THE DREAM OF LOVE.

as this, but ill befits a gentleman," retorted Wakefield, the fact flashing upon his mind, that Brown had been a witness to all that had passed.

"It matters not," returned the other; "we will not quarrel over trifles. I demand, sir, whether you are serious in your attentions to the lady you have just left? Answer me without equivocation.

"1 recognize not your right, sir, to demand any thing of me," returned Wakefield, coolly.

"Then you or I must die," said Brown, suddenly drawing a pair of pistols from his pockets. "I have made up my mind, sir, irrevocably, that if Madeline Morland will not be mine, she shall not be another's. Take your choice, and let us here decide the matter at once and forever."

" I decline your offer, sir, until you are placed in a similar situation to my own," ," said Wakefield.

"I demand to know, then, on what score we are not equal?" interrogated Brown.

"You are entitled to that knowledge," returned Wakefield. "Then know, sir, that I am this night betrothed to the amiable lady I have just left, and that, should I fall, my own misery would not be the only consequence, but an innocent being would suffer for my folly."

At these fatal words Brown gasped for breath, and fell back against the tree, in apparent agony. Wakefield thought this a proper opportunity to escape from the man whom he knew to be maddened with love and I jealousy, and who might do him some injury. With the promise to see him again, which Brown, however, did not hear, he departed, leaving him to his reverie, and to indulge his misery.

From his situation, Brown perceived that Madeline had retired to the same room, and was reading. A desperate resolve seized him-to enter if possible-to endeavour to break off the engagement which had been formed, and if unsuccessful, to die in her presence. He advanced -found the door open and entered without ap

531

that the human heart may bear. Relent, and save me from an untimely tomb, and yourself from the arms of a villain, who has won your gentle heart but to deceive you."

"By what means," enquired Madeline, "did you discover that we were betrothed, and what proof have you that Wakefield is a villain? Speak, I conjure you, nor longer keep me in the agony of suspense. Speak! tell me all, that I may escape the snare ere it is forever too late."

"Have you then never heard the dreadful act which he committed, when returning from his travels? Has no suspicion ever crossed your mind of his real character?"

"Never," said the trembling Madeline. Oh! tell me and yet I dread to hear the fatal tale. It will be death to all my hopes, and all my happiness-but let me hear it."

"I will tell you the truth," said Lindley Brown, his countenance brightening with hope. "You must then know, dearest Madeline, that when Wakefield was travelling from Orleans, through the forest, on his way to Ohio, he stopped for the night at the house of a man, by the name of Loxley, who made him welcome, and introduced him with confidence to his wife and daughter. Loxley had just married, the second time, a young and most beautiful girl, upon whom he lavished all the affections of his heart. His daughter was but sixteen years of age. Wakefield remained, partaking of their hospitality, all which time he assiduously devoted to the hellish purpose of ensnaring the hearts of the young wife and daughter. Loxley was often absent; his wife and and daughter daughter knew not the villainy of man, and, ere they were aware of it, fouud that the presence of the stranger was necessary to their happiness. Lucy, the daughter, first fell a victim to his villainy, and he then sought every opportunity to persuade the wife to follow him home. In the simplicity of innocence, she listened to him, but refused him, until her heart became completely ensnared by his blandish

prising her, for his mind was in a state border-ments and estranged from her husband. At

ing on distraction. Madeline started with surprise and anger at the appearance in her room, at that hour, of a man, without announcement. The expression of his countenance alarmed her, and she sternly demanded his business, for so haggard was he, that she did not at first recognize his features.

"I come," said Brown, with a melancholy look, "to snatch you from the aims of Wakefield, or to perish in the attempt. You have pledged your heart and hand to a villain, and if you persist in claiming him, you must be content to see one expire at your feet, in this rcom."

Saying this, he turned to the door, and locking it, put the key in his pocket. Madeline attempted to scream, but her heart became sick, her head swam round, and all the past seemed to her like some forlorn dream of love. She had long dreaded that some fatal consequence would be the result of Brown's unrequited passion. Before she had fully recovered, the unhappy young man had sunk down at her feet, grasped her hand, and was gazing imploringly in her face.

