SIN AND SORROW.

IT was in the January of the year 185- that I was travelling from Sherbrooke to Quebec, and, having accomplished as much of the journey as could then be done by rail, was standing on the platform of the Melbourne station, admiring the huge locomotive, with its gaping funnel-shaped chimney, and contrasting American railway arrangements with ours,-from the roomy cars, more like small churches than anything else, where (to say no more for them) it is at least impossible to be closeted with a madman or a murderer, to the free and easy way in which the line is left open to pedestrians, who take their chance of being knocked to pieces or not, according as they may be lucky or otherwise.* I was also thinking, somewhat uncomfortably, of the hundred miles or so that still lay between me and my destination,-all sleighing, of course; most of it to be done by night,—and wondering what sort of a travelling companion I should have, as I knew that two besides the driver would be placed in each vehicle, when my attention was drawn to the features of a gentleman standing near me, which I thought I recognized, in spite of the disguise effected by a Canadian winter dress. A few moments convinced me that I was not mistaken. It was my old college friend, Tom Ripton, who stood before me. I was not long in making myself known, found to my great delight that his destination was the same as mine, and it was easily arranged that we should travel together.

Both then and during the first part of our journey Tom's manner certainly surprised and disappointed me. Not that I had any want of cordiality to complain of,-he seemed as pleased at our meeting as I really was,-but it was almost impossible to draw him into conversation. He often answered in monosyllables, sometimes not at all, or not to the purpose. And my disappointment was that of a man who finds that, instead of the agreeable companion he expected, he has one who, if not absolutely morose, is at least distrait, and is evidently brooding over something of a by no means pleasant nature. I then began mentally to recall some particulars of his history which I thought I had long forgotten, and which had never been cleared up to my satisfaction, nor, so far as I know, to that of anybody

* I speak of the time of which I am here writing. have since caused an alteration in this respect.

A few accidents may

else. I had left Oxford after a year, as a commercial career happened to offer me greater advantages than any of the learned professions, but he graduated, took orders, obtained a most eligible curacy, where he had a nobleman for a parishioner, on whose patronage he had every reason to count; his prospects were, in short, good in every way, when, to the astonishment of all who knew him, he resigned his appointment, went out to Canada, and settled down as incumbent of a remote parish in the eastern townships, where the labour was great, the income small, society out of the question, and anything worth calling advancement impossible. All this, and more to the same purpose, came freshly into my mind, and I could not avoid connecting it with his strange manner, although what was the link between them I could not of course guess. The mystery was now about to be solved, so far at least as I was concerned.

The train hissed and puffed away to Portland, and in about an hour after we were seated in our cariole, jingling along the lonely forest road. I had ascertained that our driver did not understand a word of English, and I resolved if possible to unearth Tom's secret. It would be absurd to disclaim all mere curiosity in such a case, but I can truly say that worthier motives greatly predominated.

It was late in the afternoon, the cold was intense, and the dense forest through which the road passed made it as dark as snow ever permits night to be. I began,

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'Why, Tom, what is the matter with you? You must pardon an old friend for what I am going to say. You neither look nor speak like your former self. As to the speaking, indeed, you haven't given me much opportunity of judging, for I have hardly been able to get a word out of you since we met."

"There is nothing the matter," he said, but the tone belied the words.

"I am afraid,” I said, "I shall now offend you in real earnest. But I can't be silent about it any longer. I must take courage, and ask you, Why did you leave England at all? Why give up all you did? Why bury yourself alive in the backwoods here? Why, above all, do I find you so changed that twenty years ought not to have made such a difference in your looks? And you have the air, too, of a man whose mind is laden with some heavy sorrow, or his conscience with some terrible crime."

He gave a perceptible start at the last words, which by no means diminished my uneasiness, but recovering himself after a moment's silence, said,

"Might I not ask you what brings you out here?"

"Absurd!" I answered, "I came out on the business of our firm, and am going back to Liverpool in another month, all of which you might have known if you had been attending to one word of what I

said to you. But really you answer with an idle tongue,' for there is not a particle of resemblance between our cases.”

He remained so long silent that I began to think he was resolved not to pursue the subject. But at length he said, very suddenly,—

"I will tell you tell you all. I shall not say, Do not think this or that or the other of me; for it matters little now, and will matter nothing soon, what any one thinks."

"That's all sensible," said I, "except the last part of it, which must mean that you are going to cut your throat or blow your brains out. Drowning would not be practicable nearer than the St. Lawrence."

I said this with a forced jocularity, but it had actually occurred to me that possibly his mind might be disordered. Might he not be a melancholy madman? Might not he be at that moment meditating self-destruction? And this journey, too, might it not have such an object?—the lonely road through the forest, a fitting place for some strange, wild deed! Suicides are often fantastic. But I was soon undeceived. I give his story as he told it; my own interruptions were few and unimportant, and the only others were our stoppages for a fresh horse at the different stations. On these occasions he discontinued his story, of course, but immediately resumed it when we started again.

"You know of my appointment to the curacy of Hartonvale, and my letters told you a good deal of the particulars connected with it. No position could be imagined more pleasing than mine. I was quite my own master. The incumbent was non-resident, from ill-health. Indeed, he was with much reason supposed to be dying; and after I had been there about a year and a half it was pretty well known that the Earl of C., who resided in the parish, and who was the patron, would, when the vacancy occurred, present me. Besides Lord C., several persons of wealth and rank were among my parishioners; I was a general favourite with them, and was treated with the greatest kindness and attention by all.

