front and confound him. But I truly ascertained that he was in Waterford, on business; and upon the very night when I received my intelligence, thither I went, and—you have read your father's letter-we met at last.

"Eliza, by the written communication soliciting advice upon the waving state of your heart, I at first learned the treachery of our common deceiver; and I will own that, while brooding over it, without attempting to answer it, my blood boiled against you, and my passion urged some dreadful punishment for the siren who had robbed me of happiness-of hope. Yet do not now shrink from me. It was but the dark impulse of a moment, soon forgotten in recollections of your unconsciousness of injury, and of our early and sweet friendship-nay, in pity for you, left at the mercy of a man so merciless. And, believe me, Eliza Hartley, that, through all I have since suffered and done, the sense of my own maddening injuries scarce weighed with me more than did an ardent desire for your preservation. Let that truth become fixed in your mindin your heart. I strongly wish you to feel convinced of the ser. vice I have rendered you. This is the last time we can ever converse together; the hour is at hand which may end my life, while it rights my wrongs-I do not think I can outlive it-I do not think I ought; and I hope to part from you as friends should part. For after all it is a wretched, a desolate fate to plunge into the grave without one eye left behind to shed a tear upon its eternal cover. Tell me, therefore, in your gentle voice, and press my hand while you tell it, that when looking down upon my wreck you will compassionate, and feel grateful to, the hopeless Belinda St. John-to her, who in working out her own dread doom, saved her friend from despair and pollution."

Eliza, again deeply affected, replied to this appeal in such a manner as gave evident relief to the unhappy woman. "And oh! Belinda," she continued-"why was I not made acquainted with the name of your undoer at the time, when, in consequence of such information, the greater portion of what we have both since suffered might have been prevented?"

"You mean, when I saw you at Hartley Court? I will candidly answer your question. Fallacious hope and my strong pride suggested that, although diverted from his former views by passing admiration of your sparkling charms, he might still be won back by endearment, or else by determined remonstrance, at least to do me the poor justice I claimed at his hands-in fact, to become my protector-my husband-the-the"-Belinda's voice sank into a grating hollowness-"the legal father of my unborn infant. And calculating upon this result, I felt the necessity, for all our sakes, of avoiding to expose him, to humiliate myself, and to sow discord between Eliza Hartley and her earliest friend. For even you, Eliza, ought not to have been made capable of recognising, in the

husband of Belinda St. John, the man who, to your smiles, sacrificed-no matter for how short an interval of forgetfulness, her smiles and her sole earthly views of felicity; or, supposing you put in possession of the fact, and supposing him returned to his feelings for me, it would thenceforward be impossible that you and I could ever meet, even as common acquaintances. No; pride and prudence equally ensured my silence at the time you speak of; and I went to the utmost limit of the lengths I should have gone, in vaguely alluding to my recent disappointments, and in repeatedly warning you to remain faithful to the first inclinations. of your heart. And now, Eliza, I must in turn say, that if you had but profited by my warning, then indeed much had been spared to us both; much to your father, and much to the most deserving person whom-before your meeting with the murderer of my mother and my baby-you indirectly led to reckon upon your favour, and with whom you, my friend, may yet be happy; while for me there is not a hope on earth but-first-quick and fierce revenge-and then the repose of the long sleep."

In these last words there was much to startle Eliza from her hitherto single and entire reliance upon all Belinda's assertions. The notion of regarding Talbot in a favourable light had never possessed her, even while she irresistibly yielded full credit to her gloomy visiter, and although could she have paused to reason, conclusions of his honesty and worthiness ought to have gone hand-in-hand with that trusting state of mind. Now it suddenly occurred as strange and questionable that Belinda should so positively become his adovcate; and the rapid doubt soon assumed a more distinct shape-"What! could he and Belinda be in league together? he, to secure his views on Eliza-she yet to secure the homage of Sir William Judkin?-could the excited passions of both have led them to combine in a story of Sir William's baseness, which, if credited by her, might, assisted by those favourable representations of Talbot, ensure their common hopes?" And again, while Eliza struck her hands together at the returning prospect, again came the blessed thought that Sir William was guiltless of the hideous crimes charged upon him-guiltless of all but a transfer of his love from a woman whose vehement and wild character, when once known, it seemed but natural he should dislike. Her father's death, too! Could Eliza credit the wild tale of its having been prevented? And he came not!-night deepened, and he came not. If free to visit her, as was pretended, would her anxious parent dally so long? Then indeed what was Sir William's present fate? here appeared a discrepancy in Belinda's aroused feelings towards him, compared with some of her former assertions.

"You told me, Belinda," said Eliza, suddenly looking up, and fixing her visiter's glance,-"you told me, upon the night I ac

companied you to meet my father, that you returned into Enniscorthy to free Sir William also from prison?"

"Yes; and I did free him."

"Why? if your only present views towards him are those of vengeance, why need you-why should you have done so? He was in the hands of those who, upon your evidence, well supported, would have punished him as he merited."

"I know not, what means your changed manner, Eliza; but it is necessary that I should answer you?-that I should repeat the nature of the oath I swore, anew, with my dying mother, over the disfigured corse of my child? Talbot thought as you think, and urged me to leave him to the laws of the land; but while I seemed to comply, I snatched him from their probable sentence to dispose him for my own doom and punishment. At the moment of his deliverance, he again sought to become my murderer, and breaking from me, and from the lure which I hoped would keep him by my side, at least for a short distance, avoided the hands which lay in wait to compel him to my will."

