chair; his face assumed a mortal paleness; the feeble spark of life quivered in the socket; it was evident that this rude discovery had gone nigh to extinguish it altogether. He exclaimed, in a voice of anguish, "Is this the end of all my hopes? You have robbed my closing hour of its last solace. Heaven knows how few indeed have been the hours of enjoyment which that wealth has procured for me, which it took me a life to bring together; but I had thought that I had found no unworthy use for it, when I made Francis Vaughan my heir." "Your heir, Sir? good heavens! your heir!" said Courtney, springing from his seat, thunderstruck at the intelligence. "Yes, Sir, my heir!" answered the old man, firmly. "What have you to say against it! Think well before you reply." He sent a fiery glance at the incautious liar. "I am dying, Sir-I am dying! Can you lay your hand upon your heart, and pronounce your accusation true ?" Courtney was staggered by the solemn appeal. His courage failed him for an instant; but he, dexterously, recovering his presence of mind, evaded an immediate answer, by hastening to the support of his uncle, and affecting strong commiseration for his obvious feebleness. "You are ill, Sir; very ill; I was wrong to shock you by such a detail; I did not know the extent of your sensibility; in your chamber you will be more at ease;" and ringing the bell violently, he consigned his uncle to the care of Peter. He sat long absorbed in tumultuous and bitter reflections, when the sight of his servant Benson, passing the window, roused him from his reverie. Though Benson performed the offices of a domestic, he was regarded by Courtney, privately, more in the light of a humble friend than of a menial. He was a man whom a long course of folly and vice had reduced, but not wholly without education, and possessing an acuteness which Courtney had found extremely serviceable on occasion. He had once, at an earlier period of his life, in a fit of rare generosity, rescued this man from the grasp of a creditor; since which period there had been a sort of tie between them-that species of connexion which links one subtle and sordid spirit to another, at least till interest suggests any very decided advantage to be gained by its dissolution. Courtney, degraded by deviations from the straight path of integrity, had found it essential to employ some humble abettor, some one to appear in transactions, in which he dared not figure in his own person, some one ready to run the risk and endure the obloquy. Benson had been this convenient tool to Courtney. He was a fellow who, for his hire, would intercept a letter, or write such a letter as should be dictated to him; without being scrupulous as to the purpose. He had been long promised a rich fee, should he succeed in favouring either of his master's present schemes. Courtney beckoned him into the room, and in a few agitated words, explained the cause. "My uncle is dyinghe has made a will totally in Vaughan's favour. I am undone for ever-" and at the thought, he clasped his hands together in rage and despair. Benson stood looking calmly at him, and without uttering a syllable. "I tell you," repeated Courtney, seizing him by the arm, "the will is made, he is dying."—" Well," returned Benson, with a subtle smile, "but is he yet dead? Is not the heir abroad? Can he defend himself? And are you not at hand to ruin him, if you like ?” “All has been already tried," returned Courtney. "No plausible story, Sir," said Benson. "Ay, that was tried too, and it failed, miserably failed. The old man's appeal as to its truth was so strong, that I do not know what came over me, but I could not go through it." Benson's smile assumed a yet darker meaning. It was that smile, mingled of deri sion and affected incredulity, which perhaps of all others throws its object into the most perfect self-contempt. "And to-morrow, Sir, when your uncle is lying a corpse before you, and his estate will have passed into another's hands, where will your prospects be? Or have you courage to unmask the whole scheme, and declare the whole a calumny; no doubt, that would be an act of more than common virtue."—" Of more than I possess," cried Courtney. "It cannot be. There is no alternative, no resource, but in acts of more than common-no, not treachery, it is self-defence, not treachery," shuddering as he pronounced the word. "I think I have that fierce old man before me still; but he is dying, and there is no time to be lost." Benson laughed almost aloud. Courtney started, but the menial composed his features at the instant; and Courtney walked slowly and haughtily to the door, muttering, "Ruin is before me.--I must plunge deeper still;" and with a wild look at his accomplice, he burst up stairs, and entered his uncle's chamber. CHAPTER IX. Oh, who could see that lady's starry eye; THE day on which Mordaunt left Vaughan, spite of its gloom and anxiety, glided rapidly away. It is said, "Sad hours seem long." But his wordly occupations, and how much must necessarily crowd into one day, when it is deemed the last, appeared interminable; and when the shades of evening closed upon his labours, he felt, with a heavy heart, how short had been the space allotted to him to prepare for the chances of the morrow. The revelry of his companions in an adjoining apartment struck a chill and joyless feeling to his heart. He could even distinguish the voices of some who had professed the strongest interest in his friendship. "And 'tis this heartless crew, these beings whose opinions on all other points I scorn, and whose conduct I despise, that compel me to this wretched extremity." He heard his |