stock of money was entirely exhausted-the jewels of Lucile were already gone, and in spite of her exertions, they were getting in debt to the people in whose house they lived. Grey continued to paint, even when the languor of disease almost unnerved his hand, and his bending figure appeared unable to support itself; but it was more from the love of his art, than the hope of obtaining any equivalent for his labors. The faithful Agnes had at the earnest request of Lucile hired herself to an invalid who was about to travel for her health, and in the whole world she appeared to be the only being who had not abandoned her former mistress to her gloomy fate. Lucile was deeply touched by receiving proofs of the continued devotion of the girl, who regularly got her present employer to write to her dear young lady, enclosing the half of her wages, as an equivalent for the loss of her services. For a long time the sums thus sent remained untouched, to be restored to their rightful owner on her return; but neces. sity at last compelled her to use them, with the determination, that if fortune ever smiled on them again, they should be returned four-fold to her who offered them. The day was intensely cold ;-the snow lay piled up in the streets where it had been shovelled from the pavements. Sidney was shivering over a few embers, while Lucile with a heavy heart was preparing to go out, and In the meantime what had been the fate of Grey and Lucile? Ah, what pen may paint the sufferings of the proud and shrinking spirit reduced to the necessity of struggling with the debasing, wearing cares of extreme poverty? Ill health had been added to the other sufferings which Grey had to encounter: neglected, unappreciated where he had hoped for patronage and support, his spirit was crushed—the pride of genius and talent was bowed to the dust; and he saw no re-the poor girl sighed as she looked on his wasted form, fuge for himself and the gentle being who soothed and comforted him-whose voice spoke of hope, when the shadows of fate appeared to throw their most sombre folds around them-for him, for her, with all her beauty, nobleness, and devoted affection, the grave seemed the only refuge, and at times his soul yearned for repose in the "green and quiet mother earth," which offered the only rest his wearied spirit might hope to attain. then at the bare floors, and uncurtained windows of their cheerless abode. She thought of their own sunny clime, and contrasted it with the feeble rays of sunshine which struggled through the clouds, and occasionally lighted the desolate apartment. Yet she chid herself for such thoughts-"Rather should I thank Heaven that even this shelter is left to us, and we are not yet houseless in this strange land;" she mentally murmured, "Oh, my father! could you see your once adored child now struggling with poverty and want, would you not relent and receive her again?" Sidney turned and looked at her. "When I am gone, perhaps her father will again take her to his heart, and in time she will learn to view our past as a hideous dream, linked with memories which sear the heart and blast the promise of youth. If not, she must perish with him whose baleful love destroyed her, and at last our rest will be unbroken by that frightful phantom, want. Oh, God! can it be that I have brought her to this!" and with the excitement of fever his eyes would wander over the miserable apart-well and strong, dear Sidney, and this wind only makes ment they now occupied. me feel how invigorating are the fresh cold breezes of winter." Grey had gradually withdrawn himself from all intercourse with the few acquaintances he possessed-his pride shrank from allowing them to witness the poverty to which he was reduced. The severity of the climate had proved too great for one who had been reared in the tropical regions, and when the second winter of their sojourn in Philadelphia set in, his symptoms grew alarmingly worse. As his health declined, Lucile saw the necessity of making some exertions herself, to obtain the very means of subsistence. It was then that she felt most bitterly how utterly unfitted she was to encounter the difficulties which surrounded her, with a hope of overcoming them. She examined her own resources, and any heart less filled with idolatrous affections for her husband, would have despaired. She had been expensively but superficially educated; she had been taught to do nothing except fine needle-work-in that she excelled, and she fondly hoped to obtain enough to employ every moment of her time that was not devoted to Grey. The winter was verging to its close-their "You are not going out on such a day as this, Lucile? My own love, it is too cold: this freezing wind will chill the current of your life." "Oh, I do not fear it," said she, with a smile. "I am He shook his head. "Is that a form to brave the blasts of a northern clime? Alas, alas! to what have I brought you, beloved Lucile! Here am I, helpless, powerless, dying, while you thus make a slave of yourself, toiling, suffering for me. Oh God! 