“I was nowhere a more frequent or a more favoured guest than at Rossville House, the residence of Lord C. His family consisted of Lady C. and three daughters, all young. He had a son, the Honourable Captain V., by a former marriage, but he was mostly absent with his regiment. There was a French governess-I may speak her name, she is never out of my thoughts,-Marie Duchesnay, who was treated more as one of the family than governesses often are, and in consequence I met her frequently. She was a young and most beautiful girl. I ought, I suppose, to describe her, but after you have heard me to the end you will not expect that from me. I soon became most passionately attached to her, and before long ventured to tell her the state of my feelings. But I must hurry over

this part of my story. After a while she owned that she returned my love, we pledged ourselves to each other, and agreed that, as soon as my expected promotion should make such a step prudent, we would be united.

"But what, you will ask, said Lord and Lady C. to this affair? At first they did not look on it with favour, spoke of it as a 'strange alliance,' and so forth. I had felt it my duty, as soon as we had ourselves decided, to make Lady C. acquainted with the whole matter, and so vigorously combated her objections that at length she and the Earl gave it their sanction and approval. And what valid objection could there be? She was beautiful and accomplished, of the Protestant persuasion (at least, she professed it), and was believed to have a claim to a good position in her own country. For my part, I saw but one thing,-I loved her ardently and devotedly, and believed my love returned. Enough, we now were recognized lovers, conversed in French or English (she understood English perfectly), employed in the presence of our noble friends all the endearing language consistent with decorum, and, alas! were often left alone together.

"I spare myself the pain of being more explicit. You have already guessed my meaning. Love there was on my side, at least, passion on both. Will you think it strange when I tell you that I experienced then none of the remorse you might imagine inseparable from such a fall? The only feeling it produced in me was an increased devotion to the object of my love, and yet I may well question the possibility of that ! Of course we were now both anxious to be united as speedily as possible-a sudden alteration in our views which not a little astonished Lord and Lady C. But they were easily brought to agree to anything we wished. As I have told you, I was a favourite with both, so was Marie. Lady C., indeed, appeared rather pleased than otherwise that matters should be expedited. A genuine woman rarely wishes to throw any obstacle in the way of a marriage.

"All went on smoothly. I only felt a little uneasiness, perhaps it was mere impatience. Every day that passed diminished it, and the exact time for our union was all but fixed. After what I have said you will easily believe that Marie had not fallen in my estimation through what had occurred. There I still feel that I was not wrong.

દ

Captain V. obtained leave of absence about this time, and came to Rossville. I had met him before, and found him a gay, frank, off-handed young fellow; but, without being able to give any reason for it beyond a mere want of a community of tastes, I had always felt that he was not the man I should choose for a frequent companion. He was handsome too, just such a man as you would say

was in every way calculated to win the admiration of women. Yet his presence did not cause me the slightest qualm of jealousy. One evening-I know not how it was,-every occurrence of that evening except one seems enveloped in a kind of mist. I had been dining. there, always a frequent circumstance, latterly more so than ever, and I had left the drawing-room to seek Marie, supposing her to be in the garden, or some part of the grounds near the house. In the shrubbery I saw her some distance before me, and not alone. The captain was with her. I started as from an electric shock. Still, it was not much; he, no doubt, was presuming on her position -perhaps he had had too much wine: I would speak to her on the subject-beg her to be more reserved and distant with him for the future, and I would not join them now; I felt I was much excited, and feared I might say or do something ridiculous. I was not seen by either, but I saw—it was a moonlight summer evening, and I saw familiarities offered and permitted-permitted too, which ought to have been repelled if offered by me even then.

"You will ask how I felt,-what I did. I cannot tell you the first, but I fled from the spot. I dared not trust myself to remain; if I had, I should have done something desperate, I know; and to this day I wonder at the self-control that in such a moment of madness dictated the only prudent course. I forget the rest, I suppose I reached the house, left some message about sudden illness, and hurried home. What a night followed! I can only remember alternations of wild raving with mere stupor. Towards morning I was calmer: I suppose I must have slept from pure exhaustion, for I remember starting once or twice from a hideous dream, only to become suddenly again conscious of the yet more hideous reality; but I was calm enough to decide on my course, and I did so.

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Strange that it never occurred to me to ask myself. If the barrier of virtue is broken down in this girl's case, who has done it? I did not reason thus; in fact, I experienced nothing but bitter regrets, followed by furious resentment, and that by a kind of question as to the possibility, after all; and then the answer, No, never! I felt that if I had not witnessed the worst, it was because neither time nor place admitted of it.

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I repaired to Rossville House as soon as I could do so without attracting attention by a too early visit. I asked to see her. There was no difficulty in doing so; there had not been any of late. She came alone. That, too, was not unusual now. How she would have received me I cannot tell, had I given her one moment to speak and act as usual. I did not. I scarcely allowed her time to enter the room when I said, Marie, I know all.' She changed colour, only slightly, and perhaps would have spoken, but again I did not give her time. I added immediately, 'I saw you last night with your