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it ' \ r ' * ' J v "A i i ... * ? ?-- - 1 1 1 | n?" lewis h. geist. proprietor ! An Independent Journal: For the Promotion of the Political, Social, Agricultural and Commercial Interests of the South, %i pee assum in advasce. VOL.6. Y ORKYILLE, S. C., THUE8DAY, -TTTLY 26, I860. DSTO. 30. % Cjrrillhtg Bomaitct WRITTEN EXPRESSLY FOR TH OR, KING'S m BY MRS, MARY CHAPTER XVI. What valor when a cur doth grin, For one to thrust his hand between his teeth. re When he might spurn him with his foot away ? Shakspear's Henry VI. jn ' Your perspective is not good there, Miss Ellen; give a little more distance to that ^ landscape?tinge these clouds with a greyer hue and soften these vivid colors.' 'No, no!' she cried, 'you would make ^ mv Tndian snmmer sunset, a hazv Enerlish ? J 1" " " ' # > c> JQ day. I will not spoil my brilliant tints.' 'Your sky is too glowing to be natural, Ellen,' 3aid Mr. Willoughby, who generally managed to agree with Graham. She ^ painted on in silence; Graham, absorbed in the art of which he was complete master, did not notice her again for some time, but at length, looking up, said : q 'Your colors are not yet softened enough , . . to ?those crimson tints are gorgeous, but not natural.' JJj 'I have not softed them at all,' said Ellen, . carelessly. Graham bent over her in wounded surprise. 'Ellen/he whispered, 'why is it you persist in acting so contrary towards me ?j Am I not only to be denied the love I would J ^ give my being for, Y ut the simplest courtesy j of social life.' J ? She colored, ashamed of her petulance, r 'Would to heaven I could be more paI 111 tient, Ellen, but il denying your love, spare i me your contemp* / and turning from her! he left the room. Mr. Willoughby had been no uninterest- j ed witness of this little sceue. Waiting till j the footsteps of the yocng man died in the \" rtiifannn VIA nnnrnnoVtfld her. 'Ellen,' said he,'haveyou hurt Graham's j8.1 feelings?' ' tl: 'For heavens sake, uncle, don't question . me of Graham's feelings. I cannot be re ^ sponsible for the caprices of his temper.' ^ 'It is time, Ellen, we understood each , other upon this subject. I havo allowed you a reasonable time for consideration. Are you prepared now to answer me ?' 'What subject do you allude to, sir? I ^ am not aware I deferred decision upon any.' 'This is idle,' said Mr Willoughby, stern- J?' ly. 'You are perfectly aware I allude to Graham.' tc 'The allusion is as unpleasant now as itj ever has been, and as it ever w:ll be,' she! replied, with a determined air. I 'And you reject him unconditionally.' ! ^ t *.!_ j- ,, , tn ' I him nnAAnrihAnnllr - ? V. J dj 'Will you be frank enough to tell me why,' said Mr. Willoughby, in unnatural calmness. ! si I 'It might be sufficient reason to say I do j ^ not love him. If Lieutenant Graham is a| geDtleman, he will accept that.' 'I profess to be concerned in this matter,'! replied Mr. Willoughby, 'and the reason is not satisfactory. 'I can give no other,' replied Ellen, deep ly flushing. _ . . 'Then I will give it for you,' said he, in bitter sarcasm. 'It is because you love one who never wastes a thought on a inaideu, m T who thus dishonors every principle of mod- 1 esty in her sex ; because you love one who! himself invites you to fix your affections elsewhere; who, it may be, makes your . love a jest and a song.' 'It is false,' cried Ellen, who had buried wr' her burning face in her hands, but who now started up in a passion of indignation. 'It!ca is false! Perisb the tongue that could ite 1 f bring you such a slander.' lu 'Your anathema must fall on his own ! I 1:1 head then. Witness the letter written to 1111 Graham! Did not every line breathe a;01 hope you would soon be another's?' ^ 'His love has been wounded ; I cannot i P1 tell how,' faltered Ellen; 'and he wrote under some strange misunderstanding.' I m 'Foolish girl ! your trembling words belie j D< your trust. lie wearies of a passion hc\"fl cannot return.' j fir 'Spare me, spare me,' cried the wretched I P:| girl. 'Ellen, God knows I would not willingly *t wound you ; but why waste the best treas- w; ure of your heart on one so unworthy?' cc Unworthy !' cried Ellen, roused by the ba charge. 'My uncle was not wont to consid-j er the child of his deceased friend in such j M a light?was not wont to hear aught against: te the generous youth who so esteemed him? j fit against the brave patriot whose purity none j fo has yet dared to doubt. Why a stranger,; and that stranger an enemy, should so steal ui the affections of one hitherto so fond, I can ) th > ..nJaicMnrl hut nnp tllir f 1 knOW. I h( LiUL UtJUCl^UUiu , K, ~ ^ no compulsion shall ever make me give my le hand where my heart cauoot accompany it.' c; 'And this is your resolve V said Mr. Wil in loughby, struggling for a calmness he could hi scarcely obtain. ai 'Firm and unalterable!' replied Ellen, j in meeting his gaze in unflinching determiua j w tion. s< 'Then hear me,' said he, in low wrathful j fa tones, 'If ever words of love pass between I w you and Davie, you leave my roof, never Jh to see my face again. Choose between the | two?with the one you leave my house, and o! :ny curse follows you : with the other, I open m my heart to you, my Ellen, and b.ess you st while I live ' fr 'For Heaven's sake, uncle, what is this? it IIow has Harry offended you? Whattrait ni or has poisoned your ear against him ?' M ?I have nothing against him; hut this is my will.' in Oh! uncle, what strange madness is this?' said Ellen, in trembling terror for :I her uncle's reason. 