secrecy, she intrusted her with the whole history of her amour; and, having consulted upon the wisest and most pru|dent methods, she suggested that of retiring into the country, under the pretence of ill health,

where she would remain till after her delivery; and this was the more easy to put in practice from the little attention Lord Oakendale had ever shewn to his lady since their marriage; for he seemed never in the smallest degree, interested a|bout any thing she did, or ever paid the least re|gard to her health, or any thing that concerned her. Thus was she at full liberty to pursue her own plan and inclinations.

Every thing therefore was arranged, and she went to a retired village in Buckinghamshire; where, passing for the widow of an officer, she was delivered of a son in the presence of only the accoucheur, and her faithful confidante.

The former had been engaged to secrecy upon his honor, for he was above taking a larger bribe than his see; and Marcel was to provide a pro|per nurse, and entirely undertake the charge of the infant.

The gentleman employed upon this occasion was by nature humane, and from principle gene|rous. Without prying into the reasons which made secrecy necessary, he always wished to wit|ness the effusions of natural affection from the mo|ther to her offspring, under whatsoever circum|stances

it might be produced; he therefore took the smiling babe to the sight of lady Oakendale, in the hope that its helpless innocence might plead for maternal protection. But no sooner had she cast her eyes upon the unfortunate object of her disgrace, than she gave a shriek of abhorrence, and begged he would take the odious brat from her sight!

Shocked at her inhuman exclamation, he ten|derly wrapped up the infant, saying, "Poor child! this unnatural behavior will lead me to discover the mystery of thy birth; and amply shall thy unfeeling mother provide for thy neces|sities."

He proved his words; for he made such enqui|ries as satisfied his curiosity, and justified he measures he took to see that the child was pro|perly nursed; and during its infancy and after|wards, he repeatedly obtained large sums from lady Oakendale for its education; for he made no scruple to inform her ladyship that he knew the whole secret, which he threatened to expose and discover, unless she acquiesced in his demands. In reality he could only guess at the transaction; but as her allowance for pin-money was very am|ple,

and he had taken an uncommon fancy to the child, as it advanced in years, he took the entire charge of him, and chose that the boy's education should be upon the most liberal plan.

Nothing was omitted that could improve his capacity, and give him every advantage; and he had attained the age of twenty years, adorned with every grace and accomplishment, which ele|gance of person and a natural understanding, en|larged by the highest cultivation, could bestow, without ever experiencing one glance of parental favor.

There was no part of his life, in which he had been led to suppose himself the son of this humane guardian of his youth.

After repeated interrogatories to gain the know|ledge, to whom he owed his being, Mr. F—informed him; that he was really ignorant of the name of his father, but he knew his mother, and that some time or other he should be introduced to her. This time was now approach|ing. Mr F—was brother to Monsieur du Frene, to whom he had sent Eugene, in order to make a proficiency in the French language; and

likewise to gain that polish so necessary for a fi|nished character, and to which the easy manners of the French nation generally contributed.

The duel, in which he had so unfortunately engaged, together with the tender attachment he had formed with Laura, were improprieties of a sufficient magnitude for Mr. F—to recall him to England; and to take care that none of the many letters, in which he vowed eternal constan|cy to Laura should ever be forwarded from En|gland. If, in this instance, Mr. F—should be blamed for duplicity and unjust dealing, it must be allowed in his favor, that he considered Eugene as a pledge of honor, for whose con|duct he must one day be accountable. He had stolen him from his nurse at a very early age, and secreted him from lady Oakendale and Marcel, in order to restore him as a polished gem when the time arrived, that his virtues should be ren|dered conspicuous.

Had Eugene fallen in love with any other than an adopted child of his brother's, he would have let the progress of their attachment taken its course; as it was, his conscience would not allow of Eugene's forming a connexion, which he con|sidered

far beneath his birth, until he had been properly acknowledged by those to whom he was united by the dearest ties.

Lady Oakendale, from the hour of her marri|age, had never experienced a moment of felicity, except that which she derived from a round of dissipation, and moving in the vortex of fashion. Her Lord never cared for her. The fortune she had brought him was the only inducement he ever had for making her his wife; and neither of them had endeavored to render the marriage state hap|py, by any attempts to please the other.

Lady Oakendale had, soon after her marriage, the mortification to hear that Captain Vincent had succeeded to a title and estate, by the unex|pected death of a distant relation. He was now Edward Lord Vincent of Vincent Castle, in the kingdom of Ireland. He had been twice marri|ed; but had no children by either of his wives, and the title and estate at his death would de|scend to a very distant branch, if he left no heir; but he had a power of appointing a successor to his estate, though not to his title.

The fruit of his intrigue with lady Oakendale often occured to his remembrance. He had ne|ver

made any inquiries of her ladyship concern|ing it; and she, on account of her having the se|cret profoundly observed, had carefully kept him from every information concerning the event. Lord Vincent, now wishing more than ever to know if he was a father, and feeling the necessity of appointing an heir to his vast fortune, caused an indirect application to be made to her lady|ship concerning his offspring, and to know if it now existed.

Alarmed at this unexpected demand, and ter|rified left the secret should be discovered, she in|stantly sent for Mr. F—, desiring him to con|ceal, as far as possible, the son she knew he had taken under his care, as it was now become a matter of the utmost importance to her, that his birth should be buried in oblivion; and as she had assured Lord Vincent that the child had died in its infancy, it became necessary to engage Mr. F—to corroborate the falshood.

Having, therefore, explained her motives, Mr. F—found this was the moment of discovery for which he had so long wished and was likely to be fortunate for his young favorite; he there|fore determined to dissemble and acquiesce in her

demands till he had gained the wished for intelli|gence; he therefore told her ladyship, that it en|tirely depended upon herself to secure his confi|dence, by informing him, without reserve, who was the real father of that son, whose future con|cealment alone depended upon a true information.

She at first resolutely refused to make the dis|covery; he knowing it would be in vain to en|treat, or to urge any plea of the injustice she was doing her son, or to address her tender feelings, he only peremptorily insisted upon knowing the truth, as the only terms upon which he would keep the secret.

After a very long and obstinate resistance, and making the future concealment of her son the condition of her confession, she informed him, that Lord Vincent was his father.

Mr. F—was elated with pleasure at the pros|pect of seeing the noble youth, the darling of his hopes, so happily placed; and, instead of ven|turing to let him remain where he then was, in another kingdom, he immediately sent for him home, determined to keep him under his own eye till the time arrived when he should introduce

him to his father, lest the machinations of lady Oakendale might frustrate his design. Nor were these apprehensions needless; for her ladyship, having informed her faithful confidante of the result of Mr. F—'s business, this artful woman instantly foresaw the consequences, and begged her ladyship, as she valued her reputation and peace of mind, to counteract the designs of Mr. F—; which she thought might easily be con|trived, by demanding to have an interview with her son, in which Mr. F—might be present when her ladyship should affect so much fondness for her son, that Mr. F—might be so effectu|ally deceived, that he would be induced to in|trust him to her care; after which she would en|gage to have him concealed.

Meantime Mr. F—recalled Eugene from France, and it seemed now a proper time to in|troduce him to his mother. In consequence of this plan, so coincident with theirs, and so well calculated to facilitate the designs of Marcel, Eu|gene was accordingly introduced to his mother in the presence of Mr. F—; who, partial, in the highest degree, to the young man, could not sup|pose, but when a mother beheld the offspring of

her fondest love in the person of one of the finest figures nature ever formed, and animated by the most interesting countenance that could adorn the human frame, her heart would undergo a change of sentiment, and a thousand tender nameless sen|sations would betray the feelings of a mother. Nor was he quite mistaken. Lady Oakendale, depraved as she was, could not behold the capti|vating figure and manly beauty of his features, softened to a tenderness of expression at being in the presence of a parent, without emotions to which she had before been a stranger; and when he threw himself at her feet, with the most affec|tionate duty, a tear stole down her cheek; and, pressing him to her bosom, she had no occasion to have recourse to dissimulation to impress the ma|ternal embrace.

Her trembling voice could scarce articulate a sentence, and she would have continued holding him to her heart, till the callous texture had been softened to the most virtuous sensibility, had she not been recalled to recollection by the interposi|tion of Marcel; who, observing the soft sensa|tions which the sight of her son had inspired, re|minded her of the dangerous consequences that might attend her giving way to them; and lady

Oakendale instantly resumed her composure, and steadily preserved her purpose.

Mr. F—saw that she had been seriously af|fected, and the sight gave him infinite satisfac|tion; but he could not entirely rely upon a cha|racter like her's, and happily suspecting that she was, in some degree, acting a part, he would not therefore be persuaded to leave Eugene with her; but promising she should soon be indulged with another interview, he took him away, and lost no time in preparing his mind to expect the em|braces of a father also, though he did not yet think proper to inform him who he was.

Lord Vincent was now in Ireland, and Mr. F—impatiently waited his return to England, when he would restore him a son every way wor|thy the honours of his house and name; and from whom he expected Eugene would meet with a more sincere reception than he had received from his mother. He was at the same time particular|ly cautious to conceal Eugene, as much as possi|ble from the knowledge of lady Oakendale, till the time came when he should be safe under the protection of Lord Vincent.

The lively disposition of Eugene could but ill brook the restraints imposed upon him by Mr. F—, and could not conceive any danger should arise from his going whithersoever his fancy led him.

He had one night been at Ranelagh, in order to amuse his mind, which became oppressed in the extreme, on account of never hearing any thing of his beloved Laura. He had written let|ter after letter, fraught with the tenderest expres|sions of regard, and everlasting constancy, all of which were intercepted by Mr. F—, for the reasons heretofore mentioned.