"Oh! Madeline, doom me not to death, for your cruelty has already inflicted all the agonies |

last, when Loxley was absent, she consented, and they set off through the wilderness. The distracted husband, suspecting villainy, set off in pursuit, and in the depth of the forest overtook them, and demanded his wife of the man who had partaken of his hospitality. Wakefield answered the language of his wounded heart with scorn, and refused to yield the beautiful creature whom he had rudely torn from a virtuous, affectionate, and happy home. A contest ensued, and the next moment the hand of Wakefield was reeking with the blood of the injured husband, who was expiring at the feet of the murderer."

As the last words escaped from the lips of Brown, Madeline feebly shrieked, and as he turned he saw her falling from her chair. He caught her in his arms, pressed her pale lips to his, and for a moment exulted in the triumph he had achieved. Slowly consciousness returned; she gazed a minute upon the face of the narrator in pity, then darted from his arms and hastily reseated herself in her chair. Some moments passed in musing silence.

"Oh! I will not believe it," exclaimed Madeline. "You wrong him; you seek to blast his fame, because he has been more fortunate than

SONG-FEIGNED AND REAL ATTACHMENT.

Let us think of those who have loved us dear,-
Of the friends that are far away.

Few are the hearts that have proved the truth,
Of their early affection's vow;
Then let those few, the beloved of youth,

Be dear in their absence now.
Oh vivid long, in the faithful breast,

Shall the gleam of remembrance play;
Like the lightning tint in the glowing west,
When the sunbeams have past away.

Sweet be the sleep of their silent hours,
And calm be the seas they roam;

FEIGNED AND REAL ATTACHMENT.

true love's perfect humbleness. I knew not that Trevor's unwordliness would reckon a virtue of more account than an estate in a wife's dowry; or that he would never think of finding his life's friend in such a giddy fluttering child of folly as I appeared to be-as, but for my love of him, I would have been. But I was soon to know the passion's "pain and power," the wasting restlessness of doubt and fear. 1 soon grew peevish and "impatient-hearted;" as I marked the many occasions of seeking my society, which he let pass unheeded, I grew weary, of crowded assemblies; where I in vain watched for his face, and listened for his voice. And when he did come, and when he greeted me with his placid and gracious smile, I felt the sick chill of hopelessness steal over me, as I contrasted his mild indifference with the passionate worship of my own "shut and silent heart." Sometimes I fancied that he was 'rapt too high in heavenly contemplation to dream of earthly love. His enthusiasm too, glowing as it was, was yet so holy, so calm! But is not enthusiasm ever calm, and always holy? And does not true insight into the life of things convince us that the loftiest and purest intellects are ever twinborn with the warmest hearts, that tenderness and genius are seldom or never divorced? When I witnessed Trevor's fervent piety, and heard his touching eloquence, I felt that they both sprang from the pure depths of an affectionate heart; I knew that he would love loftily, holily, and for ever; but I feared, alas, alas! that I could never be the blessed object of his love. I had found the

533

tempts, he artfully insinuated that my partially was known, and believed to be gently discouraged by Trevor himself, but at the same time professed his own disbelief of any thing so preposterous, and, in every way, so derogatory to me. This was entirely false, and I thought it so, but the bare imagination of such an indignity caused me to treat Trevor with a haughty coldness well calculated to convict me of impertinent caprice. These, however, were only the feelings that predominated when I was in society; they partook of its pettiness and turbulence; but in solitude, and in the house of prayer, I felt my undeservings, and knew how immeasurably high Trevor ranked above me. On Sunday Trevor was absent from church, and his place was filled by a dull and drowsy preacher. My imagination framed a thousand reasons for so unusual an absence. He might, be removed to anotner charge, gone without a word of parting or preparation, or he might be ill and dying. My worst conjecture had scarcely erred. Pestilence had caughthim in his merciful visits to the dwellings of disease and want, and he lay in imminent danger of death. O what would I not then have given for a right to attend him! Never in his proud and happy days, did I so passionately wish to be his sister, his betrothed, his wife, or any thing that could be virtuously his. Had I been empress of the world, I whould have bartered my crown and sceptre, for the tearful and unquiet happiness of watching by his sick couch. I envied even the hireling nurses who should smooth his pillow, and read his asking

only human being who call forth the latent en-eye, and guard his feverish slumber. Poets

ergies and affe tions of my soul, but his eye was averted, I had no space in his thought. I knew the firm and steady character on which my weak and turbulent nature could have cast itself so fondly for support, but it had no sympathy