'tis too much!" And he clasped his hands over his eyes to conceal the burning tears that fell on his breast. He felt a fond arm wreathed around his neck, and a gentle hand parting the tangled clusters of hair from his brow. "Sidney, my own-own love! why will you wring my heart by speaking thus? Would I not far rather be here, even as we are-sustaining, comforting you, as I am-than in the proud halls of my father, wedded to him I loved not? Oh, speak not of dying— I cannot bear it—I should then be alone-alone, utterly bereft of all that makes life dear. You are ill now, and melancholy; but spring will soon be here, and its balmy breath will restore you to your wonted health. Speak not of death-separation—” VOL. IV.-95 "Poor-poor girl! can you delude yourself into the belief, that spring will bring with it health to this worn and feeble frame? Could I once more see the home of my childhood, with its bright sky above me, its fresh green earth beneath my tread, methinks this deadly languor that creeps over me daily, would be dispelled. Oh Lucile Lucile! mine has indeed been the life of the visionary dreamer: my dreams were mere fantasies, but the bitter and stern realities of life are killing me; and I have dragged you from your home to dwell in this wretched place, the partaker of my hapless lot, and, oh, my adored, its only solace: without thee, what would be my fate?" creature who had been the sole companion and gentle soother of many weary hours, to suffer him, after the first anger had passed away, to be inaccessible to her appeals, had they ever reached him. It was the second winter of Lucile's exile from the paternal roof, but it was the mild and delicious winter of a tropical climate. General Montressor was alone in the room which his daughter had been wont to inhabit; and every thing remained just as Lucile had left it. Even the marble vase, which she had filled with fresh roses the evening of her flight, was still there—the faded flowers offering a sad memento to the heart of the father. His brow bore many additional wrinkles, and his hair was white as silver: the outward signs that the proud spirit had not gone through the ordeal unscathed. He walked up and down the floor with a troubled ble, on which refreshments were placed, poured wine into a goblet, and quaffed it at a single draught. Lucile was weeping bitterly. All the horrors of her lot were revealed to her! Him she had abandoned her father to wed, was dying before her, a victim to her rashness. Had she remained with her parent, Sidney had not met with such a fate. He would have remain-expression of countenance, then stopping beside a taed in his adopted land, beloved, assisted by her father; but her consent to become his, had doomed him to die among strangers, and amid the bitter struggles of penury. Yet if her's was the fault, her's also was the punishment; for what were his sufferings to those of her who watched over the fading form, saw the eye each day lose a portion of its fire, the spirit of its elasticity, and yet was denied the privilege of weeping, even when the strong hand of agony was laid on her heart. Her brow must be ever cheerful, her smile ever kind, though they masked a heart" where sorrow had little left to learn." Oh, woman! thine are the triumphs of affection! the loving heart empowers thee to subdue moral as well as physical weakness. Oh! to her would it not have been far easier to die, than watch day by day the tints of life fade from that beloved face: to hear the hollow cough which sounded in her ears as the death knell of hope, and yet falter not in her endeavors to smooth their rugged pathway to him over whose fever-entrance of Victor. ish couch she watched and prayed. She wrote a last appeal to her father, representing the dying state of him she had forsaken all else for; but her heart was steeped in despair when she recalled to mind the time it would take for her letter to reach him, and succor to be vouchsafed to her perishing husband. He needed medical attendance, such as their means could not enable them to procure; and, laying aside all thought of self, or the humiliation of seeking employment from that class to which she had once belonged, she one morning set out with the determination to procure needle-work, if any one could be found who would entrust it to her. "Aye," said he, speaking half aloud, "let me drink-drown thought in the ruby wine, for I have now no other consolation. Forsaken by all-by Hea ven, there's not one grain of gratitude in the whole human race: and she, too-my child-my cherished one, to leave me, and seem to forget that her father is in existence! If she had written but once-but one line to say that she desired forgiveness, I might—yes, I might have relented: but she gave her love to another, and all my past tenderness could not keep even one corner of her heart for me. Then there is my precious nephew too-he has shown me of what stuff