Lady Flintshire, upon this, had suddenly taken a great fancy to him; the quarrel, if quarrel there had been, between the two branches of the family, was made up, and he became a frequent visitor at the house.

Lady Flintshire was slowly sinking under the disease familiarly known as dying of a broken heart." Whether this was the result of wounded pride, or of some other and secret cause, it is certain that she never rallied after her return to London from Whittlesford Park. At the same time, a change took place in her manner towards her daughter-in-law and grandchild. She began to favour them with some degree of notice and attention. This change of conduct arose-Follejambe supposed from a sense of duty pressed upon her by a consciousness of her approaching end, not from any real change in her sentiments. He said that she could never entirely conceal the repugnance with which her new relatives inspired her. The society of Walter's wife evidently humiliated her; the manner in which she resigned herself to it conveyed the idea of a self-inflicted penance for some wrong committed. The Earl, never deviating from the strange line of conduct which he seemed to have marked out for himself, had insisted that his son and daughter-in-law should continue, for the present, to live with him. Of course, Mrs. Hilliard closed eagerly with such a proposal-it opened out to her admiring eyes a long vista of balls, assemblies, and town amusements-in short, it offered her the key to the door of "society "—that Land of Promise of the female dreamer.

Most of the above particulars I learnt from Follejambe. One evening,

about a year after my visit to Whittlesford Park, we were sitting to

gether in his rooms which were in Jermyn-street, very near to mine, when a messenger in the Flintshire livery broke in upon us. The man's face and faltering accent, showed us at once that some grave event had hurried his footsteps. Lady Flintshire had been taken suddenly and alarmingly ill, and was not expected to live through the night. Amongst the other relatives whom she had wished to be present, she had summoned F. The state of health of the Countess for some time past, rendered such an event as the present not wholly unlooked for, but the circumstances which immediately followed her death, were such as no one could have anticipated.

F. made his appearance at his chambers the next evening for half-an-hour, and crossed over to see me. His face was very grave. He informed me that Lady Flintshire had not survived the night; but no one but her son was present at the last moment, or knew the exact circumstances which had accompanied the event. It was believed that a long and intimate conversation had taken place between the two, but of its purport, no one could offer a conjecture. The Countess had no sooner breathed her last, than Hilliard repaired to the room of his wife. It was to find her in the pangs of premature labour. The excitement caused by the presence of death in the house, would be sufficient to account for this event "but there are other circumstances which I will relate to you directly," pursued F., which make me attribute it to some other, and, to me, unknown cause." After six hours of suffering, Mrs. Hilliard, delivered by a painful operation of a child still-born, followed that child and her husband's mother into the

world of spirits. The conduct of Hilliard under this double loss—if double loss it can be called-was unnaturally calm. He immediately packed up such effects as he could conveniently lay his hands upon, directed the rest to be sent after him, and removed to lodgings in St. James's-street. In explanation of this strange proceeding, he merely told F. that he should return for the funeral, but on no other occasion would he ever set foot in Flintshire House. The Earl's conduct throughout the night, was equally strange. He remained shut up in his study, merely sending from time to time to enquire after the state of the sufferers. When he and his son passed each other in the hall on the departure of the latter, neither of them exchanged a word with the other.

"What makes this all still more strange and unaccountable," continued F., "is a conversation which I had with old Hedger. You remember old Hedger, the under-butler, has been five and twenty years in Lord Flintshire's service. He called me aside this afternoon into the steward's room, and from his look I saw at once that he had something to communicate. It was this. It appears that last night, at about eight o'clock, as he was serving coffee in the back-drawing room, the Earl, the Countess, and Mrs. Hilliard, being the only persons present, Walter suddenly came into the room in a state of extraordinary agitation, and holding a book in his hand. The moment the Countess saw the book she gave a shriek; even Lord Flintshire despite his habitual selfcommand, seemed slightly moved. Walter sat down upon a chair with the book in his hand, and waited patiently till Hedger had completed his service, never urging him, by so much as a look or a gesture, to hasten his departure. The man describes the silence which prevailed among the whole party during the remaining two or three minutes of his stay in the room, as something death-like and appalling; like a calm before a terrible storm. He had no sooner reached the passage, than the sound of voices in altercation broke upon his ear; but Hedger is too faithful a servant to play the eavesdropper, or, too discreet to reveal what his eaves-dropping may have made him acquainted with. About half-an-hour afterwards, the bell rang violently. On hurrying in, the servants had found Lady Flintshire lying senseless on the sofa, and Mrs. Hilliard already seized with the pangs of labour. Walter was bending down over his mother, trying vainly to restore her to her senses. His conduct throughout (as, indeed, when I saw him) was quite calm and collected-but, it seemed like the calmness of despair. The Earl was not in the Hedger added that he could not but feel convinced, that the book which he saw in Mr. Walter's hand, was, in some way connected with the catastrophe. But how can that be? You don't answer."

room.

