RETRIBUTION.

In these days, when a factitious style is made the vehicle of factitious feelings, we offer to our readers a simple story; and when we say that

it is a true one, we may hope to claim an interest very different from that which is inspired by ingenious fiction.

There may be some who yet remember Fanny Rutherford, of the Parish of Carwhinn. She was one of the most gentle and amiable creatures that ever breathed—warm in her attachments, confiding in her love, and mild and kind in her dispositions. The daughter of a country gentleman, of small estate, but of great respectability, she was, at the period of our story, in her nineteenth year. Her father, though by no means wealthy, had spared no expense in her education; and her quick natural parts enabled her to derive all the benefit which that education was intended to confer. She was also the joy of two brothers, both intelligent, clever young men, bred to agricultural pursuits, in which they were largely and extensively engaged.

Mr Rutherford was a widower; and his household duties therefore devolved upon Fanny, who discharged them with exemplary propriety.

Hitherto, though of an ardent, susceptible, and even romantic disposition, Fanny's peace had never been disturbed by love. The quiet tenor of her days had passed away in the enjoyment of domestic happiness, and in the interchange of endearments with her father and brothers, to whom she was devotedly attached, and by whom she was most sincerely and tenderly loved in return. Neither a thought nor a wish beyond the sphere of this little round of felicity ever entered the pure and unsophisticated mind of the happy and innocent girl. But this was a happiness that was not to last. Love, that bane or blessing of woman's existence, as its object is unworthy or otherwise, at length found its way into the guileless bosom of Fanny Rutherford; and, oh, what a consummation awaited that unfortunate attachment!

At the distance of about a mile from Mr Rutherford's, there lived a young man of the name of Raeburn, the son of a gentleman in similar circumstances with the former—that is, a small landed proprietor. This young man, who had received a very liberal education, was possessed of an agreeable person and of exceedingly pleasing manners; but there were occasional developments of character that but very indifferently harmonised with these qualities; and there were, besides, more than one little incident in his life that betrayed a degree of selfishness, not to say heartlessness, that would by no means have been expected in one of so frank and cheerful a disposition. Still these symptoms were, after all, of so trifling a character, that they could scarcely be said to have affected the reputation which Raeburn aimed at, and succeeded with a great many in acquiring—namely, that of a dashing, careless, good-hearted, and liberal-minded young fellow.

At this period, Henry Raeburn was residing at home, waiting for an appointment in the civil service of the East India Company, which had been promised him by a friend of his father's; and much of the spare time which his present circumstances placed at his disposal he spent at Mr Rutherford's, where his agreeable manners and general intelligence made him at all times a welcome visiter. But to none of the members of the family were these visits more agreeable than to Fanny, over whose affections his insinuating address and handsome exterior had made a complete conquest. Nor was Raeburn himself apparently less the victim of this passion than she was. He took every opportunity of pouring into her ear the most ardent expressions of attachment. A thousand times he swore that he was hers for ever—that the sun would change his course, the stars forget to shine, ere he became inconstant to his Fanny. To all these professions of love the unsuspecting and confiding girl lent a willing ear, and listened and listened to the fascinating tale again and again, till her whole soul became absorbed by one single idea—until she found, in short, that she lived for Henry Raeburn alone.

Whether Raeburn was sincere in his professions of attachment to Fanny Rutherford, at this stage of their acquaintance, we cannot say, and have no means of ascertaining. That was a circumstance known to his Creator and himself alone.

The young people, however, made no attempts to conceal their mutual attachment—at least Fanny made none to conceal hers. Indeed, the guileless simplicity, and open and candid nature, of the amiable girl rendered her incapable of concealing it. Neither, though she could, would she have done it: her sense of propriety and delicacy of feeling would not have permitted her.

Fanny's father and brothers, therefore, were perfectly aware of the attachment alluded to; and although, of course, the marriage of the parties was a thing not to be thought of in their present circumstances, yet, as Henry was likely soon to obtain a lucrative situation in India, it was a very probable and very desirable contingency; and with this prospective consideration, Fanny's father did not disapprove of her choice, as young Raeburn was otherwise, by birth and education, a perfectly eligible match for his daughter. All that was wanting was fortune; and this was a desideratum which there was a reasonable probability of Henry soon supplying.

When we said, however, that the visits of Fanny's lover were acceptable to all the members of Mr Rutherford's family, we said fully more than the facts warranted. There was one, at any rate, of that family to whom these visits were not only not acceptable, but positively disagreeable. This person was Fanny's eldest brother, Edward. Possessed of more penetration than his father or younger brother, he had perceived something in the character of Raeburn which he did not like, and which struck him as being strangely at variance with his general pretensions and professions. He had, in short, discovered several instances of selfishness and want of principle in the young man, which, though they were but of a trifling nature, had early imbued him with a secret prejudice against him; and this he did not hesitate to avow to his own family, and particularly to Fanny; but, in the latter case, his avowal was always accompanied by the most tender expressions of affection for herself, as if to convince her that it was on her account alone that he feared.

One day, on her returning from Mr Raeburn's, where she had been to an entertainment, and when Henry, who had accompanied her home, had just left the house—

"My dear Fanny," said her brother, addressing her in the blunt way peculiar to him, and taking her affectionately by the hand, "I don't like that fellow Raeburn. I would not willingly or needlessly say any thing harsh of anyone whom you esteem; but you are guileless, Fanny, and ignorant of the ways of the world, still more so of the faithlessness of man, and therefore liable to have your judgment misled by your heart. Be cautious—be guarded, then, Fanny. Do, for your own sake, my dear sister, be cautious how you admit this man to tamper with your affections."

"Edward!" replied Fanny, bursting into tears, "what is the meaning of this solemn objurgation? I have never done, and never will do, anything without my father's consent and yours, Edward. But surely, surely you judge unfairly of Henry, Edward. He is far too honourable and upright to deceive any one, much less——"

"You, you would say," interrupted her brother.

Fanny blushed slightly, and went on: "If you had heard him, as I have often done, express his sentiments on the duties we owe to each other, and speak of the rules which ought to regulate our conduct, you would entertain a very different opinion of him—I am sure you would, Edward."

