natural temperament. Burton bade adieu to his parents and to his brother, and departed for France; years rolled away, but he betrayed no desire to return to his native country; and the self-expatriated youth, at stated periods, announced by a cold but courteous letter, to the inhabitants of the hall, that the heir of Alsingham yet remembered the place of his birth and heritage, and this was all. The health of Mr. Alsingham at length became so precarious that it was judged expedient to urge more strenuously the return of his eldest son, and the summons was obeyed; but he arrived only in time to lay his father beside his ancestors; a sudden increase of his disorder had overcome the failing strength of the invalid, and his son looked on him no more in life. Lady Jane, his widow, was still in the full bloom of matronly beauty: she had married very early in youth the man to whom she had given her heart, and herself the object of a pure, disinterested love, though the sister of a Scottish peer, she had never learned to regret having become the wife of an English commoner. Lady Jane had no daughter, but benevolence had supplied this void in her affections, when it instigated her to cherish, with all a mother's tenderness, the young and orphaned Alison Graham. Alison was the only child of a dear and lost friend, one who had been compelled to a repugnant marriage, and who had abridged the bitterness of an ill-assorted union by an early and heart-broken death; and it might be that the melancholy of the mother's spirit had descended to the child, for the fair cheek of Alison Graham was seldom flushed with mirth, and her beauty was that of the heart-calm, placid, and reflective. Alison had the golden hair, pure brow, and bright blue eye of her country; she had been the prettiest fairy that ever trod hill-side by moonlight, or playfully scattered the light thistle-down by her breath in the gloaming, but those days were past-the child had looked on her mother's corse, and the maiden still remembered her bereavement! Hitherto Alison Graham had never seen either of the sons of Lady Jane, but she had heard much of the gay mood of the young soldier, and the saturnine habits of the "boy misanthrope," as Burton had been in his youth designated by the neighbouring gentry; and

many were the tales told by the garrulous old housekeeper: tales treasured in the mind of Alison with the memory of her mother, and listened to with all the energy of a young and unoccupied spirit; imagination filled up every void in the picture, and even as a stranger, the beautiful orphan had learned to pale at the name of Burton, and to smile at that of Frederick, when Lady Jane, with all a mother's pride, talked of her boysher first-born exile, and her honourseeking soldier. Frederick had not visited the hall for eight long years, and Lady Jane awaited with anxiety the termination of a foreign war, when her brave son, for brave she felt he must be, would be again restored to his country and to her.

"Yonder is Mr. Alsingham's travelling-chaise, Madam;" said a female attendant to the trembling Alison, as she hurriedly clasped the girdle of the mourning robe in which she was to meet, for the first time, the dreaded master of Alsingham-the dear old hall in which she had passed so many peaceful years.

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Surely not yet," exclaimed the agitated girl, rushing to the window; "but yes, it is-it must be. Heavens! how the horses fly. And Lady Jane, where is she? and his poor father!" and Alison sank on a chair as cold as marble, and as tearless; her attendant withdrew to join the other domestics in the hall, and the orphan remained motionless, with a nameless and indefinable dread. She was aroused by a gentle touch, and she started and looked up.

"Alison, my daughter," said the low subdued voice of Lady Jane, will you not welcome Burton Alsingham to his paternal home? Come, my child, and smile upon my son, for alas! his best welcome will still be wanting."

Miss Graham obeyed in silence; her extended arm supported the agitated form of her protectress, and together they descended to the hall. The steps of Mr. Alsingham's travelling-chariot were already let down, and in another moment he was beside them. Burton had left England a cold, repelling, silent boy-he now returned to it a colder, more repelling and more silent man; his full black eyes were keen, and clear, and searching; his cheek and brow sallow and bloodless, his step slow and

The excitement attendant on her husband's obsequies soon terminated, and Lady Jane felt that she was indeed widowed; her son she met only at the dinner-hour, or by accident. At the first he was cold, dignified, and too studiously well-bred for home-there was no unbending, no moment of mental relaxation, no indulgence of any of the gentler feelings; all was calm, polished, shadowless refinement; if chance pro duced a second meeting, he bowed seriously and silently, and stood still until Lady Jane had passed him. Once only he inquired for his brother-eagerly was he answered-told of his advancement, his valour, and his generous spirit. He expressed himself rejoiced at his success, and the subject was never resumed. Since the arrival of Mr. Alsingham, the old library, hitherto the source of many happy hours to the orphan, became sacred to him alone; it was his favourite and perpetual haunt, and there needed no request on his part to ensure its solitude: hours did he spend there, seated at a window which opened on the old wood, listening to the wild music of a wind-harp, lost alike to his family and to the world. To a woman of Lady Jane's ardent and affectionate nature, this cold heart-shutting indifference became, after a time, intolerable. "I must, I will expostulate with him," she said aloud, as outwearied by the excitement of her own feelings she one day started from her seat; and while Alison gazed on her in trembling astonishment, she left the apartment. There could be but one interpretation of her words, and the orphan shuddered at her resolve; for myself, thought she, I would as readily rouse the lion in his lair as Mr. Alsingham: and she waited in breathless anxiety the return of her protectress.