his soul is made-urging me, day after day, to make my will—the uncertainty of life, forsooth-I may die, and my child at last get all my wealth-well, and who has a better right to it?" His soliloquy was interrupted by the "A good evening to you, uncle," said he, gaily; "you seem moody. Hast any ill news to day?" "No, boy-there is no greater cause for moodiness to day, than the old and half-forgotten always have." Victor turned away with a half audible expression of impatience, but his good nature appeared to overcome it, and when he spoke, it was in a bland and soothing tone. "Why, my dear sir, will you persist in fancying yourself neglected or forgotten? The duty and affec tion of a son, I am sure I am always glad to render to you, and if I have seemed neglectful of late, it is because my time is taken up in attending to the estate you have so kindly bestowed on me." A smile of irony curled the thin lips of the uncle. "That estate, if I mistake not, joins my lands on one side, and those of Baptiste Moreau on the other; yet, if I am rightly informed, Mr. Victor Montressor finds time to sit many hours each day with the darkhaired daughter of the old Frenchman. Have a care, sir, I tolerate low connexion in my nephew no more than I have done in my daughter. This Moreau was but few years since a barber in Havana, and his daughter is no match for you." The nephew laughed, as he answered, "Faith, uncle, I am sorry that your prejudices are so violent, as to make you illiberal on some subjects. Beauty and gold are sad levellers, and in truth, the graces of An nette Moreau have won my pride to her feet. I could of his patron was turned on his face. He was about not look on her majestic brow, and fancy myself her to reply, when a large snake glided across the pathway, superior, despite the accident of birth. She is a quon-his horse reared and threw him against the body of dam barber's daughter-I a spendthrift's son; she has a tree. He lay motionless, with a stream of blood beauty and wealth to bestow-I high birth, and by slowly oozing from his temple. your munificience, a competence to offer-so I think we're pretty even, and to speak truth, I came this eve-ing field for assistance, General Montressor had him ning to invite you to my wedding." conveyed to the house, and despatched a messenger for a physician. Victor had expected a storm of passion, but his uncle spoke calmly, yet with much sarcastic emphasis. "I commend your foresight, nephew. You act on the principle of the old adage, I presume, that 'a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.' Well, I cannot blame you, and I am not sorry that I have placed it out of my power to throw you off as I did one who should have been far dearer to me. You are provided for, Victor, and I need scarcely say, that after a marriage, which you knew would be so displeasing to my prejudices, if you will, you need not trouble yourself to call again, as your interest can be no further served by doing so." And thus they parted. With the facility of a common-place character, in transferring his affections, Victor had been easily won to forget his passion for his cousin, when she was no longer near him; and thinking it better to obtain a fortune by marriage, than depend on the precarious favor of an old man, who had been so severe toward his only child, he wedded the wealthy creole: yet Victor was not deficient in good feeling, and spite of his uncle's prohibition, he still continued to visit him occasionally. The old man passed the remainder of the winter in loneliness and dejection. His spirit was quite broken by what he considered the desertion of his nephew, and he was only withheld from seeking his daughter by ignorance of her present place of residence. He had no companion but the priest, who irritated rather than consoled him, by his constant allusions to the ingratitude of his daughter and nephew. One evening, early in the spring, they rode out together. For the first time, the pride of the father permitted him to inquire of the monk, if he had any clue to the residence of his daughter. "None, whatever," said he promptly. “In being turned from her father's doors, the pride of Miss Montressor received too deep a stab to be forgotten, or forgiven. She has concealed herself from all her former friends." Dismounting, and calling to the hands in a neighbor It was some hours before consciousness returned: on opening his eyes, and encountering the fixed gaze of his patron, he made an effort to raise himself on his elbow, and motioned to the attendants to leave the room. The physician spoke: "You must be perfectly quiet, father, or I cannot answer for the consequences." "Your skill cannot save me," said he in a hollow voice. "I know that I am dying-another sun will never rise for me and I have that to communicate to General Montressor which must be told. In the hour of my triumph--long looked for-long hoped-death has struck me: send out the servants, and you, doctor, stay by me to administer