'That a stranger should n so infatuate you.' jd flf f|)e IkboMoit. iwn u ^ I and E YORKVILLE ENQUIRER. j.. )UNTAIN. jS ! And A. EWART. hist .1 'I speak the words of truth and soberness, (cane id so help me God, I will abide by them,' 0ny; plied Mr. Willoughby. what 'Then God help me,' said Ellen, bursting life? to tears. ?I 'Ellen, is it much I ask you V said Mr. my * " * t . 11 * . i 1 .1 I 'llloughby, more mncny. A youtn, nana- j apai ime, generous and devoted, with every ed t aality to make a woman happy, asks you > his i i be his wife. What miserable infatuation j pair, irbids it ?* were She wept sadly. 'But I plead sternly ; er. jrhaps more tender lips can plead to more Iqual arpose. Remember your promise not to curs stray your love to another.' And ere she: you derstood why, he had left her. ; fool 'Ellen,?and in tears?' said Graham, doul lave ray foolish words wounded you ??! if od knows, dearest, I would give my life:Will i spare you a single one. Look up, look : help p, Ellen, and tell me I'm forgiven,' said j to a 2, in glad surprise, at this unwonted yield-1 ij | pric< She did look up, but with a look of des-jtreai lir which startled him. me, 'What is the matter, Ellen? I cannot j to gi aderstand this. Your uncle bade me meet: frajt >u here, to plead, as only lover can plead,; in<5i: ir love and happiness. Say, my Ellen, that1 if )U listen to me.' by, i 'I can listen,'said she mournfully, 'butjtien! r tipnrf trirpa nn rpsnnnsp ' I (T J & ~w ? I j 'What! said he, 'have I again been too;driv< recipitate ?' thur 'We must understand each other,' she: its g plied. 'You ask love and happiness. I to fa iijht give eon tent; but never happiness.' ing' 'You wrong yourself; you wrong me by j curs ich a thought?you who are so fitted for the i omestic felicity. You, who possess an en-1 mad msiastic tenderness and an earnest devo ; iu tl on. And I?my affections and opinions <1 lall be moulded in yours; and if ardent, j For jvoted love can make you happy, you will and ? blest indeed. Elle 'Is it not possible that you do not com- njon ehend me? I cannot love you as you ight to be loved I esteem you more ham, an any man I have ever seen, but I can 'G sver regard you otherwise than as a valued Hea' iend.' Ellei 'May I not hope?'said he, much agita- lips d, 'that time?my future conduct, your 'I tele's influence ?.' Gral 'Forgive me, Graham ; I do not willing- all t distress you, but better the disappoint- 'Y ent now, than that you should hereafter I do it scover that my silence had deceived you.' 'IS 'And you would tell me you cannot love 'My e ?' replied ht, passionately. Snewasjmusl lent, unwilling to pain, by repetition, thejtion :art she had already wounded so deeply. ?th 'Ellen, tell rue ; have you preference for i.soul iother?' ias w The crimson tide bathed neck and brow, pne t 'Our birth is equal, our fortunes favor- bein ile, our tastes similar ; tell me, Ellen, 'I hat is between me and happiness?' com] She clasped her hand and said : [ 'Q 'You have every right to exact such a this ark of my esteem and confidence. Would I 'G could meet you in the same generous spir-! to ei ! but alas ; my lips are sealed.' j 'E 'Ah,' cried Graham, misunderstanding j the t :r allusion. 'It is because I stand qgainst j ner. iu as an) enemy, that you think me un- bless 3rthy of your encouragement and favor, j 'A ext, to my honor, Ellen, you are dear. Its; horn 11 is sacred even were it a summons to the a nts. Would you have me sacrifice allied m r Inrrt oi.rl tViinlr it Txrnll loefV' ! J V? j 'God forbid,' said she, 'much as I would the s ie to see every man of honor enlisted in you 1 ir cause, I would not wish to influence wiH : iu. Nay, for such weakness, I would des- for n se you.' niadi 'My noble Ellen, I knew it,'said he,!^our* uch relieved. 'Then, what is it Ellen?! 0 I not plead warmly enough ?' and flying! f the reserve he had evidently been cha- I ^ 1 ig against, with all the warmth of his ow issionate nature, he poured out his love.! Startled at his fiery vehemence, she W1 rove to cheek him, but in vain. Thejr?co arm blood of his Italian nature was rous-i'1 w 1 and swept like a torrent over the cold ' 4S irriers of an English training. in 'Ellen,' said he, 'you must be mine.? jt'or v y love will not brook a refusal. Do not ?a" 1! me you cannot love me. My soul must i niadi id in you its supply; or, failing of its! Hut untain, it will burst its wretched tone jastr: ent in despair. Look at me, Ellen ;jl gh vc me your hand and couut if you can, 1*1 he ie beatings of my pulse, and your woman -ICSS *art will not so condetn me. Ellen, El 'can n,' said he, in tones of passion's tenderest {'1C 1 tdeucu ; and unable longer to restrain the j ujort apetuosity of his fervid nature, he threw ?C is arm around her, and pressing her for Corr i instant wildly to his breast, whispered, j said I IHJ.MU Jia'lilllff, *1U UUi'J IIIU9, | ?\ //c?the intoxication maddens me.' He >f latched a burning ki-s from her flushed ] ice, and ere she could utter the indignant <> ords.that rose to her tongue, he had left wait er. 1 ?f Unable longer to control the emotions whe f his nature, and fearing her coldness,as h light tempt him to be guilty of some'ther range, wild impulse that would forever strai ighten her colder spirit, he sought refuge I cont i solitude. While struggling for a calm-j ?