had been received by society at large. Intimates had suddenly become slight acquaintances, slight acquaintances had grown strangely short-sighted, and when he forced himself upon their notice, appeared afflicted with a painful degree of stiffness in the "upper spine." Still, until that moment, no one had ventured actually to cut him. Now the matter had come to a climax, Horace felt himself brought fairly to bay, and in such a frame of mind he was dangerous. After Lord Alfred had passed D'Almayne, he touched the Honourable William Barrington, alias Billy Whipcord, on the arm, and drawing him aside, said,

"I have just been let into a pleasant little secret; it seems that the reason my dis-honourable young acquaintance, Mr. Tirrett, set his face so determinately against riding Don Pasquale, was that the notable quadruped had a screw loose in the back sinew of one of its inestimable fore-legs, and Tirrett was afraid it would break down in the race. Now as I have become aware of

this only within the last half hour, I dare say I have asked, and you have given, too much for the brute. Caveat emptor may be a very good general maxim, but I never can see why a gentleman should act about selling a horse in a manner undeserving that title— so, if you find the creature unsound, I shall be happy to hand you back a fifty-pound note, or more, if you require it. I've passed my little go,' as a patron of the turf, and wish to come out of it with clean hands ere I take my leave of that noble pastime."

Really, my dear Courtland, you're too chivalrous," was the reply, "but I'm quite content with my bargain, the Don is sound enough to answer my purpose, (he had sold him that morning, and pocketed a cool hundred by his bargain), and if he were not, I have purchased him, and must abide the loss; but, excuse me, are you aware that you have just cut Horace D'Almayne ?"

"As he deserves to be cut by every honourable man," interrupted Lord Alfred, "and, for reasons which I will explain here, before every member of this club now present, if he has the audacity to-to venture to force himself upon me," he continued angrily, as he perceived D'Almayne sauntering up to him, with his accustomed listless gait indeed, but with a sparkle in his eye, and a red spot on each cheek, which, to those who were

well acquainted with him, showed that he was unusually excited.

"Has foreign travel, and the lapse of a fortnight, really altered me so much that your Lordship is unable to recognize an old friend; or to what other circumstance am I to attribute your singular failure of memory when I accosted you on your entrance?" he inquired in his most superciliously polite tone and accent.

"Attribute it to its right cause," was the spirited reply, "that I desire to associate only with men of honour, an idiosyncracy which precludes my longer availing myself of the privilege of Mr. D'Almayne's society."

"In fact, that, having made use of me to convert a raw school-boy into a very tame specimen of a fast man, you fancy now you are able to run alone, and that it will add to your reputation for fastness to kick down the ladder by which you have mounted the social mole-hill you stand on," was the sneering answer; "but you have mistaken your man, my lord. Horace D'Almayne is not a puppet of which you hold the wires, to dance, or to be thrown aside, at your lordship's pleasure. Had you simply chosen to deny me your further acquaintance, I should have set the gain of valuable minutes against the loss of one of the social incubi my good nature has entailed upon me, and overlooked the boyish impertinence; but as you have seen fit to insult me publicly, nothing short of an equally public apology will satisfy me. Should you be infatuated enough to refuse me this, I will for once flatter your lordship's vanity by supposing you man enough to be aware of the alternative."

As D'Almayne spoke, he drew himself up with an expression of contemptuous superiority half-pitying, half-defiant, which he imagined highly effective.

It certainly had one effect, that of rousing Lord Alfred's temper to the utmost extent; and, with flashing eyes and quivering lips, he replied:

"If I could believe that you had one thought or feeling of a gentleman in your composition which my conduct could wound, I would accept one of the alternatives you propose; but to a man who can abuse the confidence of friendship by availing himself of it to swindle and betray the friend who trusted him,-to such a low, sordid blackleg, I will neither apologize, nor will I

afford him the satisfaction due to wounded honour."

For a moment, as D'Almayne's glance met that of the man he had wronged, his self-possession failed him; and, ignorant to what extent Lord Alfred might have become cognizant of his nefarious practices, he hesitated how far he dared provoke any disclosure. But it was too late to retract: his social position, on which depended his very means of existence, was at stake; and as the thought crossed his mind, the gambler spirit awoke within him. He would carry the matter with a high hand; a bold course was always the wisest; Fortune would favour those who trusted her. It was his only article of faith, and he clung to it with the pertinacity of a zealot.