such restoratives, as I may need, until my task is finished." The room was soon cleared, and he then requested the doctor to hand him a letter box, which was beneath the head of the bed. With slow and trembling fingers he raised the lid, and took from it a number of letters, which he held out to General Montressor, and, sinking back on his pillow, said-"Read them, while I collect my scattered thoughts, and remember what else I have to say." Montressor took the letters in silence, for he recog nized the writing of his daughter, and he saw that they were addressed to him. The last one in the package, appeared to have been written more than two months: it was the last agonizing appeal of Lucile, written with the belief that Sidney was dying before her,—and every word went as a dagger to his heart. He read it, and approaching the bed of the dying man, and bending his face over him, distorted with anguish, he spoke in tones of such concentrated passion, that even the iron nerves of the priest for an instant quailed "Vile--vile wretch! serpent, that I have nourished, that you might sting me to death, where is my child? Have you relieved her wants? or-horrible thought!— has she perished in that strange land, to which my obduracy exiled her? Speak-or I will strangle you as you lie there, too helpless to assist yourself. Why have you acted so base a part toward your benefactor?" General Montressor checked his horse, and looked around him, and his brow contracted as with a sudden spasm-speaking as if to himself, he said: "What is my wealth to me? I lie down with sorrow pressing on The dark glittering eyes of the priest gleamed with my heart, which drives sleep from my pillow-I rise an expression of intense hatred, as he repeated the to drag through another tedious, miserable day, with last word, in a tone so wild and unnatural, that his nothing to look forward to. Yet I deserve not sympa-listeners shrank back with a thrilling sensation of awe. thy, for I feel that I have myself banished peace from "Benefactor! ha! ha! ha! yes many and great are my heart-sunshine from my home. Father, this hour if I knew what spot of earth held my child, I would be willing to make a pilgrimage barefoot, and beg the morsels that sustained life, could I once more clasp her to my heart in safety." As the priest listened to the words wrung from the bitterness of his sorrow, there was a sneer on his lip, and a flash of triumph in his eyes, which was instantly changed to an expression of sympathy, when the gaze the benefits you have conferred on me, and I-God! have I not requited them!" Raising himself with sudden energy, he drew from his bosom a faded miniature, and holding it up, said "Gerald Montressor, do you know this?" General Montressor strode a step nearer, and an exclamation escaped his lips. "It is--it is Marion! and you? Good heavens, is it possible!" ""Tis true," gasped the priest ;--"I am he whom you rivalled-and the desolator of your house. I have my end is accomplished, and why should I repent! I not-lived-in vain." die not before my mission is fulfilled. I go to the rest of a dreamless slumber that knows no awakening, while you live to unavailing sorrow and remorse." words. He sank back exhausted, and the physician hastened to administer a restorative. He presently revived, and motioning Gen. Montressor to be silent, he continued— General Montressor left the room; and in a few "Let me speak while strength is left me. In an evil more hours, the infidel, who for purposes of his own, hour, Montressor, you won from me the beloved of my | had profaned the sanctity of the religious garb, breathed whole life; and I swore to be avenged. I sought your his last, amid curses and blasphemy too horrible for bride-I poured on her all the bitterness of a spirit wrought to madness by her perfidy. I left her, and burying my name and existence under this priestly garb, I caused the report of my death to be circulated. She died and I stood beside her grave, and felt that my vengeance was incomplete on him who had wrested her from me, so long as her child lived to glad the heart of its father." "Wretch!" said Montressor, between his closed teeth; "and do I also owe the destruction of my son to you ?" A smile of bitter meaning played over the pale lips of the dying man. Within a week, General Montressor embarked for the United States. His object was to find his daughter--alleviate her sufferings--and then set every engine in motion to discover his son. CHAPTER XIV. Then I came to a solitary chamber in which a girl, in her tenderest youth, knelt by the bedside in prayer, and I saw that the death-spirit had passed over her, and the blight was on the leaves of the rose. The room was still and hushed: the angel of pu rity kept watch there. Bulwer. Nearly fainting with fatigue, a young and delicate looking woman entered a shop, in one of the most fashionable squares in Philadelphia. A lady of prepos sessing appearance, was examining some exquisitely "No-my