I thought that this was a good opportunity for relating to F. what had occurred during my visit to Whittlesford. When I concluded, F. remained silent for a few minutes, and then said, "I will just mention the circumstance to my uncle, the Colonel, this evening. Till then, please not to relate it to any one else."

Next day F. came again to my chambers. "I have talked to the

Colonel," said he, "and he agrees with me, that this incident of the book, had better, for the present, remain a secret between us. By the way, did mention its name? you

"It was a book without a title-page," I replied; 66 one of the trashy, French novels, that anyone can buy for a couple of shillings. Some MS. note in it, or some paper concealed in its folds, can alone account for Lord Flintshire's anxiety to re-possess himself of it, and for the effect which it appears to have had in this last sad affair."

CHAPTER IV.

ABOUT ten years after the events just recorded, I learnt the death of Hilliard (then Lord Whittlesford) in Spain. His will contained an especial clause, prohibiting his body from being brought back, to be interred in the family mausoleum, whither Lord Flintshire had been borne, full of years and honours, some six months before. By my friend's death, his son, then a boy of thirteen, succeeded to the title and estates. After having buried his father-I think they had to perform that ceremony in unconsecrated ground-he returned, with his tutor, to London, where I saw him once. He was a sickly, consumptive-looking boy, evidently destined to bear but for a very brief space, the weight of the family honours and titles, and to make room for the "Sixteenth Baron," in the person of Sir Charles Hilliard, F.'s first cousin. The event happened much sooner than I had anticipated, but not before a singular rumour had circulated through the world of fashion. It was reported that Sir Charles was about to try the validity of young Lord Whittlesford's claim to the title, and its accessory attendant good things, and "occupation for gentlemen of the long robe, in the shape of an important ejectment case," was hinted at, as among the interesting events of the coming season. It never transpired, on what grounds Sir Charles was about to found his claim; indeed, I much question whether the report itself was ever more than mere tittle-tattle. Tittle-tattle or not, before the advent of the next season, Sir Charles was installed in the Barony, and some twenty thousand acres of rich land, without the intervention of a special jury, or a decision in Banco. Little Lord Whittlesford (the fifteenth) had breathed out his feeble life in the arms of his tutor, and slept, overshadowed by the family elms, in some five feet of the soil ruled over by his successor.

Almost the first act of the new peer, on coming into the estate, was to consign to the hammer of Messrs. Sotheby and Wilkinson, the vast library, formed by his great great uncle. His tastes, entirely rustic, rural, and protectionist, did not lie in the direction of the typography of the Aldines, or the illuminated missals of an age, which neither fattened sheep, nor raised prize oxen. The Times announced the celebrated Bibliotheca Whittlesfordingis, as about to exercise the persuasive eloquence of the auctioneer, on June 17th, 18th, 19th, and following days. The advertisement, which did not meet my eye till the last day but one of the sale, served to recall strongly to my mind, one particular

volume in the collection. I strolled into the auction-room on the last morning, not exactly with the idea that the book would be likely to turn up among those remaining there-it was, in the highest degree improbable that it had found its way there at all-but under that vague feeling, which leads us, sometimes, to take our chances of a possibility, however unlikely it may be. The gems of the library had all been disposed of, and what remained were principally unbound books, and works of little value, tied together, and offered for sale in lots of five or six at a time. What was my surprise, in the course of the first few lots put up after my entrance, to meet with the very book which haunted my mind. Yes, there it was, in truth, tied up, between an old "Butler's Hudibras," and a forgotten book of Eastern travel. I hastily turned over the leaves, as it lay on the table, previous to the biddings. Not a single manuscript note, not so much as the mark of a pen or pencil, was revealed to my eye. I determined, however, to possess myself of it, at an outlay of a few shillings, the price at which the previous lots, apparently of about the same value as the present, had been sold.