"Highly melo-dramatic!" he said, with a sarcastic sneer. "Your lordship has a real specialité for juvenile tragedy. But may I be allowed to inquire what particular perfidy of mine has elicited the burst of virtuous indignation which you have selected for your histrionic débût ?"

"I was willing to have spared you the disgrace of a public exposure," was Lord Alfred's reply; "but since you choose thus to provoke your fate, I can have no reason for longer concealing the cause which has led me to consider you unfit for the society of honourable men." Turning to Barrington, who happened to be standing next him, he continued, "You, sir, and other gentlemen present, may remember how, not many weeks since, a certain steeple-chase rider, named Tirrett, suddenly left me in the lurch, by refusing to ride for me on the morning of the race, by which rascality I was on the point of losing the race, upon which I had made an imprudently heavy book. Mr. D'Almayne was at that time abroad, and imagined, owing to that circumstance, he might transact a little profitable black-leg business with impunity. He accordingly wrote a note to Tirrett, suggesting to him the scheme, which he afterwards attempted to carry out; stipulating, in case of its success, to be paid fifty pounds and a percentage on Tirrett's winnings."

As Lord Alfred concluded, a murmur of disapprobation ran round the room, and all eyes were turned upon Horace D'Almayne.

"A cleverly devised tale!" he said, scornfully; "a mole-hill ingeniously inflated until it appears a mountain. I certainly betted on the race; I may have given the jockey Tirrett the benefit of my suggestions

VOL. VII. N. S.

on the subject, as any other man who has ever been on the turf would have done; but that all this demonstrates anything, except Lord Alfred Courtland's deplorable ignorance of that said art of life about town,' in which he appears to have striven in vain to become a proficient, I am at a loss to conceive."

"Perhaps the simplest answer to Mr. D'Almayne's statement will be to place the note, on which the foundations of my 'molehill inflated into a mountain' rest, in Mr. Barrington's hands; asking him, for his own satisfaction, and for that of the other gentlemen present, to read it aloud.

As he spoke, Lord Alfred drew from his pocket the note given him by Tirrett, and handed it to Barrington; who, after a moment's hesitation, read aloud the following notable epistle, which the reader may remember was written by D'Almayne, with his usual cool audacity, in Lord Alfred Courtland's chambers :

:

"DEAR TIRRETT,-Your game is clear: let A. C- and O'B- -n each believe that you will ride for him, and at the last minute throw both over. In this case, Captain Annesley's 'Black Eagle' is safe to win, as I daresay you know better than I do; thus you will perceive how to make a paying book. If I prove a true prophet, I shall expect a fifty-pound note from you, as O'B -n will (before you quarrel with him) tell you I got up the whole affair myself, introducing him to A. C-, &c,

As Barrington ceased reading, D'Almayne observed, coolly :

"Exactly as I expected-an anonymous letter, supposed to be mine on the word of a blackguard horse-dealer, who probably wrote it himself to conceal his own rascality, and eagerly caught at by this fiery young gentleman, who, anxious to prove that he is out of leading-strings, gladly seeks any pretext for quarrelling with one to whom his lordship has a painful consciousness that he appears no more a hero than he does to his valet-de-chambre. Tirrett declares I wrote this letter, I say I did no such thing : there is no proof about the matter, it is simply a question of assertion-Tirrett's

B B

word against mine. I leave it to the gentlemen present to say which is most worthy of credit."

"Allow me to mention one small circumstance which may assist them to arrive at a just decision," interposed Lord Alfred, quietly, "I have a perfect recollection of Mr. D'Almayne's writing a note, much resembling the one in question, at my lodgings, on the morning before he left England. If I am right in my conjecture, the date would be the 5th of last month, and the post-mark Pall Mall; may I trouble you to ascertain the point, Mr. Barrington ?"

"Of course, all against me," he said; then turning to Lord Alfred, "Your Lordship once expressed a doubt as to the social value of a title, you now, I should imagine, perceive your error: for the rest, the letter is an impudent forgery, and the accusation false; but until I can prove the whole story the clumsy fabrication I know it to be, I shall leave the matter where it stands, unless," and he glanced round the circle with a savage light in his cold, grey eyes, which no one cared to meet, "unless any gentleman feels inclined to make a personal affair of it, in which case, I shall have much pleasure in affording him the satisfaction he requires."

No one appearing desirous of improving the occasion as D'Almayne had suggested, the baffled intriguer stalked out of the room with a look of scornful indifference on his features, and rage and hatred burning in his heart. (To be continued in our next.)

