had cherished the expectation that Reginald however inflexible in the determination to expose his patience to a severe immediate trial, would in the end relent and grant him a full discharge. It may be conceived how startled he was to learn that the possibility of such a release was soon to be cut off. The terrible words of the bond rose to his recollection. Though one should die the survivor must still adhere to this engagement. He loved Matilda as ardently as at the first, and was a barrier now to be thrown between, which no time, nor chance, nor imaginable event could remove? That Reginald on the brink of eternity still retained his harsh unyielding temper, seemed most improbable, and the lover believed that if he could but kneel at the bedside of the dying man, his supplication would be granted.

Once before had that journey from the mines been made in fiery haste. Now, a more vehement anxiety drove on the traveler. Procuring a fresh horse as each preceding one failed, he rode night and day. It was one o'clock in the morning when he entered Anderport. At early dawn, he walked towards the mansion. Opening the gate, and leaning one hand on the latch and the other on the granite shaft of the post, he gazed down that well-remembered avenue. There was a change in its appearance a change according well with the altered circumstances. At the time of the former visit, that scene was indeed grave and sombre; but now the season gave it a dreariness yet more impressive. The oaks, which in Autumn cast their dense shade, now lifted naked branches to the raw Northeaster. The old mansion was clearly discernible from one extremity to the other, and its white front, unrelieved by the foliage of trees or lighter verdure of a lawn, presented an aspect singularly cold and repulsive. Though it was now broad day, the feeble glimmer of a lamp could be detected struggling through a curtained window. In that apartment doubtless lay the expiring heir of Wriothesly Ander. It seemed to Seymour like profanity to intrude into that chamber, and harrass the departing soul with the gross and selfish interests of earth. His resolution failed: turning from the gate, and still keeping Anderport behind him, the young man walked on he knew not, and cared not whither.

After several hours spent in roaming about the woods, nature made herself felt, and he became conscious of hunger. It was necessary to return to his lodgings; but on his way his mind was made up to go through the solemn and dreaded interview. His soft tread made no sound upon the stone pavement of the terrace, and before he had persuaded his hesitating hand to raise the knocker, a servant accidentally approached.

"How is Mr. Ander, my good man?" "Master Reginald, sir, is dead." Seymour moved away faint and sick at heart.

A month had elapsed since the funeral. No will was found, and neighbors as they met made mutual inquiries as to who would prove heir to the great Ander estate. Mr. Nelson, who had been executor during the long minority of the late possessor, and was presumed to have a perfect acquaintance with the family tree, declared that Charles James, (Anthony's father,) besides a younger brother, Eugene, had a sister who married Giles Atterbury, the Quaker. The eldest son of Atterbury, known to be then living in Philadelphia, was undoubtedly the heir, unless his mother's brother, Eugene Ander, who settled in Shropshire, England, had left issue, of which there was yet no evidence. Soon after this information had become generally circulated through the community, a London newspaper was received, which announced the marriage of the Rev. John Ander, second son of the late Eugene Ander, Esq., of Shropshire. Thus it was clear that the Quaker had lost the inheritance, after all. But who was Eugene Ander's eldest son? ed to be discovered.

This remain

Laurence Seymour listened to all this gossip with great indifference. The estate might find an heir, but no one could inherit the right to release him from his promise

that was buried in the grave of Reginald. His mind left to brood upon his hopeless situation, fell into a nervous excitable melancholy. He recalled the various accounts which he had heard of disembodied spirits having returned to perform acts of justice, which had been delayed during life, and the wild wish would frequently arise as he retired at night, that the form of Reginald might appear in his chamber, and pro

nounce him absolved. Dreams, of course, were the natural consequences of this disturbed state of mind. On awaking after one of these, of the particulars of which he had only a vague recollection, he felt a strong impression that Reginald would doubtless have left him a written discharge, if in the anxieties of a sick bed the subject had occurred to him at all. This impression, so capable of giving a degree of relief, gradually deepened until it almost became conviction. An instructive sense of honor, however, still restrained him. The dream, with all the exaggeration of fancy, could not be made out an opposition, and his promise was a clear, solemn engagement, entered into after full consideration of the consequences.

Matilda Chesley had not seen her lover since the evening interview succeeding her walk with Reginald. Unaware of the cause which compelled him to shun her presence, she was much pained and surprised. Reginald's withdrawal seemed to have no obstacle which ought to prevent him from renewing his advances. And since his return from the mining region, his conduct appeared still more unaccountable. He remained in the neighborhood evidently unoccupied by business, and, as she learned incidentally, was constant in his inquiries with regard to her health. It occurred to her finally that mortified pride and distrust of her affection, as they had formerly given a wrong interpretation to her partial refusal, might now induce him to wait for some testimonial of regard from her.

Matilda therefore wrote him a letter, so characterized by maidenly dignity, yet at the same time so pervaded by tender earnestness, and clothed in language so exquisitely simple and touching, that it was equally impossible either not to admire the writer, or to doubt the sincerity of her affection. Seymour could not resist the appeal. He must see Matilda, if only to explain to her the hardship and hopelessness of his situation.