The horrid accounts every day received from Paris, filled his mind with the most cruel appre|hensions; and, although he tried to divert his fears from so melancholy a subject, by frequently running to places of public resort; yet he always returned with a double portion of wretchedness, as they only recalled back the remembrance of similar scenes past with his beloved Laura.

When he returned from Ranelagh the above mentioned evening, he was unhappy more than usual. He told Mr. F—he had been in com|pany with a gentleman who had given him so

charming a description of the Lakes in Westmore|land and Cumberland, that if any thing could re|move his melancholy, and divert his imagination, it would be a visit to those celebrated Lakes, and to rambling about that romantic and delightful country. Mr. F—thinking he might in such an excursion, be more out of the reach and pow|er of lady Oakendale, than he was by staying in London, thought it best to make no opposition to his request; and Eugene, therefore, obtained leave to make a tour to the nothern part of En|gland, where, he said, he should find some young friends, with whom he had formed an intimacy at school. Mr. F—could not refuse so reason|able a request, and imprudently suffered him to depart without any attendant.

Having promised to write very frequently, Eugene took an affectionate leave of Mr. F—, with no other weight upon his mind than that which arose from his being ignorant of the fate of Laura.

After a fortnight had elapsed, and Mr. F—had heard not from Eugene, he began to be a|larmed. He took every method in his power to gain intelligence of him, but without effect. His

mind underwent a tormenting suspense, for he really loved him like a son; and, although he did not chase to inform lady Oakendale whither he was gone; yet such were his suspicions of her, that he caused such an application to be made to her as he thought might bring him some inform|ation; but all to no purpose; she pleaded igno|rance of his destination and pretended great con|cern at the circumstance.

Mr. F—suffered the most poignant grief; he accused himself for allowing him to depart a|lone, and on this score he endured many bitter reflections.

As time wore away, the sweet hope of present|ing a wished for son to a fond father, which son justified by his merit and accomplishments, and even exceeded the most sanguine hopes of the most partial parent; these hopes, and flattering ideas, at length gave place to the bitter remem|brance of the loss each had sustained.

The continual advertisements he caused to be inserted in the daily papers, besides hand-bills, and every other inquiry which could lead to a discovery, were ineffectually continued for many

months, without bringing him the smallest in|formation, or clue, to recover his favorite.

Fatigued with repeated disappointments and not knowing what further methods to pursue, he waited upon Lord Vincent, the first hour he heard he was arrived in England, informing that nobleman that he was a father; but that his mind was torn with perplexity as to the present exis|tence of that son, on whose virtues and accom|plishments Mr. F—expatiated with the fond partiality of a parent.

Lord Vincent felt a glow of parental affection rise in his bosom, which was every moment in|creased on the recital of his merits, and soon oc|casioned an impatient desire of beholding him.

When Mr. F—mentioned his recent loss, Lord Vincent was firmly persuaded that lady Oakendale was privy to the concealment; par|ticularly when Mr. F—informed him, that he suffered Eugene to go alone; and that he had since his departure, discovered that he had a pri|vate interview with lady Oakendale the night be|fore he set out upon his tour, and informed her to what part of England he was going to make his excursion.

Persuaded in this opinion, they debated upon the measures to be pursued, which would be most likely to bring her ladyship to make the discove|ry. They agreed to begin by gentle methods, and treating with her by the most friendly and secret persuasions; and if this failed, to make more decided and arbitrary conditions.

In the meantime, and during these negocia|tions, Lord Oakendale's mind suffered so much painful uneasiness, as to produce a slow fever; he felt a cruel disappointment at the loss of Laura, for whom he had conceived the most ardent af|fection; and the manner of her disappearance, together with the dreadful and unaccountable phantoms 〈…〉〈…〉 Abbey, had so much agitated his imagination, that it was sometime before he could bring his reason to that state of composure, which was necessary in the projecting a scheme he had planned for investigating the horrors which had so imposed upon his understanding at the Abbey.

He had formed and rejected many designs for this purpose, when lady Oakendale, before he adopted any, was seized with a violent illness; the consequence, (as Mr. F—supposed) of the

negociation between her and Lord Vincent, con|cerning the concealment of Eugene.

Lord Oakendale seldom gave himself much trouble about her, and her indispositions were as little regarded as herself; but this became of a very serious nature; and, upon his lordship's be|ing desired to attend her sick bed-chamber, he obeyed the summons with unusual alacrity, se|cretly hoping that he should not only be released from a bondage, from which he had never deriv|ed the smallest comfort or satisfaction; but should yet be honorably blessed with the hand of his char|ming Laura, could she ever again be discovered.

Elated with these hopes, he hastened to her apartment with no unpleasing ideas; and, throw|ing an artful dejection into his countenance, he was approaching her bed with a tender expression of enquiry; when he started, and was diverted from his purpose by the surprise of beholding her with Lord Vincent on one side of the bed, and Mr. F—on the other, attended by a gen|tleman of the law taking notes from her confession.

The moment she beheld Lord Oakendale she ceased speaking. Her eye-lids fell, a sudden convulsion affected her articulation, and she had

only time to pronounce, in a trembling voice and disjointed words, "My—son!—Oakendale Abbey!—" when she sunk down and expired!

Lord Oakendale, much as he had wished for her death, was shocked at its sudden approach; and, not being able to comprehend the scene be|fore him, and still more astonished at her naming a son, together with Oakendale Abbey, he de|manded of her faithful confidante, Marcel, "who was in the room?

"Why, Lord Vincent, and the other gentle|man, were present?

"And if her lady was in her right senses when she talked of a son, and Oakendale Abbey?"

The confusion of the scene, and the sudden dissolution of lady Oakendale, prevented every one present from giving an immediate answer; and Mr. F—seeing Marcel instantly about to quit the room, instead of answering to the inter|rogatory of Lord Oakendale, he eagerly seized her arm, and leading her up to his lordship, said, "There is much to be explained, my Lord, and I look upon this woman to be able to give the clearest account of the mystery which yet remains

unfolded; for this reason it seems proper to have her secured."

Lord Vincent joined in this proposition; and, having collected proper assistance for the security of Marcel, the rest of the party left the room of the deceased, and were joined by the gentleman of the law, who proceeded to read the minutes he had taken from her ladyship's dying confession. They consisted of a faithful relation of her being four months advanced in her pregnancy by Ed|ward Vincent, then an officer in the guards, at the time she was married to Lord Oakendale.

That finding it impossible to impose upon his lordship, by pretending the child to be his, she confided her secret to Marcel; by whose contriv|ance she was in five months after her marriage delivered of a son, at—in Buckinghamshire.

That this was managed the more easily, on account of the ill terms upon which she lived with her Lord.

That Marcel had engaged to secrete the child, and keep it at nurse, which she did, at a very little expence, till the end of five years; when the woman, who had taken the charge of it, told them "that he had been stolen from her."

That this circumstance gave them no great un|easiness till about three years after, when Mr. F—declared himself to have been the person who had taken the child away, and from that time made large demands upon her for its educa|tion, always threatening her with a discovery in case of non-compliance.

That within the last two years Mr. F—had insisted upon her seeing the young man, and ex|torted a confession from her of his real father, to which, after great reluctance, she yielded, and consented to see her son. She confessed, that the interview made her feel herself a mother; but the idea of his being introduced into the world as the son and heir of Lord Vincent, filled her with perpetual alarm of a discovery, and made her suppress all her tender feelings, and again have recourse to Marcel, to continue some method of securing the preservation of her fame, before Lord Vincent made a public acknowledgment of him as his son. Various methods were suggested; but none seemed proper to adopt, till the idea of travelling alone was artfully contrived to allure him from Mr. F—; and the gentleman, who

met him at Ranelagh, was by them engaged for the purpose of facilitating their design; and hav|ing so ordered, that his curiosity should be excit|ed by the accounts of Oakendale Abbey, he was there entrapped, and secured in a subterrane|ous part of it, where, to the best of her know|ledge, he now remained.

This was the substance of lady Oakendale's confession; and an oath of confirmation was ad|ministered to her by the gentleman of the law, who was also a justice of the peace. She found, however, her mind was not relieved by the con|fession, unless Lord Oakendale was made ac|quainted with her guilt, and would pronounce her pardon; and, being sensible that the hour was appoaching, when the most ample confession would not lessen her crimes whilst one particle of dissimulation remained, she begged to see Lord Oakendale, declaring her intention of acknow|ledging her deception, and imploring his par|don; but the design was sufficient, and we hope accepted; she was, therefore spared the confusion of confessing to him, whom she had most injured, by the Minister of Death, who, on the moment

of Lord Oakendale's approach, prevented her adding more than the above-mentioned words.

Having recovered their surprise, and given ne|cessary orders for the interment of her ladyship, Lord Oakendale was equally desirous with Lord Vincent to make the investigation of Oakendale Abbey. He had no doubt but Laura had been entrapped, as well as Eugene; and the impatient desire he had of making her his wife, increased his anxiety, and even possessed him with the tor|ments of jealousy, lest Eugene, being in similar circumstances with herself, might be captivated with her charms, and endeavor to make his escape with her. Stimulated with ideas of this nature, his mind was kept in a perpetual agitation, and his impatience would scarcely allow time for the necessary preparations to be made for the journey, and to collect proper persons for so arduous an undertaking.

Marcel would not, or could not, give them a|ny more information than what has been already related. She declared she had never seen Oak|endale Abbey, although she had reason to be|lieve that Eugene was at this time concealed there; she was however, kept in close custody.

Lord Oakendale determined, that if Laura was found, no forms of ceremony should for an hour retard his marriage with her. He consider|ed the confession Lady Oakendale had made of her duplicity and infidelity a sufficient release from the marriage covenant; and which gave him full liberty to form a second union, long before the usual time of mourning was expired for the first. It was not to be supposed he should be upon any terms of great cordiality with Lord Vincent; yet, as the present case made him as interested a person as himself in the projected discovery, he allowed himself to wave all animosity for the pre|sent, and to confer with Lord Vincent upon the plan of operation necessary to be made upon the occasion.

