CXXIII. ARISTOCRATIC MORALS…

CXXIII. ARISTOCRATIC MORALS

It was still dark, though past seven o'clock, on the morning which succeeded the fire, when a somewhat strange scene occurred at the house of Sir Rupert Harborough in Tavistock Square.

The baronet, in his slippers and dressing-gown, cautiously descended the stairs, guiding himself with his left hand placed upon the balustrade, and conducting a young female with his right.

They maintained a profound silence, and stole down so carefully that it was easy to perceive they were fearful of alarming the household.

But while he was still descending the stairs, leading the young female, who was fully dressed even to her bonnet and shawl, the following thoughts passed rapidly through the mind of the baronet.

"After all, it is absurd for me to take this trouble to get my new mistress secretly out of the house. Why should she not walk boldly in and out, night or day, I wonder? 'Pon my honour, I have a great mind that she should! But, no--whatever agreement exists between me and Lady Cecilia, a certain degree of decency must be observed before the servants, and for the sake of one's character with the neighbours. After all, prudence is perhaps the best system."

His thoughts were at this moment interrupted by steps upon the stairs, which evidently were not the echoes of those of himself and his paramour.

He paused and listened.

Those steps were descending with great apparent caution, and yet a little more heavily than was quite consistent with entire secrecy.

The baronet led his mistress hastily after him, crossed the hall, and then drew her along with him into an obscure corner near the front-door.

"Silence, Caroline--silence," he whispered: "it is most likely the housemaid."

The baronet and his mistress accordingly remained as quiet as mice in the corner where they were concealed.

Meantime the steps gradually drew nearer and nearer; and now and then a low and suppressed whisper on the stairs met the baronet's ears.

A vague suspicion that some adventure, which those who were interested in it were anxious to conduct with as much secrecy as possible, was in progress, now entered the mind of Sir Rupert Harborough. He accordingly became all attention.

And now the steps ceased to echo upon the stairs, but advanced towards the front door.

The hall was pitch-dark; but the baronet was satisfied that two persons--a male and female--were the actors in the proceeding which now interested him; and all doubt on this head was banished from his mind when they halted within a few feet of the corner where he and his mistress were concealed.

Then the whispering between the two persons whose conduct he was watching re-commenced.

"Farewell, dearest Cecilia," said the low and subdued voice of a man.

"Farewell, beloved Fitzhardinge," answered another voice, with whose intonation, in spite of the whisper in which it spoke, the baronet was full well acquainted.

Then there was the billing murmur of kisses, which continued for some moments.

"When shall we meet again, dearest?" demanded Fitzhardinge, still in the same low tone.

"To-night--at the usual hour I will admit you," returned Lady Cecilia. "Sir Rupert goes to France to-night with his splendid friend Chichester."

"Thank heaven for that blessing!" said the Grenadier Guardsman. "And now, adieu, sweet Cecilia, until this evening! But, tell me, before I depart--shall I always find you the same warm, loving, devoted, fond creature you now are?"

"Always--always to you," was the murmuring reply.

Then kisses were exchanged again.

"And am I indeed the first whom you have ever really loved? am I the only one who has ever tasted the pleasures of heaven in your arms, save your husband?" continued the officer, intoxicated with the reminiscences of the night of bliss which he had enjoyed with his paramour: "Oh! tell me so once again--only once!"

"You know that you alone could have tempted me to weakness, Fitzhardinge," answered the fair, but guilty patrician lady: "you alone could have induced me to forget my marriage vows!"

"Now I shall depart happy, my beloved Cecilia," said the officer; and again he imprinted burning kisses upon the lady's lips.

He then turned towards the front-door, and endeavoured to remove the chain: but it had become entangled with the key in some way or another; and he could not detach it.

"What is the matter?" inquired Cecilia, anxiously.

"This infernal chain is fast," answered the officer; "and all I can do will not move it."

"Let me try," said the lady; but her attempt was as vain as that of her lover.

"What is to be done?" asked Fitzhardinge.

"God knows!" returned Cecilia; "and it is growing late! In half-an-hour it will be day-light. Besides, the servants will be about presently."

"The devil!" said the officer, impatiently.

"Stay," whispered Lady Cecilia: "I will go to the kitchen and obtain a light. Do not move from this spot: I will not be a moment."

She then glided away; and the officer remained at his post as motionless and as silent as a statue, for fear of alarming the inmates of the house. His thoughts were not, however, of the most pleasureable kind; and during the two minutes that Lady Cecilia was absent, his mind rapidly pictured all the probable consequences of detection--exposure, ridicule, law-suit, damages, the Queen's Bench prison, the divorce of the lady, and the necessity under which he should labour of making her his own wife.

This gloomy perspective was suddenly enlivened by the gleam of a candle at the further end of the hall, and which was immediately followed by the appearance of Lady Cecilia, with the light.

Still the corner in which Sir Rupert and his paramour were concealed was veiled in obscurity; while the baronet obtained a full view of the tall Guardsman, dressed in plain clothes, standing within a couple of yards of his hiding-place, and also of Lady Cecilia, attired in a loose dressing-gown, as she advanced rapidly towards the place where her lover awaited her.

But when Cecilia reached the immediate vicinity of the front door, the gleam of the candle fell upon that nook which had hitherto remained buried in obscurity.

A scream escaped the lady's lips, and the candle fell from her hands.

Fortunately it was not extinguished: Sir Rupert rushed forward and caught it up in time to preserve the light.

Then, at a single glance, those four persons became aware of each other's position.

A loud laugh escaped the lips of the baronet.

"Sir," said the officer, advancing towards him, "for all our sakes avoid exposure; but if you require any satisfaction at my hands, you know who I am and where I reside."

"Satisfaction!" exclaimed Lady Cecilia, ironically; for she had recovered her presence of mind the moment she had perceived the equivocal position in which her husband himself was placed in respect to the female who stood quivering and quaking behind him: "what satisfaction can Sir Rupert Harborough require, when he admits such a creature as that into his house?"

And she pointed with a disdain and a disgust by no means affected, towards her husband's paramour.

"Creature indeed!" cried the young woman, now irritated and excited in her turn: "I think I am as honest as you, my lady, at all events."

"Wretch!" murmured Cecilia between her teeth, as if the sight of the creature filled her with abhorrence and loathing.

Ah! haughty lady! thou couldst thyself sin through lust: but thou couldst not brook the sight of one who sinned for bread!

The young woman, over-awed by the air of insuperable disgust which marked the proud patrician at that moment, recoiled from her presence and burst into tears.

"Come, enough of this folly," said Sir Rupert, impatiently: "we shall have the servants here in a moment. Perhaps you and this gentleman," he continued, "will step into that room for a moment, while I open the door for my little companion here."

Lady Cecilia tossed her head disdainfully, darted a look of sovereign contempt upon the abashed Caroline, and beckoned Captain Fitzhardinge to follow her into the adjacent parlour.

Sir Rupert retained the light. He opened the door, the chain of which had only become entangled round the key, and dismissed his paramour, who was delighted to escape from that house where the terrible looks of the lady had so disconcerted her.

The baronet then repaired to the parlour, and, having locked the door to prevent the intrusion of the servants, threw himself upon the sofa.

"Well, on my honour!" he exclaimed, bursting into a loud fit of laughter, "this is one of the most pleasant adventures that ever I heard or read of--'pon my honour!"

"Have you requested me to wait here in order to contribute to your hilarity, sir?" demanded Captain Fitzhardinge, indignantly.

"My dear fellow," returned the baronet, "let us laugh in concert! Oh! I can assure you that you need fear no law-suits nor pistols from me!"

"Fear, sir!" ejaculated the Guardsman: "I do not understand the word."

"Well--expect, then, if that will suit you better, my dear captain," continued Sir Rupert Harborough. "You see that my wife and myself act as we please, independently of each other."

"Sir Rupert!" exclaimed Cecilia, who was by no means anxious that her lover should be made acquainted with the terms of the agreement into which she and her husband had entered a short time previously, and the nature of which the reader will remember.

"My dear Cecilia," observed the baronet, "is it not much better that your friend should be made acquainted with the grounds on which you have admitted him as your sworn knight and only love?"

"Cease this bantering, sir," cried Captain Fitzhardinge. "Have I not already said that I am willing to give you any satisfaction which you may require?"

"And must I again tell you, my dear fellow," returned the baronet, with an affectation of familiarity, which only made his words the more bitter,--"must I again tell you that I require no satisfaction--that I have none to ask, and you none to give? But I cannot allow you to consider me a grovelling coward:--I must explain to you the grounds on which my forbearance is based."

"Proceed, sir," said Captain Fitzhardinge, coolly.

"You will then allow me to retire to my own room?" exclaimed Lady Cecilia, rising from the chair in which she had thrown herself.

"No, my dear," said the baronet, gently forcing her back into her seat: "you must remain to corroborate the truth of what I am about to state to this gentleman."

Lady Cecilia resumed the chair from which she had risen, and made no reply.

"In one word, Captain Fitzhardinge," continued the baronet, "there is a mutual understanding between my wife and myself, that we shall follow our own inclinations, whims, and caprices, without reference to the ties which bind us, or the vows which we pledged at church some years ago. All this may seem very strange: it is nevertheless true. Therefore, I have no more right to quarrel with Lady Cecilia on your account, than she has to abuse me on account of that young person whom you saw in the house just now. Now, then, my dear captain," continued the baronet, his tone again becoming bitterly ironical, "you may at your ease congratulate yourself upon being the only person that Lady Cecilia has ever loved, and the only one on whom she has ever bestowed her favours with the exception of her husband."

"Then I am to understand, sir," said the officer, perfectly astounded at the turn which the affair had taken, "that you do not consider yourself offended or aggrieved by the--the----"

"Not a whit!" ejaculated the baronet. "On the contrary--I have no doubt we shall be excellent friends in future."

The captain bowed, and rose to depart.

Sir Rupert unlocked and opened the door for him, and then ushered him, with affected politeness, out of the house.

When he returned to the parlour, he found Lady Cecilia red with indignation.

"What means this scene, Sir Rupert," she said, "after our mutual compact?"

"My dear," answered the baronet, calmly, "you treated my little friend in a most unpleasant manner, and I thought myself justified in retaliating to a certain extent. Besides, I was compelled to give an explanation to a man who would have otherwise looked upon me as a coward for failing to demand satisfaction of him."

"But did you not consider that you have rendered me contemptible in his eyes?" demanded Lady Cecilia, bursting with spite.

"Never fear," said the baronet. "Confiding in your sweet assurances that he alone has ever possessed your love, and that he alone, save your husband, has ever been blest with the proofs of that affection, he will return ere long to your arms. Besides, am I not going to France to-night with my splendid friend Chichester?"

"This is cruel, Sir Rupert. If an accident made you acquainted with the conversation which passed between us----"

"An accident indeed!" interrupted Sir Rupert Harborough, laughing affectedly. "'Pon my honour, the entire adventure was one of the drollest that ever occurred! But let us say no more upon the subject! Adhere to the compact on your side, and insult not my friends----"

"But a prostitute in my house!" ejaculated Lady Cecilia, still loathing the idea.