"Lot ten thousand nine hundred and one!" rattled out the Auctioneer after the usual business fashion. "Butler's Hudibras;' nice copy; 'Lieutenant Meander's residence in the Yucatoo Islands,' two vols., work of great interest; a book without a title-page-a French novel; Contes de la Fontaine;' 'Lewis's Tales of Horror.' How much for this lot? Four and sixpence; five shillings for you, sir (a nod from me); six shillings; seven (a nod from me) and sixpence; nine (a nod from me) and sixpence."

So eager was I to possess myself of this book, that I found myself bidding up to the verge of two pounds, amidst the surprise of the whole room, for the possession of lot ten thousand nine hundred and one. My opponent was a snuffy little man, with a threadbare coat, who stood at my elbow, and regularly overtopped my last bidding by an instantaneous nod of the head, which bespoke a determination to go any length. I retired, at last, from the contest, and the lot was knocked down to my adversary, for one pound eighteen shillings.

Ten

No sooner had the sharp blow of the auctioneer's hammer proclaimed the ownership of the disputed volumes, than the little man, turning to me, snuffled out, "You did well to leave off where you did, sir. pounds-no, nor twenty-would not have bought that lot!" "You must have some strong interest in those musty volumes then, which certainly do not look worth five shillings, at the outside."

"I am commissioned by Colonel F.," said the man, "and I had orders to buy."

66

Decidedly," said I to myself, on my way back to the Temple, "there is something very mysterious and incomprehensible about that volume. Fortunately, whatever that may be, I now know, that it must exist in the letter-press itself, and a visit to Rolandi's or Jeff's will soon solve my doubts."

I ordered the book of Rolandi-giving him the exact title, about which it was impossible for me to make a mistake, and the place and date of publication, Paris, 1824. His answer at the end of a week,

was, that no such book was known. The minutest researches subsequently made by myself, failed in procuring me a copy of the volume. One of my friends in Paris, consulted on the subject, the librarians of the Bibliotheque Royale, of the Bibliotheque St. Genevieve, and the other public libraries. The result of all his investigations proved, that no book, bearing such a title, had ever been published. He was told that the work, if it existed, must have been privately printed. When this last sentence met my eye, I wondered that the truth had never dawned upon me before. The book must have been privately printed-and for a private purpose.

Not to protract this story to a wearisome length (supposing that result not to have been already accomplished), I will at once relate the simple and easy process by which at last the precious volume came into my hands. It was last winter at Colonel F.'s, (now in his turn Lord Whittlesford, and destined, I hope, to retain the title longer than his two immediate predecessors) that the conversation between him, his son, and myself, happened to turn upon this very subject.

"I do not know," said Lord Whittlesford to me, "that there can be any objection, now, to your reading the book, though for some time we thought that its contents had better be kept a secret from everybody, as involving family matters of serious importance. The branch, however, to which we have succeeded, is so very remotely connected with us, that I hardly think it necessary to carry delicacy so far as to refuse to satisfy your curiosity."

of

age,

It may be imagined with what avidity I pounced upon the precious octavo-with what delight I felt it leaves rustle under my fingers, as I devoured it in the solitude of my bed-room. As chapter succeeded chapter, the mystery which, to my eyes, had so long hung over the Flintshire family, rolled off like a cloud; when the "Fin.” was reached (it was tastefully printed in an engraved wreath of nightshade), the whole truth stood revealed to me. I had but one question to ask-who was the author of this extraordinary tale. The plot (which remains indelibly fixed in my mind) ran as follows:The Marquis de Beaufort, a widower of some forty years with an only son, sues for the hand of the young Barone de Lavernie, the belle of her province. The Marquis, though enjoying great influence at court, is extremely poor; the Countess is possessed of large estates, which, by a local custom, permitted under the old regime, pass with the Barony, to her children. M. de Beaufort is painted as the black character of the drama; a compound of low cunning, shallowness, and duplicity; cold in friendship, implacable in vengeance, hiding under a glittering exterior of belles manieres, the sordid selfishness of a heart, incapable of a single virtuous emotion; an impossible character, in fact. The Countess, too, in her way, is an equally impossible personage, endowed, to the fullest extent, with every virtue in the world, including some virtues which seem to exist, or, at all events, to be known as such only in the eyes of the French nation. Her personal charms are dwelt upon with a degree of warmth, which leads at once to the suspicion, that the author of the book, whoever he may be, is himself the lover whom he proceeds to describe. This suspicion