At length the arrangements were all adjusted, and a chosen set were appointed to accompany the two Lords, Mr. F—and the lawyer, into Cumberland, in order to discover both Eugene and Laura, and to erase the Abbey to the ground, if it was necessary to facilitate the search.

Lord Oakendale was elated with hope, and would allow no suggestion to intrude that bore the most distant idea to any circumstance that was

not consonant to his wishes. Laura, the charm|ing Laura, should now be lady Oakendale, and put in immediate possession of all his wealth. Fan|cy had painted her with additional allurements; and her having been so long confined in a subter|raneous abode, would render her more alive to freedom, and grateful for his splendid offers. With these flattering hopes he endeavored to be|guile the tedious hours that intervened before the time fixed for their departure.

On the evening of the day before they were to begin their journey, he was indulging in one of the above delightful reveries, when a servant opened the door of his library, and informed him that a gentleman wished to speak with him upon business of importance, which could not be trusted to a messenger.

Lord Oakendale peevishly ordered him to be admitted, at the same time determining that no business whatsoever should occasion a delay to the projected expedition. Accordingly a middle|aged clergyman was ushered into the room, and, after the usual compliments had passed, he asked

Lord Oakendale "if he had any relation in the East-Indies?"

Lord Oakendale replied, "Yes, he had once a brother, whom, he believed, was slain in battle in the East-Indies."

The gentleman whose name was Martin, then proceeded to inform his lordship, "that a few weeks since he was called upon to attend one of his dying parishioners, whose conscience seemed to labor under some very heavy oppression; and who said he had been on board a ship coming to England from the East-Indies, when she was tak|en by a French privateer. That there were sev|eral passengers on board, amongst whom was a little girl, who had a small bag of quilted satin tied round her neck, which she always held with great care, and consequently he supposed con|tained something valuable. Indeed, he heard one of the women on board say that it did, and caution the child not to part with it. That he had frequently meditated to get it from her, but never had an opportunity till the day they were taken to the prison in Paris; when, seeing one of the French soldiers tearing it from the neck of the child, he persuaded him that it was only a charm

against infection; and, by making some trifling exchange, secured the bag for his own. Upon opening it, he found it contained some jewels of value, carefully concealed, by being quilted be|tween the satin. There was likewise a miniature picture of an officer, and a written paper, signi|fying who the child was. The picture and the paper he preserved; but the jewels he sold, and found the money amounted to some hundred pounds.

The picture and the paper he always wished to have restored to their right owners, and, upon the exchange of prisoners, he made some enquiry af|ter the relations of the child; but, finding they were persons of consequence, he was afraid to make any application to them, left it might lead to a discovery of the theft. The time he said was now come, when he would give worlds never to have had them in his possession; nor could he re|collect one single satisfaction or pleasure that the money for which the jewels sold had given him; that he sincerely repented having wronged the child; that he begged I would pray to God to forgive him; and all the restitution he could now make, was to place the picture and the paper in my hands, beseeching me, if possible, to find out

the child, or its relations, and to restore what yet remained of their property. He added, that he had lately met with a woman who had been taken prisoner with the child, and who said it had been put on board, and intrusted to her care by a female negro, who had lived with its parents; and that the child was carried from the prison by a surgeon, of the name of du Frene, who attend|ed them. Mr. Martin having finished his relation, Lord Oakendale tremblingly opened the paper. The first thing that struck his sight was the picture of his brother; that brother upon whom he had bestowed so little care or anxiety, and whose ex|act resemblance, now before his eyes, recalled to his recollection his many virtues, and filled his heart with remorse and regret that he had so cruelly neglected them, and paid so little regard to his memory. Having paid this late tribute of affection, he proceeded to open the paper, which contained the following lines, written in his bro|ther's own hand:

"Laura Carleton, daughter of William Carle|ton, and Zelima his wife; was born at Madras, April the 14th, 1778, and is the only surviving heir of the Oakendale family.

"WILLIAM CARLETON."

"This paper, picture and jewels, are the pro|perty of Laura Carleton."

No sooner had Lord Oakendale read this paper than the colour forsook his cheeks; his eyes glistened, and he held the paper in his trembling hand, while he preserved a profound silence. A flash of conviction rushed upon his mind that Lau|ra might be, and was in all probability his own niece; that Laura, whom he was upon the point of making his wife. He hesitated for a few se|conds in the faint hope that some mistake might prove the matter to be different; but the circum|stances were too strong to admit of any doubt; and however he might wish to disbelieve the facts, an impulse of a different nature from what he had hitherto experienced, made him shudder for his own crimes, at the same time that he felt an un|common interest in the fate of Laura.

He again looked at his brother's picture: a|gain he examined the hand writing: it was cer|tainly his brother's, for it was a remarkable hard; and again it recalled to his remembrance the thousand virtues which had marked his character, and the little value that had been placed upon

them by those who stood in the nearest relation to him. Should Laura really be his neice, and the only surviving branch of the house of Oakendale, with what pleasure should he allow her the pos|session of that fortune, to which she derived as much claim from her virtues, as from heriditary right!

Such are the ties of nature, that his pride ex|ulted in calling that woman niece, whom he had a short time before designed and solicited for pros|titution.—During the time these reflections were passing in his mind, he sat musing without uttering a word: but at last recollecting Mr. Martin, he thanked him with unfeigned sincerity, and told him he had every reason to believe that he had seen the person, who exactly answered the descrip|tion of the child, and whom he had no doubt was his neice.

He then proceeded to thank Mr. Martin for the trouble he had taken to convey the inform|ation to him: and, without telling him by what means she came there, he added, that he verily believed she was at this time concealed in an in|terior part of an old Abbey belonging to himself in Cumberland. That the next morning had

been fixed for their journey there, to make an en|quiry which the present information he had re|ceived would greatly accellerate.

Mr. Martin congratulated Lord Oakendale on the prospect of finding his niece; and here it may not seem improper to give our readers a more par|ticular account of Laura's father, in order more clearly to elucidate the identity of her birth.

We have already mentioned that Captain Wil|liam Carleton embarked with his regiment for the East Indies.

After being driven by contrary winds, they found themselves chased by an Algerine Corsair.

The spirit of the English determined to stand an engagement, in which they were victorious, and very soon boarded the Corsair. On her way to Sallee, to pay the ransom of her brother, who was a captive, there was a Greek Lady, of illust|rious birth, and exquisite beauty, and with her four female attendants, who were taken prisoners. The gallantry of the English officer was exerted in acts of attention and consolation to the fair Greeks, who, together with the riches of the car|go,

made it a prize worthy the bravery of their nation.

The beauty of the chief captive whose name was Zempronia, was the subject of universal ad|miration: and the captain of the vessel appropri|ated to her his cabin, and gave her every accom|modation that could render her situation such as to make her forget she was his prisoner: yet nothing could lessen or sooth her affliction: she wept in|cessantly, and every effort of attention was only answered by the most heart-rending sighs and la|mentations: one of her attendants, about the age of sixteen, appeared the least unhappy. Her be|witching smiles, and captivating graces, fascinat|ed the heart of William Carleton; a slight wound he had received in the engagement seemed to ex|cite all her pity, and several tender glances had betrayed a reciprocal passion.

If the elegant person and accomplishments of William had attracted the admiration of Zelima, he was no less enamoured of the fair Greek. She learned his language with facility; but in that of love she was still a greater proficient: and, by the time they arrived at the port of Grand Cana|ry, where they were to release the lady and her

attendants, Zelima's heart was not less wounded than her lover's at the cruel idea of separation. She was charmed with all that he possessed. Her religion, her country, and her laws, were all sac|rificed to the powerful passion of love; and an English priest, then residing at that port, tied the indissoluble knot.

She took leave of her mistress Zempronia with regret, but not with reluctance; all her duty, love and obedience, were alone due to her hus|band; and she attended her beloved William to the East, where her tender affection, and unremit|ting attention, rendered him the happiest of men.

He wrote to Lord Oakendale an account of his marriage with the fair Grecian, and anticipated the pleasure he should derive from presenting this lovely creature to his brother and sister, when the conclusion of war should allow him to return to England; but Lord Oakendale made his marry|ing a servant a pretence for never answering any of his letters; and three years after, when the Honorable William Carleton's name appeared in the list of those that were killed in battle, Lord Oakendale's heart only palpitated with a secret

joy, that the many virtues, and universal good character of his brother, would no longer up|braid, and be a restraint upon his own vices He put on the exterior of mourning; but he made no sort of inquiry after the widow of William Carle|ton, or wished to hear that he had left an inherit|or to his many virtues.

Thus were the ties of blood dissolved, and a deserted orphan left to seek that protection from strangers which she had a right to claim from re|lations so near to her. William Carleton had been a bad economist; he had a small younger brother's fortune, and his generous heart was too compassionate, and too liberal, to his fellow crea|tures, to allow him to be affluent. He was, in|deed, too much engaged with his present felicity to make provision for future misfortune, and he was killed by a random shot in the moment of victory!

The fatal wound which deprived him of life was rendered still more poignant by the reflection of leaving Zelima but ill-provided for. She, in|deed, did not experience the want of his atten|tion; for no sooner were the fatal tidings brought her of William's death, than her heart sickened,

and she only survived to cast a mournful look up|on the mangled corpse of her husband, gave a convulsive shriek, and expired, leaving a female, infant "unpitied, and forlorn!"

Lord Oakendale threw off all remembrance of his brother with his mourning, and from that time never thought more of the connexion. He followed his pleasures with unremitting avidity, till after the course of a few years, when his con|stitution began to warn him by frequent intima|tions that the career, in which he was so deeply engaged, would some day be interrupted.