"And my wife's paramour in my house!" cried Sir Rupert.

"Oh! there is something refined in an amour with one's equal," said Lady Cecilia: "but a wretch of that description----"

"Enough of this!" cried the baronet. "The servants are already about: let us each retire to our own rooms."

And this suggestion was immediately adopted.

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CXXIV. THE INTRIGUES OF A DEMIREP

Lady Cecilia retired to her own chamber, locked the door, threw herself upon the bed, and burst into tears.

Oh! at that moment how the hated her husband;--how she hated herself!

She wept not in regret of her evil ways: she poured forth tears of spite when she thought of the opinion that her new lover must form of her, after the explanation given by Sir Rupert.

For Captain Fitzhardinge was rich and confiding; and the fair patrician had calculated upon rendering him subservient alike to her necessities and her licentiousness.

But, now--what must he think of one who bestowed upon him those favours that were alienated from her husband by a formal compact? What opinion could he entertain of a woman who sinned deliberately by virtue of an understanding with him whom she had sworn to respect and obey?

It could not be supposed that the morality of Captain Fitzhardinge was of a very elevated nature: but in the occurrence of that morning there was something calculated to shock the mind the least delicate--the least refined.

Yea--Lady Cecilia wept; for she thought of all this!

And then her rage against her husband knew no bounds.

"The wretch--the cowardly wretch!" she exclaimed aloud, as she almost gnashed her teeth with rage: "was he not born to be my ruin? From the moment that I saw him first until the present hour, has he not been an evil genius in my way? Yes--oh! yes: he is a demon sent to torture me in this world for my faults and failings! Seduced by him when I was very young, I might have been plunged into disgrace and infamy, had not my father purchased his consent to espouse me. Then the large sum that was paid to save my honour was squandered in the payment of his debts, or in ministering to his extravagances. Now, what is our position? what is my position? Shunned by my own father and mother, I am left dependent on him who knows not how to obtain enough for himself; or else I--I, the daughter of a peer, must sell myself to some Mr. Greenwood or Captain Fitzhardinge for the means to support my rank! Oh! it is atrocious: I begin to loathe myself! Would that I were the mistress of some wealthy man who would be constant and kind towards me, rather than the wife of this beggared baronet!"

Lady Cecilia rose from the bed, advanced towards the mirror, and smoothed her hair. Then she perceived that her eyes were red with weeping.

"Absurd!" she exclaimed, a contemptuous smile curling her lips: "why should I shed tears upon the past which no human power can recall? Rather let me avail myself of the present, and endeavour to provide for the future. Am I not young? and does not my glass tell me that I am beautiful? Even the immaculate--the taintless--the exemplary rector of Saint David's paid me a compliment on my good looks when I met him at Lady Marlborough's, a few days ago. Yes--and methought that if the most evangelical of evangelical clergymen of the Established Church could for a moment be moved by my smile,--if that admired preacher, who publicly avows that he refrains from marriage upon principle,--if that holy minister who is quoted as a pattern to his class, and an example for the whole world,--if he could whisper a word savouring of a compliment in my ear, and then seem ashamed of the moment of weakness into which his admiration had betrayed him;--if my charms could effect so great a miracle as this, what may they not do for me in helping me on to fortune?"

She paused and considered herself for some minutes in the glass opposite to her.

"Yes," she cried, again breaking silence, "I will no longer remain in the same house with my unprincipled and heartless husband: I will no longer breathe the tainted atmosphere which he inhabits. His very name is associated in my mind with forgery and felony! I will break the shackle which yet partially binds me to him; I will emancipate myself from the restraint and thraldom wherein I now exist. Fitzhardinge is rich and loving: perhaps he may still feel the influence of the silken chain which I threw around his heart. We will see! If he come gladly back to my feet, my aim is won: if not--well,"--and she smiled, complacently,--"there are others as rich, as handsome, and as easily enchained as he!"

Lady Cecilia proceeded to her desk and wrote the following note:--

"Come to me, dearest Fitzhardinge, at three precisely this afternoon: I have much to say respecting the specious falsehoods which Sir Rupert uttered this morning in order to conceal the natural cowardice of his disposition. He was afraid to involve himself in a quarrel with you; and he excused his unmanly forbearance by means of assertions that reflected upon me. Come, then, to me at three: I shall be alone, and at home only to you."

This note was immediately conveyed to Captain Fitzhardinge by Cecilia's lady's-maid, who was the confidant of her mistress's intrigues.

Having despatched her missive, the baronet's wife proceeded to the duties of the toilet.

This employment, breakfast, the newspaper, and a novel, wiled away the time until about one o'clock, when Lady Cecilia, having ascertained that her husband had gone out half an hour previously, descended to the drawing-room.

She was attired in a simple and unpretending manner; but then she knew that this style became her best.

She was determined to captivate that day; and certainly she had seldom appeared to greater advantage.

Her rich auburn hair,--of a hue as warm as the disposition which it characterised,--fell in long hyperion ringlets upon her sloping shoulders: her blue eyes were expressive of a feeling of languid voluptuousness; and her pure complexion was set off by the dark dress that she wore.

The time-piece upon the mantel had scarcely struck two, when a loud double-knock at the front-door resounded through the house.

Lady Cecilia started from her seat, for she had forgotten to instruct the servants "that she was only at home to Captain Fitzhardinge." But she was too late to remedy her neglect; the summons was already answered ere she had gained the landing on which the drawing-room opened.

She accordingly returned to the sofa, and composed herself to receive the visitor, whoever it might be.

In a few moments the servant announced the Earl of Warrington.

With this nobleman Lady Cecilia was only very slightly acquainted, she having met him on two or three occasions, some years previously, at her father's house.

"I must apologise, Lady Harborough, for this intrusion," said the earl; "but I trust to your kindness to pardon me in that respect, and to afford me a little information concerning a matter which has suddenly assumed an air of importance in my eyes."

"No apology is necessary for the honour which your lordship confers upon me by visiting my humble abode," answered Lady Cecilia; "and with regard to the subject to which your lordship alludes, I shall be happy to furnish any information in my power."

"Your ladyship's courtesy encourages me to proceed," continued the earl. "Forgive me if I must direct your attention to one of those pieces of gossip--I will not say scandal--which so often become current in the sphere in which we move. I allude to an anecdote relative to a certain mysterious remittance of a thousand pounds which was forwarded to Sir Rupert Harborough, and which your ladyship undertook to disburse for his advantage."

"Your lordship places the matter in as delicate a light as possible," said Lady Cecilia, affecting to laugh heartily in order to conceal the shame which she really experienced at this reference to her unworthy action; "but it was only a pleasant trick which I played Sir Rupert. The truth is, Sir Rupert is not the most generous of men towards his wife; and when I found that some honourable person was repaying him a debt contracted a long time previously, I thought that, as the amount fell so providentially into my hands, I could not do better than appropriate it to the liquidation of the arrears of pin-money due to me."

"Very just, madam," said the earl, forcing himself to smile at the incident which Lady Cecilia represented in the light of a venial little advantage taken by a wife against her husband. "I believe that the amount was forwarded anonymously?"

"To tell you the candid truth, my lord," answered Lady Cecilia, "the whole affair was so strange and romantic, that I kept, as a great curiosity, the letter which accompanied the bank-note. If you possess any interest in the matter----"

"Your ladyship knows that I am not seeking this information without some object," said the earl, emphatically. "Would it be indiscreet," he added, in a less serious tone, "to request a glimpse at that great curiosity?"

"Oh! by no means," returned Lady Cecilia, who affected to treat the whole matter as an excellent joke; then, rising from her seat, she hastened to her work-box, and in a few moments produced the letter. "It was not so scented with musk when I received it," she added, laughing; "but it was redolent of a far more grateful flavour--that of this world's mammon."

"I believe mammon is the deity whom we all more or less adore," observed the Earl of Warrington, gallantly taking up the tone of chit-chat, rather than formality, which Lady Cecilia endeavoured to infuse into the conversation: then, as he received the letter from her hand, he said, "May I be permitted to read it?"

"Oh! certainly, my lord: and, if you have any curiosity in the matter, you are welcome to retain it," answered Lady Cecilia.

"With your leave I will do so," said the earl.

"And now that I have replied to all your lordship's queries," continued Lady Cecilia, "may I ask one in my turn?"

The earl bowed, and smiled.

"Who was the indiscreet eave's-dropper or tale-bearer that gave your lordship the hint concerning this business?" asked the baronet's wife.

"Methinks that your ladyship has been at no pains to conceal the affair," said the earl: "and what hundreds have talked about cannot well be charged against an individual tale-bearer."

"Nay, my lord, I mentioned it but to two persons," exclaimed Cecilia; "the first was to Sir Rupert Harborough--in a moment of pique; and the other was to a--a--particular friend----"

"I am not indiscreet enough to ask for names," interrupted the earl, rising; and he hastened to take his leave, ere Lady Cecilia could reiterate her question relative to the person who had communicated to him the fact of the intercepted thousand pounds.

It was now nearly three o'clock; and Lady Cecilia again composed herself to receive Captain Fitzhardinge.

Punctual to the hour, that officer was introduced into the drawing-room.

But his manner, instead of being all love and tenderness, was simply polite and friendly.

"Fitzhardinge," said the lady, "I perceive that you have allowed yourself to be prejudiced against me."

"Not prejudiced, Lady Cecilia," answered the guardsman; "but I confess that I am no longer under the influence of a blind passion. The conduct of your husband this morning was that of a man who was acting consistently with the circumstances which he explained, and not that of an individual who was playing a part in order to disguise the innate cowardice of his disposition. No, Cecilia--your husband is not a coward--whatever else he may be! And now one word relative to myself. So long as I believed that you made to me, as a proof of love, the generous sacrifice of conjugal fidelity,--so long as I believed that an affection for me alone induced you to violate your marriage-vow,--then the dream was sweet, though not the less criminal! But when I discovered that you made no sacrifice to me,--that you came not to my arms warm with a love that trembled at detection, but secure in the existence of a heartless compact with your husband,--then my eyes were opened, and I saw that Lady Cecilia Harborough had risked nothing of all that she had pretended to risk--sacrificed nothing of all that she had affected to sacrifice--for the sake of Captain Fitzhardinge! Thus the delusion was destroyed; and although our amour might be based upon more impunity than I had ever conceived, it would be the less sweet! The charm--the spell is broken!"

"And have you come here to tell me all this--to insult me with your moralisings?" demanded Lady Cecilia, the fire of indignation and wounded pride displacing the languid voluptuousness which had at first reigned in the expression of her eyes.

"No! not to insult you, Cecilia," answered the officer; "but to explain in an open and candid manner the motive which leads me to say: 'Let us forget the past, as it regards each other!'"

"Be it so," said Lady Cecilia, deeply humiliated, and now hating the handsome officer much more than she had ever liked him. "In that case, sir, we can have nothing more to say to each other."