Little of the exhilaration of the favored lover attended him on his ride. Present circumstances could suggest none but gloomy reflections, and he could not think of the future without a dull indistinct presentiment of some great calamity which would make the burden of existence still more in

tolerable. All these dark thoughts, however, fled from his mind the instant that Matilda stood before him. Her countenance had at no time before appeared so lovely, for whatever it might want of its former bloom, was more than supplied by the light of joy which shone on every feature. She immediately extended her hand with the frank artlessness so peculiar to her, and Seymour, as he seized it, remembered nothing but his love. Borne away by the feelings of the moment, he described in impassioned tones both the intense suffering which he had endured in absence, and that hour's full and overflowing happiness. In return, he received from her lips the faintly whispered declaration which man can never hear without a quickened pulse and agitated frame.

The door was suddenly opened-then closed-and a second time opened. The lovers were both startled. Finally a head

was thrust into the room.

"Achsah!" said Miss Chesley, with as near an approval to cheerfulness as her gentle nature was ever tempted into ; "Is that you? What business can you have here ?"

The intruder, quite unaccustomed to entering parlors, was in truth the old negro washerwoman of the family. At the greeting of her young mistress, she ventured to extend an additional portion of her body over the threshold.

"Is Mawster Laury Seymer here," she asked, standing on tiptoe, and endeavoring to peer over the top of the fire-screen, which partially concealed the gentleman.

"Yes," he said, rising, "I am here, aunty what do you wish?"

"I've brung somethin to you," said Achsah, putting into his hand a letter, and immediately afterwards shuffled out of the room.

Seymour, as he read the missive thus strangely brought, staggered and turned deadly pale. Matilda was inexpressibly shocked by his altered aspect. Consciousness seemed almost to have deserted him. Even her presence was no longer regarded, and the fervent glance which had borne witness to his affection more eloquently than words, now gave place to a wild unearthly stare.

"Laurence! Laurence!"-affright took away the power to utter more.

In answer to Matilda's look of inquiry, Seymour, in brief and burning words, informed her of the covenant which had been entered into. "I had liked," he concluded, "to have proved false to my plighted word, and see, Matilda, a letter comes from the dead to warn me !"

Miss Chesley shuddered at hearing the recital.

"Who would have believed," said Seymour, vehemently, "that such a heart could dwell in a human bosom? How hard, relentless to the last! And as he was unmatched in malignity, so was he unmatched in craft. Think of it Matilda-think of it! Foreseeing that he must soon depart from Earth, he resolved to destroy, before he left, the happiness of those who remained! And that resolve he has executed with a deep subtlety, and an unflinching pertinacity, worthy of a fiend of darkness worthy of himself! That a man could die thus! that a soul trembling in the last agony, and with Eternity before it, could cherish a purpose so savage and unfeeling!

| How incredible it seems that a rational being should have had the hardihood to spurn all hope of the mercy of Heaven, for the sake of maintaining the despicable consistency of an unforgiving temper!"

"Oh, Laurence, judge not!"

"You do well to reprove me, Matilda, yet is it not impossible to leave the memory of the dead in peace, when the dead from his very grave ceases not to molest the living? Still, you are right; complaint is useless, the doer of the wrong is beyond our reach. Reginald is mighty in his coffin, while I, a walking, breathing man, am powerless. Yes, the promise has been made; there is no help, I must abide by it. Matilda"

The manly voice faltered, and the clear eye grew moist.

"And will you then forsake me?" said Matilda, not attempting to restrain her emotion.

"I must-I must," said Seymour, "my honor is pledged; can I do otherwise than redeem it? We part, Matilda, and not as others part, but uncheered with a single ray of hope. Yes, Reginald Ander, wherever be your spirit now, let it gloat and exult over the issue of its machinations, for our wretchedness is complete!"

CHAPTER V.

Two days afterwards, in the embrasure of an open window, before a little table covered with old Sèvres porcelain, glass and silver, and debris of a dainty breakfast, M. de La Seigliére, couched rather than seated in a large arm chair, with spring seat and moveable back, was enjoying, in his morning toilet, that state of satisfaction and beatitude which is sure to follow in the train of a flourishing egotism, robust health, a well settled fortune, a happy temper, and an easy digestion. He had arisen in the best humor and in excellent condition. Enveloped in a flashy silk morning-gown, his chin freshly shaven, his eye clear and lively, his lip red and smiling, his linen unimpeachable in point of texture or whiteness, his hand white, plump, and half concealed under a Valenciennes ruffle and playing with a gold snuff-box, which was enriched with the portrait of a woman quite unlike the late Marchioness, all redolent of the sweet perfume of iris and poudre a la marechal, he sat there quietly breathing the fresh odors of woods, whose tops the autumn had just begun to rust, and following with a vacant and somewhat dreamy look, his caparisoned horses as they returned from the ride, when he perceived Madame de Vaubert crossing the bridge, with the evident purpose of making him a call. He rose from his seat, carefully examined himself before the mirror, brushed the scattered particles of snuff from his bosom, and leaning over the balcony awaited the arrival of his amiable visitor. This call of the baroness was not only somewhat earlier than was her wont, but her toilet showed evident signs of the haste with which it had been made; and to a person of ordinary penetration would have discovered the agitation under which Madame de Vaubert was laboring. The Marquis, how

ever, remarked nothing unusual, and received her with his accustomed gallantry.