(. ess that was almost unattainable, he ting tary tr Willoughby. , supe 'How have you succeeded V said he, anx-lsaid usly. quir 'I do not know,' replied he impetuously.; hau< fear my violence has startled her calm 'I ature to an indignation she will never sub-1 liget jmali Vhat do you mean, Graham ?' said Mr. [ ?' loughby, frightened at the flushed face!pur excited manner of his young friend. I mean this,' said he: 'Better have my ing ns blown out and he rid of this misery he i ace, than suffer this torture longer.' <' rood heavens, Graham, don't speak so the ly,' said Mr. Willoughby, shuddering. S ipeak mildly!?you should see my heart, sav< )u should feel these bursting temples. <' y was T ever cursed with this fervid witl ire, if it entails such suffering as this?' gue I he struck his clenched hand against ver; row. ' for God's sake, becalm, Graham; I Gra iot bear, indeed T cannot bear this ag- pat< ' and the old man burstinto tears. 'Oh! on t fate is this that, follows my wretched past ' dou lad you told me Ellen could never be ?a wife. T would have guarded mvself T " ? ~ ? - - rr *> nst this sorrow,' said Graham, mov- moi >y the tokens of such sympathy, from hav vild passion, to a more wretched des- l. 'But you, encouraged me. You hell ! never happy but when we were togeth- sucl You learnt me to see in her every repl ity to make life happy, and you still I e me by encouraging me to grasp what know can never be mine. Fool, fool, ject that I was, to be so deceived, and sam )ly double fool yet to trust in it.' ?< Told, Graham, ere you kill me,' said Mr. sect loughby, gasping for breath. 'God had me; this is terrible,' and he staggered by, seat. crel Lnd if it is terrible to you, who in ca- ? 2 of friendship would give this peerless ishi ;ure to my keeping, think what it is to wor who, having it held out to me pant'mg;for rasp it, should, in the very moment of pily ion, have it snatched from me by an her fference that chills and fires ray soul ?' l. rraham, be patient,' said Mr. Willough- obli trembling like an aspen leaf. 'Be pa- thei ;, and'? cou 'atient, patient; by Heavens, sir, you ing e me mad. Bid an avalanche stop its 'Mi idering career; bid the torrent rest on oth< iddy height, nor suffer one mad wave me11. Then stop, if you can, these buru- ful pulses?still this bounding heart. No, root ed in the day of ray birth ; cursed in I mother that bore me, giving me, in these this passions, a heritage of woe?cursed his ie father that begat me.' ed 1 Iold, rash boy, what would you say! ly. God's sake, hold, one moment be calm, j I swear by the Heaven's above us, i'Sis n will be to you all you wish; nay her *, her own lips shall declare it.' ' rou would again deceive me,' said Gra- ed. , incredulously. '] rive me your hand, boy. Now, before pen I swear, ere another month roll by, '< a shall be your wife; or may my lying [ too be silent in the grave.' I <1 ou will oot force her to this?' said Mot tarn, his generous love still checking '< laser passions. up; ^rill it not suffice to tell you she will him ;f said 31r. Willoughby frowning. '. Jo,' replied the impetuous young man. sup] heart must not be her tomb?my love wall ; not be a sepulchcr to bury every emo- 1 of her nature; it is her love I want Moi le soft and pure tenderness of her anoi that will radiate ny life with such joy '1 'eaker mortals dream not of. Give Mr. his, and 1 will bless you while life and g last. nun t shall be so,' said Mr. Willoughby, and Dressing his lips firmly. thrc (uickly then, I would not go through agony again for myriads of worlds.' ' live uie one kind w ird then, Graham, dre< ncourage me for this duty.' terr >o you need it?' said he, in surprise at gan cnderness of Mr. Willoughby's man- him 'Then God bless you, as you have ] ed me.' stru .h,' said Mr. Willoughby, in tremulous evic jr. 'Would you kill me ? Boy, I ask- his blessing. Good God, you have curs ie.' *] ot so, sir,' said Graham, surprised at Gra uffering before him. ?I did but thank aos' for what you have done for me ; but I ( add yet more?I pray your forgiveness lis a ill the wild words I have uttered in my aboi less, and may God spare me to return the fold all the mercy I have received; tect you.' j '1 od help me; I am doomed,' muttered thos vretched man, recoiling as if from a a loi ; and whose incipient madness seemed I st on the verjre of maniacy. 'But this min atone,' he said, 'and before heaven I: repi d the vow. God bless you, Graham, j '1 dll yet be well.' j dice trange,' said Graham. lookingafter him j w?r trprise. 'Ellen told me of a mortal ter sal^ idiich sometimes overcame him. What these promises were but the lurings of a ^ man. He talks sanely enough, though.!"0^ does not his wonderful interest in me,! ' aturer, an enemy, aruue his imbecility ? j ^ " ould have thought of that before ; but j G is mad, there's a method in his mad- higl eoual to Hamlet himself. Ah! if he I wan but make his words true, it will be: tort most blissful madness that ever befell j too al.' I be c lap!. Ilardv, bearer of dispatches from | ^osi iwallis, waits you in the parlor, sir,'lranI Jerry, interrupting his reverie. jdisr Vho ?' said Graham, in surprise. ' !apt. Flardy, sir, from Lord Cornwallis.' j 'onl }id him wait,' said Graham, impatieutly. j ^r' Jo use tell him dat, sir; he gwineto, c' till he got ready to go.' ves' 'ornwallis might have sent a gentleman, suc' n he was sending,' muttered Graham, "on e slowly advanced to the house. He e found Mr. Willoughby exercising a ?< ued kind of courtesy, which Ellen's' lou< erupt did not allow her to second. ja tn lapt. Hardy,' said Graham, with rnili- mee stiffness, exacting the salute due to a j ' rior officer. 'You bear dispatches?' Hie he, not noticing Hardy's officious in- j The ies as to his convalesence, save by a pell jhty bow. [ whr do, sir; they give you the joyful intel- EI1< ice of your exchange,' said he with a 41 gnant smile. spei They will, no doubt, explain their own I port,' said Graham, haughtily. 