revenge was more refined. I doomed him--thy son, to a life of penury, passed among the lowest of the earth. I bribed his nurse to inform you of his death-I saw them safely embarked for America. He lives perchance-but how? Vulgar-uneducated--wrought purses, one of which she designed purchasing ha! a fitting heir for your proud name!" Montressor buried his face in his hands-and the priest remained silent some moments; when he again spoke, his voice was low and feeble. for a bright-haired boy, who stood beside her. The "Dear mamma," said the boy, "this one with the wreath of roses and blue forget-me-nots that look so beautiful, shall be my birth-day gift to papa. Praypray buy this." "Certainly, my son, if you wish it. Wrap this up, if you please," said she, laying the price of the purse on the counter. As she turned to leave the shop, the "Come nearer to me, Montressor, for I grow weak, and my eyes are dim-they cannot see that proud form writhing with agony, nor mark the workings of that haughty spirit, which has placed you so entirely in my power. I followed you in all your wanderings, and at length fastened myself on you as your household chaplain. You wedded a second time, and a fair daughter grew in beauty by your side. I loved this child, spite of my sterner nature, for she twined herself unconsci-figure of the young stranger attracted her attention. ously about my heart; and when the hour came, when "Do you wish any thing here, young woman?" inI could also rob you of her, I shrank from the task, for quired the girl who waited behind the counter. The it also involved her ruin : yet I tore this feeling from person addressed raised her head, and the low, soft tones my heart-1 worked on your pride, and her affection-in which she spoke arrested the retiring steps of the like an evil spirit I whispered into the ear of each what hardened the heart against the other, and the result was what I anticipated. You threw her from your protection, and I withheld her letters-taught you to believe her so engrossed in her new ties, that she cared no more for you-and-and-'tis my conviction, that she has gone down to her grave, execrating the cold-hearted and obstinate father, who withheld from her the very means of life, while he revelled in all the luxuries that wealth can purchase. I have done." "And you think your vengeance is complete," said Montressor-his habitual self-command enabling him to speak with calmness. No-priest, or devil, whichever you may be, if there is a God in Heaven, your foul treachery, your base ingratitude toward him who has befriended and trusted you-who never voluntarily injured you, will yet be baffled. I will seek both son and daughter, trusting to that providence which brings disappointment to the wicked. For you, I will not tell you to die and join him who is your fitting companion, but repent, and make your peace with Heaven." "Repent!" repeated the priest, scornfully. "No- lady. "Do you give out work here?" "Not to strangers," was the reply; and the girl busied herself in putting up the various fancy articles which lay scattered before her, heedless of the effect her answer had produced. The applicant clasped her hands, and murmured audibly- "Then Heaven help me, for I can do no more!" She arose, and the strange lady obtained a glimpse of her colorless features, and was struck with the uncommon beauty of the countenance, though suffering of no ordinary kind was legibly imprinted there. She advanced a step as if about to speak, but checked her self, as if fearful of wounding where she desired to succor. With a head reeling with weakness, and faltering steps, Lucile entered the street. She had been away some hours, and feared that Grey was even now needing her attention. She did not observe that the strange lady had entered her carriage, which stood at the shop door, and was slowly following her. When Lucile entered her humble abode, the lady made a memorandum of the street and the number, then speak- | can be bestowed on him, and on that frail, fair creature, ing to the driver, she ordered him to go home as speed- "Why would you not allow me to exhibit my gal lantry? I was hastening to offer my services in assist ing you to alight, when lo! with fairy-like step, you have reached the door, while my more mundane body was perambulating the length of the hall: but what good news bring you hither, fair lady of my thoughts? Your face is radiant with tidings glad, if I read it aright." who is wearing herself out in his service. I will order the carriage to be in readiness immediately after dinner." As soon as possible Miss Wilmere equipped herself for her intended visit. "I shall return with them both," said she, as she sprang into the carriage; "so be prepared to receive them." In half an hour, she was safely set down before the dwelling she sought. Attracted by the unusual circumstances of a fine carriage stopping in the neighborhood, a number of women and children came out of the houses around to see who it