In these moments of admonition he wished for he knew not what comforts and resources; real friends he had none. The tender endearments of a family he had never known, and his heart felt an aching void for those dear attentions and soli|citudes, which can only be experienced from the tenderest ties.

In these irksome hours, the death of lady Oak|endale was his ultimate wish, and opened to his fancy an inviting path, when he might be at li|berty to marry some beautiful young creature, without fortune, whose gratitude would secure to him her affections, and whose youth and health

would insure heirs to his possessions. But at the time these wishes were formed his hopes were vain; for lady Oakendale was then by no means likely to give him such a chance. Her health was her first care, and, to an excellent constitu|tion she added the most studious attention to its preservation, living by rule, and studying the whole vocabulary of wholesomes. Neither did her present conduct afford him any other hope of breaking the marriage fetters; for amidst the few virtues she did possess, she adhered strictly to that of chastity, allowing no kind of mercy to those who had been only suspected to have violated the marriage vow.

Such were Lord and lady Oakendale; when the former, finding his life every day more unhappy, and viewing the infirmities of old age at no great distance from him, he endeavored to beguile the tedious length of the summer-days, by visiting different water places, which were situated in the most unfrequented and obscure parts of England, where he went by another name, in order to fol|low his favorite propensities; so that, when he returned to London, and again assumed his name and character as a senator, he might condemn those vices he had not only been practising him|self,

but seducing the innocent and unwary to fall into.

It was during the last summer that he had made an excursion to an interior part of South Wales; from whence his fancy led him to Milford-Haven, where, as he was one evening strolling near the sea, he accidentally met with Laura, the uncom|mon charms of whose person attracted his notice, and he soon formed a plan of becoming acquaint|ed with her, which succeeding, he in a short time, found himself violently attached.

Her beauty was the least of her merit, and a certain refinement and delicacy which pervaded her whole manner, checked the licentious im|pulses which the charms of her person occasioned, and he found it necessary to be more upon his guard, and to act with more circumspection in the present case, than any he had ever before encountered.

Her sensible conversation, the observations she had made upon the world, as far as she had seen it, would have made her an entertaining compa|nion, had no other charms captivated his senses; but, alluring as she was both in mind and person, he found it impossible to resist so engaging an ob|ject:

he therefore discovered as much as he could of her story, and found her chief misfortune, and which she most lamented, was the loss of a lady who had brought her up, and from whom she was divided in her passage from France.

Having gathered thus much from her own ac|count, he concluded she was the natural daughter of Monsieur du Frene, who had presented her to his wife as a foundling; that Monsieur was dead, and in all probability she would never again see Madame.

From these circumstances he considered her as a lawful prize for him, and would have immedi|ately offered her a settlement as a mistress, had not a certain dignity, and modest superiority in her manner, awed his freedom, and prevented his making such a proposal. He was, however, de|termined not to lose her, and therefore formed the plan of enticing her to London, under pre|tence of placing her with a sister till she should discover Madame du Frene.

His insinuating manners and address soon gain|ed upon the unsuspicious heart of Laura; she con|sidered him as old enough to be her father; but for that reason he was still better calculated to

be her friend, and she was charmed with the pro|posal of placing her with his sister. She felt ven|eration and esteem for Mr. Thoranby (the name he had assumed) and it was not till she arrived in London that she discovered the whole of his de|ception, which, when he endeavored to palliate and excuse by pleading the most ardent love, she solemnly vowed to sacrifice her life to her honor; and, as we have before observed, he sent her to Oakendale Abbey, in hopes that the solitude of the place would induce her to lend a more favor|able ear to his wishes.

How did the retrospection of this part of his conduct now fill the mind of Lord Oakendale with corroding thoughts! A ray of gratitude to the Supreme Ruler of all events, who had not permitted him to commit a crime at which his soul shuddered, diffused over him sensations to which he had hitherto been a stranger. He made an ample confession to Mr. Martin of all his conduct, and lamented his errors in such terms of contrition and penitence, that Mr. Martin gave him all possible consolation, and readily joined the party, who were waiting to make the pro|jected search at Oakendale Abbey; to which

place their journey was completed as expeditious|ly as possible.

On their arrival at Oakendale, every thing re|mained in the state they had left it; and no vest|ige of any human being appeared to have trav|ersed its gloomy apartments. They proceeded to the room which had, on more occasions than one, caused so much terror, being now a very strong party, properly armed, and every way deter|mined to investigate the mystery.

Lord Oakendale himself led the way. The virtuous principle upon which he now searched for Laura, actuated his mind with a manly reso|lution; and he felt none of those perturbed trem|blings which had assailed his heart on a former occasion.

In one hand he firmly grasped a pistol, in the other a short sword; and having excited his at|tendants boldly to follow his example, whatever they might encounter, he proceeded into the cloister.

All was still and silent, and by force they made their way into the room which terminated it. It was totally dark, and they were obliged to light their candles before they could even distin|guish each other!

As soon as they were assisted by the lights, they perceived that the windows, through which very little light could have been admitted, were entirely stopped up, and this seemed to have been done very lately.

Lord Oakendale was convinced it was the very same apartment he had been in before; but eve|ry thing now bore a different aspect! nothing appeared in the room but a large table, and some loose boards. There were evident marks of blood upon many parts of the floor, and in one corner lay a human scull! Lord Oakendale shuddered! The idea of Laura and murder trembled in his heart; at the same time that it renewed his cou|rage, and animated his pursuit. "We will pro|ceed," said he, "and investigate this accursed mystery, or die in the attempt."

"The scull cannot be Laura's" said Mr. F—;"it could not have been in this state from the time

she has been missing;" yet it might be Eugene's, and the thought rested upon his imagination with a sickening horror!

Lord Oakendale, having searched every part of the room to no purpose, ordered the floor to be taken up; when, as the men were beginning to execute his orders, they discovered a trap-door, which was instantly opened, and they descended down several winding steps into a huge vault, which seemed to extend under the church. They lighted more candles, and left no part unsearched. No object presented itself; but they picked up bones and sculls in various parts of the vault.

Lord Oakendale fired his pistol; nothing re|turned but the vibration of its sound; after which a perfect stillness was observed, and a deep hol|low groan arrested the ears of every one present. They turned to the left, from whence the sound of the groan proceeded, and perceiving a hollow arch, they advanced towards it; but could only be admitted singly, as the sides were too close, and the roof too low to stand upright in.

Lord Oakendale still led the way, and the rest followed. He had again charged his pistol, and

he carried his sword and a candle in the other hand.

Having advanced several paces, something was thrown in his eyes by an invisible hand, and for a moment he was in total darkness! He again fired his pistol; and as soon as the sound ceased, a faint voice exclaimed, "O God, my deliver|ance is at hand!" The rest of the lights came up, and discovered a hedious figure of a man, with an uplifted bar of iron in his hand ready to strike a fatal blow on the first person who advanced. He was instantly seized, and made to deliver the keys of a grate which opened to a very small room.

Having secured the man, and entered the pri|son, in one corner of it appeared an emaciated figure, altered indeed; but in whose thin and pallid countenance Mr. F—instantly recogni|zed the features of his dear Eugene! He flew to embrace and to present him to Lord Vincent; whilst Lord Oakendale felt himself disappointed, and involuntarily exclaimed, "Where is my Laura!"

At the name of Laura, Eugene, whom the sur|prize and the joy of the scene had till then rend|ered

speechless, replied, "Laura! What Laura! Can she be in this place of horror?"

"This is no time for explanation," said Mr. F—; "let us return to the less gloomy parts of the Abbey; and as the man, who guarded this infernal dungeon, is secured we may proba|bly force him to a confession of what we still fur|ther wish to know; in the mean time let us, my dear boy, give you all the assistance in our power; and revive you by some immediate refreshment."

Eugene, altered and oppressed by the cruel confinement he had so long suffered appeared scarcely the same; yet still a smile of grateful ac|knowledgment to those who had so unexpectedly procured his enlargement, prejudiced them all in his favor; and the prospect of liberty, toge|ther with the joy of beholding the faces of those whom he knew to be his friends, animated his eyes, and gave a glow to his pale cheeks.

Lord Vincent pressed him to his bosom, and acknowledged him for his son; and, although his whole appearance bore testimony to his wretched condition, yet an open countenance, and manly deportment, distinguished the graces of his per|son, and his sentiments, such as he was able to ex|press,

did credit to, and confirmed the educa|cation which the good Mr. F—had bestowed on him.

Being returned to the other apartments, Lord Oakendale asked Eugene, in a melancholy tone of voice, if he had, during his confinement, ever seen or heard of a young lady in the Abbey?"

Eugene replied "that he had not." He said, "on the day he had gained the keys of the Abbey, he thought to amuse himself with observing the structure of the rooms, without supposing that a|ny human beings, besides himself were within|side of it. The inhabitants of Oakendale, and particularly the man from whom he had the keys, had told him of ghosts and spectres;—but this made him only the more eager to reconnoitre the place; and not being the least apprehensive of any supernatural causes, he fearlessly walked about the rooms, in which he saw nothing either to engage his attention, or excite his fears; till at last coming into one of the rooms on the first floor, he was attracted by a portrait, not in very good preservation, but whose features and coun|tenance bore so striking a resemblance to Laura,

that he was fixed to the spot, and stood gazing at it with surprise and admiration.

"He had just taken from his pocket a small letter-case, in which was a little sketch he had himself attempted upon vellum, of the sweetest features in the world; and was examining and comparing the likeness, when he heard footsteps, and instantly found himself pinioned down and secured. All resistance was in vain, and he was hurried down to the grated room in the vault from whence they had now so happily released him; and where he was only supplied with com|mon necessaries, debarred of light, and every social comfort.