have celebrated woman's heroism in braving plague or pestilence fo those she loves, but it asks none; to do so is but to use a dear and enviable privilege; heroism and fortitude are for her who loves, yet dares not approach to share

with mine. I saw the heaven in which my heart or lessen the danger of the loved. Accustomed would fain have "set up its everlasting rest," as I was to conceal my feelings, it was yet a but it rejected me. Sometimes the thought hard task to mask myanguish from eyes quickwould arise that, could he know of my devotion-ened by jealousy and suspicion. I dared not ab

al attachment, he would not fail to yield a rich return. But could the raising of an eye-lash have gained his love, at the risk of revealing reve my own, the revealment would not have been made. I would have rejected his regard if it sprang from such a source. This is not pride, nor prejudice, nor education; it is the very soul and centre of a woman's being. I was conscious that my face was but too apt to betray my thoughts, and I was terrified lest any one should detect my preference for Trevor. Lord Ealone suspected it. His jealous eyes were forever rivetted upon my countenance, and he alone read aright my wandering, vacant eye and

it

sent myself from the hannts of dissipation, less should be said that I cared more for the danger of a good man then the heartless idlers whose ridicule I dreaded. I rose from a pillow deluged with salt tears, and bound my aching temples with red-rose wreaths. I danced when I would fain have knelt to heaven in frantic supplication for that precious life. I laughed with my lips, when the natural language of my heart would have been moans, sorrowful and many. Every day 1, like any other silent acquaintance, sent a servant to make complimentary inquiries concerning Trevor's health. One day, in answer to my message, my servant brought me intelli.

changing cheek. His shrewdness had long been gence that the crisis of the fever had arrived, aware of the impassioned temperament that and that his fate would that night be decided.Jurked beneath my sportive manners, and he be- It was added too that the physicians feared the lieved me very capable of lavishing my fortune worst. That evening I found it impossible to

continue the struggle between the carelese seeming and the breaking heart. I shut myself into my own apartment, and gave free course to sorrow. I fled to prayer, and, with incoherent and passionate beseechings, emplored that the just man might live, even though I were never more to see him. I read over the church ser

and affections upon one of Nature's noblemena prodigality which he was determined, is possible, to prevent. He did not dare openly to slander the high character of Trevor, but he had recourse to the sneers and "pretty brands which calumny does use," in hopes of depreciating him in my estimation. When he saw with what ineffable scorn I smiled npon suchat-vice; as I read, recalling every intonation of that 534

FEIGNED AND REAL ATTACHMENT.

ter a fair and interesting, but not strikingly beautiful girl. Trevor and she seemed to be on intimate and even affectionate terms. I learned her name. It was not his. She was not her sister. I began to know the tortures of jealousy.Next evening I was at a ball. Trevor was not there. We were dancing the quadrille of La Pastorelle, and I was standing alone, (at that part where the lady's own and opposite partners advance to meet her,) when I heard a lady near me say to another, "So, Mr. Trevor and Miss

venerated voice, now spent in the ravings of de- | and a young lady, both strangers to me, the latlirium, perhaps soon to be hushed in death! I searched out the texts of Scripture on which he used to dwell, and, while I pondered on the awful events which the night might bring forth, a sudden impulse of superstition seized me. I resolved to seek from the sacred book an omen of the morrow's issue; and, opening it at hazard, determined to regard the first verse that should present itself as the oracle of destiny. The words that met my eyes were appallingly appropriate. "He pleased God and was beloved, and living among sinners he was translated. He was taken away lest wickedness should alter his understanding, or deceit beguile his soul. Being made perfect, in a short space he fulfilled a long time." These awful words smote me like the fiat of doom. A wild sad yearning to look even upon the walls that enclosed him seized me; and,

are to be married immediately." This knell of my happiness rung out amid the sounds of music and laughter. The dancers opposite, struck with the blenched and spectral hue of my complexion, cried out at once, "What is matter? Miss Howard, you are ill;" but with a strong proud effort, I replied, that I was perfect

with some difficulty, eluding the observation of ly well, danced through my part, and then stood