THICK heavy clouds hung low in the sky, pouring out an unceasing deluge of rain. The wind was high and keen, tearing up the flowers, and scattering their dainty petals all over the garden. Grey mists hid the opposite shore, and the deep leaden colour of the sea reflected that of the gloomy sky, except where the foam of the rising waves marked it with undulating lines of white. "What a day for July !" was the universal cry of the party assembled in the breakfast-room, and very long were the faces which greeted each other that morning. "No yachting to-day," said one." No bathing," echoed another." The fruit will be spoiled.""The flowers are finished." There we were; the second day of our visit was the first break in the long course of bright summer weather, which had promised us so much enjoyment; and instead of the calm sea, and glorious sunshine of the preceding day, we were storm-stayed by a promising flood, in an old country-house, for the whole day.

"Where are the newspapers?" was the inquiry of the host; and it seemed to promise a sort of ray of amusement to the general dulness.

"They have not come, sir;" was the

answer.

"Not come ! it is long past the post hour." "Yes, sir, but it has rained heavily all night among the hills, and the river has carried away the foot-bridge, and he has gone round to the Bridge of Ardentyre."

"Eleven miles round!" said Mr. Grahame, with a look of resignation.

There was no help for it: the gentlemen took refuge in cigars and billiards; and we ladies, after an attempt at work, set off on a tour over the house, under the conduct of Miss Grahame, our host's daughter. The house was large, and very old. It had belonged to the family of the Lords of Geraldyn, and their grim portraits, and old armour, were hung round the entrance hall, for Mr. Grahame was their descendant, and had preserved all their relics with the most scrupulous care. Up and down many stairs, and along many passages we went, until we came to the library. It was a very large room, the roof was of carved oak, the points of which still retained traces of antique gilding. Large bookcases of carved oak rose all round the room, and

above the wide high mantlepiece, hung a painting covered with a curtain of dark red silk. My attention was caught by a curious instrument on a stand. It was something like an antique lyre, but larger; the frame was of ebony, richly inlaid with Arabic characters in gold. The instrument seemed very old, but the strings were new, and in perfectly good order.

"What is this, Miss Grahame ?" said I. "It is a lyre," she answered, "and once belonged to this lady," and she drew back the curtain from the picture.

It was an oval painting, a half-length, representing a lady dressed in black, and having a black veil over her head and shoulders. The only spot of colour in her costume, was a cluster of brilliant pomegranate blossoms in her hair, and even this was partly covered by the veil. The face was eastern, dark, melancholy, and beautiful, and the rich soft eyes, with their shady lashes, seemed yet living things. The expression of the lovely face was tender and sorrowful, and the small delicate head, round which masses of silken hair were braided and twined, seemed bending heavily on the slender throat. The picture was evidently the work of a master hand; and we all gazed on it in delight and admiration.

"What do you think of it?" asked Miss Grahame.

"Except the Cenci, I never saw a face to approach that in beauty. What was that lady's name?"

"She was a Lady Geraldyn, but in the family legends she is always called the Dark Lady. We do not know the history of the portrait, which is evidently not so old as her own time, but that really was her lyre. Look at those Arabic characters, Mrs. Morton; she was of Moorish origin, and these words are a spell, binding the spirit of harmony to the lyre."

Miss Grahame offered the lyre to me, but as I took it, a shudder came over me, as I thought how long the fingers had mouldered into dust, which had once drawn music from that lyre.

"I wish I could have heard its notes," I said."

"Do you?" said Miss Grahame. “ Well, as it might be difficult to bring the original performer here, I will fill her place." "You! can you play it?"

"Yes. My Italian uncle had a mania for curious musical instruments; and a lyre, not

He taught

unlike this, was one of them. me to play it, and when I came here, I remembered hearing that the Dark Lady's lyre was still in existence. I had a search made for it, and it was discovered along with some very ancient music, which my uncle succeeded in deciphering. The lyre was put in order, but it is still an enchanted lyre, and few like to hear its sounds."

With these words, Miss Grahame began to play. At first, low fitful murmurs, sounding faintly, and then, dying away, were heard; but the sound gradually became more continued, and a single voice, sad and unearthly as the wail of a captive spirit, seemed to rise from the lyre. Then strengthening, it rose in despairing energy, shooting up to heaven like a loud cry of agony. When this passion was at the strongest, there came, mingling with it, yet never uniting, a low, sweet strain of melody. Like a whisper from the past, it stole into all that fierce pain, heard through its wildness, strengthening and soothing its agony, as prayer does the struggling soul. Beneath it, the passionate

storm sunk into a calm, and the harmony becoming more strong, more heavenly, was heard alone. It was a song such as a compassionate angel might sing above the dying, bringing them faint echoes of the music of the wonderful world where they were soon to rest. Wailing chords of sorrow and regret sometimes sounded through all its marvellous sweetness-sad thoughts and haunting memories of earth's passions and sufferings; but at length even sorrow was forgotten, and in grand waves of sound the music rose in one last triumphant burst, even when it was at its height, becoming softer and more distant, and dying in long-continued murmurs, each fainter and more sweet, till the lyre was hushed.

