actions. The accumulated misfortunes of the Colbies had in some measure corroborated the old man's notions; so much so, that the Lady actually began to entertain the popular belief of the Dale, that the old man was gifted with the power of prophecy. At no time had this notion been so strongly impressed on her mind, as on the evening during which the scene we have just described took place. CHAP. II. Nature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse "Now o'er one half the world MACBETH. Clarence Colby had, about a week before, set out on a visit to a relative in the county of Lancaster. Though he had often left his home for weeks together before, yet never had the Lady of Colby felt so unaccountably uneasy; a vague apprehension of evil continually occupying her mind. Whether it was a fancy conjured up by her own fears we cannot say, but certain it is, that a few nights after his departure, soon after she had retired to rest, she heard, or thought she heard, the sound of unearthly music beneath her casement-now swelling in sonorous tones, anon dying away in the distance, till only its faintest whispers were heard. So inexpressibly It was nearly midnight; the inhabitants of sweet was it, that it seemed as if a choir of the old town of Askrigg had retired to rest, all angels had descended on some mission to the save Widow Burton, who kept a public-house earth. This, however, the Lady considered a in the market-place, well known by the sign of most certain sign of a death in the family. "The Garland." Being a thrifty sort of body, Moreover, the groom declared that, being and, moreover, standing in need of all she could awakened by some noise during the same night, earn, she had sat before a comfortable fire plyhe saw the apparition of Master Clarence walking her needle long after the last burly customer through his room, pale and terrible to look on, and covered with blood. Strange noises had also been heard in the hall, and, at one time, a fearful shriek, which rang through every apartment, awakened, in terrible dismay, all the inmates. These occurrences determined Mistress Colby to send next day after her son. The servant returned, as related above, and she now determined, at the impulse of the moment, to seek out and consult the old priest. It was late in the evening when the Lady of Colby entered the glen towards the north of the Hall. The sun had set, leaving behind a clear, subdued light, which lingered on the tops of the north-western hills. Every bird had retired to its nest, and no gentle breeze crept through the dense foliage of the trees, half descried in the deepening twilight. All was shadowy, still and silent, save the mountain rill; yet even it seemed to have subdued its brawl to a gentle whisper, as, being half dried up by the heat of summer, its shallow waters softly meandered from pool to pool. The dim unearthly scene in which she was situated, imparted ideas of lamentation, solitude, and death. Onward she wandered with increased speed, when a rustling among some hazel boughs caused her to look around with something of terror. Her fears were dissipated, when she perceived an aged man, whom she knew to be Father Richard, approaching her. She made an effort to speak, but her heart throbbed so violently that she lost the power of utterance. had drank his last pint and departed. Her servants and children were in bed and fast asleep, and the doors and windows were barred against the heavy rain that pattered against them, and the loud blasts of wind mingled with the low muttering of distant thunder. At length she was startled by the sound of footsteps in the porch, and a loud rap at the door, while a man, in hoarse and terrified accents, implored her to open it. "Bless me! what can have brought Jerry Armstrong here to-night!" said she, recognising his voice, and instantly opening the door. Jerry Armstrong was one of the class of Scottish pedlars that still perambulate the country with huge packs of draperies. Being an honest and sober man, and possessed of considerable sums of money, he always lodged at the best inns that lay in his route, at which he was a well-known customer. Widow Burton was, as we have said, much surprised at the arrival of Jerry at her house so late in the night, for persons of his class mostly contrived to be within doors before dark, as they were often waylaid and robbed, and sometimes suddenly disappeared, nobody knew whither, though it was strongly suspected they were murdered. Her surprise was nothing abated when she looked upon his face. It was deadly pale--the sweat rolled in large drops from his brow, and a mingled expression of horror and fatigue made him fearful to look upon. "For the love of heaven! tell me, what is the matter!" said the widow. "Have you been robbed or