"Have you seen him since, Belinda?"

"I have, and at the moment he was about to perpetrate another murder, which you would have lived to weep for; and a second time I hoped to make him my manacled captive, and a second time he escaped me.

"Belinda, all this may be true;-hear me! nor be surprised at the first show of a vehemence akin to your own. You say that your friend has saved my father; but if so, was it not from a fate which he first took the basest or the most unaccountable measures to ensure? Had Talbot permitted the witnesses to appear upon my father's trial—”

"The witnesses!" interrupted Belinda, scoffingly; "if upon that day an angel had come down to arraign the perjury brought against your father, his judges might have been moved; but no other testimony would have moved them, and this Talbot knew, as indeed any one of observation must have known; so that while his refusal to admit Sir Thomas's servants had no influence upon the result of the trial, the ostentatious zeal in which he repulsed them had much influence in inducing the order which left the execution of his revered friend in his own hands."

"He knew that Nale was a perjurer-knew it from the man himself why not step forward and declare so?"

"Spare me, Eliza Hartley, spare an unhappy woman doomed to ignominy and wretchedness in every connexion of life, yet I will still answer you. In not attempting this, Talbot was governed by more than one motive. When he learned, secretly as it had been arranged, that you were indeed to become the nominal wife of the blackest-hearted man that ever wore a beautiful form, your your old friend could only meet the exigency, by acting on Nale's

depositions and Whaley's warrant; afterwards, it appeared but a chance that his accusation of my miserable parent would be effective, and in that case, Talbot himself becoming an object of suspicion, your father was really lost to you; and, Eliza, respect Talbot for an additional motive-do so, that is, if you have any feeling left for Belinda-he was willing to screen, at my kneeling request, the degraded being to whom I owe my accurst exist

ence.

Eliza, evincing the natural tenacity with which, while there is a doubt to substitute a reason, the heart will cling to its long indulged prepossessions in favour of an esteemed object, still remained wavering, and the black brow of Belinda St. John told that she read her thoughts in her manner.

"Sir William yet lives?" asked Eliza, spiritedly and expres sively.

"He does-but neither for you nor for me."

"Saved, then, from his perilous situation in the streets of Ross?" "Ay, carefully saved."

"Thank God!" Eliza briskly arose.

"Hah! and you indeed doubt the truth of anything I have told you?"

"I do!" answered Eliza, carried away by her sudden energy, never before assumed in Belinda's presence-"“I do!—and nothing but his own admissions, or a repetition of your charges to his face, and his tacit acquiescence under them, shall make me discard my doubt.

"Come, then!" cried Belinda, exhibiting to excess the impetuosity that in her father's house had terrified Eliza,-"Come, then, and you shall have the proof you demand. I did not intend to expose you to a scene that must harrow your weak nature, perhaps kill you-a scene, that I alone, of all woman-kind, have nerve because I have cause, to encounter. But I see that to vindicate myself, and ensure your future quiet-if, as I premised, you survive it-it is now necessary you should listen, ay, and look on. Follow me,-dare you follow?"

"Whither would you lead me!" demanded Eliza, impressively but resolutely.

"Into the presence of William Judkin,”

"Swear to that!"

"I swear it by Him who is to judge me for all I shall do, by all that has been done upon me!"

"Lead the way, then!" and in something like her own frenzy of manner, Eliza trod in the quick steps of Belinda.

CHAPTER XVII.

A PERSON startled out of sleep, will suddenly rush to grapple, as it were, with the uncomprehended sound that has scared away his slumbers, his limbs and body vehemently active, while his mind is yet incapable of watching their motions. There are perfectly waking moments, too, though not often encountered in life, when, urged by overpowering excitement, we yield to an undefined, wild impulse, as little understood and unweighed as that of the half-aroused sleeper, and hurry to grasp at some vague object, with all the ardour of unreasoning desire. And under such an impetus, Eliza followed what, if she had reasoned, ought to have appeared to her, the very doubtful guidance of Belinda St. John. Prompt as was her action, she could not, indeed, have accounted satisfactorily for it. Her continued doubts did not really arise from close consideration of the case before her;-in fact, she wished to doubt, rather than doubted; and perhaps, were her heart analysed at the instant, a desperate resolution to attain the certainty which must go near to destroy her, and not a buoyant hope of any contrary demonstration, inspired her, as she hastened to see realised her conductor's promise of an immediate interview with Sir William Judkin.

They descended to the hall.

"This lady returns shortly," said Belinda, in a commanding tone to Mistress Nelly and Robert, who, notwithstanding their continued civilities, seemed disposed to refuse egress: but to this brief explanation, if so it might be called, they only bowed and curtsied anew, and allowed both the ladies to pass out instantly.

Eliza and Belinda gained the avenue, side by side, walking quickly over the dancing patches of white light which the moon shed through the interstices of the trees and of their foliage. They passed the outward gate, and Belinda seemed to pace towards the ruins of Dunbrody Abbey, which, on its gentle elevation, not far distant, was partly silvered by the unclouded luminary, partly wrapped in impenetrable shadow, while a vivid inversion of the whole effect appeared in the broad, smooth water beneath.

Suddenly, a chilling fancy seized upon Eliza. The mysterious view of the ruin, the scenery of its crumbled walls and nameless graves, became connected with Belinda's wild and dark character,