lowed, and was soon in her carriage and on her way | hypocrisy. At that age, when the flower of the heart back to Paris. Montanvers stood in a side door where he could not be seen, and watched the receding form of his guest, until the carriage moved away. "I would not see her," muttered he, "fearful that she would know me. Now for Paris. My brave men," said he, addressing some dozen men who were lolling on the green sward before him, "I am about leaving you for a short time, and when I again join you I trust that all suspicions, which have arisen of late from our bold manœuvres, may be lulled, and that I may return, favored by that fortune which always favors the brave and the bold." So saying, he took up his way towards the city. Behold Montanvers in the full flush of Parisian life! Full of crimes and vices he had again been elevated to that station which he had before forfeited. His brightest hopes had been realized, and encased as was his conscience in a hardy stoicism, which even the sharp tooth of remorse sometimes fails to penetrate, he again moved among the great herd and seemed above them. Again in the society of the refined--respected by the men-sought after by the women, we turn to contemplate him. And some will ask, did none of those crimes that stood out boldly on the pages of the past--crimes of manifold natures, which the mind would shudder to contemplate-did they never arise before him to check the full tide of his longings, or sweep away the aspirations of a reckless and a darkened heart, and a rayless and perverted mind? They did! Vice is, has been, and ever will be, pursued by that unpitying monitor, memory, or haunted by that scourging avenger, conscience. When we err for once, we err forever. When we commit one dark crime, we secure to ourselves a doom more terrible, a fate more awful than he who signed the death-bond with his reeking blood. And why is this? Because the memory is undying, and the images which it brings up, for good or for evil, are its only "still small voices" to comfort or to damn the possessor-to the one, it brings sweet incense--on the other, it inscribes in every lineament, as with the fangs of scorpions-" Beware." Montanvers had passed the Rubicon of crime, with a bold and daring stride, and was now an outlaw of virtue, to be shunned by mankind, as the brave mountaineer shuns the evil shape of the omened wraith. Henry Montanvers had been reared in the midst of opulence. He was an only child, and was remarkable, when a boy, for quickness of invention and consummate had not been cropped by the influence of debased associates, he had displayed a cunning, which at school won for him a reputation among his classmates, which, with the natural bent of his mind, tended to unfit him in after life for that straight path which alone leads to happiness and peace. Was there an orchard to rob, or a bird's nest to plunder, or an "affair" to manage, Henry was the chosen one. In his eye was the subtle fire-in his tongue was the oily eloquence-and in his arm was the ready movement, which suited well the leader of a band of reckless schoolboys. At twentyone he had grown prodigiously vain--swore that youth was the time for pleasure-old age the time for repentance and soberness--that England was too small for an ambitious gentleman--that the world--the great and boundless world, was the fit arena for any but a coatless curate, or a simple squire; for such as him, the drawing-room of the world, and the huzzas of crowds, the only scene, and the only triumph. He accordingly scorned all occupations, wherewith to gain an honest independence, and travelled. As a matter of course his purse grew as light as his conscience, both of which were melting away very fast. In a little time he was seen in Florence, without money, and of course, from his former habits, without friends. Every day his situation was becoming more unpleasant. He was in the midst of plenty, and lived from hand to mouth, until starvation stared him in the face. One evening, at the solicitation of his only remaining acquaintance, (the rest had cut him—Oh, money, thou god!) he was induced to enter a well known roulette club in Florence. He sat down, and lost and lost again; and borrowed and lost again. He was now in debt several hundred pounds. To extricate himself he borrowed again, and again lost. He was not only bankrupt; he was deeply involved, and in a strange and friendless city. What was he to do? He looked around the room and all shunned him. Delirious from his many losses he left the club, sought his own room, and opening his pistol case, loaded one, with which he was about to blow out his brains, when it was wrested from his hands. He turned, and beheld in the intruder, his acquaintance of the club. "Montanvers," said he, "I have come to relieve you. You are deeply in debt-you want money. An old gentleman of wealth has just been informed of his wife's illness in a neighboring town, and starts to-night to see her. He carries a large quantity of money with him-the night is dark." He