"He had" he said, "during his confinement, seen many different faces in the persons who guarded him, and brought his provisions, and each were uniformly silent to the questions he constantly put, in order to gain information of the place he was in, and their designs. Once he had attempted to escape, but was only more closely guarded afterwards. He had heard strange noises, and had reason to believe that some secret practices were carried on in the Abbey; but of what nature he could not give the most distant

guess. His spirits had sunk to a degree of wretch|edness past all description at the idea of never gaining his liberty, and his mind had given way to the most cruel despair, when he was roused only to a kind of callous indifference upon the re|port of the first pistol; but when he heard the second fired, and saw through the grate that the guard was agitated, and gathered up the dust to throw at some object which appeared with a light, he felt a ray of comfort to which he had long been a stranger, and which he had so joyfully experienced by his enlargement."

The next step was to interrogate the guard, who, after an obstinate silence, said, "That he was hired for the purpose of guarding the grate, and was relieved in the office by another, who was somewhere about the Abbey." But, after many promises and threatnings of future rewards and punishments, and, after having absolutely disclaimed the knowledge of any other person being confined in the Abbey, he confessed, "he had been hired by a set of people, whose business it was to steal dead bodies, and bring them to the Abbey for defection; that there was a private door from the church-yard into the cloister, where they used to be brought and deposited in the room

which they had partitioned off for the purpose, and which has before been described; that the bo••es were afterwards thrown into the vault from the trap door; that this had been a practice for many years; and, by having the range of the Abbey, they had taken care to preserve it for themselves by taking methods to frighten, and effectually keep away every guest that made any attempt to inhabit it." He added, moreover, "that they frequently procured bodies that were hanged at, or near Carlisle; and that a man, who was hanged for murder in the neighborhood, and whose body was brought there, and hastily de|posited in an obscure room, had as was supposed, returned to life, and made his escape; for on two men going at midnight to fetch him upon a board to the dissecting room, they found him gone, and in his place a young lady, who had sunk into a fit with terror upon their approach, and whom he believed they conveyed to a hut in the village. That some daring adventurers had lately broke in upon them; but their appearance had, as he supposed, terrified them from pro|ceeding in their attempts; but, from the time, of the young man's being a prisoner there, and their

having been pretty much alarmed, they had thought it most prudent to take away their im|plements till the young man was either removed or released. That he did not believe any person had ever been murdered there, though many bo|dies had been brought from places both near and distant, and many skeletons had been deposited in different parts of the Abbey, as well to alarm those who might see them, as to preserve them; and whenever any person came to stay there, they took care to whisper in the passages, and make other noises, to prevent their remaining in the Abbey. That he remembered hearing one of the gentlemen, he called his master, say he alarm|ed a lady, by coming through a trap-door into a gallery where she was walking by moon-light, though he believed she only saw his shadow."

Thus was this great mystery at once explain|ed, and the ghosts of Oakendale Abbey were in|deed the dead; but brought thither by those unfeeling monsters of society, who make a prac|tice of stealing our friends, and relations from the peaceful grave where their ashes, as we sup|pose, are deposited in rest!

The next enquiry to be made, was that of knowing by whose orders Eugene was entrapped in the Abbey; but of this the present informer could give no intelligence.

Lord Oakendale questioned him very closely concerning the lady whom the men had convey|ed to the hut in so alarming a state; but this man could give no further account of her than he had already mentioned; and all that could be ga|thered was, that the time, in which he said it happened, corresponded exactly with that in which Laura was missing from the Abbey.

Lord Oakendale was unhappy. The thoughts of Laura, and what might be her fate, engrossed all his attention; nor was Eugene less anxious on the same score. The idea of her being confi|ned in the Abbey with himself, filled his mind with a romantic extravagance of fancy, that they must be destined for each other.

The wild sallies of his imagination, or the more serious and pensive sentiments, which ex|hibited a mind formed for every noble purpose, charmed Lord Vincent; whilst Lord Oakendale viewed him with a kind of sullen hauteur, which

might be well accounted for by the circumstan|ces of his birth; yet, when Eugene considered him as the uncle of his Laura, a thousand att n|tive assiduities were offered to his services; and it was with difficulty Lord Vincent could prevail upon him to accompany him back to London, in order to be introduced as his son and heir. His heart dwelt upon the discovery of Laura and he would have given worlds to have been deputed the chief employer in such an investigation.

Duty to his father at length prevailed, and he reluctantly bid adieu to Lord Oakendale, who was determined to stay in the neighborhood of Oakendale, being persuaded that Laura was some|where concealed in its vicinity; and he offered large rewards to any person who should bring him intelligence of her abode.

He likewise set on foot a prosecution, and an order to apprehend, or cause to be apprehended, those wretches who had, for so many years, been the terror of Oakendale, and by their diabolical practices made the Abbey be considered the re|ceptacle for evil spirits. But all his exertions on this score proved fruitless; the perpetrators of

these acts taking care to secure themselves be|yond the reach of justice.

Meantime Laura enjoyed, with Mrs. Greville, all the comforts, as well as elegancies, for which she seemed by nature calculated.

The amusements, which filled up her time, served, in some degree, to drive from her mind those gloomy ideas, which, when indulged by indolent musings, never fail to divest the mind of its proper energy, and to cast a shade of melan|choly discontent upon every object. Her fancy, indeed, would sometimes wander back to past scenes, and recollection would exhibit the youth|ful hours when, with her dear Eugene, she pas|sed whole days, delighted and beloved, uncon|scious of the evil that awaited her, and of those many dark hours which had succeeded them; that Eugene should never have made any inquiry, or sent one letter to her before she left France, was what she could not place to any account but that of her evil destiny; it was strange and unexpect|ed; yet she was sure his heart was faithful, and some untoward accident had been the cause why two hearts, so firmly united, and formed for each

other, were now so totally divided and torn a|sunder.

These were sad reflections, and she indulged them as little as possible.

As the spring advanced, Mrs. Greville shewed her many beautiful parts of the country, and they were visited by the distant neighbors. Sir George and lady Orland were expected; and Laura, though she knew not why, felt a cheering hope as the time approached. At length the evening arrived, which brought Sir George and his lady to the Grove. Mrs. Greville presented Laura to them as a very valuable acquisition, which for|tune had bestowed upon her since she last saw them.

After the usual salutations and compliments, lady Orland stept back, and led in a lady, saying, "I have likewise an acquisition to introduce to you;" when Laura, turning her eyes to the lady as she advanced, they were fascinated with the sight of her dear and ever-valued Madame du Frene. The joy was mutual, and they rushed into each others arms with unfeigned transports of delight.

Lady Orland had received Madame Du Frene into the house in the capacity of a governess to her only daughter; and she had discovered so ma|ny amiable traits in her character, and her whole conduct and deportment had been so uniformly calculated for the trust reposed in her, that lady Orland never wished to consider her in any light, but that of a polite and accomplish|ed visitor; and had given her so many proofs of her friendship and regard, as gave her every rea|son to forget she was an emigrant. Madame Du Frene had frequently mentioned and lamented the fate of her beloved Laura, and her joy was now completed in finding her under the protection of the worthy Mrs. Greville.

After having related to each other their various adventures since the time of their separation, Ma|dame du Frene told Laura, that in one of the emi|grants, whom chance had thrown in her way to London, she had met with the woman, to whose care Laura was intrusted, in her voyage from In|dia; that she was now servant at a hotel in Lon|don, was ready to give any testimony concerning her charge as far as she knew; but she was in dai|ly expectation of a brother from the East-Indies,

who would bring a more particular account of the name and parents of Laura, as she had sent him word of her having been taken prisoner, and stripped of every thing that could direct her to find her relations.

Laura's heart glowed with gratitude to Provi|dence for having so miraculously preserved her, and raised her up friends in a country, where as yet she had no knowledge of such a claim; and she doubted not but the dispensations of his all|ruling power would enable her to find some being to whom she could prove her kindred, and pay that filial duty with which her heart overflowed.

Thus was Laura situated during the transac|tions that had been passing at Oakendale Abbey.

The society at Mrs. Greville's wanted not any addition. If the idea of Eugene sometimes cros|sed the fancy of Laura with a painful sensation, she suppressed even the sigh which the memory of past scenes, and the conviction that they would not return, would occasion; for she knew that the happiness of this world must admit of much alloy, and her present situation was such, that she had no other cause for regret.

Meantime Lord Oakendale was indefatigable in his endeavors to recover his niece, and had at last received the pleasing intelligence that she was at Mrs. Greville's. He lost not a moment to go there, charmed with the knowledge that she was under such a respectable protection.

It was after one sultry day that Laura, with the rest of Mrs. Greville's family, were sitting near the point of a rock, contemplating the pros|pect which commanded the view of a beautiful lake. She was reflecting upon her happy situa|tion, and only indulging one fearful and distant wish for a certain object ever dear to her remem|brance, when a servant, addressing Mrs. Greville, announced Lord Oakendale.

Laura started, and screaming, said, "Ah! hide me, hide me, from that wicked man!"

"Fear nothing, my love," said Mrs. Greville; "you have friends here sufficient to protect you, and Sir George will wait upon his lordship to know his business."

Sir George instantly arose to obey his aunt, and promised Laura that she should never be car|ried from them whilst he had an arm to defend her. He instantly left them, and Laura kept clinging

to Madame du Frene when they perceived Lord Oakendale and Sir George advancing towards them.

Laura trembled, but was determined to sum|mon up courage to support and exert herself, when Lord Oakendale flew to embrace her with the appellation of "my dearest niece."

Laura stood amazed, and fancied that her or|gans of hearing deceived her, or that Lord Oak|endale was practising some new deception; but when he stood for a moment in silent admiration, and she saw the tears roll down his manly cheeks, a sympathetic tear relieved her bosom, and a se|cret impulse chaced away her fears. Lord Oak|endale, in a few words, explained the mystery; and she had the inexpressible felicity of embracing an uncle.