Captain Fitzhardinge bowed, and withdrew.

Lady Cecilia fell back upon the sofa, murmuring, "Beaten--beaten! defeated in this hope!"

And tears came into her eyes.

But in a few moments she exclaimed, "How foolish is this grief! how useless this indignation! Sorrow and hatred are the consuming enemies of female beauty! Did I not say ere now that there were others in the world as rich, as handsome, and as confiding as Captain Fitzhardinge?"

As she uttered these words aloud, the haughty beauty wiped her eyes and composed her countenance.

She rose and advanced towards the mirror to assure herself that her appearance indicated naught of those tears which she had shed; and as she contemplated her features with a very pardonable pride, the reminiscence of the compliment which the clergyman of Saint David's had paid her flashed to her mind.

She smiled triumphantly as she pondered upon it; and that vague, shadowy, unsubstantial phrase of flattery, that now formed the topic of her thoughts, gradually assumed a more palpable shape in her imagination,--became invested with a significant meaning,--then grew into a revelation of passion,--and was at length embodied into a perfect romance of love with all its enjoyments and blisses.

The ardent soul of that frail woman converted the immaculate clergyman into an admirer betrayed in an unguarded moment into a confession of love,--then changed him into a suitor kneeling at her feet,--and by rapid degrees carried him on, through all the mystic phases of passion, until he became a happy lover reclining on her bosom.

With a presumption which only characterises minds of her warm temperament and loose ideas of morality, Cecilia triumphed in the half-hour's impassioned reverie which succeeded the departure of Captain Fitzhardinge, over the ascetic virtue and self-denying integrity which public opinion ascribed to the rector of Saint David's.

Then, when some trifling incident aroused her from this wild and romantic dream, she did not smile at its folly--she regarded it as a species of inspiration prompting her in which direction to play the artillery of her charms.

"Yes," she exclaimed, musing aloud; "he once said, 'I never saw you look so well as you appear this evening:'--these words shall be a motto to a new chapter in my life!"

And she smiled triumphantly as if her daring aim were already accomplished!

"Thirty-six years of age," she abruptly resumed her musings,--"wealthy--handsome--unmarried, from principle,"--and here an erratic smile of mingled satisfaction and irony played on her rosy lips,--"and yet fond of society, the Reverend Reginald Tracy must no longer be permitted to remain proof against woman's beauty--aye, and woman's wiles. Oh! no--he shall repeat to me, but far more tenderly, the words he uttered the other evening: his passing compliment shall become a permanent expression of his sentiments! But his character--his disposition? must I not study them? If that be necessary, the task is ready to hand!"

She rose from the sofa, and having selected an ecclesiastical magazine from some books that stood upon a cheffonier, returned to her seat to peruse at leisure a sketch which the work contained of the character, ministry, and popularity of the rector of Saint David's.

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CXXV. THE RECONCILIATION

In the meantime the Earl of Warrington drove to the hotel in Dover Street, where Diana Arlington lay; and, upon inquiry, he ascertained that a nurse and the medical attendant were with her.

He desired to be conducted to a private room, and then despatched the waiter to request the professional gentleman to step thither for a few moments.

"What name shall I say, sir?" asked the servant, who was unacquainted with the earl's person.

"It is needless to mention any name," replied the nobleman; "I shall not detain the gentleman five minutes."

The servant disappeared, and in a few moments returned, followed by the medical attendant.

The waiter introduced him into the apartment, and then withdrew.

"I believe, sir," said the earl, "that you are attending upon the lady who experienced so severe an accident last night?"

"I was by chance passing through Dover Street when the flames burst forth," was the reply: "and I gave an immediate alarm to the police. I remained upon the spot to ascertain if my professional services could be rendered available; and it was well that I did so."

"The lady then is much injured?" said the earl, in a tone expressive of emotion.

"Seriously injured," answered the surgeon; "and as I live at some distance from this neighbourhood, I considered it proper to remain with the patient all night. Indeed, I have not left her for a moment since the accident occurred."

"Your attention shall be nobly recompensed, sir," said the earl. "Here is my card, and I am your debtor."

The surgeon bowed low as his eye glanced upon the name of the individual in whose presence he stood.

"And now," continued the nobleman, "answer me one question--candidly and sincerely. Will your patient be scarred by the effects of the fire?"

"My lord, that is more than I can answer for," returned the surgeon. "Fortunately, medical assistance was rendered the moment after the accident occurred; and this circumstance should inspire great hope!"

"Then I will hope," said the earl. "How long an interval do you imagine must elapse ere she may be pronounced convalescent? Or rather, I should have asked, is she in any positive danger?"

"There is always danger--great danger in these cases, my lord. But, should the fever subside in a few days, I should recommend the removal of the patient to some quiet neighbourhood--afar from the bustle of the West End."

"You said that you yourself resided some distance from hence?" observed the earl, after a few moments' reflection.

"My abode is in Lower Holloway, my lord," answered the surgeon; "and my name is Wentworth."

"Holloway is quiet and retired," said the earl; "but is not the air too bleak there at this season?"

"It is pure and wholesome, my lord; and the spot is tranquil, and devoid of the bustle of crowds and the din of carriages."

"Wherever Mrs. Arlington may remain until her recovery," said the Earl, "she must receive all the attentions which can be lavished upon her; and in nothing must she be thwarted where gold can procure her the gratification of her wishes."

"I would offer to place my house at the lady's disposal, my lord--and the attention of Mrs. Wentworth would be unremitting--but----"

"Name the obstacle," said the earl. "Perhaps you consider that the position of the lady with regard to myself,--a position the nature of which you may have divined,--is somewhat too equivocal to permit your wife----"

"No, my lord; medical men have no scruples of that kind. I hesitated because I feared that my abode would be too humble----"

"Then let that obstacle vanish this moment," interrupted the earl. "It is my wish that Mrs. Arlington should be removed to your house so soon as the step can be taken with safety to herself: you will then devote yourself to her cure; and on you I place my reliance. I have been unjust to her, Mr Wentworth," continued the nobleman, pressing the surgeon's hand, and speaking in a low but hurried tone,--"I have been unjust to her--but I will make her ample reparation--that is, provided you can preserve her beauty,--for we are all mortal--and I confess to a weakness,--but no matter! Say--you will do your best!"

"My lord, I am poor, and struggling with the world," answered the surgeon, "and, I may say without vanity--because I possess certificates from eminent medical men under whom I have studied--that I am not ignorant of my profession. My lord, I have every inducement to devote all the knowledge I possess to the aim which you desire. My attentions shall be unwearied and unremitting; and if I succeed----"

"If you succeed in restoring her to me in that perfection of beauty which invested her when I took leave of her yesterday,--without a mark, without a scar,--your fortune shall be my care, and you will have no need to entertain anxiety relative to the future, with the Earl of Warrington as your patron."

"At present, my lord, all I can say is--I will do my best," rejoined Mr. Wentworth.

"And at present I can ask no more," exclaimed the earl: then, after a moment's pause, he said, "May I be allowed to see your patient for a few moments?"

The surgeon hesitated.

"I know why you dislike this proposal," observed the nobleman: "you are afraid that, when I contemplate the altered countenance of that woman who was lately so beautiful, I shall despair of her complete cure."

"Such is, indeed, my impression," answered Mr. Wentworth. "Those symptoms and appearances which are most alarming to persons unacquainted with the medical art, are frequently the least causes of alarm to the professional man."

"Then let me speak to her, and not see her," said the earl.

"I understand your lordship: in a few minutes I will return."

And the surgeon withdrew.

During his absence the earl paced the room in an agitated and excited manner, which was quite inconsistent with the usual equanimity and even gravity of his temperament.

Ten minutes had elapsed when the surgeon came back.

"Will your lordship follow me?"

Mr. Wentworth led the way to the chamber in which Diana Arlington lay.

The shutters were closed, and the curtains were drawn around the bed: the room was nearly dark, a few straggling gleams of light alone forcing their way through the chinks in the shutters.

When the earl entered the apartment, the surgeon remained in the passage outside: the nurse had already been directed to retire for a short time.

The nobleman approached the bed, and seating himself in a chair by the side, said, "Diana, can you forgive me for my cruelty of yesterday?"

"I never entertained a feeling of resentment, my lord, and therefore have nothing to forgive," was the answer, delivered in a low and plaintive tone.

"I did you a serious wrong, Diana," continued the earl; "but I am not too proud to confess my error. I trembled at the idea of ridicule: hence the hastiness of my conduct. And then, there was a suspicion in my mind--a suspicion which made me uneasy, very uneasy--but which is now dispelled. I have read your letter which accompanied the bank-note addressed to Sir Rupert Harborough; and I am satisfied in respect to the integrity--nay, the generosity of your motives."

"It was kind of you, my lord, to take the steps necessary to reinstate me in your good opinion," murmured Diana from her couch, in a tone evidently subdued by deep emotion.

"There was no kindness in the performance of an act of justice," returned the earl. "When I read in this morning's newspaper the sad account of that terrible accident of last night, my heart smote me for my conduct towards you. Then I reflected upon all the happiness which I had enjoyed in your society, and I was moved--deeply, profoundly moved! I despatched a servant to this hotel to inquire if you were really so seriously injured as the journal represented; and he brought me back word that your life was no longer in positive danger, but----"

"But that I shall be a hideous object for the remainder of my days," added Diana, with somewhat of bitterness in her manner.

"God forbid!" cried the earl, energetically: "Mr. Wentworth seems to promise----"

"Alas! the medical art prompts its professors to console the mind in order to heal the body; but I am not foolish enough to yield to a hope so baseless!"

These words were uttered in a tone of the most profound melancholy.

"Diana, you must hope," exclaimed the Earl of Warrington: "you will recover--yes, you will recover; and even if a slight trace of this accident----"

"A slight trace!" almost screamed Diana--and the earl could hear her roll herself convulsively over on her pillow: "a slight trace, my lord! I shall be disfigured for life: nothing can save me! My countenance will be seared as with a red-hot-iron--my neck will be covered with deep scars--my arms, my entire body will be furrowed with crimson and purple marks! O God! it is hard to suffer thus!"

And then she burst into an agonising flood of tears.

The earl allowed her to weep without interruption: he knew that her mind would be relieved by that outpouring of feeling.

And he was right: in a few minutes she said, "Pardon me--I am weak, I am foolish. And now proceed to tell me how you became possessed of that note which I sent with the money to Sir Rupert Harborough."

The Earl of Warrington then related the particulars of his interview with Lady Cecilia.

"And now that I have done an act of justice, and convinced myself of the purity of the motives which induced you to act in the manner that created my displeasure," continued the earl, "let us talk of yourself. I have made arrangements with Mr. Wentworth which, I hope, will meet your approval and conduce to your benefit. When you can be removed with safety, you shall be conveyed from the bustle of an hotel in a crowded neighbourhood to the tranquil retirement of Mr. Wentworth's abode at Holloway. I am induced to place reliance upon the skill and talent of that man--I scarcely know why."