consented to accompany him, and share the spoils. He went-the robbery was committed-the old man, who had once been an intimate friend of his, recognized him, and threatened him with exposure-it cost him his life; and with that deed commenced a long series of crimes too appalling for narration. And now behold him moving among the polished and the refined. Success had crowned his villanies, and he was again enabled to throw aside the costume of the outlaw robber, and assume that of the humble citizen-his former mode of life unknown and unsuspected, save by one-and to silence that one, was one of the objects of his present disguise. On the day succeeding the date of our last chapter, Henry Montanvers (we will not trouble the reader with his various aliasès,) was to be seen moving | proceeded back to Paris. Who can tell the fearful through the most solitary part of the suburbs of Paris. thoughts that came over that stern man, as he threaded The path which he had selected was private and seclu- his way through the streets of that city? Who can say ded, and passed through a thick and dark wood. He what were the elements that then struggled in that had strolled alone for some time, with seeming careless- fierce heart? Who can paint the terrible passions that ness, and was then near the centre of the wood, when nerved that fore-dooming hand? None should try it. he espied a hat hanging on a bush-he approached Those fiery and savage passions were raging within, with a slow and noiseless tread, and beheld through concealed by a mighty effort, and traced not on a the thick clustering trees the object of his search, haughty brow and a reckless lip. Lucien Andeli, laying on the grass, in so deep a study as not to notice his approach. Andeli was alone, and was unconscious of every thing but his own thoughts, when suddenly a ball aimed by an unseen hand, whirled by him and lodged in the trunk of a tree by his side. He turned to the place from which he heard the report of the pistol, as it was discharged at him, and beheld a tall athletic figure, but the place was so dark that he could not recognize the features, and could scarcely see the face of his foe. He did not wait for a deadlier aim, but sprang forward, and in another instant that foe staggered from the effects of a heavy and well directed blow, and fell to the earth. A glance sufficed to show Andeli that he stood before Montanvers. "I spare you, sir," said Andeli, in a tone that went to the heart of his foe-"I spare you, sir, as much as you deserve death, to reflect, ere you again stain your hands with blood. From me you have nothing to fear; but I warn you now to urge me no more to arrogate to myself that diviner power which sooner or later must overtake you. Great Heavens! I pray that this unhappy man may have atoned for his many errors and crimes, ere he enters the presence of an awful but a just GOD! Go, Montanvers! go, and search the dark labyrinths of crime and sin, through which you have already passed, and pause amid the desolation and the ruin that you have wrought, and be warned by one who was once your best friend, of the miserable doom that awaits you in another world. Pause and reflect, if but for an instant, and you are saved!" "Lucien Andeli," was his only reply, spoken in a harsh and hoarse voice, as he glared upon him, "I have failed this once, but your doom is fixed! Look-look! I swear it!" Montanvers had arisen, and was retracing his steps from the wood, when he turned and gazed in the face of Andeli. "Remember, Lucien Andeli," he said, in a voice almost choked with passion, "your doom is fixed. By Hell! I will have your heart's best blood! I have sworn it!" And he moved away. His hatred towards Andeli had not been of a moment's growth. They had in early life been rivals, and Andeli the successful. It was a hatred that one day will not bring forth, but like the poisonous flower that grows in the east in the darkest caves, requiring years to unfold, slowly, but surely, its deadly leaves. It had sprang up in the lonely recesses of a morbid heart, and was kept there unconsumed and nourished in the general wreck, as the mother might nourish her youngest idol in the darkness of a remorseless pestilence. Andeli knew this, and despite his bravery almost shuddered as he heard that voice. The day was drawing to its close when Montanvers “Andeli, Andeli!" muttered he, as he walked along. "Curses on him! He knows me well, and has already upbraided me. Ever since that fearful deed, that he alone knows of, that accursed name has been a dark cloud upon my life-the blighter of my sweetest dreams-the destroyer of my brightest aspirings. Andeli! how the very name festers upon my tongue-it rings in my ear like a death knell! It must not be. He dies! Another, and yet another, to the long list, and I can live undisturbed. To kill him-to take with his own another's life--psha! it were easier to-down, conscience! He must die! Will I do the deed? And sheha! I will have most sweet revenge! If he lives I am forfeited to eternal disgrace. I'll