"Simple girl, simple girl!" said her brother. "He speak of the duties we owe to each other! He speak of the rules which ought to regulate our conduct!" he added, with a bitter sneer. "Well, perhaps it is all right, Fanny," he went on; "I may have judged harshly of Raeburn, and may be doing him an injustice; but, if I am, I never was more mistaken in a man in my life. But, Fanny," he added, with a sudden energy of manner, "here I swear—and I wish Raeburn heard the oath—that, if he deceive or injure you, I will pursue him to the ends of the earth—ay, through the snows of Greenland, or the burning deserts of the tropics—and seek a reparation that will cost the lives of one or both of us."

"Mercy, mercy!" exclaimed the weeping girl, terrified at the fierce looks and manner of her brother, yet at the same time throwing herself into his arms. "What dreadful language is this, Edward? What grounds on earth have you for anticipating so dreadful a catastrophe? I am sure you have seen nothing to warrant your expressing yourself in this frightful manner."

"I have not said that I anticipated anything, Fanny, regarding this attachment of yours," replied her brother. "I spoke only hypothetically. But, from this hour, I say no more on the subject. I trust, however, that what I have said will not be without its effect upon you, Fanny. You will perceive, my dear sister," he added, embracing her tenderly, "that it is my affection, and, I will add, my fears, for you, that have prompted all I have said."

"I know it, Edward—I know it," replied Fanny; "and I am grateful to you. But you will soon learn to like Henry better than you now do."

"Woman, woman—still woman to the last," said her brother, smiling. "But do, Fanny, permit what I have said to make some impression on you." And Edward left the apartment.

Woman, woman still, as her brother had said, the warmhearted girl's affections for Raeburn suffered no diminution whatever from what had just passed between her and her brother. In truth, as such interferences almost always do, it had the effect rather of increasing her love, by placing the object of her affections—in her sight, at any rate—in the light of one who is injured by being harshly judged of.

"My Henry deceive me!" she thought within herself on this occasion—"impossible! impossible! That kind and gentle look!—can that deceive? That benignant smile!—can there be treachery there? That frank and open manner!—is that assumed? No, no, Edward—you wrong Henry; you do indeed, Edward. You wrong him grievously."

Such were the reflections in which Fanny Rutherford indulged when her brother had left her, and such was the effect which his fears and suspicions had upon her unsuspecting and confiding heart.

We have already informed the reader that Raeburn was at this time waiting for an appointment in the civil service of the East India Company. This appointment he at length obtained, and he was, at the same time, ordered to proceed immediately to London, to embark for his new destination; and with this order he complied, after taking an affectionate leave of Fanny, to whom he once more, and for the last time, vowed eternal constancy and love. It is almost unnecessary to add, that a mutual promise to maintain a frequent and regular correspondence during the period of their separation was also given by the lovers. But, besides all this, a distinct arrangement, to which Fanny's father and brothers were privy, was likewise made, that, so soon as Henry should be fairly settled in India, and should have ascertained that his income was sufficient to warrant such a step, Fanny, being previously informed of this, was to join him, when their destinies should be united.

These matters arranged, Henry proceeded to London, where he soon after embarked for Calcutta, which he eventually reached in safety, at the end of the usual period occupied in that voyage.

Faithful to his promise, Henry, soon after his arrival, wrote to Fanny, and gave a very flattering account of his situation and prospects, expressing, at the same time, a hope that he would soon be in a condition to invite her to come out and partake his good fortune.

This letter was followed in due time by another, in which the same sentiments of love and affection were expressed; but it contained a less flattering account of his circumstances. These, the writer said, had scarcely answered the expectations he had formed from them on his first arrival; and he feared, if they did not improve, that, however painful their separation was to him, he would be compelled to submit to its continuance for some time, as he could not think of bringing her there, so far from her home and her friends, until he should be able to receive her in a manner that would more unequivocally bespeak the sincerity of his love than his present means would admit of.

These two letters, as we have said, came in due time; and, notwithstanding the discouraging tenor of the last, were received by poor Fanny with the most unfeigned delight. But, when the time came round that another letter should have reached her from her lover, it was in vain that the affectionate girl looked for that solace to her wearied spirit. Week after week passed away, month succeeded month, and, finally, year followed year, and still no letter came, to raise the prostrate and withering hopes of poor Fanny Rutherford. For some time she was impressed with a conviction that her lover was dead; for she could not, and would not, believe that her Henry was faithless. But in this belief—perhaps the least afflicting of the two—she was not permitted long to remain; for it was ascertained, through Henry's father, not only that he was still living, but that he was getting on prosperously, and in a fair way of soon realising a fortune.

Unwilling, unwilling, indeed, was poor Fanny to believe this account of Henry—but it was certain; and this certainty of the neglectfulness, or, yet worse, faithlessness, of her lover threatened to hurry her to a premature grave.

Nearly three years had now passed away since the receipt of her last letter from Henry; and she had long given up all hopes of ever hearing from him again, or of ever being more to him than she then was. While sitting alone, however, one morning about this period, her head leaning upon her hand, and listlessly gazing through a window that overlooked the approach to her father's house, her curiosity was slightly excited by observing the person who usually brought the letters from the neighbouring village hurrying with unwonted speed towards the house, and, as she approached nearer, waving a letter which she held in her hand towards Fanny. In an instant the blood, which had long forsaken the poor girl's cheeks, rushed back to its forgotten repositories. Her heart beat fast and thick, and a violent tremor seized on her whole emaciated frame. The letter was, and she now knew it, from Henry Raeburn.

Having got possession of the intensely-interesting document, she rushed with it up-stairs to her own apartment, bolted the door, and flung herself down on a bed; laying, at the same time, the letter, which, from excessive agitation, she was unable at the moment to open, on a small table beside her. Having, however, in a few minutes regained as much composure as she conceived would enable her to venture on the exciting task of perusing the letter, she arose, seized it convulsively, and staggered with it unfolded in her grasp towards the window, where she began to read. The letter commenced thus—

"My dearest, dearest Fanny,—What is the meaning of this? Cruel, cruel girl, it is now precisely two years and a-half since I received your last letter, although I have written to you at least six or seven times during that period. What a relief, Fanny, it would be to my mind, to know that these letters of mine had miscarried—that they had never reached you!—for, in that case, I might still hope, still believe, that my Fanny was faithful. Indeed, it is in this hope that I live; for, as I have been for the last two years going from place to place, at a great distance in the interior, I think it not improbable that my letters—all of which were despatched from these remote residences—have never found their way to you."

