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the trysting-place, was at last gratified by seeing him approach, all haste and anxiety. His excuse for his tardiness was the multitude of things he had to settle, as he was about to start next day for London.

The intelligence came upon her like a thunderbolt: she turned deadly pale; her eyes were opened wildly, and swam, as she walked by his side for fully an hour without speaking a word, but listening to him as he ran on talking of the bright vista in life that was now opening before him, and hanging with both her arms on his for very weakness from the sudden shock. Often she bent upon him that look of anxiety and alarm which we have before described-at length changing to an expression of absolute despair. It seemed as if she had some dreadful secret to impart to him, but could not-something which made her wholly dependent upon him, leaving her without a will of her own, or a hope apart from his.

At length it was the time when she should go into her father's house. He, too, had to leave her in great haste, an immense deal of business being, by his account, yet to be transacted that evening. The fact of the matter was, that a public dinner was to be given him in one of the taverns at A—z, by some of his former theatrical friends, on his departure.

Having made her promise to come to his mother's house the following morning, to bid farewell and see him away, as he said, he took a hasty leave.

"Good by, then, Lilly," said he, kissing her on the cheek, and turning to go.

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Good-by-good-by-g-g" the guttural syllable stuck in her throat, impeded by the choking ball that seemed rising from her heart, till, hearing his steps no longer, she threw herself upon a heap of leaves that had been swept behind the gate from the long tree-covered avenue, and there knelt and wept bitterly, and prayed. Alas! how very bitterly, the Heaven that heard her knows!

The next day she was at his house; she found his mother alone, with her eyes filled with tears-of sorrow that her son was going—of joy, that it was to London and to be a great man. How different was her own condition!-her eyes had not once all that night been closed in sleep. She had a worn and harassed, and yet much excited look, fearful to see on the face of one so young and beautiful.

There was a kind of unnatural calm and carelessness in her behavior, while her eye was burning and glistening. She sat, without speaking, beside the garrulous old woman, till he came in.

He had not long to stay-the mail was to start within ten minutes. Hurriedly he kissed his mother's cheek, and approached Miss Raby. He pressed her to his bosom; as he did so—

"Oh, Merrick! will you leave me ?" she burst forth, in an agonized voice: " my own only friend-my love-my husband! Do not go from me!-do not-oh, do not-do not."

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Pshaw, Lilias! dearest-this is silliness. You know I will not be long away-a couple of months at furthest."

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Oh, do not forsake me-my heart will break! I shall die, Merrick ! -stay with me-stay-I am-I am-I-I

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Here she reeled half-round, and fell heavily on the carpet, in a dead faint.

Bending down, he raised her head into his mother's lap, and, passionately kissing her lips, while his warm tears fell fast into her bosom, sprang up, out of the room, the house, and was gone.

The mother, herself grieving much, proceeded to take steps for the restoration of her youthful friend, and, in doing so, discovered, from the information of her matronly skill, that fair Lilias had stooped to folly, and was soon to reap its reward—shame.

Now, the dreadful secret was out, though unspoken, and he was away, in ignorance of it.

As soon as she had restored her to consciousness she breathed into Lilias's ear her surmises, and, not denying, but weeping much in answer, the fair girl hid her face in her bosom, and these two lone women remained together, in the bitterness of their sorrow, till the evening.

Lilias, the Forsaken.

PART II.

LILIAS returned to her home: that home which was become a house of mourning and of wretchedness to her. Her life was now one tissue of sorrow, unavailing though bitter regret, and gnawing self-condemnation, mingled with, or rather added to, the still fervid passion, the undeviating affection toward him, the truant. As yet her heart could not call him deceiver.