crush him-but the means-the means." He entered one of the news-rooms, to be met with in almost every street of Paris, and had scarcely seated himself, when the Evening Courier, one of the best papers of that day, was thrown into the door. He snatched the paper up-in those times as in the present, newspapers were the only link that connected mankind with the great, tumultuous, ever-changing world—and had glanced over the columns, when the following words met his eye: "ARRIVAL OF FRANCIS ARMINE. "Most of our readers are, perhaps, aware that this distinguished gentleman has arrived in our city. For a more complete notice of his arrival, we refer them to an editorial in yesterday's paper, detailing all the circumstances that occurred to him, as well as the accident near L'Etoil, which, at that time, created the deepest sensation amongst our citizens. We are, however, happy to learn, that the excitement then evinced has passed away, and sincerely trust that it shall not become our painful duty to notice, as public journalists, any further outbreak of our citizens against the inno cent offender, whom, with a complete knowledge of all the circumstances of the accident, we do not hesitate to pronounce entirely guiltless. "Postscript. Since the above was in type, we have learned from a secret source that the object of the present visit of this talented gentleman is, if possible, to hear of a sister whose mysterious disappearance from her home we recorded some five years since. It was then supposed by some that she had been murdered, and that measures had been taken to thwart all endeavors to find out her fate. We trust, however, that those suppositions were incorrect, and that the brother and the sister may yet be united." Montanvers read this over several times, and with the names and events spoken of by Mrs. Morton, during her delirium at his house, revolved over, he arose from his seat. When he did so it was with a prouder tread. A sudden hope had flashed across him-the dark frown departed from his brow, and his whole countenance was animated with a glow of triumph. | too, had he loved so wildly as he did now-never, as Fate did indeed befriend him! the young painter-boy, had he dreamed over a gentler or a warmer feeling than that which now intoxicated him! "Ha! well counselled," thought he, gliding from the room into the open streets again. "The means I have. Andeli, from you I will indeed have nothing to fear. I crush that one, and the vine that has twined its tendrils around it, falls too. Tremble thou, Andeli, for now thou art doomed." Plot on-plot on-dark man! Weave the web around the innocent, but be sure that thou art not thyself caught! Fly swiftly on the wings of mighty mischief! Make sure thy footsteps on the topmost crag of the precipice; for if thou fallest, farewell ye laurels, and a long farewell ye myrtles! "Making sweet music while the young leaves danced;" and those green, green leaves, were vocal with the hum of insects and the song of birds. Far, far away, opened one of the richest landscapes of that lovely clime, valley and plain, and woods and waters, bounded by a faint, blue outline of numerous vine-clad hills, which lay in quiet relief against a most brilliant sky. And that sky, that unrivalled, deep blue sky, was without a mist or color-save where in the far west it touched a bed of clear and limpid water-and there it was glowing with those purple and golden tints, which, reflected over that enchanted earth, add much to the beauty and loveliness of a sweet summer evening. On such an evening Meta sat with Andeli in their cottage. The little fountain still threw up its sparkling waters, that fell in showers upon the rich and odorous turf near the door of the cottage, and the bright stream still swept through woods and vales, and groves, and wending gracefully around the home of the lovers-as if it too desired to sweeten the moments of such pure and hallowed loves-wandered on to yield its tribute of waters to the imperial Seine. "Mine own Meta-my beautiful-my adored," whispered Andeli, drawing her small and snowy hand within his own. "Your song is sweeter than when you sang it in the golden past." "Why should it not be? It is sung to you-and saving you I have none to cling to in the wide world." "None-none! Your's may be a bitter fate, Meta." "Not while you are with me." "And have you never tired of me?" "Ask the flower if it wearies of the light." "I am happy indeed." "And I am doubly so." "But come, dearest, let's to yon shadowy banks and enjoy the hour." And they sallied to the spot that Andeli had remarked. The sun was sinking in the west, and poured its golden light along the tops of the tall and noble trees, leaving the mossy turf beneath shadowy and pleasant. "What a delightful evening is this!" said Andeli, "how calm-how lovely! There-there, by that light you look younger than ever." They had seated themselves on the fresh turf under the shadow of the old trees. Before them was the little white cottage--the cottage of love. Ah! if those walls had