1 lardy bit his lip in chagrin, and turn- < to Ellen with what suavity of manner I might command, snid : i rt has been sometime since we have had j pleasure of meeting.' ihe did not think it necessary to reply, < ; by the slightest inclination. [ fear you will be disposed to quarrel 1 h me, Miss Ellen, for robbing you of a st, whom I have no doubt, has proved y entertaining.' r can relieve you on that score,' said i ham. who had rapidly scanned his dis < ;hes. *Aliis Campbell' (laying a stress the name) 'does not condescend to such I L.imes as quarrelling; or, if she did, < btlessshe would seek a worthier subject s nd excuse me?a nobler adversary.' Ullen's quick glance thanked him far < e gratefully than words could possibly < e done. i Nevertheless, I know that Miss Campcan take a much more active part in I h a matter, than you suppose possible,' i lied Hardy, maliciously. i Dllen looked up imploringly. i [ must take it there was a worthier subas the adversary in the case was the < e,' he continued, with a coarse laugh. < Capt. Hardy, I beg you will not refer to ies, which, for the sake of all parties, i better be forgotten,'said Mr. Willough* LI! / __ 11 J _ _1 !.L.J iq cremDiiiig lor rjiieu s onensueu seCertuinly,' he replied, in affected astonneut. 'I had no idea Miss Campbell ild be so affected by an incident, that her sake, I am thankful, ended so hapAnd he bent a curious gaze upon blushing face. [ have no doubt Miss Campbell will be ged to us all, if we could find other mes for discourse, said Graham, who , Id not understand the allusions, but seethey were painful to Ellen, continued : ss Ellen, there are some prints in the i jr room for your inspection. Allow ?' and extending his hand with gracecourtesy, he conducted her to the next i n. i low her heart gleamed toward him for j tender watchfulness! Looking up in face with glistening eyes, she whisperBrother.' He shook his head mournful- i It will not satisfy. I can never call you iter,' again:,' and pressing his lips to hand, he returned to Hardy. Where is Cornwallis, now, sir?' he ask- j Moving up to King's Mountain.' A.h ! why is that ?' Groing to pen Morgan, who has grown i audacious of late,' said Hardy. But how does he expect to do that?? rgan is 07er here to the west.' 1 3h, he has sent Tarleton to drive him and you know it does not take long for to execute business.' rhey want to prevent his escaping, I pose. As he flies from Tarleton, Cornlis will be down on him.' ;Exactly so, and we will make King's jntain the scene of another drama, with ther finale,' laughed Hardy. i May not Morgan stand a fight?' said Wil lough by. i Scarcely, with Tarleton's superiority of jbers, in the proportiou of five to four, 1 particularly of his cavalry, standing ;e to one,' said Hardy. s What force has Tarleton V said Graham. 1 FtopIpp Vmnnrprt rpcMilnrs nnrl fivp hiin A .FW..W ..WUV..VW Wh ' 1 of them are his legion that carries 1 or and conquest to every quarter. Mor- l will have to use light heels to escape 1 ) Did Cornwallis give you any private in- i ctions for me ?' said Graham, who had lently been very uneasy since reading i dispatches. I NTone,'said Hardy. [s the country pretty quiet now ?' said ! ham, seeming much relieved by the | ( ;ver. ^uiet for us,'replied Hardy. 'Cornwalnd Tarelton make it no risk for us to ride I at. I could not have ventured so near \ rebel camp alone, were they not proing me. j i [t is as well to respect the prejudices ofj< >e whose guests we are,' said Graham in : I [v tone. lardy elevated his brows, his coarse , d scarcely comprehending the delicate j, nnf . . I' [ was not aware of offending any preju- j ] is,' said he, 'and if n^rel is too rough u j j d, why I'll call them cursed traitors,' J, he, with a fierce oath. j, draham colored, and rising said : I [ will at once reply to tny Lord, and not iin you, sir ' , i'ou may write if you please, Colonel. ( not leave before morning.' iraham glanced at Mr. Willoughby, his f h-toned breeding not comprehending the! ( it of delicacy that should so boldly ex- t hospitality. But Mr. willoughby was * well practiced in the art of the times to t ither than the conciliating and courteous I. Calling Jerry to attend the uucere- < lious guest to a chamber, he for a while, < nissed the intruder. i I do not wonder,' said Graham, unable :er to restrain his impatience,' that the tish officer's character has fallen into 1 h odium, when such men as Hardy are in:ed with the dignity. How do you suffer , h impertinences ? And to have your \ se made a common hostelry; it is moririg in the extreme.' ( Oh! we are used to it,' said Mr. "VVil- ] rhby; 'we have ceased to look upon it as uisance; it is now a necessity that we ;t patiently, because unavoidable.' i What a miserable policy,' cried Graham f iw infatuated our commanders are! ( i more I see of it, the more I am corned to wonder at the blindness. But < it was the meaning of those allusions to i 5n?' ] Oh !' said Mr. Willoughby, striving to ik unconcernedly. 'It was a very na- I ?? tural interposition of Ellen's. Davie, wbo svas here on some business matters, was jaughtby a party of Hardy's troopers and they were on the point of executing summary judgement on him, when I, and then Ellen, interposed for his life.' Good God, Mr. Willoughby, you don't tell me they would have murdered him ?' ?I believe they would,' replied Mr. Willoughby. 