Lord Oakendale pressed her to his bosom with parental fondness; and drawing from thence a miniature, suspended by a ribband, he held it to Laura, saying, "Behold your father's just resem|blance in this picture, which was torn from thy infant neck by ruffians; yet presented by thy penitent uncle."

Laura received it with joy, and she knelt to her uncle with filial love and obedience. Hap|piness was every where diffused around, and her heart glowed with laudable pride when Lord Oakendale thanked Mrs. Greville for her un|bounded kindness to his niece, Laura Carleton, for such he had no doubt she was; he therefore passed a few days at Mrs. Greville's, in joys to which he had hitherto been a stranger; for al|though he was now near fifty years of age, he had ever been debarred from the felicity of domestic society. He found Laura (when she was divested of fear and embarrassment) a charming companion. When she related her history and sufferings, he could not sufficiently admire her strength of mind, her resolution, and above all, her resignation. In short, he perfectly doted on her; and lost no time in sending for the testimony of the woman's brother, who had brought her over, and of whom Madame du Frene had spoken. The man was lately arrived, and brought with him a duplicate of the paper Mr. Martin had before delivered to Lord Oakendale, written in his brother's own hand.

Madame du Frene was ready to affirm, that Lau|ra was the identical child her husband had brought from the French prison; but, besides all this tes|timony,

Laura's own remembrance and account furnished the strongest proof. The confirmation was beyond a doubt; and if there had been any remaining testimony wanting from coincidence of circumstances, the uncommon likeness she bore not only to her father, but to the picture of her grandmother, which had so attracted poor Eu|gene in Oakendale Abbey, was proof sufficient; and the fondness which Lord Oakendale felt for the only offspring of his family, wanted no cor|roborating testimony that their blood flowed from the same source. Indeed when he looked back upon the strange events which had brought them together, and made known their affinity, he bles|sed the hand of heaven which had so miraculously saved him from one of the worst of crimes. And as he gazed 〈◊〉〈◊〉 unspeakable fondness, on the fair form of his lovely niece, he considered her as a rich blessing sent to comfort the remainder of his days here; and by working a reformation in his conduct, to give him hopes for those of hereafter.

Lord Oakendale testified his most grateful ac|knowledgements to Madame du Frene for her ma|ternal care of Laura, and to whose good instruc|tions he placed the uncommon merit she possessed. When he gave a recital of the search which he

had made to investigate the mystery of Oakendale Abbey, he engaged the fixed attention of his auditors; but when he came to give the account of finding Eugene, and of his long confinement in the dreary vault, the description he gave of his person and manners, convinced Laura that it could be no other than her dear Eugene; the reci|tal of whose cruel imprisonment and sufferings, softened her heart with the tenderest pity, and rendered him still more dear.

When Lord Oakendale mentioned the poor emaciated figure in the grated room, whom Mr. F—called Eugene, Laura arose with great emotion, and expressed a trembling impatience for the conclusion of a fate in which she was so nearly interested. Lord Oakendale took but little notice of her perturbation; he would not allow his heart for a moment to admit the idea of an union with Eugene. Whatever might be his merits, a something, relating, no doubt, to his birth, made his mind recoil at the bare supposi|tion; and yet Laura, with all her happiness, and all her titles, was but a wretch, if divided from that her fondest hope; but she was now to en|gage in a new scene.

Lord Oakendale and his niece, having grate|fully expressed their thanks to Mrs. Greville and all her family, for their hospitality and kindness, took their leave of the grove, and set out for London, where Lord Oakendale welcomed Laura as mistress of his house, and sole heiress to the fortunes of Oakendale. She was visited by a numerous train of company; some, who had heard her story, from real regard and friendship; others, from curiosity, and a desire of finding some flaw in a character so conspicuously superior! But her fascinating manners gained her universal admiration. She shone in the most bril|liant circles, in which her eyes continually wand|ered in pursuit of an object dearer to her than all the world.

It happened one evening, at an assembly, to which she went unaccompanied by Lord Oaken|dale, that she heard Lord Vincent announced. Her heart fluttered at the sound, and, in a mo|ment after she beheld her loved Eugene.

He did not immediately perceive her; but the moment his eyes encountered that fair form, which his heart had ever adored, he waited not for the ceremony of a formal introduction. He

made his way to her; he seized her hand, and for a few moments they forgot that the eyes of a whole assembly were rivetted upon them.

Laura was covered with blushes; and some of those malignant spirits (who, envious of her charms, and the splendor in which she shone, were continually upon the watch to lower her merit) instantly took the hint, and a burst of ill|natured whispers assailed her ear. A lady, who was her chaperon, relieved her embarrassment, by making room for Eugene to fit by her, with whom she entered into chat, as if she had been one of his most intimate acquaintance, although she had never seen him before.

This not only made Laura feel more easy, but also gave Eugene an opportunity of uttering a thousand tender inquiries, in which his heart was truly interested. The matter of his writing to her was cleared up to the entire satisfaction of both parties, who had each lamented the silence of the other. The subject of the Abbey was but slightly touched upon. It was evident they had both been confined there at the same time; and this idea afforded sensations too tender to be dis|cussed in their present situation.

Eugene could not withdraw himsef from the side of Laura, notwithstanding she represented to him the impropriety of so particular a conduct; and it had, indeed, given occasion for a thousand observations replete with witticisms and sarcasm. "Two such strange adventurers ought to come to|gether!—They had made out a most delightful romantic story!—It was pity so much invention should ever be divided!—How they must triumph at having so finely duped the two doating Lords!"

Such irony as this was the most prevailing conversation of the different parties who formed the assembly; but some few there were who saw them in a more candid and favorable light, who admired their virtues, and seriously wished to see them happily united.

Laura returned home with her spirits uncom|monly exhilerated. Lord Oakendale observed it; and, as she always gave him an account of whatever happened to her when he was not pre|sent, she would not now omit the circumstance of meeting with Eugene; well knowing that, had she not thought it right to have no concealments of this nature, he would have heard it from com|mon report; and she likewise knew that no ac|quaintance

could be continued without Lord Oakendale's approbation.

As soon as she had related the account of their meeting, and had candidly expressed her pleasure at seeing Eugene, Lord Oakendale bit his lip; his countenance betrayed evident displeasure; and, after taking three or four turns across the room, he said, "I hope, Laura, your heart has no share in the interests of this Eugene; there are circumstances in relation to that young man, which should make such a connection extremely obnoxious to me; besides, I have other views for you." Having said this, he wished her good night with less tenderness than usual.

The moment he was gone Laura burst into tears. The opposition Lord Oakendale had ex|pressed gave her extreme uneasiness; and she had so much of the obstinacy inherent to human na|ture in her composition, that this very opposition only drew closer the links her inclinations had formed. Her fond imagination had never before seen Eugene in so fair a light. What were ti|tles, honors, fortune, she had almost said friends, in comparison with her loved Eugene! To him she would sacrifice all her hopes, and all her pros|pects;

and with these resolutions she retired to rest; but her mind was disturbed; and when she saw her uncle in the morning, his disconcerted brow bespoke uneasiness; of which thinking her|self the cause, she relaxed something of her re|solves, and offered him the most soothing atten|tions.

It was not very likely to suppose that Lord Oakendale could wish to see Eugene the husband of his niece. He had indeed, acted in concert with Lord Vincent at the discovery of the mystery at Oakendale Abbey; but since that time all in|tercourse between them was broken off, and he never wished to have it renewed by any cir|cumstance, still less by that of an union between Eugene and Laura, whom he loved with passion|ate fondness; and would have made her any sa|crifice, but that on which alone her happiness de|pended.

Thus was their felicity interrupted. Eugene and Laura sometimes met, and never without la|menting the cruelty of their destiny. She return|ed Lord Oakendale's kindness by the most duti|ful attention; but she could not bring herself to

renounce her lover; neither would she marry him without her uncle's consent. She hoped time would make an alteration in his sentiments, and from that hope she drew comfort and resignation to herself; but could not so easily impress it upon her more impatient lover.

Lord Vincent loved Eugene too well to oppose his wishes; though, perhaps, he might, as well as Lord Oakendale, have formed connexions more pleasing to himself; yet he acquiesced in all his son approved, of whom he was extremely proud, and had, by an act of parliament, em|powered him to take his name, and succeed to his estates; he was, therefore, in point of rank and fortune, a match for the daughter or niece of the proudest Peer; yet the circumstances of his birth were such as could not fail to be obnoxious to the Oakendale family, and could by no power be done away; though his father's interest at court was such, that, (as the immediate heir to his title was now dead) he had obtained a new patent, en|tailing his Peerage on his natural son, Eugene.

Meantime Lord Oakendale found his health de|cline with rapidity; and he formed the fond wish of seeing his beloved Laura settled in marriage

with some man worthy her vast fortune, and still greater merit. He considered her attachment to Eugene as a childish partiality, which would yield to better prospects and a lover of his choice. With these ideas he introduced the son of his par|ticular friend, Sir Charles Burlington. He was a young man of good character and handsome per|son; but he was five years younger than Laura, and was taken from the University without hav|ing seen more of the world than a school-boy, in order to facilitate so desirable an union; for al|though Sir Charles had a very good unincumber|ed estate, which must descend to this young man, yet a match with Laura Carleton was beyond their most sanguine expectations.

When he was introduced to Laura, she could scarcely prevent her countenance from shewing marks of contempt and ridicule at the idea of his being her husband; for his appearance was more childish and youthful than was common at his age, and the embarrassment he felt on the occa|sion added to his juvenile address. She received him with politeness, but with a determined reso|lution never to consider him in any other light but that of an acquaintance.