tongues, how sweet the tales they'd tell. Around them arose the murmur of nature, sweeter than love's first whispered tones-the breath of leaves-the tinkling sigh of the sparkling waves-what music for the young lovers was here! "Meta," said Andeli, drawing that slight and beautiful form nearer to him, "I remember that on such an evening as this, some two months gone, you promised me your history-I fain would hear it now, sweetest." "Yes, Lucien, yes! it is right that you should hear it," replied Meta, "and now, even on this lovely spot, and by this softened light, I'll tell you. I will not dwell long, dear Lucien, upon such painful memories—my life is all sunshine now." She looked sweetly up from the breast of her lover, on which she had cast herself, and thus began: META'S HISTORY. "I was born on the borders of Tuscany. You might have traversed all Italy for a more beautiful spot in vain. Nature seems to have enriched that region with the loveliest objects in her great store-house-bright, green earth-perfumed air-transparent water-dreamlike skies. "After a youth spent in travel and dissipation, my father returned to his home, and married the daughter of a noble house, whose lands adjoined his own. Some two years after their marriage they left their first residence, and chose for their retreat the spot on the borders of Tuscany, where I was born. At my birth my mother died, and my father-who desired that the first Her lover sat at Meta's feet, and gazed up to that sweet and child-like face, whose every feature seemed yet breathing the song, which a voice marvellously clear and sweet, had just warbled to the accompani- of his children should be of his own sex, and enterment of a harp. Ah! those were happy, happy tained, from the moment that I saw the light, the most moments! They were both young-both the children bitter feelings for me-was plunged still deeper in his of the summer. And that fair, bright creature, how dislike by her death. Never after that event did he deeply, how fondly she loved-how breathlessly she wed another, but living in seclusion and privacy, strove hung on every tone of that voice! Never-oh, never! to forget that world in which he had once mingled as one of its gayest and happiest citizens. There comes to some an old age of the heart, darker and more desolate than the real winter of a long life! "I pass over my childhood. I was educated by an old tutor at my home, which I scarcely ever left, but spent what should have been the happiest hours of my existence, in idle study or endeavors to win that love from my father which he wrongly withheld from me. All was in vain. Every effort that I made was repulsed, and often, often have I, when I left him, retired to my own room, and lifted up my voice to Heaven to reconcile him to me-to grant me his friendship, if not his love. Such are some of the memories that come upon me as I turn to survey that childhood. I hasten over them. At the urgent solicitation of the relatives of my father we removed to Florence. I was at that time fifteen, and an heiress. The latter consideration was enough of itself to attract the butterflies that swarm in that fair city. I was, however, cold to their homage, and heartily despised the common-place affections of those who aspired to my hand. It will seem strange that one in my isolated situation should be so indifferent to the love of others. It was still stranger to mark the carelessness with which I received offers of marriage, and the cool indifference with which I rejected them. It must be that my dark and desolate condition caused me to throw aside the flowers that were strewed along my path, and dream of the roses of that elysium of love in which I now repose! At length came one rich and noble-he poured forth his adoration-he followed me wherever I went-at the opera, in the dance, and in the parlor, on every occasion, for months, he proffered his suit. He too was rejected. On the day that I rejected him, a note from my father, stating that he had watched my course and had disapproved of it-told me that I was the betrothed bride of Sir Henry Montanvers." "Sir Henry Montanvers !" echoed Lucien. leaves near me, I turned, and Sir Henry Montanvers stood before me. My first impulse was to fly, but it was impossible. "Meta, dear Meta,' he said, 'hear me for this once. You have wronged me deeply. Why do you hatewhy do you despise me? Again, I ask you to hear me: and if you can, against the wishes and prayers of your father, reject me again, do so.' "Sir Henry Montanvers,' I replied, 'you have stooped to actions beneath the dignity of any gentleman. Do not force me to speak more freely to you. Why do you again proffer the hated suit that I have more than once sworn never to accept?' "But you may change.' "No, sir, never! I have said it!' "Proud girl, you shall be mine!' he returned, with a smile of triumph, which I shall never forget. 