"Oh! yes--he is no doubt very clever," said the patient; "for his treatment of me speedily gave me relief from the acuteness of the agony which I at first experienced."

"Every thing shall be done to conduce to your comfort, Diana," resumed the nobleman. "My upholsterer shall send down to Mr. Wentworth's house the furniture that may be required for the rooms which you are to occupy; and my steward shall supply him with ample funds."

"How kind--how good you are," murmured Diana.

"But I shall not attempt to see you," continued the earl, "until your recovery is announced to me--your complete recovery; and then----"

He checked himself; and there was a long silence.

Suddenly the earl arose.

"Farewell, Diana--my presence is not calculated to calm you," he exclaimed. "I shall now leave you--but, remember, I watch over you from a distance. Farewell!"

"Farewell--till we meet again," said Diana. "But--oh! how shall I dread that day! And--if my worst fears should be confirmed--if I really become the horrible, scarred, hideous object which I dread,--then--then we shall never meet more,--for I will fly from the world and bury myself in some deep solitude whither none who ever knew me in my bright days shall trace me!"

"You will not be forced to adopt such an alternative, Diana--believe me you will not!" exclaimed the earl. "At all events--let us hope,--let us both hope!"

The earl hastily withdrew.

In the passage he encountered the surgeon, to whom he reiterated his instructions relative to the attention to be shown towards the patient.

"Mr. Wentworth," he said, in an emphatic tone, "remember all that I have told you. Gold shall be placed at your disposal with no niggard hand; spare no expense! That lady's complete restoration to her pristine beauty is your care: think of naught save that one grand aim!"

"My lord," answered the surgeon, "I can only repeat the words I used just now--I will do my best!"

The earl pressed his hand warmly, and hurried away--more affected by the incidents of that day than he had been for many, many years.

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CXXVI. THE RECTOR OF SAINT DAVID'S

It is not necessary to explain to our readers the precise locality of the splendid Chapel of Ease known by the name of Saint David's. Suffice it to say, that it is situate not a hundred miles from Russell or Tavistock Square; and that the clergyman attached to it at the period of which we are writing was the Rev. Reginald Tracy.

It was Sunday morning.

A crowd of well-dressed persons, of both sexes, poured into the chapel of Saint David's. The street was lined with carriages; and when each in its turn drew up at the door of the sacred edifice, the élite of the aristocracy might have been observed to alight and hasten to form part of the immense congregation assembled to hear the most popular preacher of the day.

The interior of the chapel was vast, and of a convenient oblong form. It was lofty, and beautifully fitted up. On three sides were large and roomy galleries, amphitheatrically arranged with pews. The magnificent organ stood in the gallery over the entrance; and at the further end was the communion-table. The pulpit, with its annexed reading-desk, stood a little in front of the altar, and facing the organ. The pews both of the galleries and the body of the church were provided with soft cushions; for this was a proprietary chapel, and there was but a slender accommodation for the poor. Indeed, this class occupied plain benches in the aisles, and were compelled to enter by a small side-door so that they might not mingle with the crowd of elegantly dressed ladies and fashionable gentlemen that poured into the chapel through the grand entrance in front.

A policeman maintained order at the side-door, which admitted the humbler classes; but two beadles, wearing huge cocked hats and ample blue cloaks bedizened with broad gold-lace, and holding gilt wands in their hands, cleared the way for the wealthy, the great, and the proud, who enjoyed the privilege of entrance by means of the front gates.

"This way, my lord. Pray step this way, my lady," said the polite beadles, in their blandest tones. "The pew-opener is in attendance, my lord. My lady, here is the hymn-book, which your ladyship commanded me to procure for your ladyship. My lord, take care of the step. This door, ladies, if you please. Gentlemen, this way, if you would be so condescending. Yes, sir--certainly, sir--the pew-opener will find you a seat, sir--immediately, sir. Ladies, this way is less crowded. You will find the left aisle comparatively empty. My lord, straight forward, if your lordship will be so good. Ladies, the pew-opener is in attendance. This way, ladies and gentlemen!"

And at the side-door the policeman might be heard vociferating in somewhat like the following manner:--

"Now, then, you young woman, where the deuce are you pushing to? Want to get a good place, eh? What! with sich a rag of a shawl as that there?--I'm afeard I can't admit you. Now, boy, stand back, or I'll show you the reason why. I say, old woman, you ain't wanted here; we doesn't take in vimen with red cloaks. You'd better go to the dissenting chapel round the corner, you had: that's good enow for you. Holloa! what's this mean? a sweep in his Sunday toggery. Come, come; that's rayther too strong, chummy. You toddle off, now. Here, young woman, you may come in; you may--'cos you're very pretty: that way, my dear. Holloa! here comes a feller without a nose. No--no--that won't do at no price; my orders is partickler; no von comes here vithout a nose. Vy, you'd frighten all the great ladies out o' their vits. They already complains of the riff-raff that comes to this here chapel; so we must try and keep it se-lect--just like Gibbs's westry. Ha! ha! now then, who's that blaigaird a-talking so loud there? It's on'y me as can talk here at this door, 'cos I'm official--I am. This vay, young woman: push the door, my dear. Well, if you ain't married, I'm sure you ought to be. Now, then, who's that a guffawing like a rhinoceros? I'll clap a stopper on your mug, I will. Come, come; you go back, old chap: no workus-livery here; this is the wrong shop for the workus people; this is--I can tell yer. Vell, you're a genteel couple, I don't think--coming to a pro-pri-ai-tory chapel vithout no gloves, and fists as black as tinkers. Stand back there, boys, and let that young gal vith the yaller ribands come up: she's decent, she is. Yes, my dear,--you may go in, my dear. Now, then, stand back--no more comes in this mornin': the orgin's begun."

With these words the policeman thrust the poor people violently down the steps, entered the chapel, and closed the door in their faces.

The interior was crowded throughout; and it was very evident that curiosity and fashion, more than devotion, had congregated in that chapel the rank, wealth, and beauty that filled the pews below and above.

The solemn swell of the organ pealed through the sacred edifice; and then arose the morning hymn, sung by a select corps of choristers and by twelve youths belonging to the school of a celebrated professor of Music for the Millions.

A venerable clergyman, with hair as white as his own surplice, occupied the reading-desk; and in a pew close by the pulpit, was the cynosure that attracted all eyes--the Rev. Reginald Tracy.

The tall commanding form of this clergyman would have rendered him conspicuous amongst the congregation, had no other circumstance tended to endow him with popularity. His countenance was eminently handsome: his high and open forehead was set off, but not shaded, by dark brown hair which curled naturally; his hazel eyes beamed with the fire of a brilliant intellect; his Roman nose, small mouth, and well-turned chin formed a profile at once pleasing and commanding; and his large well-curled whiskers, meeting beneath his chin, confirmed the manly beauty of that proud and imposing countenance.

There was a profound, but totally unassuming, sense of the solemnity of the scene and of the sanctity of his profession in his manner and deportment: his voice did not join in the hymn, but his mind evidently followed the words, as he from time to time glanced at the book which he held in his hand.

Doubtless he was well aware--but nothing in his demeanour seemed to indicate this consciousness--that he was the centre of all attraction: though not servilely meek nor hypocritically austere, he was still surrounded by a halo of religious fervour which commanded the most profound respect.

And towards him were turned hundreds of bright eyes; and the glances of fair maids dwelt upon his countenance rather than on their books.

The hymn ceased, and the service proceeded.

At length the anthem succeeding the communion-service, filled the chapel with its solemn echoes, accompanied by the pealing of the magnificent organ. Then a simultaneous sensation pervaded the entire congregation, and all eyes were directed towards the Rev. Reginald Tracy, who was now ascending the steps to the pulpit.

The anthem was ended; the congregation resumed their seats; and the preacher commenced.

It is not, however, our intention to treat our readers to a sermon: suffice it to say, that the eloquence and matter of the discourse which the Rev. Reginald Tracy delivered upon this occasion, were well calculated to sustain his high reputation.

But of the attentive audience, no individual seemed to be more deeply impressed with his sermon than Lady Cecilia Harborough, who sate in a pew near the pulpit--next indeed to the one which the clergyman himself had occupied during the former part of the service.

She was alone; for on the previous day she had hired that pew for her own especial use.

Whenever the eyes of the preacher were turned in the direction where she sate, she appeared to be wiping away tears from her cheeks; for the sermon was on a solemn and pathetic subject.

More than once she fancied that he observed her; and her heart beat triumphantly in her bosom.

When the sermon was concluded she remained in her pew, and allowed the rest of the congregation to leave the chapel ere she moved from her seat. At length the sacred edifice was deserted, save by herself and two or three officials connected with the establishment.

In a few minutes the pew-opener--an elderly matron-like person--accosted her, and said, "If you please, ma'am, the doors will be closed almost directly."

"Could you--could you oblige me with a glass of water?" faltered Lady Cecilia: "I feel as if I were about to faint."

"Oh! certainly, ma'am," answered the pew-opener; and she hurried to the vestry.

Presently she returned, accompanied by the Rev. Reginald Tracy himself.

"Is the lady very unwell?" inquired the clergyman of the pew-opener, as they advanced together towards Lady Cecilia's seat.

"She seems very languid--quite overcome, sir," was the answer. "But this is the pew."

The clergyman stepped forward, and instantly recognised the fair indisposed.

"Lady Harborough!" he exclaimed. "Is your ladyship unwell?"

And taking the tumbler of water from the pew-opener, he handed it to the baronet's wife.

"It is nothing--the heat, I suppose," murmured Lady Cecilia; and she drank a portion of the water. "Thank you, Mr. Tracy, for your attention: I feel better--much better now."

"Will your ladyship step into the vestry and sit down for a few minutes?" inquired the clergyman, really concerned at the presumed indisposition of the lady.

"If it would not be indiscreet, I should esteem it a favour," answered Cecilia, still speaking in a tremulous and faltering tone.

Reginald Tracy instantly proffered his arm to the lady, and conducted her to the vestry, where the venerable clergyman who had read the service was calmly discussing a glass of sherry.

"I am ashamed--perfectly ashamed to give you all this trouble, Mr. Tracy," said Cecilia, as she accepted the chair which was offered her; "but the heat of the chapel--and, to tell the truth, the emotions which your beautiful discourse aroused within me--quite overcame me."

"The chapel was, indeed, very much crowded," answered Reginald Tracy, touched by the homage rendered to his talent in the second cause which Lady Cecilia alleged for her indisposition.

"Nevertheless, this little incident will not in future prevent me from becoming one of the most regular of your congregation," observed Cecilia, with a smile.

Mr. Tracy bowed, and smiled also.

Both had brilliant teeth, and it was impossible for either to fail to notice this beautiful feature in each other.

"I feel quite recovered now," said Cecilia, after a short pause, "and will return home. I offer you my best thanks for this kind attention on your part."

"Do not mention it, Lady Harborough. But I cannot permit you to return alone, after this indisposition: allow me to conduct you as far as your own door?"