The most alarming of all prospects was before her-that which women tremble at in the dread word, RUIN !-worse than death to one of her education and feelings-worse than even the wrath that follows it; and yet she could not curse him; no! how could she even think ill of him, so beautiful, so kind, so gifted, whose society had once been her happiness -whose sole fault to be blamed withal was a diminution in his love for her? Yes, the greatest of all her griefs, greater than all her fears of discovery, disgrace, death-greater was the pang of absence from him. But at times would come hope, nay, certainty, that he would yet return ere time made discovery of their guilt unavoidable. Their guilt?-alas! her conscience as yet fondly acknowledged that their guilt, and not his guilt, was the right expression. He knew not of this damning proof of their having eaten of the tree of Paradise; if he did, would he not hasten to atone, to defend, to die with her ?-would he not? He would once:

but that is changed. Ah! but even if his love be changed, his high honor is still the same.

There were moments of this hope, but they were few compared to the hours of despair-few, but so delicious! It was when these visited her, that she would throw her shawl hastily around her, and walk to the town to seek the sympathy of Mrs. Merrick, who, ere long, became to her as her own mother. Every day that she could leave her father's house she was sure to find her way to the good old matron, whose kind heart had no reproach for her, and from whom she had nothing to conceal, who loved the same darling object as herself, and was also pining at his absence, and earnest and anxious for his welfare, though only as a parent, not as a lover. With her she could discourse of all his noble qualities-his genius, his affection, his success; with her she could bewail her own hapless fortune, and share away her sorrow.

How anxiously did they wait for tidings of him! Oh! the biiterness of hope deferred, as day after day went over and yet no letter-no token of his remembrance-of his existence; while ever the dreaded evil was gradually but most surely advancing to a consummation.

The first intelligence they had of his movements was a notice in the theatrical report of a newspaper. In criticising the acting at Drury-lane, it went on to state that the part of Lorenzo (Merchant of Venice) was played by a young gentleman (Mr. Merrick) of some provincial celebrity, who certainly threw uncommon vigor into his performance and was much applauded.

Still there was nothing from himself. A month passed, and, save his name in advertisements, he was altogether dead to them.

Lilias was heart sick. It was hard for the slender hope that she now had to bear up against the load of apprehension that crushed her spirit. At length, on entering Mrs. Merrick's house one morning, she was met by the joyful mother, whose hand held a letter. She almost dropped to the ground as it was thrust into her trembling hand, and became pale and cold as she read it.

It merely stated that he was well, had enclosed a bank postbill for twenty pounds, and desired to be remembered to Miss Raby. It was dated London, and desired them not to write to him acknowledging it till he should have written them again, as he was about to change his address.

And this was all! Frequently the fond thought had crossed her mind that many letters addressed to her might have miscarried-been intercepted; but the strain of this epistle, the desire to be merely remembered, convinced her that she had lost him for ever.

Poor Lilias! she sat a little, and endeavored to talk, to hope still; but it was in vain. She rose, left the house, and went home; where, seeking the solitude of her own chamber, she fell upon her couch, and resigned herself to the wormwood draught of her affliction.

For some days she was really and seriously ill, confined to bed; then she arose and went about as usual; but the poison had entered into her frame--the virus of that strange disorder laughed at under the name of а "broken heart ;" that malady of the body, arising as it were by a mys

terious contagion from an analogous malady of the mind; that disease, whose pathology no man can explain, but whose symptoms the wise physician can welt detect, and which, by judicious treatment, he may greatly mitigate, or even hope to cure.

About a fortnight after the above, another letter was received by his mother, containing his address, and stating that, as his expenses turned out to be greatly beyond his expectations, she must not look for another remittance early, and recommending her to practise frugality. This paper contained no allusion whatever to Lilias.

Being now in possession of his address, they eagerly finished and despatched a letter to him, detailing, in as forcible language as they could put together, the state, physical and mental, of his betrothed, and imploring his immediate return.

A month passed over before any answer was received to this :-then came a letter, long but cold. He could not, he said, desert his engagement; no other, in the then state of the theatrical circles, could be got to fill it. He expressed infinite regret for what had happened between himself and Miss Raby, his resolution to make every reparation as soon as opportunity offered, and his desire that, in the event of her home being rendered unpleasant to her, she should seek shelter with his mother. This was the last letter they received from him: others did ultimately find their way into their possession, which will be given hereafter, but they referred to them only in the third person.