'You shall be mine, or you are both houseless beggars. Your father's estates are mortgaged to me for debts contracted no matter how, before his marriage. To liqui date which debts he has pledged yourself. Meta, I know that you despise me-you shall do so no more with impunity-you shall be mine!' "No more no more, sir,' I replied. 'Your words convince me how base and contemptible you are. I have said that I would never wed you, and I now swear that no circumstances will ever induce me to change that resolution. Out of my sight, sir." ""I go, haughty girl,' he said, 'I go, but what I have said shall be fufilled,' and he disappeared. I heard his retreating steps no more, ere I sought my own room. Pale and breathless-stunned by the intelligence I had received-overwhelmed by the meanness of my pretended lover, and the baseness of my unnatural father, I threw myself on the first seat I met. I had sat there perhaps an hour when the door of my room was gently opened, and a too well known manner told me that my father stood before me. I shall never forget the stern "You start-you shudder!" cried Meta. "You know ness of his countenance, when, for the first time since him-do you not?" "Go on-go on, Meta." our removal to Florence, he entered my chamber. He seated himself by my side, and spoke in tones of tenderness that I had never before received from him. He urged me, as I valued my happiness and his feelings, to forget the hatred which I entertained for Montanvers, and accept his suit. He urged, but it was to a cold ear. "Father!' I said, 'your request cannot be complied with-I will not wed Sir Henry Montanvers.' "Then hear my commands!' were his words, spo ken in an agitated and passionate voice. 'You have withered my hopes-you have blighted my prospectsyou have been despised since your birth. Our house has fallen-our home, mine no longer. I am an exile, and you are the destroyer. May the fountain of your life be tainted-may you wander alone, and despised on the earth-may the ruin which you have wrought, forever haunt you. I, your father, invoke this curse upon your head. Forget your relation to me-and thus devote you to a life more terrible than death. Leave "I was the promised bride of one whom I had never seen and could not love. I struggled to break the unhallowed pledge that my father had given, and I was laughed at. I threatened my own life rather than leave the altar as his wife-he smiled, and told me to prepare to meet Montanvers. And I did prepare to meet him. I prepared to meet him as a legitimate daughter of Italy should meet the man she hated. Lovely, lovely Italy! And thou loveliest portion of Italy, beautiful Tuscany-ye gave me the glowing feelings-the restless imagination, and the ardent and fiery spirit. Fatal-fatal gifts! Montanvers came. I threw off all hypocrisy at once, and repulsed him. It would not do. He urged my father's vow. My hatred grew stronger, and in its greatest extremity I abhorred, and almost cursed that father. No, no! I could not-I did not curse him. Although he had taken away hope and happiness-although he had crushed all my desires-me-leave me immediately and forever! I will not frustrated all my wishes, I still endeavored to look beyond the clouds that surrounded me, and trace a calmer, perhaps a brighter scene for the future. I was seated one evening in a bower in a distant part of our garden, musing upon the troubles under which I labored, when on hearing a slight rustling among the spare, and may I never more see you. Away-away! "With that curse still quivering on his lips, I left him. I had dreamed of hope, and now my dream was broken. Convinced of the deeply rooted hatred of my father, without considering of the future, I resolved to obey his command never to see him more. At dusk, when no one would be moving abroad, was the selected time to put that resolution into execution. I was afraid that Montanvers might observe, and frustrate my plan, and therefore chose that hour. Accordingly, when it came, I noiselessly left my room-descended the stairs-and was soon beyond the outer gate-standing alone in the silent streets of Florence. I had walked some distance in safety, when I heard a voice well calculated to terrify me it was that of Montanvers. "Why, how now, my young rover; whither do you hurry at this hour? I'll be sworn there's some intrigue on foot,' he said, as he approached me. I turned to escape--it was too late. His attendants overtook me, and were tearing aside my veil as he came up. "Ha! sweet fortune, at last you befriend me. Hush, fellows! We have a rich prize. Away with this girl to the cottage on the Appenines.' From that instant I heard no more. to fit. In a moment almost I was dressed in the garb of the robbers. From the many arms that lay around me I selected two pistols, fearing that I might be forced to use them, and being determined to escape, or at least never again enter that house. A rope ladder was near. Every thing favored my escape. I jumped into the window, flew down the ladder, and had approached within about twenty feet of the ground, and found that I had reached the end of the ladder. Here I was at a loss what to do--but resolved to escape, I consigned