"I could not think of taking you out of your way--"

"It happens that I have a call to make in Tavistock Square, and am actually going that way," interrupted Reginald Tracy.

Lady Cecilia, like a well-bred person as she was, offered no farther objection, but accepted the clergyman's escort to her own abode.

During the short walk she rendered herself as agreeable as possible; though purposely conversing upon topics suitable to the sabbath, and to the profession of her companion. She also introduced one or two delicate, and apparently unsophisticated, allusions to the eloquence which had produced so deep an impression upon a crowded congregation, and the profound attention with which the sermon was received. Then she artfully, but with admirably assumed sincerity, questioned Mr. Tracy upon two or three passages in that discourse, and suffered him to perceive that not one word of it had been lost upon her.

Mr. Reginald Tracy was mortal like any other human being, and was not exempt from some of the weaknesses of that mortality. It was impossible for him not to experience a partial sentiment of pride and satisfaction at the impression which his eloquence had evidently made upon a young and beautiful woman; and that feeling became in the least degree more tender by the fact that this young and beautiful woman was leaning upon his arm.

Then how could he feel otherwise than flattered when, with her witching eyes upturned towards his countenance, she questioned him--so meekly and so sincerely, as he thought--upon the very passages of his sermon which he himself considered to be the best, and which he had studied to render the most effective? He was flattered--he smiled, and endeavoured to render himself agreeable to so charming a woman.

At length they reached the door of Lady Harborough's abode. The syren invited him to walk in, as a matter of course; but Mr. Tracy was compelled to forego that pleasure. He was really engaged elsewhere; or there is no saying but that he might have stepped in--only for a few minutes.

Lady Cecilia extended her hand to him at parting, and held his for just two or three moments, while she renewed her thanks for his attention. The action was perfectly natural; and yet the gentle contact of that delicate hand produced upon Reginald Tracy a sensation which he had never before experienced. It seemed to impart a glow of warmth and pleasure to his entire frame.

At length they separated; and as the Rector of Saint David's pursued his walk, he found his mind from time to time wandering away from more serious reflections, and reverting to the half hour which he had passed so agreeably in the society of Lady Harborough.

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CXXVII. BLANDISHMENTS

Lady Cecilia took very good care not to appear at chapel that evening. She was well aware that common politeness--if no other motive--would induce the Rev. Reginald Tracy to call on the following day to inquire after her health.

Accordingly, on the Monday, she took more than usual pains with her toilet.

Sir Rupert Harborough had departed with his "splendid friend" Chichester for the Continent; and she was completely her own mistress. She had no one to interfere with her plans or pursuits, for her lady's maid was entirely devoted to her interests. However others suffered or waited in respect to pecuniary matters, Sarah--the aforesaid lady's maid, or cameriste--was always well and regularly paid.

It was by no means an uninteresting scene to behold the attention and zeal with which Sarah seconded her mistress's determination to make the most of her charms upon the present occasion.

Lady Cecilia was seated near her toilet-table, with a little gilt-edged oval-shaped mirror in her hands, which reposed in her lap; and Sarah was engaged in arranging the really beautiful hair of her mistress.

"What o'clock is it, Sarah?" inquired Lady Cecilia, casting a complacent glance at herself in the large looking-glass upon her toilet-table.

"It must be nearly one, my lady," was the reply.

"Then you have no time to lose, Sarah. The ringlets are quite divine; pray take equal pains with the back-hair. Do you think that I look better in ringlets or in bands?"

"In ringlets, my lady."

"And if I had my hair in bands, and asked you the same question, you would reply, 'In bands.'"

"Your ladyship cannot think that I am so insincere," said the cameriste.

"Do you fancy me in this dress, Sarah?" asked the lady, heedless of her domestic's observation.

"I prefer the blue watered-silk," was the answer.

"Then why did you not recommend it in the first instance?"

"Your ladyship never required my advice."

"True. Have you finished?"

"No hairdresser from Bond Street, or the Burlington Arcade, could have performed his task better, my lady," replied Sarah.

"Yes--it is very well--very well, indeed," said Cecilia, surveying herself in the mirror. "I will now descend to the drawing-room."

When she reached that apartment, the artful woman spread on the table a few books on serious subjects; she then amused herself with a volume of a new novel.

The clock had just struck two, when a double-knock was heard at the front-door.

Lady Cecilia thrust the novel under the cushion of the sofa, and took up "Sturm's Reflections."

The Rev. Mr. Tracy was announced.

Lady Cecilia rose and received him with a charming languor of manner.

"I have called to satisfy myself that your ladyship has recovered from the indisposition of yesterday," said the rector.

"Not altogether," answered Cecilia. "Indeed, after I returned home, yesterday, I experienced a relapse."

"I observed that you were not at chapel in the evening, and I feared that such might be the case."

It was with difficulty that Lady Cecilia could suppress a smile of joy and triumph as this ingenuous and unsophisticated announcement met her ears. He had thought of her! he had noticed her absence!

"I can assure you that nothing save indisposition could have induced me to remain away from a place where one gathers so much matter for useful and serious meditation," answered the lady.

"And yet the world generally forgets the doctrines which are enunciated from the pulpit, an hour after their delivery," observed Reginald.

"Yes--when they are doled forth by ministers who have neither talent nor eloquence to make a profound impression," said Cecilia, artfully conveying a compliment without appearing to mean one at the moment. "I believe that our churches would be much better frequented, were the clergy less dogmatic, less obscure; and did they address themselves more to the hearts of their hearers than they do."

"I believe it is necessary to appeal to the heart, and not be satisfied with merely reaching the ears," said the rector, modestly.

"And wherever the pastor possesses the rare talent of moving the feeling,--of exciting the mind to salutary reflection, as well as merely expounding points of doctrine,--thither will the multitude flock, high and low, rich and poor. Oh!" exclaimed Cecilia, as if carried away by the enthusiasm of the subject, "how grand--how noble a situation does that man occupy, who, by the magic of his voice and the power of his mind, can collect the thousands around his pulpit! I can understand how an impression may be easily made upon the half-educated or totally ignorant classes of society: but to cast a spell upon the intelligent, the well-informed, and the erudite,--to congregate the aristocracy of the realm to listen to the words that flow from his mouth,--oh! great, indeed, must be the influence of such a man!"

"You consider, then, Lady Cecilia, that the upper classes need powerful inducements to attend to the truths of religion?" said Reginald, irresistibly charmed by the witching eloquence that had marked the language of the beautiful woman in whose society he found himself.

"I consider--but, if I tell you my thoughts," said Cecilia, suddenly checking herself, "I shall unavoidably pay a high compliment to you; and that neither----"

"Let me hear your ladyship's sentiments in any case," said the clergyman, fearful of losing those honied words which produced upon him an impression such as he had never experienced in his life before.

"I believe," continued Cecilia, "that the upper classes in this country are very irreligious. I do not say that they are infidels: no--they all cherish a profound conviction of the truths of the gospel. But their mode of life--their indolent and luxurious habits, militate against a due regard to religious ceremonials. How is it, then, that they are aroused from their apathy? They hear of some great preacher, and curiosity in the first instance prompts them to visit the place of his ministry. They go--almost as they would repair to see a new play. But when they listen to his words--when they drink, in spite of themselves, large draughts of the fervour which animates him--when he appeals to their hearts, then they begin to perceive that there is something more in religion than an observance of a cold ceremonial; and they go home 'to reflect!'"

"You believe that to be the case?" said the rector, delighted at this description of an influence and an effect which he could not do otherwise than know to be associated with his own ministry.

"I feel convinced that such is the fact," answered Lady Cecilia; then, lowering her tone in a mysterious manner, and leaning towards him, she added, "Many of my friends have confessed that such has been the case in respect to their attendance at your chapel--and such was the case with myself!"

"With you, Lady Cecilia?" exclaimed the clergyman, vainly endeavouring to conceal the triumph which he experienced at this announcement.

"Yes, with me," continued the artful woman. "For, to be candid with you, Mr. Tracy, I need consolation of some kind--and the solace of religion is the most natural and the most effective. My domestic life," she proceeded, in a deeply pathetic tone, "is far from a happy one. Sir Rupert thinks more of his own pleasures than of his wife;--he does more than neglect me--he abandons me for weeks and weeks together."

She put her handkerchief to her eyes.

Mr. Tracy drew his chair closer to the sofa on which she was seated: it was only a mechanical movement on his part--the movement of one who draws nearer as the conversation becomes more confidential.

"But why should I intrude my sorrows upon you?" suddenly exclaimed Cecilia. "And yet if it be not to the minister of religion to whom we poor creatures must unburden our woes, where else can we seek for consolation? from what other source can we hope to receive lessons of resignation and patience?"

"True," said the rector. "And that has often appeared to me the best and redeeming feature in the Roman Catholic world, where the individual places reliance upon his priest, and looks to him for spiritual support and aid."

"Ah! would that our creed permitted us the same privilege!" said Lady Cecilia, with great apparent enthusiasm.

"I know of no rule nor law which forbids the exercise of such a privilege," said Reginald; "unless, indeed, usage and custom be predominant, and will admit of no exceptions."

"For my part, I despise such customs and usages, when they tend to the exclusion of those delightful outpourings of confidence which the individual pants to breathe into the ears of the pastor in whom implicit faith can be placed. In how many cases could the good clergyman advise his parishioners, to the maintenance of their domestic comfort? how many heart-burnings in families would not such a minister be enabled to soothe? Oh! sir, I feel that your eloquence could teach me how to bear, unrepiningly, and even cheerfully, all the sorrows of my own domestic hearth!"

"Then look upon me as a friend, my dear Lady Cecilia," said the clergyman, drawing his chair a little closer still: "look upon me as a friend; and happy indeed shall I be if my humble agency or advice can contribute to smooth the path of life for even only one individual!"

"Mr. Tracy, I accept your preferred friendship--I accept it as sincerely as it is offered," exclaimed Lady Cecilia; and she extended her hand towards him.

He took it. It was soft and warm, and it gently pressed his. He returned the pressure:--was it not the token, the pledge of friendship? He thought so--and he meant no harm.

But again did the contact of that soft and warm hand awake within his breast a flame till then unknown; and his cheeks flushed, and his eyes met those of the fair--the fascinating creature, who craved his friendship!

"Henceforth," said Cecilia, who now saw that her intrigue was progressing towards a complete triumph--even more rapidly than she had ever anticipated--"henceforth you will have no votary more constant in attendance than I; but, on your part, you must occasionally spare from your valuable time a single half hour wherein to impart to me the consolations I so much require."

"Be not afraid, Lady Cecilia," said the rector, who now felt himself attracted towards that woman by a spell of irresistible influence: "I shall not forget that you have ingenuously and frankly sought my spiritual aid; and I should be false to the holy cause in which I have embarked, were I to withhold it."

"I thank you--deeply, sincerely thank you," exclaimed Cecilia. "But judge for yourself whether I do not seek solace, in my domestic afflictions, from the proper source! This is the book which I was reading when you called."