'How can you speak so calmly of it? And they let him off on your interposition V 'Indeed, no; they would have strunghim up, had not his own troop came to the res^ sue.' _ 'Hung him! horrible; and Hardy was the instigator of this ! He shall be report id. By heavens, such barbarous crueltj shall not go unpunished.' Alas! he read Cornwallis' order to th< jffect that every rebel should be xmmcdi itcly hanged. The order was peremptory ind admitted of no evasion.' ?You cannot believe, Mr. Willoughby that such rigor as this was intended. Whi such measures would kill the purest caust in the world. No wonder our conquering arms give us but barren ground.' 'I do not believe such rigor was intend ed, but I believe it would have been wink ed at, replied Mr. Willoughby. 'Strange, I never heard of this before, said Graham. 'Why was it keptfrom me ? 'My dear Graham, it is useless to wounc your ears with these terrible tales,' repliet Mr. Willoughby, in some confusion. 'Bet ter let them be forgotten.' 'I cannot understand why Hardy shoult be so bitter against Davie; he's a blood thirsty villain, its true, but I never knev him to be engaged in such a wanton mur der as this would have been.' 'Oh, that is easily explained,' replied Mr Willoughby. anxious to be rid of the sub ject. 'He has been aspiring Ellen'i hand for some time, and he fancied if Da vie were out ot tne way, he would static some cbaDce.' 'The brutal idiot, to dare raise his eye: to her, and to imagine he could gain her b; such means. But it shows the coarsenes of his nature. I could not endure him be fore, but this makes me despise him to pos itivc loathing.' 'I do trust, Graham, you will not lethin see it; he is a bad and evil disposed man and would not hesitate to injure you if i lay in his power. 1 pray you be careful. 'The viper! I would crush him as would any other reptile,' replied Graham grinding his heel as if he were already un der its power. ?Yes; but it is instinctive to shun th loathsome reptile that bears its poison in it sting; I would not court a danger tha might be deadly. 'And I shun only those that lack th charm,' said the high-spirited youth. CHAPTER XVII. "I cannot love, to counterfeit is base, And cruel too? 'Twos his own voice?she could not err? Throughout the breathing world's extent. There was but one such voice for her, So kind, so soft, so eloquent." 'Miss Campbell, will you allow me ti 3peak a few words with you?' said Hardy who had tried in vain to obtain a few mo ments conversation with Ellen. 'Speak quickly, then,' replied she, wit! her hand upon the lock of the door. ?I would prefer a more private place, laid he, glancing at Graham and Mr. Wil lough by. 'Nothing Capt. Hardy could possibly have to say, would interest me sufficient^ to grant a private audience,' she replied looking at him with her calm, clear eye. 'I trusted I had been forgiven ere this, 3aid he, 'for that which you must have fell was but a discharge of my duty. But wo men can more easily forgive a wrong tc themselves than to their lovers.' He saw he had nothing to expect frotr her, and his sagacity had already discover 2d from Graham's watchful tenderness, thai he could at least wound one of the party Mr. Willoughby whispered to Grahatr to follow into the next room, but Ellen's reply checked him. <If this interview was asked but toinsuli me, it is as well that it should be an once ilostd. I beg of you, uncle?Col. Graham that you will not leave the room.' <1 am unfortunate,' said he, maliciously 'and must again ask forgiveness. I thoughi nothing but a love dearer than life woulc make a woman so far forget herself, as, or her knees, to petition the life of a prisoner: nut T see I was wrong; and may I presume :o congratulate our arms on the accession o; i new royalist,' and he glanced significant y at Graham Ellen's face was 0De burning blush. She vould have answered, but again Grahau anie to her aid. 'Cnpt. Hardy, I command you, as ynui mperior officer, at once to return with the jispatches you bear. I know something ul ;he circumstance to which you allude, aoc shall make it my business to enquire par icularly into it on my return to camp.? iTuu will leave at once, sir. and you wil isk my lord for me, that when he sends hi? iispatches again, it may be by the hands o: i gentleman, and a man of honor.' 'You shall answer for this,' said Hardy with one of his fierce oaths, clapping hi> aand to his side. 'Moderate your own tone, if you please, replied Graham, cooly; 'recollect you art in the presence of a lady. 'Your impudence shall not go unpunish ed, sir; I will see you about this,' be re plied, with another coarse expletive. 'Any satisfaction I can give you, Capt Hardy, I will be too happy to allow, sir,1 laid Graham, in the same calm tone. 'Bui spare your oaths. They are unfit for a k iy's ears.' 'Curse your impudence,' muttered Har Jy, again, 'you shall repent this;' and still muttering anathemas low and deep, he de parted. 'You should not have vexed that man, Graham/ said Mr. Willoughby,in affright i ed terror. 'He may have power you know Oh i nothing of, to injure you.' can 'I do Dot fear him,' said Graham, smiling. *' 'Hut I must beg your pardon, Miss Ellen, wre for the scene, but it was the only way I grei could check his impertinence.' giv< 'I thank you very much,' she said, fal- tern teringly. Thi 'Tell me I'm forgiven for this morning,' cler be said, in a low voice. ed i 1 'I would be indeed ungrateful to with- I 1 hold forgiveness,' she replied, the rich color to i again mantling her sunny cheek. wai He watched her for a moment in silence, ' then with a deep sigh, turned away. Ell i 'Come here, Ellen,' said Mr. Willough- wbi by. 