The writer then went on, praying Fanny not to lose a moment in relieving his mind on this, to him, he said, most painful subject. After a good deal more to similar purpose, he continued—

"Will my Fanny not take it amiss—she will not, I know, if she still be to me as she once was, and what I still am to her—if I request her to send me her portrait?—that, since fortune still denies me the happiness of contemplating the original, I may, as I assuredly will, find some consolation in possessing the copy. I will then," continued the writer, "have you present to my corporeal eye, as you are, and have constantly been, to my mental vision. Enclosed, my dearest Fanny, you have a draft for twenty guineas, which please apply to the purpose just expressed, and let there not be a moment lost in forwarding me your beloved picture."

The writer then went on to say, that he expected to be in a condition to invite her out in the course of a twelvemonth or so; and ultimately finished by a repetition of the most tender expressions of affection and love.

When Fanny had completed the perusal of this, to her, most gratifying letter—that is, after she had read it at least six times over—she rushed wildly down-stairs in quest of her brother Edward; and having found him, "See, see, Edward!" exclaimed the delighted girl, forcing the letter into his hands; "read that, Edward, and acknowledge, my brother, the injustice which you and all of us have done to Henry. I knew, I knew," she went on, "my Henry would not deceive me. I felt assured that his silence and seeming neglect would one day be satisfactorily accounted for, and without impugning his honour."

To these expressions of joy, and delight, and confidence, Fanny's brother made no reply, but sat down coolly to read the letter that had been put into his hands; and greatly disappointed was the poor girl, who was watching his countenance with the most intense interest, while he read, to find that the contents seemed to excite in him no emotion whatever. When he finished—"Well, Fanny," he said, dryly, at the same time carelessly returning her the letter, "it's all very well. I am glad to find that Raeburn is not altogether the man I feared he was. He seems to think of you with unabated regard still, Fanny."

"Oh yes, Edward!—oh yes! I knew Henry would not deceive me!" again repeated the unsuspecting and delighted girl.

Edward, as we have already said, tenderly loved Fanny; and it was this regard for her that prevented him saying all he thought of the letter he had just read. He would not, for any consideration, have damped the feelings of joy and happiness which it had inspired in the bosom of his sister, by making any remarks that might have a tendency of that kind; but he could not help observing sufficient grounds for such observations. He saw, in the first place, that Raeburn's assertion that he had written several letters to Fanny was a downright falsehood, or, at best, of a very suspicious character; for his father—who lived, as the reader will recollect we have already said, in the immediate neighbourhood, and whom he frequently met with—had never made any complaint of any interruption in his son's correspondence; and he (Edward), moreover, knew that Henry's father had received many letters from him during the very period of the suspension of his correspondence with Fanny. It therefore appeared extremely odd to him that all the letters addressed to the one should have miscarried, while all those addressed to the other had reached their destination in safety, and in due course of time. In the next place, Edward saw, or thought he saw, that the general tenor of the letter was forced and unnatural; and, lastly, that procrastination was apparently still the object of the writer, notwithstanding his having vaguely named a period when he should invite Fanny to share his fortunes as his wife.

All this Edward perceived in the letter in question; but the worst he thought of it was, that Raeburn had for a time forgotten his sister, probably in a temporary regard for another, and that his affection for her having returned, he was now anxious to atone for his negligence or infidelity; and, under this impression, he was willing to overlook the subterfuge to which Raeburn had had recourse, to account for his silence; and, in these views of the matter, Edward's father and brother concurred.

Two or three days after the receipt of Henry's letter, Fanny, though in a very indifferent state of health, proceeded to Edinburgh, and had her likeness taken there in miniature. On her return, the picture was carefully packed in a small box or case, and, accompanied by a letter from Fanny, despatched to its remote destination. In this letter, the poor girl, in allusion to the portrait, said—"I have, in compliance with your wishes, Henry, sent you my portrait; but I fear it will sadly disappoint you; for a more unpropitious time for transferring my miserable countenance to canvas (I believe, however, in this case it is ivory) could scarcely have been chosen; for I have been extremely ill for a long time past, and am yet very far from being well. I have been broken-hearted, Henry, and have been labouring under the worst and most hopeless of all diseases—a crushed and broken spirit."

Thus did the poor girl allude to the misery which Raeburn's neglect had entailed on her. Her delicacy forbade her saying more, and her candid and confiding disposition would not permit her to say less.

Leaving matters in this state at Rose Vale (the name of Mr Rutherford's residence), we will, with the reader's consent, embark in the same ship with Fanny's portrait, and proceed to the East Indies, to see with our own eyes what, at this period, was the general conduct, character, and circumstances of him for whom that picture was intended. Having done this—an easy matter with you and us, good reader, though no trifling affair to others—we shall find Raeburn residing in a very handsome house at Calcutta; and in one of the most conspicuous places in one of the principal rooms in that house, we shall find the portrait of Fanny Rutherford suspended—and well worthy of the distinction was this likeness of the lovely girl. Beautiful! exceedingly beautiful in her sadness!—for the painter had been faithful; and but too plainly did that picture tell of sorrow and of suffering—"of hope deferred, that maketh the heart sick." Nor did Henry Raeburn seem insensible to the beauty expressed in that little picture. To every one who visited him he showed it, with an air of exultation and triumph; pressed on their notice the soft expression of the fine dark eye, the light, delicate, and well-arched eyebrow, the ruby lip, and elegantly-formed nose and chin. But, be it remarked—and it was an odd circumstance—it was to the young unmarried men alone who visited him that he showed the picture, and that he thus dwelt on the details of its beauties. Strange distinction this—to the unmarried alone that he showed the picture, and enlarged on the attractions of its subject! What does this mean? Much, much it means; and a darker or more atrocious meaning never disgraced the act of man. But we will leave the full explanation of this atrocity to be developed by the progress of our story.

