His surprise, therefore, and horror of mind, at this very sudden and awful recognition, may be more readily imagined than described; for it was not until the moment when she pronounced the name of Raymond Neville, that he had any recollection of her person; so much had time, together with the pressure of misfortune and grief, preyed upon and changed the expression of her features. To have found her also at the same moment, not only the wife of his friend, but that friend, as would appear from what had just escaped her lips, the sole author of her distress, and the meditator, if not the perpetrator, of a deed of violence which had driven her to distraction, were further discoveries of so unexpected and overwhelming a description, that it was some time before he could sufficiently recover from the shock to be able to retire to his apartment.

Here, no sooner had he thrown himself upon his bed, than a multitude of painful reflections crowded upon him. Well might Montchensey, he thought, be the melancholy and abstracted being he occasionally appeared; for assuredly, had he felt nothing to reproach himself with in

relation to his wife, he had long ago heard, either from his own mouth, or that of his daughter, some mention at least of her existence, if not of her history and sorrows; nor would concealment, as was evidently practised with regard to a part of the household, have been necessary. And what too had become of his friend Neville? Had he perished in a land of strangers, or was he, as he had some slight reason to hope, still living? And how striking, he then recollected, how extraordinary was the resemblance which the youth called Hubert Gray, bore to this unhappy exile; and, above all, how strange, how mysteriously strange, that, during his late slumbers, occupied, as they were, by what intimately concerned the fate and fortunes of Hubert Gray, he should be visited by the very being who might possibly not only be nearly related to him, but might prove essentially instrumental, should Raymond Neville be still living, in developing what he now felt to be singularly near his heart, the origin and, as as he thence hoped, the happiness of this unfortunate but interesting young man.

It was evident, however, that even could his

surmises be proved true with regard to the birth of Hubert, the peace of all parties would greatly depend upon what had been the conduct of Montchensey, and especially upon what had been the origin and final issue of his contest with Neville. He came, therefore to the determination of seeking, in the first instance, an explanation from Montchensey himself, of what had this night occurred; and, afterwards, should the account be satisfactory, of immediately revisiting the cottage of Simon Fraser, from whom he might then hope to learn what would throw still further light on this mysterious subject.

As soon, therefore, as the family had risen, Shakspeare requested an interview with his friend in the library, and, after a few preparatory observations, related to him, though in the most delicate and guarded manner, the circumstances of the preceding night.

The astonishment and the distress of Montchensey on hearing these particulars, were, as may naturally be supposed, in the extreme; and it was, in truth, some time before he was sufficiently master of himself to reply. At length, after an arduous struggle, in which the

strongest passions of the mind seemed to chase each other in his agitated features with the rapidity almost of lightning, he faintly uttered: "A merciful Providence has then graciously effected that for me which I have long been vainly endeavouring to do for myself— to open to you a subject whose fatal influence bows me to the earth, which has wrecked my peace of mind, and is hurrying me, a victim of anguish and remorse, to the brink of the grave. Yes, my friend, the poor sufferer whom you saw last night, and who has once again, I find, escaped the vigilance of her attendants, is the wife of Eustace Montchensey! It is now twenty years since our marriage took place; at that time Bertha Neville, whom I had first met at the house of a relation of my own in Westmoreland, was one of the most beautiful young women I had ever beheld; nor was she less amiable and accomplished than beautiful; but, unfortunately, her heart had been attached by one who proved himself totally unworthy of her; and though the connection had been broken off, on the part of her guardians, nearly a twelvemonth before I saw her, for her parents had been dead some

years, it was evident she had not ceased to suffer from the effects of this early and first impression. The disappointment, however, had, in my estimation, served rather to heighten than diminish her attractions, for it had thrown over her whole person and manner, an air of tender and subdued melancholy, which irresistibly made its way to the heart. I hesitated not, therefore, to push my suit with all the hope and ardour incident to my age, for I was then but five and twenty; and being supported by her friends, who not only wished to see the previous impression removed, but highly approved my character and rank in life, I, at length succeeded in obtaining from Bertha a somewhat reluctant consent, trusting that time, and the assiduities of affection, would accomplish for me all that was wanting to perfect my felicity.

"Most unhappily for us both, her brother, whom I had never seen, and who was the only near relative that death had spared her, was then absent in Ireland, plunged in difficulties which his own impetuosity had, in a great measure, occasioned; and who, having lately lost his wife, had the stings of domestic sorrow