'I am glad that detestable Hardy is yoc V T\ t j k/l a r-m* 4a ham ann 1a**a 9' r at1 f guuc. ayiu uc u^iiaic juu, my iuvc ; juu 'A little nervous perhaps,' replied she, nes ? surprised at the unwonted tone of kind- ' ncss ; for of late Mr. Willoughby had been sen , both fretful and stern. 'How nobly Gra- woi ham defended you, and with what cool enc , courage he rebuked that ruffian!' Ellen mi j languidly assented. 'You will see nothing mi j good in Graham, Ellen.' I 'Nay, uncle, you wrong me; I lee in him di< everything that is good and noble and true.' 'My dear Ellen, and you will yet make tru your old uncle happy, by giving him this dearest wish of his heart !' ' 'Do not persecute me, uncle. I am weary his ' of this trial,' she replied; and, indeed, her nes 1 pale cheeks gave evidence of it. cor 1 'This once listen to me, Ellen. I love act - you, love you dearly, God knows how much, bid From your infancy until now, you have yot 1 been the loving child, the dear companion did - of my lonely life. I have brought you up rou j in the enjoyment of every comfort and lux- led 111 a.i tl - ury. ah mat l nave is yours, xou are "jc dear to me, my child, as the apple of my for . eye. For this love, for this care, I have never asked anything of you till now, El- ruj b len ; and now I ask, by your gratitude for my all that care, by the memory of all that love, ory 1 as you would save my gray hairs from sor- tioi row and your own soul from my curse, to oul b grant me this one blessing. And, oh ! El- hoi p leu, what is it I ask ? A union with one, Hv s that to every gift of nature, adds an intel- ''A - lect of no inferior order, a heart rich in bui - every fine emotion. Your studies will be Do his studies, your wishes, your feelings, your hoi 3 hopes, your fears will all mingle with his. He rail , will enhance your pleasures, share your sort rows and cheer your melancholy. Oh ! qu< ' Ellen, as you value my happiness, nay, as ' I you value my life, turn not a deaf ear to ho' mT nrnrpr 1\Tv rhild mv darlincr sat mil I dii , ...J ..J , ...J e, ?J J ? will bless me !' of He took her in his arms, he kissed her oh e white brow, while his tears fell like rain s upon her cheek. He called her bj every str t endearing name and begged her for the th( love of God, to grant his prayer. She e shuddered io the embrace, she shrank from poi the caress, and withdrawing herself from yoi his arms, with her eye undimmed by a sin- mg g'e tear, but her cheek blanched to the hue t0 of marble, she answered him : roc 'Tell me, uncle, how it is this stranger Pai has stolen into your heart, robbed your El- too len of the indulgent love that was never she till now denied her, and would force her to a 8 3 a union that would forever perjure her soul the , and dishonor every principle of her nature, she - Oh ! uncle, what madness is this! have you Bu no mercy ?' and she clasped her hands, the he ) image of tearless despair. aro 'Call it madness if you will, Ellen,' he ' replied, turningaway from that strong look, coc . ?'tis a madness that will bless you while I tin; live, or in cursing, will bringdown my gray cha i hairs in sorrow to the grave.' cou j She shuddered, and with a tightening the , clasp of the clenched hands, continued, ly i 'I have no love to give; I would but de- oua ' fraud his affection, or, oh, God ! worse still, tba t dishonor it!' and the burning face was hid spr . in her hands. to 1 ) ?EUen,' said Mr. Wjl'oughby, more stern- her ly, <is it possible you cling to that dream ? his i Oh ! Ellen, Ellen, I thought more of your Foi . pride, your principle.' blu t <1 have no pride now,'she replied, stung aDC to calmness again by the latent sarcasm in the 1 the tone. 'But I will make one more up- ? 3 peal. I will tear the veil from my heart her and if there is shame in thus exposing what ced t my lips have never murmured, even to my- lips J self, let the cruelty that forces me to it ? i bear the disgrace. I love another, I love ros. Henry Davie.' Her voice trembled and ulo , her color faded and flushed like rosy waves ? t as she proceeded. 'Before I knew what he I love was, I loved the fearless boy that so flut i controlled me with his generous spirit As tha ; I grew older, his coming was watched with hen ; delight, and unconsciously my cheek would ? f flush aod my eye kindle as he was praised, whi . Then name a time of tremulous iov. whenlsilp love first woke its echoes in my heart, and * > every sense was pervaded with fond emo- bin i tion. Hush, do not blame me, Henry < loved me; yes, he loved me,' said she, her lov< r eyes swimming, a smile novering on her < > lip, as the happy memory flooded ner soul, her f -I knew it by a pressure of the hand, I i I read it in many a stolen glance. I heard it S . in the lingering tones of parting, and in the stol - tremulous joy of greeting. Every cadence er. I of his voice told me the tale, every act pas < breathed it, and, ah ! every pulse of my fell f being responded. Then came a time of he doubt, when the lover was lost in the pat- fell "? ? J -1 _ 1. not, ana nonor ana giory were my rivals per ? Then I learnt that what to me was life and bre being, was to him secondary to a higher, ? p holier, purer feeling, and I waited in pa- you , tience, and loved him dearer for the manly and virtue. At length, from his own lips, I you learnt he loved me.' you Mr. Willoughby started. ( 'True, we have exchanged no vows, sou . but failing to be his wife, every prin- his ' ciple, every emotion of my heart, bids me to 1 t be the bride of Heaven. And now will ed 1 you bid me vow to another the love that < has so passed from my keeping; would yon yea bid me stand at God's altar and vow for you 1 weal or woe, so help me God, with my to 1 - heart crying out at the peijury ? Will you < doom me to a sin, that will not only crush I m , out my hope of happiness here, but will ? - shut oat every hope of heaven, hereafter ? to L ! uncle, spare me; do doc make me 3e the day of my birth.' ii Ellen, Ellen, my child, do not look so e tcbed. Oh God, my punishment is n iter than I can bear. Tell me you for; me, Ellen. Alas, alas, the curse at- a 3s all who are connected with me.? a s agony will kill me,' and he struck his p iched hand against his brow, as he groan- ? in bitter sorrow. Ullen did not weep ; she seemed turned t stone, her look followed him, as she ted for his answer. 