Lady Jane found her son in his usual haunt; a large black-letter volume before him, and the wind-harp mingling its music with the sighing of the breeze

through the old elms. He arose as she entered, placed a chair for her near the open window, closed, and clasped the book with which he had been engaged, and resuming his own seat, remained silent; the pause was painful to his visiter, and she strove at once to terminate it.

"Mr. Alsingham," she commenced, "this is, if I mistake not, your sevenand-twentieth birth-day, and you will, I trust, pardon my intrusion, caused as it is by my anxiety to tender to you the fondest wishes for your welfare"-her son bowed in silence. "Other considerations also," she resumed, falteringly, "have determined me to presume thus far, as your mother--as your friend."-Burton smiled, faintly, with the cold smile of grateful politeness, and she continued: "You are yet at the age of hope-a widowed heart is not befitting the mistress of this ancient house."She paused.

"You would have me marry, Ma dam," was the reply.

"Yes, Burton, I would have you seek a wife who can participate in your feelings, share your anxieties, and gild your hours of happiness with a brighter gleam."

"I do not ask or wish so much, Madam: my feelings are too deep for a woman's fathoming-my anxieties are few and trivial, and beyond a woman's sympathy-my hours of happiness are of my own creation, independent of external agency, and equally beyond a woman's participation-I shall be content with much less than this."

"Then why," commenced Lady Jane, eagerly, do you not ".

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"I will tell you, Madam," said her son, "because I have learnt that women love not a dark countenance, and a darker spirit-they look for flowers, and sunshine, and smiles, and—all that Burton Alsingham is not." After a moment's silence he resumed. "And were it not so, I could not love a woman because she had a noble dowery; I do not want riches, and were it even otherwise, last of all would I be the debtor of my wife-my family requires no ennobling at my hands, for to add ought to the consequence of the name of Alsingham were but to gild a golden relic-too vain a pastime for me, at least; and thus I seek not to barter my independence for a high-sounding title. When I marry,

Madam, I must be loved-loved exclusively, devotedly-and where," he asked bitterly, "where is the woman who could so love Burton Alsingham?"

"Let me entreat you, for my sake, to think otherwise, if you will not for your own;" persisted his mother. "These thoughts and opinions, if encouraged, will embitter an existence which would otherwise be brilliant: let me see you more tolerant of the world's waysmore a sharer in its gaieties."

"Madam," replied Alsingham firmly, "I cannot be gay; when did the silent boy and the sad youth ever make a mirthful man? And who would look for light laughter or blithe jest from one who is half a Jesuit?"

"Burton! my son !" exclaimed Lady Jane, and a tear fell on her cheek.

"I said but half a Jesuit, Madam ;" and he strove to smile. "I remembered too well what I owed alike to my family and to you, to become more.'

"Trust me, Alsingham," said his mother, rallying, a fond heart and a fair face would soon arouse you from these gloomy visions, were you not too proud to owe your emancipation from this mental thraldom to a woman's love."

I am not proud, Madam; I have been reared in the school of humility, tutored in self-denial, exercised in selfexamination and self-knowledge-they were no lady-lips which taught me the lesson, nor did it fall on a heart likely to forget its import."

"Would that you could love Alison Graham," murmured Lady Jane, “and that she were indeed my daughter."

"Alison Graham!" echoed her son, and for the first time his cheek crimsoned and his voice shook. "Madam, Miss Graham were a fitter bride for the gay gallant who basks in the beam of fashion, and plays courtier to the world, than for me-she is too costly a toy for my hour of pastime-no, no, Madam, she would never be the bride of your son, of your elder son."

"Could you love her, Burton?"

"Do we love the air we breathe, and the sunlight in which we revel?" demanded Alsingham, passionately, "Do webut I am a child. No, Madam, I could not love her, for I have a soul too haughty to be blighted by a woman's scorn. Had I been other than I am,

I might have loved her, but now I will not."