my domestics, I walked towards Trevor's house
unattended and unsheltered, through darkness
and driving rain. Streets, over which I had been
often borne in triumph and in joy, I now trod on
foot, in tears, and alone, the pilgrim of grief and
love. I reached Trevor's house, and stood on
the threshold he had so often crossed on his angel
errands of good-will to man, and which he might
never more pass but as a journeyer to the grave.
O for one last look of his living breathing form!
And there had been times and hours, now fled
for ever, when I might have touched his hand,
and meet his eye, and won his kindly smile, and
1 had swept past him with haughty seeming and
hypocritical coldness! True, my haughtiness
and coldness were nothing to him, then, or now,
but they were much to my remorseful memory.
Convulsive throbbings shook my frame, and I had
raised the knocker in the purpose of enquiring
whether he still lived, when the everhaunting
fear of detection restrained me. I passed to the
other side, from which I could see the closely
curtained windows of the patient's chamber, and
could discern by the faint light within, the glid-
ing forms of his attendants. Long I paced the
dark and silent street, gazing upon the walls
that held all that I prized on earth-pouring out
my heart like water unto one who, in leaving
the world, would cast back no regretful thought
on me-one on whom the ponderous tomb might
shortly close, and shut me out into the void and
dreary world, with my unregarded love,
dreary
unpitied weeping.

and my

But morning brought unhoped joy: Trevor lived, would live-my prayer had ascended.

After his recovery he visited all his acquaintance, and me among the rest. I now met him for the first time freed from the prying observation of others, and this, together with the joy of seeing him after so painful an absence, imparted a cordiality to my manner, which seemed to fill him with a pleased surprise. But much as I desired to please him, I found it impossible to make any effort towards doing so; my powers of conversation were utterly paralysed; and, though he stayed a considerable time, I feared that he must think me a most vapid and unintelligent being. Hitherto I had not seen Trevor pay marked attention to any woman, but one evening he came to a concert accompanied by a matron

beside Lord E-, who was as usual my partner. The ladies were still engaged in the same conversation. "He goes to Devonshire next week, for change of air after his long illness.He is to remain some time on a visit at her father's house. I understood it is a long engagement."

Lord E- heard these words, and guessed at once the cause of my sudden pallor. I saw that he did, and resolved to defy his penetration. Never had I been so wildly gay, never excited so much admiration as on that miserable evening. The recklessness of dsepair bewildered me, and in a sort of a mad conspiracy with fate against my own happiness, I gave my irrevocable promise to be the wife of Lord E-. A double bar was thus placed between me and the most perfect of God's creatures. He had selected one (doubtless worthy of him) with whom to tread virtue's "ways of pleasantness and paths of peace," while I, linked in a dull bond with one whom I neither loved nor hated, must pursue the weary round of an existence without aim, or duty, or affection. I was but nineteen, and happiness was over-hope, the life of life, was dead; and the future, imagination's wide domain, nothing but one dim and desolate expanse.

Lord E-made the most ostentatious preparations for our approaching union, which he took care should be publicly known, so that I was congratulated upon it by my acquaintance, and among the rest by Trevor himself. But the more I reflected, the more I loathed the thought of marrying Lord E. He could not be blind to my reluctance; but his avarice and vanity were both interested in the fulfilment of my promise. To a man who had desired my love, my unwillingness to fulfil the contract would have been a sufficient cause for dissolving it; but Lord E- had wooed my wealth, and I had promised it to him-how then could I retract? Gladly, indeed, would I have given half my fortune in ransom of my rash pledge, but such a barter was impossible, and I saw no means of escaping the toils which my own folly had woven around me.

One day, while I was revolving these bitter thoughts, and awaiting the infliction of a visit from Lord E-, a letter, in a strange hand, was delivered to me. It ran thus:

FEIGNED AND REAL ATTACHMENT.

"MY DEAR AUGUSTA-Did you ever hear of a wild youth, your brother, who was supposed to have been lost at sea, when you were a baby? I am that brother; I fear I dare no longer say, that youth. I have passed through as many adventures ás would rig out ten modern novels, but which would be out of place in this little brotherly epistle. At last, however, I was seized with a strange fit of home sickness, and coming to England to recover, I find my pretty little sister a wit, a beauty, and heiress of my heritage. 1 understand, and you are doubtless also aware, that my father never gave up all hope of my return, and that by his will I am entitled to his property, except a paltry portion of ten thousand pounds for you. But I have seen you, my dear little girl, and like you vastly, so that you may be sure that I shall not limit your portion as my father did. I candidly confess that I doubt whether I may be able legally to prove my title, though my old nurse, who lives with you, and with whom I have had an interview, recognized me easily. I shall visit you, however, and I am sure when you compare me with my father's portrait you will acknowledge me to be your loving brother, "HENRY HOWARD."