"Madame la Baronne," said he, “you look younger and more charming every day. At this rate, you will soon be not above twenty."

Marquis," shortly interrupted the baroness, it is no time for compliments now. We have more serious matters to attend to. Marquis, all is lost! All, I say. We have been struck with lightning."

Lightning!" ejaculated the Marquis, looking into the heavens, which were never bluer or brighter.

"Yes," said the agitated visitor, "if you were to suppose that lightning had burst from a clear sky upon your castle, and consumed your property, it would not be so strange as what has actually taken place. We have outridden the storm, and are in danger of foundering in port."

M. de La Seigliére grew pale. They sat down, and the baroness continued: "Do you believe in ghosts?" coldly asked Madame de Vaubert.

"What! Madame"

"Because, if you do not, you should," pursued his interlocutor, without suffering him to finish his sentence. "Young Stamply, the Bernard, about whom his father kept up such an incessant din, the hero, dead and buried, six years ago, under the snows of Russia

"Well! what of him ?" demanded the Marquis.

"What of him!" rejoined the baroness, “ why he was seen in the neighborhood yesterday, in flesh and blood. He was seen and spoken to, and there cannot be a doubt that it was he. Yes, Bernard Stamply, the son of your old tenant is alive; the fellow is not dead!"

"Well! what is that to me ?" said M. de La Seigliére, with the tone of careless

ness and the air of mingled surprise and satisfaction, of a man who, in momentary expectation of a knock on the head from an aerolite, escapes with the mere brush of some flying feather.

"How! what is that to you!" cried Madame de Vaubert. "Young Stamply is not dead; he has returned into the country, and when his identity is established beyond a doubt, do you ask what is that to you?" "To be sure I do," replied the Marquis, with an expression of surprise that the baroness should ask such a question. "If the boy had reasons for desiring to live, I am glad he is so fortunate as not to be under ground. I must see him. Why don't he present himself here ?”

"He will present himself soon enough. You need not be impatient about that," said Madame de Vaubert.

"Let him come," continued the Marquis. "We shall be glad to see him, and he shall be well taken care of. If need be, we will give him a share in our fortunes. I have not forgotten the delicate honesty of his father. Old Stamply did his duty; I will do mine. The boy has a right to expect something from one who owes his all to his father. I am not ungrateful. It shall never be said that a La Seigliére permitted the son of a faithful servant to live in want. Let him come here; and if he hesitates, let him be assured of a welcome. He shall have whatever he demands."

"If he demands all ?" said the baroness. At this question, M. de La Seigliére started and turned towards her with a stare. "Have you ever seen a book which is called 'THE CODE!'" tranquilly pursued the baroness.

"Never!" proudly returned the emigrant, and with an emphasis which clearly indicated his contempt for all innovations of that sort.

"I ran it over this morning with special reference to your case. Yesterday I knew no more of it than you do; but for your sake, I have consented to make myself a sort of attorney's clerk, and have looked into it a little. It is very dry in point of style, tolerable enough in those chapters where our rights are confirmed; but, in those portions where our privileges are in question, quite intolerable. I think, for example, that you will not much admire the chapter entitled, 'Donations among

"Madame la Baronne," cried M. de La Seigliére, rising, with a slight movement of impatience, "pray tell me what all that signifies to me."

"Monsieur le Marquis," replied Madame de Vaubert, rising in her turn, with all the gravity of a Doctor of Laws; "it signifies that every donation made without consideration is entirely revoked by the subsequent appearance and claim of a legitimate, even though posthumous, child of the donator; it signifies that John Stamply, during the life-time of his son, could have disposed of only a moiety of his property in your favor, and that, having disposed of it only on the supposition that his son was dead, the disposition is null and void; and, in short, it signifies that this is not your estate, that Bernard will compel you to make restitution; and that at the very first moment which shall offer, this boy, with whom you talk of dividing, armed with a judgment in due form, will summon you to quit the premises, and politely turn you out of doors. Do you understand

now ?"

M. de La Seigliére was astounded; but such was his adorable ignorance of practical affairs, that he quickly passed from astonishment and stupor, to exasperation and revolt. "What do I care for your Code, and your Donations among the living?" " he cried, with all the petulance of a mutinous boy. "Have I anything to do with it, or has it anything to do with me? This is my property, of that I am certain. Donation! They return what they have robbed me of, they bring back what they have carried away, and this they call a donation! A pretty idea! A La Seigliére accepting a donation! Charming! As if the La Seigliéres had ever received any favors except from the hand of God. What! ventre-saint-gris!* I am in my own house, contented and quiet, and because this fellow who was believed to be dead, sees fit to live, am I to turn over to him the fortune which his father stole from me? And this is your Code! your civil Code, as you call it the villainous botch of a set of cannibals! It is the Code of an usurper,

A favorite oath of good King Henry IV., as ridiculous as oaths usually are, and, of course, quite untranslatable.--TR.