Sir Charles Burlington was delighted with the prospect, and overwhelmed Miss Carleton with unmeaning compliments and overstrained civility. He might, indeed, be said to be courting for his son, who sat staring at Laura without once ven|turing to give an opinion or utter a sentence. Even Lord Oakendale himself was conscious of the impropriety and disproportion between them; but the fear of seeing his niece united to Eugene would have reconciled him to yet greater dispa|rity.

Laura avoided as much as possible all particular conversation with her uncle. She saw his health decline fait, and she could not bear the idea of giving him uneasiness. She gave up all her time to attendance on him, and could seldom be pre|vailed on to leave him. One night she went to the Opera, where she was met by Eugene, who placed himself by her; and in a few minutes young Burlington appeared in the pit, and, with|out any ceremony, thrust himself between them.

Laura felt herself angry, and Eugene, having gained a place on the other side of her, asked, "if he should turn the boy out of the house?" which Burlington having heard, resented with all

the impetuous fury and violence of youth; and not content with abusing Eugene, in very gross terms, he called to some Oxonians, his friends, who were in the gallery, to come and give their assistance to a devilish row that was going to begin.

Laura grew alarmed; the eyes of the audience were turned round towards them, and several glasses in the boxes were employed to bring a near|er view of the contending parties.

The lady, who came with Laura, had two daughters with her, who had never before been at an Opera; it would, therefore have been a cru|el mortification to have taken them away before it was nearly half over; neither was her carriage come for her.

But Laura could not bear to be the object of wonder, and, perhaps, ridicule; and she earnest|ly requested Eugene to get her a chair, and she would go home.

Eugene readily obeyed her command, and led her out of the pit, followed by Burlington, who expressed himself in the most childish and unhand|some terms. The truth was, he had been drink|ing,

and flushed with liquor. The idea of being the ostensible lover of Laura, gave him airs of boyish consequence, that had disturbed the plea|sure of the evening, but could not be considered in a serious light.

Eugene regarded it as no otherwise worth his notice, than as it had discomposed Laura, and deprived him sooner of her company. This he was telling her as he was going to put her into the chair, when young Burlington advanced, and seized her hand, which she drew from him with a look and expression of resentment; when just as he was about again rudely to take hold of her, one of the chairmen instantly perceived, and immediately knocked him down. Eugene, with|out paying any regard to the circumstance, put her into the chair, and attended her to Lord Oak|endale's house, in Portland-Place. He waited to see that she was perfectly recovered, and heard the following discourse from the chairman, who had knocked down young Burlington:

"Arrah, my dear young lady, I hope you will not be after being angry at my lending a blow to the lad who was after being impertinent; be|case, my dear shoul, we be old acquaintance.

Arrah sure I cannot mistake, when I took you for an angel sent to deliver poor Patrick from par|gatory; aye you're the same cratur that opened the door, and let me make my escape after I was dead, and was going to be disjointed by the hell|hounds at Oakendale; and you be too kind heart|ed to bring me again into trouble, seeing as I would be after sarving you with my heart's blood.'

Laura stared at this harrangue of the chair|man, and after some recollection recognized, in the figure and features of this Hibernian, the very same man she had beheld in so frightful a situation in Oakendale Abbey; when, as he said, he had been hanged, and cut down before he was dead; and, having been thrown into this room, was re|served for dissection; when recovering, her open|ing the door released him! She was much sur|prised at the circumstance, to which she could not but give credit. She gave him some money, and desired he would come again the next day, when she assured him no harm should befall him; but she knew that Lord Oakendale wished to see and converse with every person that could give him any information of the transactions of the Abbey.

Patrick faithfully promised to attend in the morning, by which time Laura prepared Lord Oakendale for so extraordinary a visitor; whom when he arrived, gave the following account of himself, "That he was born at Carrick, in Ireland and at a proper age was bound appren|tice to a shoemaker, with whom he nearly served his time; but getting acquainted with several bad people, he ran away from his master, and joined the White Boys, with whom he committed several outrages and violent depredations, for which he was frequently affraid of being brought to justice, but good fortune always befriended him, and, after various escapes, he came to Lon|don, where he engaged in ignoble employments, and at last served in the honorable station of lamp-lighter!

"That one evening when he was lighting the lamps at Lord Oakendale's door, a fe|male, from one of the balcony windows, accosted him and enquired his birth and education, and ask|ed him, if he should not like to fill a more lucra|tive and honorable employment than that of lamp-lighter? He replied, "He was ready to undertake any business whereby he might raise

his fortune, except that of committing murder, and that he could never bring himself to do;" up|on which she assured him, that it was not to com|mit murder that she wished him to change his profession; but only to follow, and bring her an exact account of a certain young gentleman, whose abode she pointed out, and for which ser|vice he should be very handsomely rewarded.

Nothing could better suit his inclinations and his genius, than such an idle profitable business. He accordingly served her in this capacity with such indefatigable zeal, that he gave her an exact account of all the young gentleman engaged in; and, about a fortnight after this, he was sent down to Cumberland to give information to some particular persons that the above mentioned young gentleman would be in such a place, at such a time, where, he believed, he was after|wards taken and detained. That after he had undergone an examination, as to his fidelity and secrecy, he was employed to assist those wretches, and pests of society, called resurrection men, who brought numbers of bodies to Oakendale Abbey. They were generally received in the night; and the person, who was chief superintendant, and who paid the men who procured the bodies, was

named Marcel, and was brother to the woman of that name, who lived with lady Oakendale, and was the same that spoke to him when he was lighting the lamp.

Patrick continued to inform his lordship that he grew tired of the employment, and thought it a shocking one; he therefore ran away, and joined a set of coiners in the neighborhood of Penrith, where they were soon after discovered, taken, and brought to condign punishment.

At his trial he saw his old master Marcel, at the sight of whom (to use his own expression) his blood ran cold; for he supposed he was only come to watch for his condemnation, and like a crow after carrion, bespeak his body. This was really the case; for Patrick said he remembered nothing after the fatal words of condemnation had passed upon him. His mind was all in a state of confusion; and, if any thoughts did occur, they were only on the wretched state to which his body would be subjected after he was dead; nor could the clergyman, who attended him, impress any ideas of that more immortal and im|material part of him, which could not suffer by the hands of men.

The first idea of recollection he experienced. (after the noise of the crowd and the mob that attended him to the gallows had ceased) was of extreme pain in his head and neck, and a violent oppression upon his lungs. He struggled for a few seconds, and gained respiration; a mist be|fore his eyes seemed to vanish, and he recovered sufficient sight to perceive he was in a room with a dead body hung up on one side of it. It in|stantly occurred to him that he was in the Abbey. He was horribly frightened, and he tried to ar|ticulate; but found his throat so swelled that he could only utter a guggling kind of sound; when in a moment the door of the room gently opened, and a beautiful creature entered, whom he sup|posed to be an inhabitant of that world into which he had been launched; yet, notwithstanding the appearance of this fair object, his first idea was that of making his escape which he instantly ef|fected by passing through the door she had open|ed. Transient as was the glance he had of her countenance, it nevertheless made an impression never to be effaced, and the remembrance of this fair image coming to release him from a place which contained all the horrors of death, created

in him a penitence for his past crimes, which would, he hoped in some degree, atone for the commission of them.

After this he ran as fast as his legs could carry him, till night overtook his steps, and he laid down upon the grass till morning, when he asked for a crust of bread, and a draught of water, at a small cottage, from whence he begged his way up to London, where he has ever since been in honest employment, and has sincerely and truly repented of his past crimes. When he saw Laura handed out of the opera house by Eugene, he in|stantly remembered them both; and the strong propensity he had to speak to her got the better of all decorum.

Thus ended the narrative of Patrick O'Dennis, at which Lord Oakendale expressed much sur|prise. He handsomely rewarded Patrick for his trouble, and strongly recommended to him to persevere in his good resolutions.

Lord Oakendale made some comments upon Patrick's narrative, and seeming to be in very good humor, Laura took occasion to mention the circumstances of the preceding night, not omitting to enlarge upon the firm and polite con|duct

of Eugene, in opposition to that of the more boyish and insolent behaviour of Mr. Burlington. Lord Oakendale could not but admit and approve of the former; and Laura gained so far upon his good temper, as to obtain leave to dismiss that young fop from any love-like pretentions to|wards her. This was a great step gained, and Laura promised, in her turn, to make some con|cessions equally pleasing to her uncle.

Comfort seemed once more to dawn upon her, and she had sometimes (though not often) the happiness of meeting Eugene. Lord Vincent fre|quently pressed him to make another choice, since there was no probability of Lord Oakendale's giving his consent to an union with Laura, and to see Eugene settled in marriage, was the first wish of his father. But although Eugene receiv|ed all the advances from the misses, and all the overtures from their mothers and aunts, which are authorized and encouraged by the present race of females, yet was his heart faithful to its first attachment; and, however he might despair of gaining Laura, he could never allow the idea of another woman as the sole object of his affec|tions. Indeed, these firm resolutions were be|come

highly necessary; for a young widow of the name of Sackville, laid ••uch a well-regulated siege to the heart of Eugene, and had so many, and such fascinating charms, that it was almost im|possible to resist her power. She was besides high|ly favored, and strongly recommended by Lord Vincent, for his future daughter; and this being the case, Eugene was more frequently thrown in|to her company than he would otherwise have wished; consequently the world had pronounced them a pair destined for each other, with the ad|dition of the most violent love subsisting between them.

The report could not fail to reach the ears of Laura. She did not at first give the smallest cre|dit to it, but only considered it as the idle story of the day. It was, however, so frequently, and so strongly repeated, that a spark of jealousy be|gan to light up in her mind, and several little circumstances kindled the flame to a tormenting state of uneasiness and suspense.