"It is enough ;"-said his mother, and with a rapid step she quitted the library; but her speed slackened ere she reached the apartment in which the timid Alison sat anxiously awaiting her return. "He has a heart, my child," she said, in an agitated tone, as she took a seat beside the orphan, "a proud, deep, sensitive heart-one which may indeed break, but which no weight of suffering could ever bend."

"You speak of Mr. Alsingham, Madam," said Alison.

son.

"Yes, of my son, my noble-minded There is a shade upon his nature, Alison, I know it; you have seen me weep over the conviction, but I knew not on how beautiful a spirit that cloud rested. He has a proud soul, but it is not-no"-and Lady Jane really believed herself sincere as she said it, "it is not a stern one." There was the pause of a moment, and she resumed." He wants to be loved, Alison;-to see some fond heart cling to him as its best possession-to be the object of affection, of anxiety, of solicitude."

"Mr. Alsingham, Madam, seek to be so loved?" murmured her trembling and astonished auditor.

"Yes, Alison, with an exclusive, a devoted love, a love to which even the tenderness of a mother must yield in fervour and in depth-it is thus he loves, my child, with all the deep, unwearied, silent strength of concentrated feeling, and even thus that he would himself be loved."

"His must be indeed a fearful passion!" breathed the orphan, and she pressed her hand upon her eyes, as if to shut out the idea.

"Fearful only in its blight, gentle one," said Lady Jane, soothingly;" and one which woman may well be proud to win; and now, look on me, my fair girl," and she softly parted the golden curls on the brow of Alison, which had suddenly become blanched with a feeling of prophetic dread; "look on one who feels towards you all a mother's tenderness, and who would fain have a lawful right to be so addressed by her adopted child;-look on me, and tell me -could you not love my son?"

"Love your son, Lady Jane!" exclaimed the affrighted girl, springing

from her side. "Love Mr. Alsingham! him, from whom I have ever shrunk with fear and awe? You do not, cannot ask me to love him! Bid me do all but this, and I will obey you-be it hardship, be it suffering."-And she stood in the centre of the floor, and shook back the long tresses which waved over her forehead, and drew up her graceful figure to its full height. "This alone is beyond my power; I remember my mother, and I shrink from the unfathomable gulf of blighted feeling and unhallowed existence-I have been reared in gentleness, and have grown into womanhood amid smiles ;—and the contrast"-and she covered her face with her spread hands, and bent her head heavily on her bosom-"the contrast is fearful."

"Unhappy Burton!" murmured Lady Jane: but she breathed it more in sorrow than reproach.

"Forgive me, my more than mother," exclaimed Alison, subdued by that low and heart-inspired tone; forgive me!" In the next instant she was at the feet of her protectress, with her pale face buried in her robe. "I will-I do love your son, Lady Jane; that he is such is enough. I will learn to love him as he requires to be loved-give him my every thought, my every care. I will be his wife, and from that hour "-and again the bitterness of the sacrifice betrayed itself in her tone, "from that hour I will have no other hope—I will love' and her voice sank to a whisper-" even unto death, as my mother loved!" And when she looked up, there was a rigidity about her mouth, and a coldness in her eye, which gave a strange calm to her countenance. The silence which ensued was broken only by the sobs of Lady Jane, for Alison breathed slowly and steadily. "On either side a victim!" murmured the mother;" and which to choose?the son of my hope, or the daughter of my heart-'

"Be it the last, Madam," said Alison, rising from her knees, "be it the child of your benevolence, whose only duty is to bend to your slightest wish whose very sacrifice of life were inadequate to cancel the weight of gratitude she owes you. Go to your son, Madam, go to Mr. Alsingham"-and for a moment she paused, and there was a tremulous quivering of the eyelid, and flushing

VOL. II.

of the brow, "and tell him that from this hour I will love him as fondly as my nature will permit, and that ere long I will feel for him all he requires-all he demands of me-or that my heart shall break in the effort."

"My noble-minded child!" exclaimed the weeping mother, as she strained her to her bosom, "would that-but nolook up, my Alison, my more than daughter: from this hour the fondest hope of our proud and ancient house."

But Alison replied not; a convulsive shuddering passed over her frame: she pressed her lips hurriedly to the hand of her protectress, and withdrew.

Burton heard that his suit had been prosperous, and he sought no further. With such a man, to love was to be devoted, absorbed, jealous of every moment of absence, delirious with a deep unnatural joy; and the heart-sickening Alison was the victim of incessant, tormenting, unrelaxed attentions, so calm, so quiet, and so unobtrusive in their observance, that she almost hated herself for feeling irritable with their author; but however the spirit of the orphan might shrink from the son of her benefactress, the same cold sweet smile was ever on her lip, and neither Lady Jane, or the self-deceiving lover of Miss Graham remarked the increasing pallor of her cheek, or the deepening sadness of her manner.