attacked ?" "Neither," answered the terrified pedlar} L 2 "sit ye down, and I will tell you all, for I need | Richard. As she considered that her vow had your counsel in this extremity." Widow Burton drew her chair to the fire, and listened eagerly to the pedlar's narrative. He had intended to stay over night at a lonely inn amongst the wild and unfrequented mountains towards the west. The storm was fast coming on a few broad drops of rain fell at intervals-the thunder rolled, and the sky was covered with a canopy of clouds of inky blackness, seamed here and there with streaks of a bloody red, which threw over the summer evening the dusky hues of twilight. As he ap proached the inn, he perceived the shutters closed, and the light of a candle streaming through the niches of the not very compact boards. Hearing a strange noise within, curiosity, or perhaps a still stronger feeling, prompted him to look through a hole in the shutter rather larger than the rest. At the further end of the room was a tall, handsome youth, whom he instantly recognised, engaged in a deadly struggle with two ruffians, the masters of the house. They had succeeded in disarming him, and had inflicted several severe wounds on his person; and just as the pedlar fixed his eye upon them, the fiercer of the two, seizing him by the hair and dragging his head back, drew a knife across his throat. For a moment Jerry stood petrified with horror; recollecting, however, amid all his terrible bewilderment, that no good could now be done, and that his stay there would lead to certain death, he hastened from the spot over many a weary mile, and scarcely slackened his speed till he reached Askrigg. "And who was the young man, Jerry?" faltered Widow Burton. "Shall I tell you, widow," said the pedlar. "In good faith, you will be heart-broken to hear it was no other than Master Clarence Colby." : 66 "Clarence Colby!" said the widow, rising from her chair, and gazing round her as if in a trance; surely the hand of heaven is in it!" And then sitting down, and fixing her eyes stedfastly on the fire, she remained in silence, till reminded by the pedlar that they had best consider what course to pursue. The pair now took counsel together, and decided that the best they could do was to be entirely silent about the affair; as they well knew that, if they divulged anything, as the murderers were probably connected with a larger gang, their lives would be in the most imminent danger. The pedlar went even so far as to say, that if he ever heard another word of the transaction from any one but the widow herself, he would immediately quit the country for ever. We have not mentioned that Widow Burton was one of the congregation of Father Richard. She had promised to divulge the pedlar's secret to no one; yet the next day, and after he had gone, she began to feel some scruples of conscience regarding the affair, and to consider the propriety of confessing the whole to Father never been meant to extend so far as to interfere with her religious duties, she determined to do so that very day. The confessor heard the widow's tale with many exclamations regarding the certainty of retribution falling on the spoliators of the church; and, when she had finished, gave it as his opinion, that to conceal a murder would be decidedly wrong. But as the pedlar would leave the country if any rumour got abroad, and as the body would most likely be concealed so as never to be found, he thought that anything she could do would bring her into unnecessary trouble, and be of no avail, therefore he craftily advised her to proceed according to her original resolution. He also promised the widow, who felt much distressed for Mistress Colby, to give her, by some means or other, a distant intimation of the fate of her son: this he did a night or two after, as recorded above. Several weeks passed over, and, notwithstanding every search that could be made, no tidings were heard of the heir of Colby. The thing became much talked of in the Dale, and was frequently discussed at the house of Widow Burton; who, however, never displayed, by word or sign, that she knew anything of the matter, though no one was louder in lamenting than she; more especially when the passing bell in the ancient tower of St. Oswald's Askrigg tolled the solemn knell of the Lady of Colby, who died of grief soon after her interview with Father Richard. * * In a narrow and thickly-wooded dell, which opens on a romantic valley not far from the source of the Yore, stood, not many years ago, a lonely and deserted house. A green lane wound through the dell, and passed the door, but few cared to pass that way, and fewer still to enter that dreary house. Sad and desolate was all around; the doors and windows were broken and shattered-the woodbine had