Cecilia took up Sturm's "Reflections," and opened the book at random.

"There," she said; "it was this page which I was perusing."

She held the book in her hands as she reclined, rather than sate, upon the sofa; and the clergyman was compelled to lean over her to obtain a glimpse of the page to which she pointed.

His hair touched hers: she did not move her head. Their faces were close to each other. But not an impure thought entered his soul: still he was again excited by that thrilling sensation which came over him whenever he touched her.

She affected not to perceive that their hair commingled, but pointed to the page, and expatiated upon its contents.

In a moment of abstraction, for which he could not account, and against the influence of which he was not proof, Reginald Tracy's eyes wandered from the book to the form which reclined, beneath his glance, as it were, upon the sofa. That glance swept the well-proportioned undulations of the slight but charming figure which was voluptuously stretched upon the cushions.

Suddenly Cecilia left off speaking, and turned her eyes upward to his countenance. Their glances met; and Reginald did not immediately avert his head. There was something in the depths of those melting blue orbs which fascinated him.

Still he suspected not his extreme danger; and when he rose to depart, it was simply because he felt like a man flushed with wine, and who requires air.

He took his leave; and Cecilia reminded him that she should expect to see him soon again.

Can there be a doubt as to his answer?

When he regarded his watch, on reaching the street, he was astounded to perceive that two hours had slipped away since he entered the house.

And a deep flush suddenly overspread his countenance as he beheld the viper-like eyes of a hideous old hag, who was standing near the steps of the front-door, fixed upon him with a leer which for an instant struck a chill to his heart by its ominous and yet dim significancy.

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CXXVIII. TEMPTATION

"He will come again on Wednesday," said Lady Cecilia to herself, as she heard the front door close behind the Rev. Reginald Tracy.

This wily woman was well-acquainted with the human heart: she had discovered the weak side of the rector of Saint David's: she assailed him by means of his vulnerable point; she directed her way to his heart through the avenue of his vanity.

Yes--Reginald Tracy was vain,--as vain as a man who was admired and sought after by all classes, was likely to be rendered,--as vain as a spoiled child of the public could be.

His life had, moreover, been so pure, so chaste, so ascetic, that the fierce passions which agitate other men were unknown to him; and, as all mortals must be characterised by some failing, his was a habit of self-admiration!

Venial and insignificant was this foible, so long as no advantage was taken of it by designing or worldly-minded persons; but even our lightest defects, as well as our most "pleasant vices," may be made the means of our ruin.

Vanity is a noxious weed which, when nurtured by the dews of flattery, spreads its poisonous roots throughout the fertile soil of the heart; and each root springs up into a plant more venomous, more rank; more baleful than its predecessor.

The life of Reginald Tracy had been singularly pure. He had even passed through the ordeal of a college career without affixing the least stain on the chastity of his soul. Yet with all his austerity of virtue, he was characterised by no austerity of manner: he mixed freely in society, and hesitated not to frequent the ball-room--although he did not dance. He could be a pleasant companion: at the same time he never uttered a word upon which he had to retrospect with regret. When amongst men, no obscene jest nor ribald allusion was vented in his presence; and yet he was never voted "a bore." In a word, he was one of those men who possess the rare talent of maintaining a character for every virtue, and of being held up as a pattern and an example, without creating a single enemy--without even being compelled to encounter the irony of the libertine, and without producing a feeling of restraint or embarrassment in the society which he frequented.

Such was Reginald Tracy; and it was this man,--who at the age of thirty-six could look back with complacency upon a spotless life,--a life unsullied by a single fault,--an existence devoid of the slightest dereliction from moral propriety,--it was this good, this holy, this saint-like man whom the daring Cecilia undertook to subdue.

Reginald, Reginald! the day of thy temptation has now come: thou standest upon a pinnacle of the temple--the tempter is by thy side;--take good heed of thyself, Reginald Tracy!

"He will come again on Wednesday," had said Lady Cecilia.

The prediction was fulfilled!

The morning had been so inclement that no one would have stirred abroad unless actuated by important motives. The rain had fallen in torrents,--beating violently against the windows, and inundating the streets. It had, however, ceased at noon; but the sky remained covered with black clouds; and at three o'clock on that gloomy winter-day it was dark and sombre as if night were at hand.

But in spite of that inauspicious weather, the Rev. Reginald Tracy knocked at Lady Cecilia Harborough's door at the hour which we have just mentioned.

The designing creature received the clergyman with a smile, exclaiming at the same time, "It is indeed kind of you to visit me on such a day as this. I have been so happy--so resigned--so possessed with the most complete mental tranquillity since you manifested sympathy and interest in my behalf, that your presence appears to be that of a good angel!"

"It is our duty to sustain those who droop, and console those who suffer," answered the rector.

"Delightful task!" ejaculated Cecilia. "What a pure and holy satisfaction must you enjoy, when you reflect upon the amount of comfort which your lessons impart to the world-wearied and sinking spirit. Believe me, many an one has entered the gates of your chapel with a weight upon his soul almost too heavy for him to bear, and has issued forth carrying his burden of care lightly, if not cheerfully, along!"

"Do you really imagine that my humble agency can produce such good results in the cause of heaven?" asked Reginald, fixing a glance of mingled tenderness and satisfaction upon the charming countenance of Cecilia.

"I do--I do," she answered, with apparent enthusiasm; "I can judge by the effect which your admirable discourse of last Sunday morning produced upon myself. For--let me not deceive you," she continued, hanging down her head, and speaking in a tremulous and tender voice,--"let me not deceive you--it was not the heat of the chapel which overcame me--it was your eloquence! I dared not confess this to you at first; but now--now that I can look upon you as a friend--I need have no secret from you."

She took his hand as she uttered these words, and pressed it in a manner which he conceived to be indicative of grateful fervour; and without a thought of evil--but with an undefinable sensation of pleasure to which until lately he had been all his life a stranger--he returned that pressure.

Lady Cecilia did not withdraw her hand, but allowed it to linger in his; and he retained it under the influence of that sensation which caused his veins to flow with liquid fire.

He was sitting on the sofa by her side, and his eyes wandered from her countenance over the outlines of her form.

"Oh! how can the man who accompanied you to the altar, and there swore to love and cherish you," he exclaimed, in an ebullition of impassioned feelings such as he had never known before,--"how can that man find it in his heart to neglect--to abandon you,--you who are evidently all gentleness, amiability, and candour!"

"He has no heart--no soul for any one save himself," answered Cecilia. "And now tell me--relieve my mind from a most painful suspense upon one point! Am I criminal in the eyes of heaven, because I have ceased to love one whom I vowed to love, but whose conduct has quenched all the affection that I once experienced for him?"

"You must not harden your heart against him," said Reginald; "but by your resignation, your uncomplaining patience, your meekness, and your constant devotion to his interests, you must seek to bring him back to the paths of duty and love."

"I might as well essay to teach the hyena gratitude," answered Cecilia.

"You speak too bitterly," rejoined the rector of Saint David's; and yet he was not altogether displeased at the aversion which Lady Cecilia's language manifested towards her husband.

"Alas! we have no power over volition," said she; "and that doctrine is a severe one which enjoins us to kiss the hand that strikes us."

"True," observed Reginald. "I know not how it is--but I feel that I am at this moment unaccountably deficient in argument to meet your objections; and yet----"

He paused, for he felt embarrassed; but he knew not why.

"Oh! you can appreciate the difficulty of enjoining a love towards one who merits hatred," exclaimed Cecilia, now skilfully availing herself of the crisis to which she had so artfully conducted the conversation. "You see that you are deficient in reasoning to enforce the alleged necessity of maintaining, cherishing, and nourishing respect and veneration for a husband who has forfeited all claims to such feelings on the part of his injured wife. At all events, do not tell me that I am criminal in ceasing to love one who oppresses me;--do not say that I offend heaven by ceasing to kiss the hand that rudely repulses all my overtures of affection;--oh! tell me not that--or you will make me very, very miserable indeed!"

Lady Cecilia's bosom was convulsed with sobs as she uttered these words in a rapid and impassioned manner; and as she ceased speaking her head fell upon Reginald's shoulder.

"Compose yourself--compose yourself, Lady Cecilia," exclaimed the clergyman, alarmed by this ebullition of grief, the sincerity of which he could not for one moment suspect. "Do not give way to sorrow--remember the lessons of resignation and patience which you have heard from my lips--remember----"

But the lady sobbed as if her heart would break: her head reclined upon his shoulder--her forehead touched his face--her hand was still clasped in his.

"Oh Reginald!--Reginald!" she murmured, "I cannot love my husband more--no--it is impossible! I love another!"

"You love another!" ejaculated the rector, his whole frame trembling with an ineffable feeling of mingled joy and suspense.

"Yes--and now reproach, revile me--leave me--spurn me--treat me with contempt!" continued Cecilia: "do all this if you will; but never, never can you prevent me from idolizing--adoring you!"

"Cecilia!" cried Reginald Tracy, starting from his seat; "you know not what you are saying!"

"Alas! I know but too well the feelings which my words express," returned the lady, clasping her hands together, and sobbing violently. "Hear me for a few minutes, and then leave me to the misery of my fate--a hopeless love, and a breaking heart!"

"Speak, then, and unburden your mind to me without reserve," said Reginald, resuming his seat upon the sofa, and inviting a confidence the thought of which produced in his mind emotions of bliss and burning joy, the power of which was irresistible.

"Yes, I will speak, even though I render myself contemptible in your sight," continued Cecilia, wiping her eyes and affecting to resume that calmness which she had never lost more than the impassioned actress on the stage, when enacting some melo-dramatic part. "For months and months past I have cherished for you a feeling, the true nature of which has only revealed itself to me within the last few days. In the first instance, I admired your character and your talents: I respected you; and respect and admiration soon ripened into another feeling. You do not know the heart of woman; but it is ever moved by a contemplation of the sublime characteristics of remarkable men--like you. I met you in society, and I almost worshipped the ground on which you trod. I listened to your conversation: not a word was lost to me! During long and sleepless nights your image was ever present to my mind. You became an idol that I adored. At length you yourself, one evening, innocently and unconsciously, fanned the flame that was engendered in my heart: you told me that I looked well. That passing compliment rendered me your devoted slave. I thought that no human happiness could be greater than that of pleasing you. I resolved to attend your chapel from that period. I obtained the pew that was nearest to the pulpit; and when you preached I was electrified. Oh! you saw how I was overcome! Your attention to me on that occasion threw additional chains around me. Then you called on me the day before yesterday, and you spoke so kindly that I was every moment on the point of falling at your feet, and exclaiming,--'Forgive me, but I now know that I love you!' You proffered me your friendship: how joyously I accepted the sacred gift! And that friendship--oh! let me not forfeit it now--for the love which my heart cherishes for you shall be as pure and taintless as that friendship with which you have blessed me!"

Reginald had listened to this strange confession with the most profound attention;--yes, and with the deepest interest.