She seldom saw Eugene. He never came to Lord Oakendale's; and the ill state of his lord|ship's health confined her very much at home. Whenever she had met Eugene he was in compa|ny with Mrs. Sackville. Her heart could not

easily give credit to his infidelity, yet a thousand corroding fears rendered her miserable.

During this state of uncertainty Lord Oaken|dale grew every day more debilitated, and his health declined very fast. Laura was his sole comfort, and to her he looked for every satisfac|tion the world could give him. He had observed her late uneasiness, and, perhaps, guessed the cause, in which he could not but rejoice, however he might feel hurt at the effect. He redoubled his kindness to her; he told her she would be sole mistress of all his wealth at his decease, and often signified how ardently he wished her to di|vide it with some worthy man.

What were wealth and honors to Laura! There was, indeed, an object dearer to her than all the world; and that object was now said to be devo|ted to another. How cruel was her fate! yet a more severe one awaited her.

Her uncle grew every day worse; his disorder was slow but of such a nature as no remedy could reach. He found he must soon pay the debt of nature, and a lowness of spirits seized him. Something seemed to press upon his mind with a particular weight of uneasiness. Laura, ever at|tentive,

and willing to mitigate (as far as was in her power) the sorrow that seemed to oppress him, used every method she could devise to re|move the melancholy he labored under, at the same time that her own mind was cruelly agi|tated.

Lord Oakendale seemed sensible of her kind|ness. He would gaze at her for hours together, whilst he uttered the most bitter sighs; and the pain of his mind seemed to increase the malady of his body, and hastened his dissolution. It was in one of these moments that Laura said, "Is there any thing I can do that will make my dear uncle more easy and composed?"

"There is," replied Lord Oakendale; "but will my Laura make the sacrifice? I know it is a weakness in me to desire it; but it is a weakness I have tried in vain to conquer, and my peace de|pends upon her word."

"Speak," said Laura, in an agitated voice, though far from suspecting the nat•••••• of the re|quest, "and be assured of all in my power."

"Can you, then," said Lord Oakendale, "will my Laura promise, sacredly promise, nev|er to marry Eugene Vincent?"

"Stop," said Laura; "Oh! save me from this conflict." Lord Oakendale sat with eagerness, and death depicted on his countenance. He seemed impatiently waiting for a reply; yet trembling lest he had made a request which could not be granted; at the same time fearing that his weak frame could not support a refusal.

"Alas!" said Laura (turning her head this way and that way, in the most distracted state of terror and perplexity) have I no friend to advise me in this cruel conflict? Oh! my lord, Eugene is dearer to me than—" Here she stopped, and a violent burst of tears, in some degree, re|lieved her.

During this time Lord Oakendale trembled, and appeared convulsed. He grasped the hand of Laura, and faintly pronounced, "I am dying!" She was extremely terrified; and, as she support|ed him with one arm, she rang the bell with the other for assistance. He was conveyed to bed, and proper advice was immediately sent for.

The state of Laura was very little better than that of her uncle. She had not as yet given the fatal promise that would seal her misery; but the dying situation of Lord Oakendale, and the

wish he had so devoutly expressed, seemed to re|quire it. She went to his chamber fully determin|ed to make the sacrifice of her happiness, if it was necessary to his peace of mind.

As she proceeded to Lord Oakendale's room, she reflected on the consequences of what she was about to do. What were riches, honors, titles, fame, or any worldly comfort, without the charm|ing liberty of bestowing them on the only object of her love! yet, might not the promise she was about to make be of the utmost consequence to herself, as seemed so necessary to calm the depart|ing spirit of Lord Oakendale; that promise, which to confirm, tore her heart assunder. In what estimation might it be held by the person for whose sake alone she would withold it. Ah! (but there was madness in that thought) it might be a happy release to Eugene, and at once enable him to cancel those vows which had made hers so binding. These reflections brought her to the chamber-door; and, upon her entering, the phy|sicians informed her Lord Oakendale had but a few minutes to live, and that he had never once spoke since she left him!

She approached the bed; she took his hand, and kneeling down, she pressed it to her lips,

while the tears fell in large drops from her eyes. He looked at her with the tenderest pity. She thought him perfectly sensible; and she was go|ing to pronounce her promise, when he fixed his hand (already clammy with the dew of death) up|on her lips, as if to prevent her speaking. She raised up her eyes in thankful expression to Hea|ven for the release; and, although he mourned, perhaps, inwardly, his countenance conveyed content and approbation. For a few seconds he seemed struggling for speech. He withdrew his hands from Laura's, and, joining them in a supplicating form, he articulated "Bless my niece!" and expired.

Laura was extremely shocked at the sudden, ap|proach of his death, and she grieved for him with the most affectionate sincerity. She was perfect|ly satisfied that he wished to recal the promise he had desired her to make, and was convinced that the hand of death had awakened him to contri|tion, and a proper sense of the cruelty his more lively feelings would have imposed.

Laura found herself in possession of all his vast fortune; and she had the comfort and advice of her dear Madame du Frene in the arrangement of the funeral, and other necessary matters. She

had likewise the satisfaction of asking that dear friend concerning Eugene, to whom Madame du Frene had always been extremely partial. Lord Oakendale had on that account not shewn her so much favor as he would otherwise have done; and during his illness Laura had been but little out to meet with her.

When she asked concerning him, Madame du Frene looked grave, and only replied "he was well."

Laura did not feel contented with the answer; but a certain dislike to lead to the subject, unless more encouraged by her friend, prevented her adding more at present. She thought it unkind that Eugene never made any inquiries after her; and, as she did not yet go into public, she never chanced to see him. Soon, however, she return|ed her visits, and appeared in public. Her sable dress diminished nothing of her beauty, and the knowledge of her large and independent fortune gave additional charms to her person. She once or twice saw Eugene, and was shocked at the cold|ness of his address and manners towards her. He always looked uncommonly grave, and avoided any further conversation than the common-place forms of ceremony required. Such behavior was

to her unaccountable, and cruel in the extreme. He could, she thought, but have behaved in this manner had she really made that promise to Lord Oakendale, which she had considered as so fatal to her peace.

Harrassed and fretted as she was from this con|duct, and finding neither riches or admiration af|forded her the smallest happiness in this uncertain state, she determined to come to a more particular explanation with Madame du Frene on the sub|ject so near her heart.

She accordingly took the opportunity of ex|pressing her surprise and wonder at the coldness of Eugene's behavior.

Madame du Frene remained silent for some mo|ments, and then said, "My dear Laura, how often, in your days of childhood, have I endea|vored to prepare your mind for those disappoint|ments which come nearest the heart, and which, if borne with pious resignation, are the brightest ornaments to the christian character. I am truly sorry to have occasion now to enforce this doc|trine; but Eugene is, I am informed, engaged to marry Mrs. Sackville." Here she stopped, and Laura sat with her arms rested on a table, and her hands covered her face. She sighed bitterly.

and when she looked up, Madame du Frene had the mortification to observe marks of the most extreme sorrow depicted in her countenance.

Nothing more passed at the present time. Ma|dame du Frene was so much hurt at the appear|ance of woe which Laura's looks expressed, that she was resolved to speak to Eugene upon the subject, although she had little or no hopes of ev|er seeing them united.

It happened soon after that Madame was, by her own contrivance, thrown into company with Eugene; when she purposely introduced the sub|ject of Laura, observing upon her immense for|tune, and still greater merits; adding her earnest hopes, that she would bestow it upon some man truly worthy of so rich a blessing.

Eugene sighed, and asked (in a melancholy tone) "If Laura was likely to be married?"

"Not that I know," replied Madame du Frene. "I should imagine she would be extremely care|ful how she formed a second attachment, having been so cruelly disappointed in her first."

Eugene seemed much agitated, and, after a pause, said, "If she had suffered any disappoint|ment,

it was of her own inflicting; and the cruel|ty was deeply and forever transfixed in the bosom of another."

Madame Du Frene replied, "Good God!" what is it you mean? When nature formed the fairest of its compositions, no material was omit|ted; and Laura is, I am certain of that disposi|tion, as would rather suffer pain herself than in|flict it upon others."

"Why, then," said Eugene, "did she make that rash—I will say that accursed promise?"

"What promise!" replied Madame Du Frene; "she never did make any; Lord Oakendale was taken speechless before she had time to pronounce a promise, which nothing but the agonies of death would have extorted from her; and even in that moment she wavered, and professed that terrible you was dearer to her than life! Nay," continued Madame du Frene, "she had the satisfaction of knowing, and being assured, that her uncle appro|ved of her conduct, and blessed her with his part|ing breath!"

Thus was this distressing business brought to an amicable conclusion; and Madame Du Frene had the inexpressible felicity of reconciling two lovers whose hearts had never been divided.

It appeared that Lord Oakendale, extremely

desirous to break the bonds which so closely uni|ted Eugene and Laura, had mentioned to some particular friends that Laura had given him so|lemn promise never to marry Eugene. In con|sequence of this report Lord Vincent's pride took the alarm, and he repeated it to Eugene with exaggerated proofs.

Thus had these two unhappy men nearly de|stroyed the felicity of those most dear to them by their ill-judging zeal, and still more blamable sub|version of the truth.

Eugene, with a mind distracted with disap|pointment, flew to dissipation to dispel his misery; and, falling in the way of a young and fascinating widow, he had nearly formed that contract with her, which his honor would have obliged him to fulfil, and nothing but death could have dissolved.

The death of Lord Vincent, soon after these occurrences, gave to his son, title, wealth and power. His inclinations had long been fixed, and the merits of Laura were amply rewarded by an union with her loved Eugene. Some of their summers were passed in Cumberland; and the virtues of Lord Vincent and Laura soon dispelled THE HORRORS OF OAKENDALE ABBEY.

FINIS