myself to the care of God, and let go my hold. I was for some moments stunned by the fall, but recovering, looked around me. I had alighted on a gloomy and rugged spot. A horse was loose near me--I sprang with a single leap on his back. "Seize her, my men! Seize her!' shouted a man, starting from a thicket of densely massed trees; and, in another instant, I discovered four or five dark forms in the back ground. I had scarcely time to breathe again "How long I was unconscious I know not. When ere the men rushed up, but the horse saved me; for I awoke, I looked around. It was night, and the sur-becoming frightened, away he flew like the lightning. rounding objects were scarcely perceptible. I was in A ball-another and another whirled by me--but at the cottage of the Appenines,' as he had called it. It every leap my horse gained additional speed, and I was was an antiquated building, and rather dilapidated. soon beyond the further pursuit of the robbers. On, The room in which I had slept was covered with tapes-on, we flew. Suddenly the horse quivered and snorted, try, and the walls with shining arms and rude dresses. and again the faithful courser quivered dreadfully with An immense oak table, with some huge chairs, were its fast failing limbs and glassy eye. Again it sprang only furniture. A pine torch was burning on the fiercely onward--spurned the ground with conscious hearth, but it gave but little light, and as I was looking pride-staggered from exhaustion, and dropped down at it a gust of wind put it out. All was darkness. I arose dead. I was alone, and leaning over the once stately and went to the casement of the cottage. A glorious steed, when I heard the sound of approaching steps. I landscape was stretched out beneath me. The dark was certain that they were those of the pursuing roband tall Appenines threw up their sky-cleaving peaks bers. I was then on a peak of the Appenines--a deep on high, and ever and anon I could hear the rush of ravine was beneath me--this was my only chance of distant mountain streams sweeping through ravines escape. I had no one to sigh for me in this world, and and over precipices. There was something magical in death I thought preferable to a life of misery. The the sight that caused me for a time to forget my true footsteps came still nearer. I knelt down in that scene situation. I was thus gazing on that strange and ma- of solitude, and offered up a weak prayer--in that magjestic scene, when I heard a tread near me which nificent temple of worship, with the outstretched Appecaused my very blood to stand. It was Montanvers. nines as its altar--the surrounding firs its groups of "Meta,' he exclaimed, 'I have said you should be kneeling worshippers--the tall white cataracts, thunmine. Lo! you are. You have heard--who has not-- dering from their deep and invisible depths, its mighty of Lovett, the terror of all Italy--the very recital of organs--the cry of eagles and strange wild birds--the whose daring exploits has so recently alarmed you. shriek of the jackall and fox--the roar of the fell avaBefore you stands that robber chief--around you behold lanche-its solemn choir--and all the stars of heaven his faithful band sleeping within their own fortress-its sacred and perpetual lamps. above you gaze upon his well-tried sentinels, the eternal Appenines.' "These words--the place--the hour--the silence around--all conspired against me. I trembled before the man whom I now despised. "Now,' said he, with his usual smile, 'now thou art mine. What a companion thou wilt be to roam with along those mountain sides. What an eye thou hast--let it laugh on--it will encounter many a lovely sight. And that form-what a form to contemplate in the clear waters of yon star-lit stream! Farewell--my bride-farewell! I will return ere day shines over yon mountain's peak.' "Waiting for no answer, he passed on, closed the door and locked it. I was a prisoner in the robbers' haunt, with that impassable barrier, the Appenines, like evil omens between me and hope. But I did not despair. I have said that the walls were covered with rude dresses. Hastily I tried them on, and found onc "Nearer and nearer came the footsteps; and bidding an eternal farewell to this beautiful spot of earth, enchanting Tuscany, I leaped forward! A dizzy recollection of chasms and ravines came over me—my brain spun around my eyes closed. I fell. "A musical and thrilling voice awoke me. It yet sounds in my enraptured ear! Amid the gloom of the wilderness a light broke forth! In the night a star had arisen! I loved, I loved from the moment that I awoke. Yes, my deliverer, my benefactor, from the moment that I awoke, through joy and through sorrow I have loved but thee, Andeli. It was my first-it will be my last love. My history is told." She ceased, and Andeli then knew in his heart, if he had ever doubted it before, that he was beloved. Ah! ye young lovers, if your historian pauses for an instant on your past history, it is that he knows the future has no bright fates in store for ye! If he lin |