contained. As Miss Wilmere alighted, a red face, with a soiled cap above it, "News which you will be pleased to hear, dear was thrust through the half opened door, and a voice Horace--so come with me. Is Caroline in the draw-in keeping with the countenance, inquired who she ing-room?" "Yes, she has just returned," replied the gentleman, throwing open the door. "Enter, and divulge-divulge--my curiosity is on tip-toe." Briefly, then, I have seen the original of Caroline's Gipsy-have traced her home, and imagine from her appearance, and the house in which she lodges, that she is in a state of destitution." wanted. "Does Mr. Grey live here?" said the young lady. "Mr. Grey? What-the painter-man? Why, what should the likes of you want with him ?" "Never mind, my good woman, what I want; only be kind enough to direct me to his wife's apartment." "Oh, that's easily done, tho' 'two'nt be his 'partment nor hern much longer: folks as don't pay reg'lar don't An exclamation of pleasure escaped the gentleman-stay in my house; so I told her this mornin' they might "What! you have found Grey out at last! Well, I am tramp as soon as they liked, or mayhap a little sooner, heartily rejoiced to hear it." if they wasn't in a hurry. This way, ma'am." "And I too," said Miss Wilmere, throwing aside a book, and coming eagerly forward. "Where? How did you find them? Tell us all.” As she spoke, she led the way up several dirty and ill-lighted flights of steps: they ascended to the highest story in the house, and the woman knocked several times at a low door. No answer was given, and open The relation was soon given, and the three seated themselves around the fire, to devise means of succor-ing it without ceremony, she thrust her head in. ing the unfortunate artist, without wounding the shrinking pride, which had induced him to withdraw himself from all association with those who had known him in better days. The lady who had so fortunately met Lucile that morning, was no other than Mrs. Edmonds, the wife of the same gentleman who had been so much interested in Grey's appearance the morning that his uncle's will was read. He had made many subsequent inquiries after the artist, but could obtain no information, and an absence of more than a year in one of the southern cities, had almost obliterated the remembrance of the young painter from his mind, when the picture purchased by Miss Wilmere, and her account of Grey, renewed his interest, and he made every effort to discover his abode. The hope of aiding him had just been abandoned, when Mrs. Edmonds saw Lucile, and instantly recognized the resemblance to the picture. That she beheld the wife of the artist, in the delicate and shrinking form before her, she did not once doubt, and she determined not to lose sight of her, until she had discovered her present residence. "I would'nt wonder if the gentleman was dead, and for the matter of that his wife too," said she, as she drew back into the passage. "Heavens! I hope not!" said Caroline, and involuntarily stepping forward, she stood within the room. On a low, miserable bed, in one corner, lay the attenuated form of Grey: his hair clung in damp masses to his high and strongly marked brow--his pale lips were slightly parted, and his thin hand grasped the bed clothes. Disease, sorrow, and want, had laid the strong man low, while the more frail being had been supported by the strength of a love which only woman's heart is capable of feeling. Beside the bed knelt. Lucileher hair hanging loosely around her, and her head buried in the miserable covering: she heard not the words of the woman, nor the light footstep of her unexpected visiter. At a glance, Miss Wilmere saw that it was not death on which she looked, but the heavy slumber which is brought to the feverish and restless couch by artificial aid; and the phial of laudanum, half emptied, which stood on a chair beside the bed, sufficiently exThe family of Mr. Edmonds accompanied him to the plained the scene. She glanced around the desolate south, and only a few months had elapsed since he was apartment. The evening sun was shining cheerily on recalled by the death of Mr. Wilmere, who was a part-the bare walls and uncarpeted floor; and his beams ner in the same firm to which he belonged, and also an had nearly extinguished the few coals which lay on the uncle of his wife. After a long consultation, Mrs. Edmonds arose"Well, it shall be as you wish, Caroline: as you are already slightly known to Mr. Grey, it will be best to suffer you to visit them alone, and offer such services as you may think proper. I fear that he is ill; if so, insist on having him brought hither, where proper attention hearth. Around the room ranged in order were the paintings of the artist-many of them unfinished-but all placed in such a position, that from his couch he could look on them. "Place them so that my dying eyes can rest on them," said he to his wife. "Let the glorious dreams that have visited my fancy, and which I have endea |