once if Grahame has deceived me; if he possesses your affections, and if your father sanctions his addresses?" Marion blushed deeply as she replied, "My father certainly wishes the connexion; but I know not if he has ever conversed with Colonel Grahame on the subject. I know but this; he assured me that I was beloved by Colonel Grahame, and he wrung from me the promise to become his, should he desire it. "And you promised, Marion," said O'Carroll;" cruel girl! at the expence of my peace, of all my dearest hopes, you promised to become another's!" "I thought then that I was never more to see you, O'Carroll," she replied; "but had you been present, what could I have done? Ought I not to sacrifice even my happiness to the wishes of my father's benefactor and my own?" "No, you ought not, and you shall not!" exclaimed O'Carroll, with impassioned tenderness. "I cannot resign you, and I conjure you by all our past affection; by the vows which we have made; by our future hopes; by honor, duty, love; by every thing most dear and sacred,to renounce this resolution, if you would not make me utterly and hopelessly wretched." "You do wrong to move me thus," said Marion, in a tone of gentle reproach. "By awakening remembrances which I have struggled to forget, you render still harder the performance of duties, which, if required, I must fulfil. I repeat to you, O'Carroll, that I owe every thing to Colonel Grahame's friendship and humanity; and could you prize a heart insensible to the most binding obligations, or accept a hand purchased at the price of every grateful and generous feeling?" O'Carroll traversed the apartment for a few moments in silence, and then with a more composed air, replied, "If Colonel Grahame does indeed love you, Marion, and wish for a connexion with you, he is the most generous of men; since knowing my affection for you, he proposed this interview, and even wished me success in the renewal of my suit. Dear Marion, I am persuaded your father's hopes have induced him to believe that Grahame loves you; for besides the cordiality with which he wished me success, I have every reason to believe that his heart is entirely devoted to one, who, I am sure, does not regard him with indifference." Marion's countenance brightened with a portion of its former gaiety and happiness as she listened to this welcome suggestion; and the delighted O'Carroll gazed with rapture on the dimpling cheeks and laughing blue eyes of his fondly beloved Marion, such as he had known them in the first days of his love. 66 Yes, dear Marion," said O'Carroll, after a few brief moments, in which both were too happy and too full of emotion to break the silence," we may hope, at last, to taste that cup of felicity which has been so often held to our lips, and cruelly snatched from them before we had power to sip. You, at least, deserve a richer recompense than I have power to give; you, who have endured so much, and with such patient sweetness; you, who with more than manly courage had resolved to sacrifice your fondly cherished hopes and dearest affections, on the the altar of gratitude and filial duty." "The world, O'Carroll, would not allow me any merit for such a sacrifice," said Marion; "nay, the world would not even permit it to be termed a sacrifice; but would rather stigmatize, and condemn as absurd and romantic, the conduct of a friendless girl, who for the sake of a hopeless and ill-fated passion, should slight the affection of a noble heart, and decline the honorable protection which would shield her from poverty and insult.” 66 "But you, Marion," said O'Carroll, with fervor, are superior to the cold sneers of a selfish world; you are not guided by its maxims, nor do you fear its taunts; and though you would conceal the generosity of your conduct under the veil of worldly policy and prudence, it is easy to pierce through its folds, and detect the pure, disinterested motives which alone actuated you. Marion, the heart which has once truly loved, can never yield to the influence of selfish passions while one ray of hope continues to animate it." "But I was scarcely conscious of cherishing a hope that we might meet again," said Marion; "indeed, I hardly dared desire it, after quitting you so abruptly; which, I feared, even your affection, sincere as I thought it to be, could never pardon. To the anguish of separation was added the humiliating conviction, that I must appear weak, trifling, and inconstant in your eyes; and that, ignorant of the motives which actuated me, you would despise and remember me only with contempt. You cannot conceive how miserable this reflection made me. In renouncing you, I acted according to the dictates of conscience; and I could have learned in time to resign myself to the loss of your affection, had I been permitted to explain my conduct, and reconcile you to what I then considered an act of religious duty. Though wounded by the coldness