Months wore away thus. To Burton they were months of enjoyment, of happiness, of a new and brilliant existence, hallowed by affection and heightened by hope; but with Alison they sped on in that dreary monotony of heart-void and spirit-loathing which saps the very principle of existence, and does the work of ruin more effectually, when woman is its victim, than the most active suffering. I have said that Alison was beautifullovely with intellectual beauty-and such loveliness sorrow rather deepens than destroys; her soul shone out in every lineament, and the charm grew with melancholy. To a gayer and a more worldly lover, Miss Graham might have appeared less attractive; but to Burton Alsingham, unconscious as he was of the cause, this gloom became another and a firmer heart-fetter. He could sit beside her for hours, and she never severed the connecting link of his imaginings by a word or a look; she talked

G

not in their moments of converse of the world he hated, for she knew it not. She never combated his sentiments or his opinions, when perchance the proud spirit bent for an instant to give them utterance; for from the day in which she had yielded herself to his suit, all were alike to her, and she held Mr. Alsingham in too much dread to venture a dissent, had she yet felt one. The crimsoning of her usually pallid cheek on his entrance, the nervous tremour which shook her whole frame as he courteously but calmly touched her hand, these indications of a dread, which baffled all her efforts to suppress them, were read far otherwise by Alsingham; to him they were but the chastened betrayals of affection and devotedness. She smiled too, on his every effort to instruct or to amuse, and he sought not to look beyond that smile; it was a beautiful veil cast over expiring hope, and his hand never raised it. Well had it been for Alison had no other plucked it aside.

It was a lovely evening, in early autumn; the leaves were yet firm upon the branches which they had clad throughout the gladsome summer, but they now gleamed in a thousand shades of gold and orange, glittering to the setting sun; the rose-branch still flowered to the zephyr, but its blossoms were paler and less glowing than their wont; and the low song of the nightingale came languidly on the ear, as though it wailed over the faded beauties of its floral goddess. To Alison such an evening was congenial; it told of past brightness, of present withering, and of coming decay -she looked into her own heart, and she read the likeness. Still was Lady Jane the same kind and indulgent friend: changed perhaps only by an increase of affection and endearment, but the bent spirit could not rebound as it had once done to every touch of kindness; it was felt, but it was no longer answered as it had been. Alison's very nature was perplexed; there were moments in which she wept her weak acquiescence in her own misery others in which she prayed even for death to release her from her iron destiny-and utter indeed must be the hopelessness of the heart which in life's morning can sorrow after extinction gnawing the misery which can prompt its victim in the full rush of beauty and of youth to cast them off for

ever in the grave; to exchange the world's smiling courtesies for the darkness of the tomb, and the world's revels for the companionship of the mould-warp and the earthworm. Alison had learned to sigh even for this, and meanwhile, to use the words of the elegant " Delta,"

She grew the very dream of what she was. On this lovely autumnal evening the little group had assembled in an apartment which overlooked the spacious gardens of the hall, and the light breathings of the wind came through the open windows, freighted with the perfume of a thousand flowers; while the sunbeams were cast back by the foliage of the graceful shrubs which basked in their brightness; but the occupants of the splendid apartment reflected not the glow of nature. Lady Jane sat with her eyes fixed on her adopted daughter, with an expression of melancholy consciousness; those of Burton were also rivetted on Alison, but they were vivid with intense happiness. Alsingham had ever been a moody man, and he was a silent lover; for such a nature as his passion had no anxiety. Unaccustomed to the blight of contradiction and disappointment, his love was one vast feeling of quiet and satisfied devotion. He loved Alison, and she was to be his-there was no romance in this, his heart's first episode, and Alsingham dreamt not that it could be otherwise.

"What a glorious evening!" at length murmured Lady Jane, anxious to dissipate the feeling which oppressed her. "Sunshine, flowers, and sweet odours are blended like the colours of a fairy web-we want but music to complete the charm. Burton will reach your harp, my Alison, and you shall be our minstrel."

Alsingham quietly but readily obeyed; he placed the instrument just where a burst of sunshine entered the apartment, and seated himself beside it. Alison drew her harp into deeper shade, and bent for a moment over its strings. How she had loved it once! One large tear fell on her calm pale cheek, and but one; in another instant the low wild tones of a prelude, replete with pathes and beauty, gave utterance to the sadness of her spirit, then the strings were swept with a more measured touch, and as she leant yet more closely over the chords, she breathed out, in a voice of