fallen from the porch, and trailed along the ground, as if anxious to escape the place; the garden paling was broken, within which a few garden flowers still reared their sickly heads during the sweet spring time, yet no sweet song of birds cheered the loneliness of that desolate spot. The owls nestled not amongst the ivy that clustered thickly round the gable-it hooted and flew past; and the raven croaked and winged its way over the distant fells. If any one inquired about the place, he was merely told, "It is haunted." There was one room in this house, however, that was particularly dreaded, the last person who occupied the dwelling always keeping it closed. On the wall was a large, dark, damp spot, tinged with green. Neither fire, whitewash, or plaster, could take that spot away; ever was it there, black and ominous, the damp drops coursing each other over it. At length the proprietor determined to take down the wall where the spot appeared. Behind was found, in a niche formed to receive it, a human skeleton-the remains of Clarence Colby. Banks of the Bain. A STORY IN VERSE. BY CHARLOTTE GUBBINS. (Concluded from page 88.) The wintry wind, in sudden squalls, Inhospitable season! time When want and crushing poverty Now doubly dear appear to be Reader, in fancy turn with me Of comfort, loveliness, and light, The chamber into which we look Within this spacious building seems Yet brilliant as the fancy's dreams All which a taste the most refined All which can banish from the mind This boudoir is of lofty height, And circular in form; by day Against them the tempestuous skies The arched ceiling, purely white, And of device and fabric rare, Besides these wax-lights, there are here On ivory pedestals; how clear Their softened light, and yet how chaste! The oil which feeds each tiny flame And beauty of that lovely room. Here too is shed a ruddier glow, Where, in its grate of burnished steel, O'erarched by marble white as snow, The bright fire burns, whose warmth we feel Through all the chamber spread: there stands Upon this sculptured marble white A jewelled clock, which when its hands The walls with costly silk are hung From gilded mirrors. Bright and soft Woven in finest foreign loom The carpet spreads: the draperies Of velvet in this princely room Rival the ruby in their dyes, And show each thick and ample fold With satin lined, and wrought with gold. Vain were the task to seek to name The thousand costly trifles here: Sweet pictures look from many a frame; Vases of chrystal white and clear Hold fragrant flowers, of brilliant dyes And foreign birth-the nurslings these Of art-which 'neath the chilly skies Of Britain never felt the breeze; Warm airs their waxy petals kissed, Their native soil they had not missed. All which to Beauty's hours of ease Of ebony; and scattered round The lovers (we may call them so, They are but four days wedded) seem As if their youthful bosoms know The presence of some pensive dream Of by-gone hours; for silently They are now seated side by side On a small couch of ivory With velvet cushions piled; the bride Is beautiful; some moments we Must pause, her wondrous charms to see. Oft have I, with a glad surprise, The tint so warm, so full of life On her transparent skin; and where, It deepens on the lip and cheek, Her profile fair we partly view; How exquisite its outline! now, The work of Grecian chisel chaste; Equal in beauty too are seen The graceful throat and bust; to-night, Back from her fair face gathered quite; Rich pearls peep forth between the braid Her robe of amber silk doth well Not quite the little foot conceal, Doth on a velvet cushion rest; In full-blown beauty on her breast, The youthful bridegroom also bears Of radiant happiness serene; He contemplates her all his own, And realizes in this hour Of wedded bliss the sacred power? This bliss their youthful bosoms know In all its holiest purity, For stern hearts laboured once to throw Of dark foreboding; while the theme She too, this loved and loveliest bride, Her duty; and this precious thought That if Earth ever could prepare A draught of bliss without alloy, 'Tis that which these young lovers share ; The tears which flowed for sorrows past Are changed to swell this draught at last! Hark! there is music! Suddenly The time-piece sounds its fairy chime; The lovers start, and silently They listen for a little time; As shows the pensive mood hath passed, "I would a kingdom give to know On what is Cecil musing so!" He pauses ere he yet replies, As if to count her beauties o'er, And mark them with a pleased surprise; It seems they charm his senses more The more he studies them; the bright, Full orbs are lowered 'neath his gaze, Not coyly shrinking from his sight As often in the by-gone days Of courtship, but as if oppressed With happiness, they