which marked your manners towards the close of our intercourse, I could not persuade myself to believe your affections entirely alienated from me; and violently to break those bonds which had so tenderly united us, and fly without a farewell word, leaving you to believe me the false and fickle creature that I seemed, was a trial hard to be endured,— worse even than the pang of separation, or the bitterness of disappointed hopes and blasted expectations." "Dearest Marion," said O'Carroll, in an accent of tenderness, "I only am censurable; and 1 deserve all that I have suffered. I, who cruelly wounded your gentle heart by my coldness and unkind caprice, was unworthy of your love or your consideration. Yet I have mourned for you unceasingly; but never, no, never accused you. For months I sought after you, anxious to atone for my offence, and prevail on you to fulfil your promise to be mine. My endeavours were yain; and though I left Ireland with a wounded heart, still the consolatory hope that I might one day find you free and willing to renew the intercourse of happier hours, has never utterly forsaken me; but has continued to soften the regrets of the past, and to shed a ray of light over the uncertain prospects of the future. And now, dear Marion, inform me of the events which have faded this lovely cheek, and saddened the gaiety of those laughing eyes, which once sparkled with happiness; or, if they shone through tears, they were tears only of tenderness and joy." "The bitter drops of sorrow only, have suffused them since we parted, O'Carroll," she replied. "But you shall know all that has befallen us; only you must judge my father gently; if he has erred, it was through the excess of his affection for me; and I think a heart as kind as yours will forgive the anxiety of a father for the welfare of his only child, although you may yourself have suffered by its indulgence." "I am far from feeling enmity towards your father, Marion," answered O'Carroll. "For your sake I can endure and suffer every thing in silence; and, blessed with your love, regard with indifference the contempt or malice of the world." Marion made no reply, but remained fer a few moments with downcast eyes, apparently absorbed by meditation; then, as if fearful of losing the resolution necessary to the recital which she was about to give, she commenced abruptly, and without farther preface, the narrative of those events which had conspired to reduce her to her present situation. It was often interrupted by O'Carroll, with ejaculations of anger or abhorrence, and with expressions of tender endearment. and consolation. His knowledge of Mr. Spencer's early history, and of many circumstances with which our readers are unacquainted, induce us, in order to make them familiar with what Marion did not think it necessary to repeat, as well as to avoid the frequent interruptions of the lovers, to present in our own circumstantial detail, the history of events tending to explain many things which now appear mysterious in our narrative. We shall, however, reserve this detail to form the subject of a future chapter; and leaving Captain O'Carroll and his recovered Marion to the indulgence of their hopes, their affections, and their fears, we will return for a short time to Miss Courtland, and describe the scenes in, which she is at present interested. CHAPTER XII. "How many cowards, whose hearts are all as false Shakspeare. WHEN Catherine on the preceding evening quitted O'Carroll to repair to her father's apartment, firm as she was in the conviction that Colonel Grahame would refuse the Captain's challenge, she felt unusually agitated by the circumstances which O'Carroll had mentioned as the cause of his anger. She could not prevail on herself to doubt the honor of Grahame yet she was perplexed by the mystery of his conduct, and she dreaded lest the ungovernable feelings of O'Carroll should urge him, in case Grahame denied the satisfaction which he demanded, to revenge himself in some way equally violent and fatal. Major Courtland, notwithstanding his rigid notions of military honor, was a decided enemy to duelling; and though his principles had never been put to the actual test, he had several times successfully interposed to prevent the commission of the crime by others; and whenever a proper occasion offered, he argued strenuously against so barbarous and sanguinary a practice. Catherine well knew his feelings on the subject, and she thought of entreating him to use his influence in calming the strong passions of O'Carroll; but she feared to agitate him by the relation of what had past, and perhaps effectually disturb that repose which it was essential for him to enjoy. She therefore, at a late hour, left him by his positive injunction, to the care of Hugh, and retired to her own apartment. Notwithstanding the anxiety of her mind, she could not long resist the gentle influence of sleep; |