And now, when we come to paint the anguish of the blighted girl, forsaken by her first and only love,-deserted by him to whom, confiding in his honor and affection, she had yielded that which should have been her passport to respect in this world and happiness in the next-betrayed by the man in whom her trust had been so strong as to make her resign for it her trust in her Maker-treated with contempt by the lover towards whom her heart yet, in spite of all, burned with unextinguishable passion-when we try to paint this, then it is we feel how utterly inadequate the rude minds of our own sex are to form even an imaginary idea of the torturing feeling, much less to find words or phrases that would convey half its bitterness to the conception of another. But a woman, and one that feels or can look back to having felt the deep passion, occurring but once in the lifetime even of woman, who exists for no other end but to love, she only will appreciate it; one who has been deceived, betrayed-if hap'y into the hand of any such this narrative should comeshe alone will fully know it.

What with the many ailments naturally incidental to her situation, and the harrowing agony of mind that preyed upon her, she now could scarcely ever leave her room. Anxiety had hollowed her pallid cheeks; her eye had a dry, hot appearance, and looked continually with a wild, furtive, starting glance around her; moreover, she had induced upon her a habit of mental absence, and a way of muttering to herself with her dry, colorless lips, that were often chapped and bleeding. Her step was quick and stealthy, and her frequent sighs sounded groanlike. Despair, the vampire, had settled on her brow, and would not be driven from his hold. Strange thoughts of suicide crossed her mind, but she lacked animal

courage sufficient for the deed; yet how she prayed for death! That she wished for it you may well conceive. Did she ever imprecate evil upon his head? Oh, no! when his name arose in this strange devotion, it was for good and not for evil, for blessing, and not curses.

There is a poem by Tennyson, one of the most singular and beautiful pieces in all modern literature, that admirably depicts a woman in an analogous situation: you know it—it is "Marian in the Moated Grange," and its burden runs

She only said, "My life is dreary,

He will not come," she said;
She said, "I am aweary, aweary;
Oh God, that I were dead!"

Five months had passed since Merrick left her-five months of this anguish! No confidant, no friend had she, save his mother, and her at an early period only; for, as time went on, she cowered at home alway, shrinking from every eye that might read her secret. And all this while she had to dress her face in smiles, to meet the suitor her father's care had selected for her, and whom she could not but esteem, for he was an exemplary young man and prosperous in the world—a gentleman, moreover, in birth and every other respect.

At length her disgrace could no longer be concealed; the servants had long been aware of it, but had from very compassion refrained from its disclosure. Then the suitor-but it was sometime ere he allowed himself to be convinced by his senses-she was so girlish, so delicate, so gentle, so strictly educated, so little apparently acquainted with the world; when he did, he made no remark, but went into exile from the place of his kindred.

At last, even the eye of the venerable Dr. Raby perceived it. Thereupon a long train of remarkable circumstances arose in his mind, which were now all reconcilable by this damning fact: he was struck powerless. For some hours he could do nothing, lost in a maze of thought. At last, going to her apartment, he demanded an account of the truth.

The poor girl when she heard the idea mooted by her father, for whom under heaven she entertained most awe of any being, was terror-stricken. She dropped into a chair, and sat staring at him, unable to utter a word. Her eyes were dilated and moveless, her face pale as that of a corpse, while her lips, half open, quivered every now and then unconsciously, but gave no sound.

When the old clergyman saw that his suspicions were all the truth, and that the glory was indeed departed from his house, he covered his face with his hands, and, stooping forward as he sat, groaned aloud, the while the big tears dropped from between his fingers upon the carpet. But she continued in silence to regard him with the same dead stony gaze.

When this had continued for some time, he rose and tardily withdrew, actually tottering as he left the room. She sat for a little without change, then, rising slowly and quietly, lay down upon her bed without undressing: the candle wasted to the socket, the fire burnt itself out, and daylight next

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