"Ah! you dogs, you!" Raeburn would say, with well-affected jocularity, to his friends of the description already mentioned, when showing them Fanny's portrait, "isn't that a pretty girl, now? and am not I a lucky fellow to have secured the affections of so charming a woman? What would you give, you rogues, you, for such a creature as that for a wife?" Then, holding the portrait aloft, "Come, say now, gentlemen, what would you give for her, suppose I was willing to part with her; which, perhaps, I am, if I could get a fair price for my right. Bid for her, gentlemen, bid for her!" he would say, laughingly, and affecting to make a joke of the matter. "I will put her up to sale, and warrant the stock to be equal to the sample!" "A thousand rupees!" "Thank you, John. Very well for a beginning! Get on, gentlemen, get on." "Two thousand! three thousand!" "That's it. Go it, my spirited lads, go it; but she's worth six times the money yet." "Eight thousand! ten thousand!" "Ay, now you get on bravely, and are approaching the mark, though still at a great distance from it." "Fifteen thousand! twenty thousand!" "Very well—twenty thousand! Twenty thousand, gentlemen! Will no one bid more! Why, Tom, I thought you were a better judge of female beauty than to allow such a bargain as this to slip through your fingers!" "Twenty-five thousand!" "Well done, Tom; I knew you were a lad of spirit, and had too much of the knight-errant in you to allow a fair lady like this to be knocked down below her value. Twenty-five thousand rupees—once, twice, thrice! There, down she goes—she's yours, Tom; pay me the money, and I'll order her out for you by the first ship."

This was a scene of frequent occurrence in Raeburn's house, when a number of young fellows had got together there, and something very like it was repeated to each of them individually when they chanced to call alone; particularly in the case of one of them—a Mr Cressingham, the son of a gentleman who held one of the highest civil situations in India, and who was enormously wealthy. This was Raeburn's friend, Tom, as he familiarly called him; and to him he was especially eloquent and importunate on the subject of Fanny's beauty.

"Well, hang me if she an't a devilish pretty creature that, after all!" said Tom Cressingham to Raeburn, as they one day sat alone smoking their hookahs in the apartment in which Fanny's portrait hung, and on which he was listlessly gazing.

"That she is, Tom," replied Raeburn; "wouldn't you fancy such a girl as that, now, for a wife, Tom?"

"Faith and I would, Harry; I'd give ten thousand rupees for such a wife."

"You're coming down in your price, Tom," replied Raeburn; "you offered twenty-five thousand for her the other night."

"Well, I don't know but I would give that sum for her, after all, Harry; for she's certainly a delightful-looking creature. But why don't you bring out the girl, and marry her at once yourself, Harry?"

"Umph!" ejaculated Raeburn, "that wouldn't be altogether so convenient just now. You know I'm confoundedly in debt, Tom" (this was but too true; for he was grossly dissipated, and was living in a style far beyond his income), "and must clear my feet a bit before I think of marrying. Besides, to tell you a secret, Tom, I don't care much about standing to my Scotch bargain in that matter; and, to be plain with you, I wish you, or some one else, would relieve me of it, by taking the girl off my hands; giving me, of course, a handsome consideration for my right in the property."

This was said jokingly; but it was very easy to see that the speaker would not care to be thought serious; and this Cressingham perceived.

"Harry," he said, "are you in earnest?"

"To be sure I am," replied Raeburn; "never was more in earnest in my life."

"Then I'm your man, Harry, if we can agree about the terms," rejoined Cressingham. "What say you about the consideration."

"Why, I don't know; you see she is a very handsome girl, Tom; and, on the word of a gentleman, I assure you, she is as amiable as she is lovely."

"Well, at a word, Harry," said Cressingham, "I'll give you five thousand pounds sterling money, the day that woman becomes my wife; you being at the expense of bringing her out, and managing all that part of the business."

"Done!" said Raeburn.

"Done!" said Cressingham. And they struck hands upon the bargain.

Raeburn's villany, good reader, is now before you fully and fairly. The conversation just recorded was no joke, but, as he himself acknowledged, downright earnest; and it will readily be conceded, we think, that a piece of more heartless depravity is not upon record. Neither, we beg to assure the reader, is this villany imaginary, nor the character of Raeburn the invention of fancy. The villany was actually perpetrated, and the villain actually lived.

Fanny's portrait had been sent for for the express purpose of turning it to the account to which we have seen it applied. He had sent for it that he might exhibit it as a sample of goods which he had to dispose of, and which he meant to sell to the highest bidder; and it was with this view—with the view of finding a purchaser—that he had hung the portrait of his victim in a conspicuous place, and had urged on the notice of his visiters the various beauties which it displayed.

To return to our tale. Raeburn and Cressingham—the latter, we need hardly say, being nearly as unprincipled as the former—having come to the understanding which we have just detailed, Raeburn insisted that their bargain should be expressed on paper; that is, that Cressingham should bind himself by a written document to fulfil his part of the transaction—in other words, should bind himself to pay the £5000 on the day Fanny became his wife; although with what face he could produce such a document in a court of justice to enforce his claim, in the event of Cressingham evading it, it certainly is not easy to conceive. But, desirous of being secure in the meantime, on such a document as that alluded to, he insisted; and it was instantly given him.

This part of the transaction settled, it was Raeburn's business to manage the rest:—the first step of which was to get Fanny out; the next, to get her palmed upon Cressingham; and he lost no time in setting about it.

As the subsequent proceedings of the villain, however, will be more strikingly exhibited by shifting the scene once more to Rose Vale, we request the reader to accompany us thither for a moment.

