HYDE MARSTON;

OR, RECOLLECTIONS OF A SPORTSMAN'S LIFE.

BY THE EDITOR.

CHAPTER THE FORTY-FIRST.-"LAST SCENE OF ALL."

"The cloud shadows of midnight possess their own repose,

For the weary winds are silent, and the moon is on the deep;
Some respite to its turbulence unresting ocean knows;
Whatever moves, or toils, or grieves, hath its appointed sleep.
Thou in the grave shalt rest-yet, till the phantoms flee
Which that house and heath and garden made dear to thee erewhile,
Thy remembrance and repentance and deep musings are not free
From the music of two voices and the light of one sweet smile.”

"Methought what pain it was to drown-
What dreadful noise of waters in my ears!"

SHELLEY.

SHAKSPEARE.

Between the claret which the host furnished neat as imported, without even a taint of an exciseman's eye having jeopardized its flavour, and the good-fellowship of our neighbours, my companion looked like one the measure of whose content was full. He lounged in an ample oak chair, the very ideal of complacency, sipping and sipping again, while, from time to time, he gave utterance to a running commentary on the symposium of the adjoining chamber.

"What a set of merry villains!-wish those French fellows didn't swear so awfully though-that's right, sing more and sacré lesswell done, vinous Gaul

Ha! Ha! Ha! Chicot vraiment,
Il bois toujours ce bon enfant

to be sure he does, whenever an opportunity offers. What's that jingling? Dice, and a wine glass for a box-Eh! Ah! What do I hear?-Launcelot's voice-my brother among the rogues!"

I had also caught the accents, and was not slow to recognise themthey were but too familiar. The music was presently at an end, and so indeed, apparently, was all the harmony. The party had now evidently engaged in play, for here the holder of bad cards smote the

table with them in despair, and there dice were dashed down wildly, amid shouts of triumph and execration.

"Seven's the main-nicked it," roared Ridsdale, and we heard the spoil clutched in his grasp. "He shall be cheat," vociferated

one-" Milles tonerres de lambin" screamed another "Les des sont chargé." "The capitane has got a pain in his temper," remarked the winner. "Let him grin and bear it," said a looker on. "Sacré cochon "—" voleur"-" more grief to the crapauds"-" pockets to let;" and then, with a horrible din of laughter and lamentation, mirth and malediction, the gamblers urged their occupation fast and furious.

It was an easy thing to interpret the looks with which Panton Ridsdale listened to this knave's conclave.

"Not now," I said, in reply to that which was passing in his thought, "not to-night"-it would be worse than folly now to attempt to reason with him. Come from this place, however-the night is mild and the moon at full."

I took his arm, and we passed out to a sort of esplanade lying between our inn and the sea, which, in time of war, did duty for a battery. The round moon made bright the still waters of the Solent, beyond which spread far and wide the dark outline of the New Forest. The young man walked silently for a space, and then pausing, and liberating his arm, said—

"My cousin, I am not liberal of speech, nor of effort, but do not for that reason believe me one who may not be moved. Let me leave you now-I am not master of my emotion, but rely on my prudence -I will take no step in this affair without your advice and sanction; but my heart bleeds, and I would be alone."

The scene and season harmonized well with the tone of my feelings. Silence and solitude are ever welcome to a mind diseased, and mine was sick and sorry enough. I had loitered there some two or three hours, when a man, in a seaman's rough jacket, accosted me, and asked whether Master Ridsdale would come out again.

"How do you know that he has been here at all," I inquired, startled by a question that assured me we had been subjected to a long surveillance. "And what do you want him for?"

"He is your friend."

"He is; and what of that?'

"You will give him this letter, at once-my errand was to deliver it before midnight, and it wants but few minutes to it now: I bave reasons for not showing myself at that house; therefore I waited till the last minute for the chance of his rejoining you. Do not delay-it concerns him much."

The man disappeared as he put the letter into my hands. I was standing, at the moment, under a sort of beacon which marked the entrance to the harbour. The light fell upon the superscription, and I read the words, "Launcelot Ridsdale," in the handwriting of Madame de Beauplans! While pondering on the course I should pursue, two persons approached, crossing a small grass plat which led to the esplanade. With the view to avoid an encounter, I stood

behind one of the bastions while they passed, and then, opening a door, took a passage which appeared to lead to the inn.

It was quite dark, and much longer than seemed necessary for the space that separated the battery from the rear of the house. Having reached the end, to my surprise, I found an old iron wicket, and beyond it some dilapidated steps descending to a rude pier on which the sea was breaking, for the wind had freshened as the night waned. Either this gate was not designed to open, or I could not discover how it was to be effected, for, after some minutes lost in the effort, I gave it up, and was about to retrace my way when the sound of footsteps on the shingle caused me to pause. At that instant the two figures I had seen in the little lawn of the hotel reached the flight of steps which, as I have said, led to the causeway communicating with the sea.

"Here is shelter under the lee of this old wall," said the foremost of the pair, throwing himself against it, and pulling a meerschaum from beneath his boat cloak, "and a whiff of sound tobacco is a good friend in a lonely hour. But we shall not have long to wait; it ought to be the time now. Hark! there goes eight bells"-and, as he spoke, the clear strokes that announced midnight rang from the deck of a cutter anchored in the tide-way, and about two cables' length from the shore. "They'll be here presently now."

"I don't know how that may be," replied the other, whom I at once knew to be Launcelot Ridsdale. "I don't know how that may be— I have had no answer to my letter, and they may not come at all."

"But the money will," observed the smoker, "and that's all we want-the broad pieces are certain, for I've Jacob Lyall's word for it, and he is upon honour, always, with his friends-what his foes may say is nothing to us. Ho! ho! the pieces are sure."

"Curses on the dross," cried Ridsdale, " my curses on it! May it reap as it sows!—and what but a curse has it ever brought to me? It was the golden image of my idolatry-for which I stained hand and heart, body and spirit; and behold its disciple-look on its worshipper, a broken man, without hearth or heritage, kindred or country, stealing forth to exile, with the worm that never dies in his soul."

"Never spin that yarn," cried the sailor, impatiently, "but look at the barkey, an't she a beauty ?"

"Stand by your main halyards, my sons-hurrah with it, throat and pique-there's canvas to sit, trim as a lady's tinker. Now, up with the tack: so-belay that, and she rides like a duck. Pipe gig away: softly men, softly-easy with your stroke-long, strong, and together: lift her through it-out of the wash of the tide: there she is, snug. I say, messmate, what's that looming to win'nard?"

The night was no longer clear or calm, for with the gale already blowing stifly from S.E. drifted heavy clouds, which from time to time wholly obscured the moonlight. One of the gleams that at intervals broke through the fast gathering rack fell upon a figure gliding by the margin of the waters, where they broke angrily on the beach. As it drew nearer, it seemed to approach more irresolutely; but at length it stood close to the spot occupied by the speakers, the foot of the steps leading from the wicket.