sought for rest. "Beautiful bird!" at last he said, "It is enough for me to tell My thoughts are happy; thou hast read Their secret then; thou knowest well If not of Lucy, they were all Dark, joyless, cold!" her eyes again She raised-this time they did not fall So suddenly-but oh! in vain We seek to tell the magic sweet Of looks where souls in rapture meet! Reader, farewell! my simple task is done; Earth hath few hours of purest joy like this, A kindly pardon crave for much amiss Offsprings they are of many a pleasant thought And youthful passion which no shadow sees By fancied names are also outlined here The pictures thus attempted in my song. Has thrilled at feelings in these lines pourtrayed, If thou one pleasing sentiment hast known While I, by fancy led, have fondly strayed Through scenes well known of yore, remembered well, Then hath this effort not in vain been made, A celebrated preacher stopped on his way through D—, in order to preach at the ancient church which forms so picturesque a feature in that quiet and pleasant place. His voice, when he spoke, mingled with the rustling of the green trees; and, when he gave out the hymn, the village children and the birds sang together. The preacher was a man of startling eloquence, and his deep-toned voice stirred and awakened many a long slumbering spirit. His subject wasIdolatry. At first, those simple people, in their little, quiet Protestant church, thought themselves safe enough, and wondered that he should have chosen such a theme; but, when he brought the matter home to their hearts, they wept and trembled. There are many kinds of idolatry besides the worshipping of saints and images. A young girl knelt in a far corner of the church, and prayed with clasped hands and streaming eyes "Oh, Lord, keep me from idols! keep me from everything that would keep me from thee!" Alas! she knew not what she asked; would she have persisted in that prayer if she had? Yes, we think so, but we are not sure; human love is at once very strong and very weak; a strange contradiction: and yet, who has not felt its truth? But now at least she was sincere; praying out of the depths of an humble and contrite heart that yearned towards heaven-praying for she knew not what, The discourse was over, and the congregation passed forth into the bright sunshine. Many a countenance bore traces of bitter weeping, and such went apart to mourn over their buried idols in the green churchyard. Some looked grave and thoughtful; it may be that they were pondering upon, perhaps lamenting, that "covetousness which is idolatry." A few waited to shake hands with the preacher, and bid him God speed wherever he might be going in his labour of love. The young girl, of whom mention has before been made, came out with a rainbow smile upon her sweet face, which brightened as she glanced into the blue, sunny sky, and repeated her simple prayer with a loving and child-like trust. "Lord, keep me from idols! keep me from everything that would keep me from thee!" She joined a dear young friend, and they walked homeward hand in hand, through the quiet fields, talking of the sermon-aye, and of the preacher-as girls will talk sometimes. How handsome he was!" said her companion. "Was he? I did not notice." "Oh, Margaret !" "I was thinking of what he said," replied Margaret, "but I could not quite understandonly that idolatry must be a very fearful thing." "Yes, I should think so; but I do not imagine that there is much fear of either you or I becoming idolaters." "I hope not," said Margaret. Suddenly a deep flush passed over her face, and she forgot what they were talking about, and everything else in the world. "Surely that is Stephen West," exclaimed her friend. "Yes," answered Margaret, carelessly, "I think it is." As if she would not have recognized him in a moment among a thousand! The young man approached, and drew Margaret's arm through his quite naturally. Why should he not, when they were betrothed lovers ? A few moments afterwards Margaret's companion turned smilingly into another path, and, strangely enough, they never even missed her. "I wish you had been at church this morning," said Margaret to her lover. "Thank you, but I was better engaged." "Better?" "Well then, more pleasantly." "More pleasantly, Stephen ?" You do nothing but play the echo, sweet How indeed could I be better, or more pleasantly engaged than with you?" one. "I did not mean that," said Margaret, gravely. "Then tell me what you do mean, Margaret; for you are the only person whom I could bear to hear preach." "Oh, Stephen! you must not say that! you would really make me quite unhappy, only that I know you do not-you cannot speak as you think." "I will say and think whatever you wish, dearest." Margaret smiled upon her lover-such a smile! |