The year had a good while expired, which Raeburn had fixed on, in his last letter to Fanny, as the period when he should send for her to join him at Calcutta; and the poor girl was looking fondly and anxiously for the promised invitation; but, for several months, she was again doomed to suffer all the pains of suspense and disappointment. From this, however, she was at length relieved by the appearance of the long-expected letter. This, like all its predecessors, was filled with the most tender expressions of regard and esteem. "It is now," said the writer, "with the most heartfelt—nay, this is far too tame a phrase—it is with a delight, my beloved Fanny, which I cannot find language to express—that I inform you, that the circumstances in which I now find myself warrant me in inviting you out to share my fortunes. I enclose a draft for £150, to defray the expense of your passage, and other contingencies connected with it; and I beg of you, my dearest, dearest Fanny, as you value my happiness, nay, my existence, to lose no time in coming out to me; for I will be miserable till you arrive." To this was added a great many particular directions, as to Fanny's best mode of proceeding in the business of her embarkation; and again the writer resumed the strain of adulation with which he had begun; and with this strain, also, he finally ended.

As in the former case, Fanny instantly put this letter into the hands of her brother Edward; and again she was disappointed to find that it was read without the smallest appearance of satisfaction. Neither was it much more gratifying to her father and younger brother. But their feelings regarding it proceeded chiefly from their reluctance to part with Fanny, and to her going alone on so long and dreary a voyage; but neither they, nor Edward, even with his more serious grounds of dissatisfaction, felt that they would be warranted in preventing Fanny from availing herself of the apparent good fortune which she was now invited to partake. They felt that it would be an act of injustice towards the amiable girl, to exercise any such authority over her fortunes and affections; and, therefore, though it was not without great reluctance, they finally consented to her departure. This conceded, and every necessary preparation for the voyage being in a few days completed, Edward accompanied Fanny to London, saw her on board of an East Indiaman that was about to sail for Calcutta, and having consigned her to the care of the captain, bade her an affectionate adieu. In less than an hour afterwards, the ship was under weigh; and Fanny Rutherford had commenced her ill-starred voyage to the East.

On the ship's arrival at Calcutta, which she reached in safety and in due course of time, amongst the first persons who came on board of her were Raeburn and Cressingham. Fanny was down below in the cabin, and in the act of packing a small trunk, preparatory to her going ashore, when Raeburn entered. The moment the poor girl saw him, she flew towards him, with an expression of the wildest delight. But, oh! fond and confiding heart, what a shock was it to thee—what a withering sensation was thine—when you found your warm and generous impulses received with a cold and distant civility!—for in such manner did Raeburn now receive the gentle, affectionate, and unsuspecting girl, who had crossed the "rude ocean," left kindred and home, to follow his fortunes—the fortunes of the man she loved—in a far distant land.

In this atrocious conduct of Raeburn's there was policy as well as natural heartlessness; for he was desirous of disgusting her with his coldness, and thus preparing the way for the addresses of Cressingham. Of this part of the villain's design, Fanny was, of course, utterly ignorant; but the quick discerning eye of love enabled her instantly to detect the brutal and ungracious manner of Raeburn, so different from what she had expected; and the discovery fell upon her spirit with the most deadly effect. She, however, made no complaint; but it was evident that the manner of her reception by her deceiver had sunk deep into her heart. Poor Fanny proceeded with the packing of her little trunk in silence—a silence interrupted only by an occasional sigh, long drawn, and heavy laden with grief. Tears, too, might have been detected stealing down her cheeks, were it not that she kept her head, purposely, too closely over the trunk to permit their being seen. In the work, too, in which she was employed, be it observed, Raeburn did not offer her the smallest assistance, but continued walking up and down the cabin, whistling carelessly, and looking at the prints with which the walls were hung.

This was the scene, then, in the cabin, when Raeburn, after the lapse of a quarter-an-hour or so from the time of his first descending, suddenly, and without giving Fanny the least previous notice of his intention, went to the foot of the cabin-stair, and called loudly on Cressingham, who was on deck. Cressingham appeared at the cabin-door.

"Why don't you come down?" said Raeburn. And he followed up this query with a significant wink.

"Why, I waited till I should be called," replied Cressingham, with a knowing smile; at the same time commencing his descent into the cabin.

"Mr Cressingham, Fanny," said Raeburn, when the former came down—"a very particular friend of mine."

Fanny, before raising her head from the trunk, hurriedly wiped her eyes, and stood up to receive the stranger; but it was wholly out of the poor girl's power thus suddenly to regain her composure, or to obliterate from her countenance the traces of the miserable feelings with which her soul was agonised. These remained but too plain; and were at once detected by Cressingham, who, in place of being moved to compassion by them for the unhappy girl, looked on them as welcome indications of feelings that promised to favour his own advances; inasmuch as they bespoke a dissatisfaction on the part of Fanny, at once with her situation and with Raeburn.

It being now Cressingham's time to begin the performance of his part of the nefarious plot, he advanced towards Miss Rutherford with one of his most gracious looks, and welcomed her to Calcutta. Then, placing himself in a chair directly opposite to her, and leaning forward towards her, till he had nearly thrust his head into her face, he began a strain of the most impertinent adulation, not unmingled with expressions of a less harmless character. These last did not escape Fanny, who deeply felt the insult they involved, although she was already too much humbled in spirit to resent them.

When Cressingham had taken up the position described, and had begun the nauseous badinage alluded to, Raeburn, on some trifling pretence, left the cabin and went on deck. The motive for this proceeding will at once present itself to the reader. Cressingham, finding himself thus left alone with Fanny, was proceeding to use other liberties than those of speech; and had already, with the most impudent familiarity, thrown one of his arms around Miss Rutherford's neck, when, with a violent effort, she extricated herself from him, and rushed, in a state of great agitation and alarm, up the cabin-stair, calling on Henry, who was at the moment standing at the stern of the vessel, and directly opposite the cabin-door.

Guessing, or rather knowing very well, the cause of Fanny's outcry and terror, he went towards her, and sternly and angrily asked her, "What she made all this noise for!"

"O Henry! Henry!" exclaimed the agitated girl, "take me out of this, take me out of this. Let us go on shore, Henry, directly. Do, do, let us go on shore; for I will not go down into that cabin again."

"Pooh, you silly fool, you!" replied Raeburn, harshly. "What are you afraid of? Don't you like Cressingham? He's an excellent fellow, only a little rough or so, now and then; but not a pin the worse for that. Why, he's one of the handsomest and richest fellows in Calcutta, and half the girls in the town are cocking their caps at him."