None of Miss Grahame's audience felt much inclined to break the silence; at length one said:

"What is the name of that wonderful piece of music ?"

"It was found with the lyre," answered the young lady; "and, perhaps, may have been composed by the Dark Lady herself, for it always appears to me to breathe her history."

There was an immediate demand for the legend; and Miss Grahame, laying down the lyre on its stand, began the following legend.

In the time of James III. of Scotland,

when the power of the Moors was yet at its height in Spain, the only son of William, Lord Geraldyn, left his fatherland to travel in distant regions. Few missed Amyer de Geraldyn, for he had ever been a silent and haughty youth. Men spoke of long-continued quarrels between the father and son, and no voice of wife or mother was there to come softly between them, for Sybilla de Geraldyn gave life for life, and, from the day of his birth, Amyer was motherless. Years passed, and he returned not. No whisper of him came back to his native country! No minstrel, in his wanderings, sung of his chivalrous deeds in distant lands, all was silence and almost forgetfulness over his name. Men spoke of how the race of Geraldyn-old even then-was dying away, and pitied the grey-haired lord, the last of his line. Ten silent years rolled on, and God smote the lord of Geraldyn with a lingering sickness, and he knew that it was to be his death. One summer night he said to those at his side: "Carry me out to the battlements, and place me with my face to the East, whither my son is gone." And it was done. The sun was setting over the old lord's lands and reddening the sea, when the group on the battlements saw a cloud of dust rising at a distance, and the note of a bugle was borne on the evening wind. A long train wound up the steep road, and stopped at the castle gate, whence, ten years before, Amyer, a youth of nineteen, had departed. It was a stately knight, on whose brow the skies of warmer lands had showered their influences, who sprung from his steed at the gate, and lifted from her embroidered saddle a young and dark-browed lady. They knelt before the old lord, but his brow grew dark, and his first greeting to his restored son was: "It was ill of thee, Amyer, to bring a Moorish witch as a bride to thy mother's home."

A red flush rose to Sir Amyer's brow, and the frown of old darkened it, but a low, soft voice spoke at Lord William's knee :

Now it was an ill reception that the old lord had given the foreign lady, nor soon was it forgotten by the people. They knew that her robes and ornaments were adorned with strange characters, that she had parchments covered with them, and had even been seen to write them. But her greatest ¦ magic lay in her lyre, on whose frame the same weird signs appeared, and whose music, added to that of her voice, none could hear unmoved. "It was that voice," said many, "whose unearthly sweetness beguiled the old lord to bless her; yet his first words were the true." And they feared the Dark Lady.

But a son was born in the Geraldyn halls, and the lady feared not to kneel at altar and shrine, nor had holy water any terrors for her. And the peasants began to find that it was a good thing to have a lady, who had ever a smile and a gentle word for all, an ear ever ready to listen to their complaints, and a hand, as far as her power extended, to redress their grievances. The wonderful knowledge of healing arts, and the skill she had brought from a far country, saved many from the very grasp of death; and ere three years were past, the peasants, instead of fearing, had learned to bless "The Dark Lady of Geraldyn."

Sweet might have been the change to her once, and in some measure it was so still; but a cloud had come over her home, which darkened her life. Amyer was an altered man; he, to whom her smile had once been daylight, now looked on her with frowns; he spent long days hunting with the rude chiefs of the North, and had more than once returned in a state which shocked the young Moorish wife, still mindful of the law which had been that of her fathers, beyond expression. She shrank from him; but he was still her Amyer, whose love had won her from her own sunny land; and all her arts she tried to gain him, wishing perhaps that she indeed possessed spells of power charm him, whom love, and youth, and beauty had not sufficed to bind. was becoming a noble boy, but there was an icy hand on his young mother's heart: Amyer's love for her was gone, and she

could not live without it.

Her child

The peasants now loved their gentle lady, and and resented her injuries as their own; many a spy watched the wandering path of Amyer. His wife was deaf to all rumours from without against him, yet she knew too