beauty! Oh that I could have laid down my head and died, in a renewal of the blessed self-deception preceding Dora’s return!

I will not—I cannot detail the minute progress and justifications of my suspicions; the gradual estrangement of Worsley’s affection from myself, and the visible growth of his new passion. To feel the relaxing pressure of his hand, to mark the chilling calmness of his altered eye, to hear the unwitting change of his endearing expressions, had been comparatively easy of endurance. But it was my destined trial to behold each treasured token of tenderness successively transferred to another; to hear his intonation soften as he addressed my sister; to know his alienated looks of love fixed in rapturous admiration upon her every movement; and in time I was fated to note the fond and confiding self-abandonment with which Dorathea repaid his devotion. I could not even forewarn her of my wretchedness, or upbraid her with treachery; for how would it have served me to proclaim that man my lover, whom she had only known as—her own! No; I resigned myself to my calamity; I presumed not to wrestle with the influence of such perfection of youthful loveliness; I even imparted new graces to the mild lustre of its sweetness, by the contrast of my own sullen or agonised countenance. I resigned myself, but not unrepiningly. New and dreadful emotions seemed wakening within me, and I shuddered to contemplate the darkness of the mysterious caverns which were revealed to me within the innermost depths of my heart. I shuddered, for I scarcely yet knew what demons might be sheltered there!

I cannot but believe that Sir Wilmot Worsley was conscious and apprehensive of the dreadful struggle of passion within my bosom. Yet it was an abject weakness on his part to flee precipitately as he did from Wrocksley; so mighty was his influence, that had he spoken and pleaded and appealed to the native generosity of my heart, methinks I might have subdued my feelings into patience, under the sustaining excitement of conscious well-doing. But he fled, leaving my sister—my victim—at my merciless disposal. I knew not that he was gone to pray my father’s interference; but I did know that he had already pleaded his cause, and not in vain, in Dora’s ears; for in her gentle candour she told me all,—that she loved him, that he was hers, her own, her affianced. O mighty Heaven! how fervent in that hour was my praver for deliverance from evil; even from the evil-prompting of my secret soul!

And then came letters and tokens, with which the frenzy of my jealousy urged me to augment my tortures. I read them—I gazed upon them,—the picture, and the braided hair, and the written records of his love! I pressed them to my burning brain, my withered heart; and I thought of my wasted youth, and of my lonely age, till my soul grew dark and swollen with contending passions. And again and again I prayed that heavenly interposition would deliver me from evil! But Heaven withheld its aid, and I grew mad with the rampant wickedness of a sinful human nature; and I cursed my innocent sister, and reviled her, and smote her, and held her in stern durance, lest she should communicate my cruel dealing to—to him! And lo! one day, when, with impatient fury, I had caused her hands to be bound and her steps restrained, that she might not escape me, a stern interposing voice sounded in my ears, and my father, grey-headed and awful, stood beside us!

He demanded, with solemn utterance, wherefore I had so harshly dealt with his youngest born? And the tears stole down his venerable face as he took his dagger from its sheath, and severed the cords which bound my weeping, trembling, rescued sister. And I saw that his heart, too, was in her cause, that I had lost all, that I was alone on earth; and an evil instigation, a demon’s suggestion, put words of horror into my mouth. I told him that his Dorathea had turned unto shame; that his child had become a castaway; that my sister was the minion of Worsley’s illicit love!

The dagger was in his hand, and in his soul the pride of six centuries of unsoiled honour. It was but a blow! In a moment the sprinkling of her innocent blood was upon me—the baptism of my eternal condemnation!

Spare me, spare me your consolations, they are unavailing to a sorrow such as mine!