"I have nothing to say to or of Mr Cressingham, Henry," replied Fanny.

"All that I ask of you is, to take me immediately ashore."

With this request Raeburn, seeing that it would not be advisable to push matters further at that moment, sulkily complied. A boat was ordered alongside. Fanny's luggage was placed in it, and she, Raeburn, and Cressingham, were forthwith rowed on shore, where, the moment they landed, the latter, after whispering something into Raeburn's ear, and offering some ineffectual attempts at making his peace with Miss Rutherford, left them.

Where, now, does the reader imagine, did Raeburn conduct the unhappy victim of his villany. To his own splendid mansion? No. To a decent hotel, then?—or, probably, he consigned her to the care of some respectable female friend or acquaintance? Neither of these did the heartless ruffian do. He took her to a mean lodging, in one of the meanest parts of the town, pleading some lame apology for not taking her to his own house; and there left her in the hands of strangers, without a word of consolation or comfort, or of kindness. He said, however, before going away, that he would again call in the evening, and would, in the meantime, send a female domestic from his own house, to attend her, together with some necessaries.

It would be a vain, an idle task, to attempt to describe what were the unfortunate girl's feelings, now that the hideous truth, that she had been deceived and betrayed, though with what view she could not conjecture, stood undisguised before her. They were dreadful, too excruciating, too exquisitely agonising, to be expressed in words or in wailing. Their effect was to benumb every faculty, and to prostrate every sense; and, as one thus afflicted, sat poor Fanny Rutherford in a chair, at the window of her shabby apartment.

That evening, the first of her arrival, Raeburn, contrary to his promise, did not again visit her; but Cressingham came in his place, and dreadful was the result of this unwelcome visit on the poor girl's frame. It instantly brought on a crisis in that disease of the mind under which she was already labouring.

The moment he entered the apartment, she uttered a piercing shriek, and rushed frantically to the furthest corner of the room, in the greatest terror, calling on the intruder in the name of Heaven not to come near her—not to approach her. "Leave me, leave me!" she exclaimed, in a tone of bitter agony. "If there be the smallest portion of humanity in your nature, you will leave me instantly. For the love of Heaven," she again repeated, "and of all that you hold dear, leave me! I am deceived and betrayed by him in whom I put all my earthly trust. Oh! my father, my brothers, if ye knew of this. But you will never know it: for I will never see you again. Never, never, never!"

The extreme agitation, the terror and outcries of the unfortunate girl, at once arrested Cressingham's progress, and brought several persons that were in the house around her; and by these last—Cressingham having sneaked off, without saying a word—it was judged advisable to send immediately for medical assistance, which was accordingly done. Nor was it unnecessary; for a strong fever had already seized on the poor young lady, and was rapidly exhausting her strength.

The medical gentleman sent for instantly attended, and ordered Miss Rutherford to be put to bed. He then prescribed for her as for one whose danger he considered imminent; and he was not mistaken. Deeply interested in the unfortunate girl, from whom he had learned a good deal of her melancholy story, the medical gentleman who had been called in did all that man could do to arrest the progress of the fatal disease under which she was labouring. Night and day he attended her, during her severe but brief illness, and not only employed his own skill to save her, but that of some of the most eminent of his professional brethren in the town, whom he brought to his assistance.

But all human efforts were vain. From hour to hour, the fever went on, increasing alarmingly, accompanied by a proportionable diminution of the poor patient's strength, until, at length, the awful and fatal crisis arrived. On the evening of the third day after her arrival in Calcutta, Fanny Rutherford breathed her last, surrounded with strangers, and in a foreign land.

But where was the master ruffian all this time? How was he employed, and how did he feel, while this dreadful and affecting scene was enacting? Why, he was giving himself very little concern about it, further than that which proceeded from his fears for his £5000.

He had indeed called two or three times at Fanny's lodgings during her illness, to inquire for her, and had even sent her some cordials—cordials, alas! of which she had never partaken—from his own house; but more than this he had not done, nor in any other way had he evinced the smallest sympathy for the unhappy victim of his villany.

Raeburn knew that Fanny's illness was of a dangerous nature—but he had no idea that it was to terminate as it did so soon; and it was under this mistaken impression that he and Cressingham called at Fanny's lodgings on the very evening on which she died, and, as it happened, within a few minutes after that melancholy event had taken place.

Having tapped gently at the door, which was slowly opened to him by the lodging-house-keeper herself—

"How is your patient to-night, lady?" he said, addressing the latter, smilingly.

"She is well, sir—she is well," replied the woman, in whom Fanny's gentle nature and hard fate—of which she, too, had gathered something during the unfortunate girl's fits of delirium—had excited a strong feeling of sympathy. "She is well!—she is well!" she said, wiping her eyes with her apron as she spoke. "She's in heaven, sir!"

"What!" exclaimed Raeburn, in a tone of voice startling from its hollowness, and becoming deadly pale; his mean and dastardly soul instantly sinking under the weight of guilt with which he felt this dreadful intelligence burdening it. "What! she's not dead?"

"But she is though," replied the woman; "and there's an avenging God above that will seek out and make a terror and example of those who have been the cause of this poor girl's death."

"What do you mean, woman?" said Raeburn, in an alarm which he could not conceal, and which the slightest allusion to his villany was now sufficient to excite to an overwhelming degree; "you do not mean to say that she died by violence?"

"I know what I know, Mr Raeburn," rejoined the lodging-house-keeper, "and that's all I have to say about the matter." And she turned into the house.

Having by no means any wish to renew the conversation, Raeburn availed himself of the opportunity presented by the woman's retiring into the house, to sneak off, which he did, and joined his friend Cressingham, who was waiting for him at a little distance.

"She's dead, Cressingham!—she's dead!" he said, in great agitation, as he approached the latter.

"Dead!" exclaimed Cressingham—"is it possible? Why, then, Harry, your £5000 are gone, and you have been a villain for nothing."

"A villain, did you say, Cressingham?" repeated Raeburn, his lips pale and quivering as he spoke.