1 You have said you could give content, en ; he will not ask for more. I know ( en the irrevocable words are once spoken, i will never be deficient in the duties j i have vowed, and after awhile, happi- I s will come,' be paid, falteringly. Do not deceive yourself, uncle; his keen 1 sibility and enthusiastic tenderness, I aid soon feel the coolness and indiffer- i :e of a love that was all duty, and his i sery would equal if it did not exceed ie.' i And if it should be proved that Davie not love you?' he said. She smiled?such a smile of scorn, of st! I will doubt myself first.' Ellen,' said Mr. Willoughby, knitting brows as if nerving himself for a sternis he did not feel, ?I did not expect to iquer you ; my knowledge of your cbarer, the history of your whole life, for!s that; I did not expect to persuade you. ir infatuation equally forbids it; but I I expect you to grant me this,?your genis nature led me to hope it, your affection me to trust it. You have disappointed , how bitterly Heaven knows, and all the selfish love that clings to another.' 'Selfish, do you call it ?' said she, interning him. 'Do you suppose if it were self alone, I could not crush every mem', if not in oblivion, at least in subjec ? But it is he that would suffer, not y losing his faith in me, but in every y principle of our Dature. It is the ing death to which I would condemn n, making a sepulcher of his heart, and rying within faith, love, hope and truth. not ask me to build such a charnel use. Oh ! forbid that my hands should se such a tomb.' 'And you will not listen to the only reest I have ever proffered, Ellen ?' 'Ask anything else of me, unole, and see w gladly my love will fly to do your bidjg. But this?and for an acquaintance but a few months, a stranger, an enemy, ! uncle, why will you persist V Mr. Willoughby's features worked in a ong emotion. He strove to speak, but ; words came low and gaspingly. 'Ellen, I have sworn this, my life deads on it; ungrateful, disobedient girl, as a dread my curse, as you value my bless;, heed what I say,' and unable longer restrain himself, he turned and left the >m. Ellen sat the image of mute desnt . i* i . i _ ;r. one aia not weep?ner sorrow was deep for tears; but in sobbing agony, i bent her head on her hands. At length tep aroused her, she drew closer within i shade of the window. <It is Graham,' ! thought, 'and I will not be disturbed.' t it stops close to her, and vexed that should so intrudo, she would not look und. A.t length, drawn by the magnetism that npels one to look under another's scruy, Bhe turned. It was growing late, the ,dows were lengthening, and but dimly ild she see the figure near her. Still" outlines of the manly form were strangefamiliar, she heard low words of courtei greeting, and oh! how that voice, dearer n all the world, thrilled her heart. She ang up, but could not speak noradvance welcome the comer. He came towards , be took both those trembling hands in , he drew her towards the open window, r one sweet moment he looked into the e eyes that were so eagerly upturned, 1 that so slowly and lingeringly hid mselves under the long lashes. Ellen !' and his dark eye again sought 's in earnest, eager, inquiry. It suffi I, for a smile played around the parted 5 that had hitherto been so stern. Ellen ?' and again her eyes bent, and the y color flooded her pale cheek, as tremus in love, the name fell upon her ear. Ellen !'and his arm was around her; ( drew her to his breast, and with alow, ( tering sigh, Ellen at length found in ( t broad brave breast, the rest her weary ,rt so longed for. You have been suffering, dearest,' he , ispered, after standing some moments in , nee too blissful for words. Not now,' she answered, nestling her shing face still closer. And I added to your trouble; tell me, , 2?' ! It is over now,' said she, unwilling in ( generous love to pain him. , Can you forgive me, Ellen ?' , >he made no answer, but one little hand { e up till it gently rested on his should- , He drew her closer to his heart; im- ( sioned words of love's low tenderness ( upon her ear; they needed no answer? required none. The soft sweet murmur like balm upon her weary heart, till in feet peace and trust, she could have , athed her life away in the fond dream. | Ellen,' said he, 'you have not yet bid , ir soldier welcome; look up, dearest, , 1 if your lips forbid it, let me read it in j ir eyes, and far more eloquently than ir lips would dare to utter.' xently he raised the dear head, that yet ght to hide its blushes on his breast, and dark eyes read in her's all they longed < :now; slowly be bent bis head and press- i her sweet lips in one long lingering kiss. By heaven, Ellen, this moment is worth i rs of common existence; nay, dearest, 1 cannot yet go,' said he, as she struggled | >e free. I But the lamps are lighting, Henry, and mst away, before any one comes in.' And why, dearest ? I do not choose you 1 eave me.' i <1 could not meet any one with this burring face,' she whispered, 'and mf;tell-tale yes most be taught in solitude more cuniing.' Again he looke i into the glaring face ; gain into the drooping eyes. Again and gain he kissed the parted lips, that were ileading so murmuringly for release, and rhispering. 