I was well aware of the clause in my father's will to which the writer alluded; but it had always seemed to me, and to my guardians, a mere dead letter. Some time before might have grieved at the prospect of losing my wealth; now it filled me with ioy, as affording a hope of release from Lord E. I flew to nurse, and found her ready to swear to the stranger's identity with the lost Henry Howard. I seized my pen joyfully, and addressed to him a few hasty lines.

"MY DEAR BROTHER-If you be indeed my brother-you shall only need to prove your title to my own heart. My sense of justice, and not the mandate of the law, shall restore your inheritance to you. As to my portion, I shall accept of nothing but that which is legaly mine, until I know whether I shall require it, or whether I can love you well enough to be your debtor."

I had scarcely despatched this billet, when Lord E- was announced. I received him with unwonted gaiety, for I was charmed to be the first from whom he should hear of my altered circumstances. I longed to take his sordid spirit by surprise, and break triumphantly and at once from his abhorred thraldom. He was delighted with my unusual affability, and was more than ever prodigal of his "Adorable Augustas," &c. more than ever ardent in his vows of unchangeable love. 1 maliciously drew him on, asking with a soft Lydia-Languish air, whether he could still love me, should any mischance deprive me of my fortune? O what a question! He could imagine no happier lot than to live with me in a cottage upon dry bread, and love sighs, and roses. I professed my satisfaction, and congratulating him on such a brilliant opportunity of proving his disinterestedness, related what had occurred. To me it was most amusing to witness, first, his incredulity, then his blank dismay, and lastly his languid professions of his constancy, ludicrously mingled with stammering complaints of his own embarrassed circumstances, which would prevent his obeying

535

the dictates of affection without urging his im-
mediate union. A short postponement would
now be necessary, &c. &c. At last, raising his
looks to mine, he met my mocking and derisive
smile, and saw the joy that danced in my eyes.
He thereupon thought proper to discover that I
never loved him, and found it convenient to be
mightly indignant threat. I nodded assent to his
sapient conjecture, and, drawing my harp to-
wards me, sang with mocked pathos the first
line of "For the lack of gold he's left me O!"
Though a release from our engagement was now
desirable to him, he was deeply mortified at the
manner of it; and, making me a sulky bow, he
departed, while I thrilled forth in a merrier
measure,

O! ladies beware of a false young knight,
Who loves and who rides away.

So ended Lord E-'s everlasting constancy. My brother's return, and Lord E-'s consequent desertion, were soon known to the world; and a dangerous illness with which I was at this time seized, was generally ascribed to these causes. But farother were my thoughts. I looked back with thankfulness on my deliverance from the danger of marrying a man so worthless as Lord E- had proved; and though the means of beneficence and enjoyment were diminished, 1 looked forward to a more happy and useful life than I had hiterto led. 1 had, too, proud resolves of vanquishing my predilection for Trevor; but a passion based upon virtue is so indestructable, and the youthful heart clings with such a fond tenacity even to its defeated hopes, that 1 could not forego the desire of earning at least his society and frienship. I could not conceal from myself that his passionless esteem would be dearer to me than the undivided homage of a hundred hearts. He had been in Devonshire during my illness, but returned before I had recovered. My supposed misfortunes were sufficient passport to his kindness; and he who had been reserved and distant in the days of my prosperity, was all assiduity in the season of sickness and reverse of fortune. Every day during my convalescence he made me a long visit, and every day augmented my delight in his society and unrivalled conversation. His visits were those of a Christian pastor, and in that paternal character, he one day expressed his approbation of the cheerful fortitude with which I had sustained such trying misfortunes. I could not bear that he should think I ever loved Lord E--, (for I saw that it was to him he chiefly alluded,) and I impetuously protested that I had ever been indifferent to him, and considered my release a blessing. This avowal seemed to establish a more intimate frienship and confidence between us, in the course of which I learned that it was Trevor's brother, (a Devonshire country gentleman,) and not himself, who was engaged to Miss-, the lady whom I had seen with him at the concert.

Trevor's visits, which had commenced in compassionate kindness towards me, were now continued for his own gratification; and before one brief and happy month had passed away, I had won the first love of his warm and holy heart, and knew myself his chosen one, his companion