"Yes; surely a villain—a double-dyed villain!" reiterated the former. "Did you ever imagine you were anything else? My share in the transaction is bad enough—I allow it; but it's nothing to yours, Raeburn—nothing; for I would assuredly have married the girl, if she would have had me. My conduct in the business was perhaps that of a profligate: but yours—yours, Raeburn—was unquestionably that," repeated Cressingham, coolly and considerately—"that of a double-dyed villain." Saying this, he turned on his heel and left him.

The instances just mentioned were the first and the only ones in which Raeburn had yet suffered the martyrdom of hearing the opinion of others of his conduct with regard to Miss Rutherford; but this was a species of torture to which he was now to be frequently exposed. On this very occasion, he had not proceeded twenty yards from the place where Cressingham had left him, when he encountered the medical gentleman who had been attending his victim. This person, conjecturing, from the direction whence Raeburn was coming, that he had been inquiring for his patient, accosted him, and asked him how she was.

Raeburn, it will readily be believed, would have gone fifty miles about—ay, even on his bare knees—rather than have exposed himself to this meeting; but it had taken place, and he now, therefore, endeavoured to suppress his agitation, and tried to look as composed as possible; and it was with this forced and affected calmness that he replied to the physician's inquiry, that his patient was dead.

"Dead!" said the kind-hearted man; "ah, poor girl! I knew it was at hand, but I thought she might have lived for at least twenty-four hours yet. Well, then," he went on, and now looking Raeburn sternly in the face, "since it is so, I will tell you, Mr Raeburn, my opinion of what your conduct has been in this most heartrending affair; for you are deeply implicated in it. My opinion, then, is, sir, that it has been most infamous, most atrocious; and, regarding yourself, sir, I certainly think you one of the most heartless ruffians that ever lived."

"Ruffian, sir!" repeated Raeburn, affecting to feel insulted, although he was quaking in every limb—"ruffian, sir! I shall have satisfaction for this, sir, you may depend upon it."

"Satisfaction, you scoundrel!" exclaimed Dr Henderson—the name of Fanny's medical attendant—"what right have you to satisfaction? Who would condescend to fight such a dastardly and disgraceful villain as you are? But, mark me, sir," he went on; "I know who the lady's friends are; and you may depend upon it, I shall not lose a moment in writing to inform them of everything connected with this shocking affair, and of your conduct towards the deceased. Take my word for that, sir. And, sir, not only will I do this, but I will inform every one I know of your conduct, until you are scouted from all society."

To this Raeburn made no other reply than by turning on his heel, and muttering the words, "Dr Henderson, you shall hear from me."

"Hear from you, you basest and most infamous of men!" said the doctor, looking with an expression of the most profound contempt and hatred after Raeburn, as he receded; "the less we hear of you or from you, the better for yourself, you ruffian."

Faithfully redeeming his pledge, Dr Henderson, on the following day, wrote to Fanny's father, whose address he had learned from her while attending her, and detailed all he knew—and this was nearly all that was to be known—regarding Raeburn's conduct to his daughter; for, although the latter had never accused Raeburn to him of ill-treatment, the doctor had, by connecting the broken hints which she had dropped from time to time, and especially by marking certain expressions which escaped her during her temporary fits of delirium, arrived at a knowledge of the whole truth. Having executed this part of his threat, Dr Henderson set diligently about the remaining portion, which was to give all the publicity he could to the story of Raeburn's infamy; and so successful was he in his efforts in this way, that he had the satisfaction in a very short time of seeing him shunned by all his acquaintances, and completely debarred from respectable society.

After Fanny's death, Raeburn had evinced a disposition to take an active part in her obsequies; and even expressed a willingness to defray the whole of the funeral charges. But this Dr Henderson would on no account permit. Neither would he suffer him to interfere in any way whatever with the funeral rites; the whole expense of which he insisted on paying out of his own pocket; and Raeburn knew too well the advantage the doctor possessed over him, to offer any resistance to these peremptory objections.

Thus stood matters, then, with Raeburn, and thus they remained for about eighteen months afterwards. He still, during all this time, continued in possession of his situation; but his superiors, who were well acquainted with the story of his villany to Miss Rutherford, were eagerly and anxiously watching for an opportunity to dismiss him. They did not feel that they would have been warranted in discharging him for his infamous conduct on the occasion alluded to, as it was a matter of which they had no right, officially, to take cognisance; but they had determined that the slightest dereliction of duty on his part should cost him his situation. Of this Raeburn was perfectly aware; and it required all his diligence, care, and attention, to avoid the visitation with which he was threatened. Such, we say, then, was the state of matters with Raeburn for about eighteen months after Fanny Rutherford's death. At the expiry of this period, however, that event occurred which winds up this tragic tale.

One evening, about nine o'clock, Raeburn was sitting solitary in his room, musing on the miseries to which his villany had subjected him, and no doubt indulging, as all villains do, in imaginary schemes of vengeance against his enemies, when a waiter from one of the hotels in town called, and said that a gentleman there desired to see him immediately on a matter of importance.

Raeburn, conceiving that it might be on some official business that he was wanted, instantly repaired to the hotel, and was ushered into the room where the person was who wished to see him.

That person kept his back towards Raeburn till he had fairly entered the apartment, and until the waiter who had shown him in had retired. This done, he suddenly rushed towards the door, snatching up at the same time one of a pair of pistols which lay on a table in the middle of the room, and having locked the door in the inside, he fiercely confronted Raeburn, who, horror-struck at the sight, instantly recognised, in the person before him, Edward Rutherford, the brother of the unfortunate Fanny.

"Do you know me, villain? Do you know me?" shouted out Edward, first seizing him by the breast, and then dashing him from him with a violence that sent him reeling to the farther end of the apartment. "Do you know the brother of Fanny Rutherford, murderer? Did you think, ruffian, that you were safe from my vengeance, because the half of the globe lay between us? If you did, you mistook Edward Rutherford. But I will waste no more words on you, villain! The shade of my murdered sister—murdered by the cruellest of all deaths—is calling aloud for retribution, and, in her name, I am here to demand it! Here, dastard!" he said, taking up the other pistol, and presenting it to Raeburn—"here, take this, and stand to me like a man; for I would not imbrue my hands in your filthy blood but upon equal terms. Although you but little deserve it, I will give you a chance for your life! Come, sir," he went on, Raeburn declining to take the pistol, "take it—take it; for, by the heaven above us, one or other of us, or both, must die; and your only chance is in opposing me; for, if you do not fire, I will! By all that's sacred, I will!" At this moment, Raeburn rushed to the window, with the view of calling for assistance; and one supplicatory cry, which, however, was unattended to, he did emit. But, ere he could fully effect his object, Edward had him by the throat, and, holding his pistol within a few inches of his head, threatened, if he stirred or repeated his outcry, that that moment should be his last.