A young and beautiful woman had avowed her love for him--she sate near him;--his hand still thrilled with the pressure of hers--his cheek was still warm and flushed with the contact of her white and polished forehead;--the room was involved in obscurity and silence.

She had insinuated herself, in an incredibly short space of time, into his heart, by flattering his vanity and exciting those desires which had hitherto slumbered so profoundly in his breast, but which were now ready to burst for with the violence of the long pent-up volcano.

He trembled--he hesitated. At one moment he was inclined to rush from the house, as if from the presence of the tempter; and then he remembered that the love which she had avowed was as pure as his friendship!

Nevertheless, the struggle in his mind was terrific.

Cecilia understood it all.

"You hate me--you despise me," she suddenly exclaimed, covering her face with her hands. "Oh! do not crush me with your contempt--do not abandon me to the conviction of your abhorrence! Reginald--take pity upon me: forgive me for loving you--forgive me--on my knees I implore you!"

She threw herself before him: she took his hand and pressed it to her lips.

She covered it with kisses.

"Cecilia," murmured the rector, making a faint effort to withdraw his hand.

"No--no, you shall not leave me thus," she exclaimed, with apparent wildness: "I should die if you went away, without telling me that you forgive me! No, you must not leave me thus!"

"Rise, Cecilia--rise--in the name of heaven, rise!" exclaimed Reginald, alarmed lest they should be discovered in that equivocal position: "rise, and I will forgive you. I will do all that you desire--I will not leave you until you are composed."

"And you will return and see me again? you will not withdraw your friendship?" demanded Cecilia, in a soft and melting tone.

"No--never, never!" cried Reginald, enthusiastically, as if he suddenly abandoned himself to the torrent of passion which now swept through his soul.

"Oh! thank you--thank you for that assurance!" exclaimed Cecilia; and, as if yielding to an unconquerable burst of feeling, she threw herself into his arms: "you shall be as a brother to me; and our friendship, our love, shall be eternal!"

Her rich red mouth was pressed upon the rector's lips; her arms were wound around him; and for a moment he yielded to the intoxicating delight of that pleasure so new to him.

But ere he was entirely culpable, his guardian genius struck his soul with a sudden remorse; and, disengaging himself from the syren's arms, he imprinted one long--burning--delicious kiss upon her lips; then, murmuring, "To-morrow, to-morrow, dearest Cecilia, I will see thee again," rushed from the room.

"He is mine!" exclaimed the lady, as the door closed behind him; "irrevocably mine!"

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CXXIX. THE FALL

Reginald Tracy returned to his own abode, his breast agitated with a variety of conflicting feelings.

He pushed his old housekeeper, who announced to him that dinner was ready, rudely aside, and hurried up to his own chamber.

There he threw himself upon his knees, and endeavoured to pray to be released from temptation.

For he now comprehended all the dangers which beset him, although he suspected not the perfidy and artifice of the tempter.

But not a word of supplication could he utter from the mouth which still burned with the thrilling kisses of the beautiful Cecilia.

He rose from his knees, and paced the room wildly,--at one moment vowing never to see that syren more,--at another longing to rush back to her arms.

The animal passions of that man were strong by nature and threatened to be insatiable whenever let loose; but they had slumbered from his birth, beneath the lethargic influence of high principle and asceticism.

Moreover, they had never been tempted until the present time; and now that temptation came so suddenly, and in so sweet a guise,--came with such irresistible blandishments,--came, in a word, so accompanied with all that could flatter his vanity or minister unto his pride,--that he knew not how to resist its influence.

And at one moment that man of unblemished character and lofty principle fell upon his knees, grovelling as it were at the foot-stool of Him whom he served,--anxious, yearning to crave for courage to escape from the peril that awaited him,--and yet unable to breathe a syllable of prayer. Then he walked in a wild and excited manner up and down, murmuring the name of Cecilia,--pondering upon her charms,--plunging into voluptuous reveries and dreams of vaguely comprehended bliss,--until his desires became of that fiery, hot, and unruly nature, which triumphed over all other considerations.

It was an interesting--and yet an awful spectacle, to behold that man, who could look back over a life of spotless and unblemished purity, now engaged in a terrific warfare with the demons of passion that were raging to cast off their chains, and were struggling furiously for dominion over the proud being who had hitherto held them in silence and in bondage.

But those demons had acquired strength during their long repose; and now that the day of rebellion had arrived, they maintained an avenging and desperate conflict with him who had long been their master. They were like a people goaded to desperation by the atrocities of a blood-thirsty tyrant: they fought a battle in which there was to be no quarter, but wherein one side or the other must succumb.

Hour after hour passed; and still he sustained the conflict with the new feelings which had been excited within him, and which were rapidly crushing all the better sentiments of his soul. At length he retired to bed, a prey to a mental uneasiness which amounted to a torture.

His sleep was agitated and filled with visions by no means calculated to calm the fever of his blood. He awoke in the morning excited, unsettled, and with a desperate longing after pleasures which were as yet vague and undefined to him.

But still a sense of the awful danger which menaced him stole into his mind from time to time; and he shuddered as if he were about to commit a crime.

He left the table, where the morning's meal was untasted, and repaired to his study. But his books had no longer any charm for him: he could not settle his mind to read or write.

He went out, and rambled in all directions, reckless whither he went--but anxious to throw off the spell which had fallen upon him.

Vain was this attempt.

The air was piercing and cold; but his brow was burning. He felt that his cheeks were flushed; and his eyes seemed to shoot forth fire.

"My God! what is the matter with me?" he exclaimed, in his anguish, as he entered Hyde Park, the comparative loneliness of which at that season he thought calculated to soothe his troubled thoughts. "I have tried to pray--and last night, for the first time in my life, I sought my pillow, unable to implore the blessings of my Maker. Oh! what spell has overtaken me? what influence is upon me? Cecilia--Cecilia--is it indeed thou that hast thus changed me?"

He went on,--now musing upon all that had passed within the few preceding days--now breaking forth into wild and passionate exclamations.

He left the Park, and walked rapidly through the streets of the West End.

"No," he said within himself, "I will never see her more. I will conquer these horrible feelings--I will triumph over the mad desires, the fiery cravings which have converted the heaven of my heart into a raging hell! Oh! why is she so beautiful? why did she say that she loved me? Was it to disturb me in my peaceful career--to wean me from my God? No--no: she yielded to an impulse which she could not control;--she loves me--she loves me--she loves me!"

There was a species of insanity in his manner as he thus addressed himself,--not speaking with the lips, but with the heart,--unheard by those who passed him by, but with a voice which vibrated like thunder in his own ears.

"Yes--she loves me," he continued; "but I must fly from her--I must avoid her as if she were a venomous serpent. I dare not trust myself again in her presence: and not for worlds--not for worlds would I be with her alone once more. No,--I must forget her--I must tear her image from my heart--I must trample it under foot!"

He paused as he spoke: he stood still--for he was exhausted.

But how was it that the demon of mischief had, with an under-current of irresistible influence, carried him on, in spite of the forceful flow of the above reflections, to the very goal of destruction!

He was in Tavistock Square.

He was at the door of Lady Cecilia Harborough's house.

And now for one minute a terrific conflict again raged within him. It seemed as if he collected all his remaining courage to struggle with the demons in his heart; but he was weak with the protracted contest--and they were more powerful than ever.

"I will see her once more," he said, yielding to the influence of his passions: "I will tell her that I stand upon an abyss--I will implore her to have mercy upon me, and permit me to retreat ere yet it be too late!"

His good genius held him faintly back; but his passions goaded him on: he obeyed the latter impulse; he rushed up the steps and knocked at the door.

"Even now I might retreat," he said to himself: "there is still time! I will--I will!"

He turned, and was already half-way down the steps, when the door was opened.

His good resolutions vanished, and he entered the house.

In a few moments more he was in the presence of Lady Cecilia,--Lady Cecilia--looking more bewitching, more captivating than ever!

She had expected him, and had resolved that this visit, on his part, should crown her triumph.

It was in a small parlour adjoining her own boudoir that she received him.

The luxurious sofa was placed near the cheerful fire: the heavy curtains were drawn over the windows in such a manner as to darken the room.

Cecilia was attired in a black silk dress, that she had purposely chosen to enhance the transparent brilliancy of her complexion, and to display the dazzling whiteness of a bust, which, though of small proportions, was of perfect contour.

She was reclining languidly upon the cushions which were piled on one end of the sofa, and her little feet peeped from beneath the skirts of her dress.

She did not rise when Reginald entered the room, but invited him to take a seat near her upon the sofa.

So bewitchingly beautiful did she appear, as the strong glare of the fire played upon her countenance, amidst the semi-obscurity of the room, that he could not resist the signal.

He accordingly sate down by her side.

"Your visit to-day," said Cecilia, "proves to me that you have forgiven the indiscreet confession into which I was yesterday led in a moment of weakness."

"I am come as a friend--as a true and sincere friend," returned Reginald, with considerable emphasis upon the last word. "But I know not whether my occupations, my duties, in a word--will permit me to visit you again for some time----"

"Oh! do not deprive me of the pleasure of your society from time to time," interrupted Cecilia, divining all that was passing in the rector's soul, and well aware, by the tremulous tone in which he spoke, that his good resolutions were but unequal opponents to the fury of his newly awakened passions.

"Listen, Lady Cecilia," answered Reginald; "and I will tell you frankly the real motives which most compel me to forego the pleasure of your society in future. I tremble for myself!"

"You tremble for yourself!" repeated Cecilia, with ill-concealed joy. "Do you think me, then, so very formidable?"

"Formidable--oh! no," ejaculated Reginald, darting an impassioned glance upon his ravishing companion. "But I consider that you are very beautiful--too beautiful for me thus to seek your presence with impunity."

"Then would you sever that bond of friendship which you yourself proposed so generously, so kindly?" asked Lady Cecilia, placing her hand upon that of the rector, and approaching her countenance towards his as if to read the answer in his eyes.

"It must be so--it must be so--for my peace of mind, Cecilia!" cried Reginald, thrilled by that electric touch, and receiving into his own soul no small portion of that same voluptuousness which animated the fair patrician at that moment.

"It must be so,--oh! cruel resolve!" said Cecilia, pressing his hand between both of hers. "But let me not advance my selfish feelings as a barrier to your interest. Oh! no, Reginald--I would sacrifice every thing to give you pleasure! You shall go--you shall leave me; but you will sometimes think of me--you will occasionally devote a thought to her who has dared to love you!"

"Dared to love me!" exclaimed the rector;--"and what if I---- but no--it is madness!"

"Speak--tell me what you were about to say," murmured Cecilia, in a melting tone.

"I was on the point of asking what you would think--what opinion you would form of me, if I were to confess that I also dared to love you?"

"I should reply that such happiness never could descend upon me," said Cecilia.

"And yet it is true--it is true! I cannot conceal it from myself," exclaimed Reginald, giving way to the influence of his emotions: "it is true that I love you!"

"Oh! am I indeed so blest?" faltered Cecilia. "Tell me once more that you love me!"