'Quickly then, my Ellen, for I would ttot >e long parted from you/ he let her go. 'Davie 1'said Graham, springing up to neet him as he entered the room. 'Davie!' said Mr. Willoughby, in agitated surprise, and with strained courtesy. 'How did you come ? When did you get here V said Graham, warmly shaking his hand. 'One question at a.time/ laughed Day?p. 'I came as troopers generally come, on the I 1_ -1? r J -i- . J J T 1 i uaeK 01 iny gooa sieea; ana 1 nave doc ceea bere long enough to wonder where my host and his guest were/ ? Strange we did not hear you ride up,' said Graham, understanding from this that he had just arrived. 'Has Jerry taken your horse?' said Mr. Willonghby, rising as if to attend to it. 'Do not-trouble yourself, my dear sir, Jerry met me and knows his duty.' Muttering something about telling Ellen, Mr. Willonghby again attempted to leave the room. #1 must beg, my dear Mr. Willonghby, you will not inconvenience Miss Ellen on my account, but allow me the privileges of an old acquaintance, I have already seen her, and she has granted me every indulgence.' Davie's keen eye was fixed upon Mr. Willonghby, and without another word the old man sat down. [TO BE CONTINUED.] A n. [We can supply the back numbers of the paper from the commencement of this story.] THE CIVIL WAB IHSYBIA. mi i e i f "*li . . e rne papers nave rarmsnea an outline 01 the war carried on recently between the Christians and the Druses. The details present a picture of horrors which is not to be paralleled in an age of civilization, rand-require the interposition of nations who have the power to arrest such excesses. A*correspondent of the Boston Traveller writing . from Beirut, Syria, thus relates some of the . horrors of these civil conflicts. Druses and Christians, numbering hundreds of thousands, are now engaged in wholesale' murder, arson and pillage, in which fiendish work they are aided by^Tarks, Moslems, Arabs and the people'known aa the Metawalies." From my window last week I counted from twenty to thirty burning villages upon the mountain, a few miles from Beirut, from whence the flash of musketry may easily be seen, and the volleys heard one after another in rapid succession, as they echo through the valleys, The dying and the dead are daily brought into the town in large numbers, and the widows and the orphans may be seen in large crowds weeping and wailing about the streets. The barbarity of this war is truly shock ing. Men, women nod ohildren are overtaken while fleeing for refnge and without arms, and ruthlessly slaughtered while praying for quarter. The Christiansliave thus far suffered most terribly. Their villages have been burned, their erops destroyed, and great numbers have been brutally murdered, while the Druses, who are better warriors and far more courageous, arc assisted by the Turks, Moslems and Metsfralies, and up to this time have proved sucoeasful. .. v The bloody war which is waged omboth sides as a war of extermination, has itstorigin in religious and political causes. The Christians and Druses hate each other with a deadly hatred on accoot of the differences in their religious faith, and the Christians hate the Druses with a speoial hatred because the Druses, are in a great many of the Mountain Christian districts feudal chiefs and rulers over the Christian orMaronite and Greek Cotholio villages. *The more immediate cause of the war may be traced to the fact that last summer at Bait Marri a quarrel arose, in which the Mar* unite Christians were victorious, having repulsed the Druses, killing forty or more, while their own loss was less than one-third that number. Although peace was then declared, the Druses have since assassinated every christian who came in their way. This aroused the Christians, and so exasperated them, that they made an attaok upon several Druses villages. At first they were successful, but the Druses rallied tinder their warrier chiefs and burned eveiy Maronite and Greek Christian village within their reach. The provincial authorities pronounced the invading party?the Christians?to be rebels, and the Governor General proceeded with all his available force to the mountains, and brought his cannon to bear upon the Christians. The Christians are rallying for the forlorn hope, for they fear the Druses, thus aided, will endeavor to exterminate them. This, however, will not be an easy matter, as the Marunite Greek and Greek Catholic number about two hundred and fifty thousand It has been estimated at the British con sulate that about sixty villages have been burned. It is believed that the European powers will now interfere in behalf of the Christians of Syria and relieve them from the Turkish yoke. The American missionaries in Monnt Lebanon have been greatly exposed, but as yet have suffered for the want of provisions. Upon the breaking out of the war Mr. Consul Johnson sent guards for their protection, and in Borne cases provisions. The absence of an American vessel of ivar is deeply regretted at this time. The [J. S. steamer 'Iroquois' is somewhere in ;he Mediterranean sea, but it is supposed ihe 'v. detained at Sicily. About the age of thirty-six, the lean man generally becomes fatter, and the fat man leaner.