Seeing the desperate situation in which he was placed, the trembling wretch now took the pistol from Rutherford's hand, being aware, as he had been told, that it was indeed his only chance for life.

The parties now took their stations, one at each end of the room, and confronted each other.

"Raise your weapon, Raeburn; raise your weapon!" exclaimed Rutherford, on observing that his antagonist was not proceeding to assume a hostile attitude. "Your not firing will not save you from mine. I give you fair warning!"

Raeburn elevated, and levelled his pistol.

"Are you ready?" said his terrible opponent.

"Yes," replied Raeburn, faintly.

"Then fire, villain!" exclaimed Rutherford; and both pistols went off at the same instant, but with very different effect. A retributive power had directed the fatal engines of destruction. Raeburn's bullet struck the wall wide of its mark, while Rutherford's passed through the heart of him at whom it was aimed, and he fell lifeless on the floor.

Rutherford threw himself on his knees, and holding aloft the still reeking weapon of death, thanked Heaven that he had been permitted to be the avenger of his sister's wrongs.

The house in which this dreadful scene took place was a large one, and the apartment, especially selected on that account by Rutherford, was a remote one; so that the firing was not heard by any of the inmates—at least not so distinctly as to inform them that it was the noise of firearms. No one, therefore, appeared to interrupt the escape which Rutherford now meditated, and lost no time in effecting. He left the apartment, and, unheeded by any one, descended the great staircase which led to it and to others, and fled from the house.

Although, however, Rutherford effected his escape in safety, the transaction which rendered his flight necessary did not long remain unknown. It came to the ears of justice, and she uncoupled her bloodhounds after the offender; but, as the whole circumstances of the case gradually transpired, it is supposed that the pursuit was neither a very eager nor a very willing one. Certain it is, at any rate, that Rutherford could nowhere be found, although it is equally certain that several persons knew very well where he was for nearly two months after the death of Raeburn.

To these it was known that, immediately after the fatal occurrence in the hotel, a person closely wrapped up in a travelling-cloak called at Dr Henderson's, and desired to have a private interview with the doctor. When that gentleman entered the apartment into which the stranger had been shown, the latter announced himself to be Edward Rutherford, the brother of Fanny Rutherford, with whose melancholy story he said the doctor was so well acquainted.

"The brother of poor Fanny!" said the doctor, in amazement, and at the same time taking his visiter kindly by the hand. "I am happy to see you, sir, on your poor unfortunate sister's account. Did you come with the ship that arrived from England to-day, sir?"

"I did, sir," replied Edward.

"And pray, my dear sir," said the doctor, "if it be not an impertinent question—I assure you it is put with the most friendly intentions—what may be your purpose and views in coming out to India?"

"Vengeance, doctor! vengeance!" replied Rutherford, fiercely, "was my sole object—and I have already had it."

"Raeburn!" exclaimed the doctor, eagerly.

"Yes, sir, Raeburn is no more—his villanous career is ended. I have killed the ruffian; but, thank God! I killed him in fair fight. Villain as he was, I took no advantage of him, farther than compelling him to fight me." Edward then went on to detail the whole proceedings connected with the duel in the hotel.

When he had concluded—

"On my word, sir," said Dr Henderson, smiling—he could not help it—"you have made quick work of it indeed; and I assure you, I for one am not sorry that the villain has met with his deserts. But we must now care for your safety, Mr Rutherford, from the vengeance of the laws," added the doctor; "although I do not see how they can be very severe in such a case as this. Yet it will be as well for you to keep out of harm's way for a little. You must remain for some time in concealment; and a fitter or more secure place than I shall provide for you in my house here, you could not readily find anywhere; and I must insist on your availing yourself of it."

Edward did not know how to express the gratitude he felt for the singular and most disinterested kindness of his worthy host. He was, in truth, too strongly impressed with it to be able to acknowledge it otherwise than by a few broken sentences; but there was in these, and still more in the manner in which they were spoken, enough to show Dr Henderson that his friendly conduct was properly appreciated.

"Nothing at all, my dear sir!—nothing at all!" said the doctor, in reply to Edward's attempts at acknowledgment of the generous part he was acting towards him. "I'm very sure you would do the same for me, were I placed in your situation. You have, besides, Mr Rutherford—although, perhaps, a strict morality might question your right to the step you have taken—you have, I say, notwithstanding this, a claim on the friendly services of every man who can feel for the wrongs of another, especially—most especially—such grievous wrongs as yours. It was a just, and, on the part of him who has suffered, a well-merited retribution."

Edward was shortly afterwards introduced into the place of concealment—a comfortable little apartment, which had been prepared for him by the kindness of the worthy doctor; and here he remained for about seven weeks, experiencing every kindness and attention from his benevolent host, when he was secretly conveyed on board of a ship about to sail for London, where he arrived in safety, at the expiry of somewhere about the usual period occupied in such a voyage.

On his return home, Edward found his father at the point of death. The fate of his unfortunate daughter was hurrying him to the grave. Edward had not told him what was his object in going out to India; but the old man had guessed it, and had made several ineffectual attempts to dissuade him from his purpose. On the former now approaching his bedside, therefore, "Thank God!'" he said, stretching out his hand to Edward, "that I see you safe again, my son;" and added—afraid to be more particular in his inquiries—"have you seen Raeburn?"

"I have, father," was the only reply of his son; but it was said in a manner, and accompanied by a look, which assured him of what had taken place.

"I cannot approve, Edward, of what you have done," said his father; "but God will forgive you!"

They were the last words he spoke; and Raeburn's villany boasted yet another victim.