"Love you!" cried the rector, unable to wrestle longer with his mad desires: "I worship--I adore you--I will die for you!"

He caught her in his arms, and covered her with burning and impassioned kisses.

* * * * *

* * * * *

Oh, Reginald! and hast thou at length fallen? Have a few short days sufficed to undo and render as naught the purity--the chastity of years?

Where was thy guardian angel in that hour?

Whither had fled that proud virtue which raised thee so high above thy fellow-men, and which gave to thine eloquence the galvanic effect of the most sublime truth?

Look back--look back, with bitterness and sorrow, upon the brilliant career through which thou hast run up to this hour, and curse the madness that prompted thee to darken so bright a destiny!

For thou hast plucked thine own crown of integrity from thy brow, and hast trampled it under foot.

Henceforth, in thine own heart, wilt thou know thyself as a hypocrite and a deceiver!

* * * * *

* * * * *

It was past eleven o'clock when Reginald Tracy issued from the abode of Lady Cecilia Harborough.

The night was dark; but from time to time the moon shone for a short interval, as the clouds were swept away from its face.

Reginald paused for a moment upon the steps of the door, and gazed upwards.

The tempestuous aspect of the heavens alarmed him; and a superstitious dread crept, like a death-shudder, over his entire frame; for it seemed to him as if the mansion of the Almighty had put on its sable garb in mourning for a soul that was lost unto the blessings of eternity.

Deeply imbued as he was with a sense of the grand truths of the gospel, this sudden and awful idea speedily assumed so dread a shape in his mind, that he felt alarmed, as if a tremendous gulph were about to open beneath his feet.

He hurried on, hoping to outstrip his thoughts; but that idea pursued him,--haunted him,--every moment increasing in terrific solemnity, until it wore the appearance of a mighty truth instead of a phantom of the imagination.

Again he looked upwards; and the dense sombre clouds, which rolled rapidly like huge black billows over each other, imparted fresh terrors to his guilty soul.

Then his feverish and excited imagination began to invest those clouds with fantastic shapes; and he traced in the midst of the heavens a mighty black hand, the fore-finger of which pointed menacingly downwards.

The more he gazed--the more palpable to his mind that apparition became. Half sinking with terror--oppressed with an astounding, a crushing consciousness of his adulterous guilt--the wretched man went wildly on, reckless of the way which he pursued, and every minute casting horror-stricken glances up to the colossal black hand which seemed suspended over his head.

Suddenly a deafening peal of thunder burst above him: he looked frantically up--the hand appeared to wave in a convulsive manner--then the clouds parted, rolling pell-mell over each other,--and the terrific sign was broken into a hundred moving masses.

Never did erring mortal so acutely feel his guilt as Reginald Tracy on this fearful night.

The storm burst forth; and he ran madly on, without aim--a prey to the most appalling reflections.

It was not of this world that he now thought,--it was not on its reproaches, its blame, or its punishment, that his mental looks were fixed;--but it was of eternity that he was afraid.

He trembled when he thought of that Maker whose praise he had so lately sung with pride, and hope, and joy,--and whose name he dared not now invoke!

Oh! his punishment had already begun.

* * * * *

* * * * *

Weak, wearied, subdued,--drenched with the rain that had accompanied the storm; and in state of mind bordering upon madness and despair, the wretched man reached his home at four o'clock in the morning.

But whither he had wandered, and which way he had taken,--whether he had continued running on, or had rested once or often during that terrific night, he never remembered.

He retired to bed, and slept during several hours. When he awoke, the sun was shining gloriously through his casement; but the horrors and the congenial reflections of darkness had left too fearful an impression upon his mind to be readily effaced; for he was not so inured to vice as to treat with levity the events of the past night,--events which to his superstitious imagination had assumed the aspect of celestial warning and divine menace.

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CXXX. MENTAL STRUGGLES

The rector of Saint David's fell upon his knees, and, turning his face towards the casement through which the sun glanced so cheerfully into the chamber, poured forth his soul to the Being of whose universal dominion that radiance seemed an emblem.

Reginald could now pray. He had sinned deeply, and he implored pardon; for he conceived that heaven had deigned to convey a special warning to his mind through the medium of the clouds and the storm of the preceding night.

"Oh! I am not yet totally lost!" he exclaimed, joining his hands fervently together: "I am not yet an outcast from divine mercy! Heaven itself manifests an interest in my welfare: dare I neglect the warning? No--no! I have sinned--but there is repentance. Upon my otherwise spotless life there is one stain; but tears of regret shall be shed unceasingly until the mark be washed away! And thou, temptress--never more must we meet as we have lately met; I must shun thee as my evil genius! Yet I do not blame thee--for I myself was fond, and being fond, was weak. If I fell, and can yet aspire to pardon and forgiveness,--I who was strong,--what extenuation may not exist for thee--a poor, weak woman! Oh! let the light of divine grace shine in upon my soul, even as these bright beams of the orb of day penetrate with cheering influence to my very heart! Let me rise up from the depths of sin, stronger than when I fell,--so that sad experience may tend to confirm my resolves to pursue the paths of chastity and virtue!"

Thus spoke aloud Reginald Tracy, as he knelt in his chamber the day after his fall: thus did he breathe vows of future self-denial and purity.

He rose resigned, and penitent,--though at intervals a species of struggle took place in his breast--a conflict between his recently-experienced sensations of amorous delight and his present resolutions of abstinence from carnal pleasures.

In a moment when his better feelings were predominant, he wrote a brief letter to Lady Cecilia, imploring her to forget all that had taken place between them, and enjoining her, if she entertained the slightest interest in his earthly and immortal welfare, never to seek to see him again.

Then Reginald gathered all his most valued books around him, and plunged into his studies with an earnestness which augured well for the strength and permanency of his good resolutions.

This occupation was for a few minutes disturbed by a note from Lady Cecilia, imploring a last interview ere they parted for ever:--but the rector was immoveable in his present precautionary conduct; and he answered her, not angrily, but firmly, to beseech her not to "lead him into temptation."

Yes, this man of fiery passions wrestled gallantly with his inclinations: the combat was at times a fearful one; but he exerted all his strength, and all his power, and all his energy, to subdue those desires which were smouldering, and were not quenched, at the bottom of his soul.

It was in the evening of the fourth day after the rector's fall from the pedestal of his purity, that his studies were interrupted by the entrance of his housekeeper, who informed him that a gentleman desired to speak to him.

The rector ordered the visitor to be admitted; and Mr. Richard Markham was announced.

The object of our hero's call was speedily explained.

Mr. Monroe was lying in a dangerous state, and his life was despaired of. Mr. Wentworth, the surgeon, who attended upon him, had recommended him to settle all his earthly affairs, and prepare his soul to meet his Creator; and the old man, who was fully sensible of the importance of this advice, had expressed a wish to receive spiritual consolation from a minister whose sanctity had become proverbial.

"The desire of my dying friend," added Markham, "must serve as an apology for my intrusion upon you; but, I implore you, reverend sir, not to hesitate to soothe by your much-coveted presence the passage of a fellow-creature from this world to a better."

But for a moment the rector did hesitate:--was he fit to administer divine consolation to another,--he who was still deeply dyed with sin himself?

Such was the thought which floated rapidly through his imagination.

Richard urged his request with eloquence.

Reginald Tracy felt that he could offer no sufficient excuse, short of the revelation of his own guilt, for refusing to attend the death-bed of one who craved his presence; and he agreed to accompany the young man to Markham Place.

Richard had a vehicle at the door; and in a short time they reached our hero's abode.

Reginald was conducted to the room where Monroe lay.

Hanging over the pillow, on which the invalid reclined, was a charming female form, from whose bosom deep sobs emanated, and rendered almost inaudible the words of strangely commingled hope and despair which she addressed to her father.

She did not hear the door open; and it was only when Richard approached the bed, and whispered that the Reverend Mr. Tracy was present, that she raised her tearful countenance.

Then did the eyes of the rector glance upon one of the most lovely beings whom Nature ever invested with all her choicest gifts; and--even in that solemn moment when he stood by the bed of one who was pronounced to be dying--his soul was stirred by the presence of that transcendent beauty.

"Oh! sir," exclaimed Ellen, in that musical voice which was now rendered tremulous by deep emotions, "how grateful am I for this prompt attention to the wish of my dear--dear father!"

"I deserve no gratitude for the performance of a Christian duty," answered the rector, as he approached the bed.

Markham took Ellen's hand and led her from the chamber, in order to allow unrestrained converse between the clergyman and the invalid.

An hour elapsed, and the bell of the sick-room rang.

Ellen hurried thither, and found her father composed and resigned to meet his fate. The rector sate by his bed-side.

"This holy man," said Monroe, "has taught me how to die like a true Christian. Weep not, dearest Ellen; we shall meet again hereafter."

"Oh, my dearest father," exclaimed the young lady, bursting into an agony of tears; "it is I--I who have murdered you! My conduct----"

"Silence, Ellen--accuse not yourself in that dreadful manner," interrupted her father.

Reginald was astonished at the words which had just fallen from the daughter's lips; and he surveyed her with increased interest and curiosity.

At that moment Mr. Wentworth entered the room. He found the invalid better, and his countenance was animated with a ray of hope.

This expression of his inward feelings was not lost upon Ellen; and she interrogated him with a rapid and imploring glance.

"Mr. Monroe must be kept very--very quiet," said the surgeon in a whisper, which was addressed to both Ellen and Reginald Tracy.

"And then--there is hope?" murmured Ellen in breathless suspense.

"Yes--there is hope," repeated the surgeon solemnly.

"May heaven be thanked for that assurance on your part," said Ellen, fervently.

The rector contemplated her with an admiration which he could not restrain; and, in spite of himself, the thought flashed across his mind, how far more lovely was Miss Ellen Monroe than Lady Cecilia Harborough!

Then, indignant with himself for having allowed the comparison to force itself upon his attention, he rose to take his departure.

The invalid had just sunk into a deep slumber; and Mr. Wentworth intimated his intention of passing the night by his side.

"I will call again to-morrow morning," said Reginald, addressing Miss Monroe; "for I perceive that this gentleman is not without hopes."

"Thank you--thank you, sir, for your kindness," answered Ellen with grateful enthusiasm. "Your presence seems to have brought a blessing into this sick-room."

She extended her hand towards him, and he pressed it for a moment in his.

His whole frame seemed electrified with a sudden glow; and he hurried somewhat abruptly from the room.

When he reached his own abode once more, he felt a profound melancholy steal into his soul; for he seemed more lonely, and more solitary than he ever yet had been.

He retired to rest, and his dreams were filled with the images of Cecilia and Ellen.

When he awoke in the morning, he was discontented with himself--with the whole world: he experienced vague longings after excitement or change of scene;--he could not settle himself, as on the four previous days, to his studies--his books were hateful to him. He wandered about his house--from room to room--as if in search of something which he could not define, and which he did not discover: he was pursued by ideas only dimly comprehensible, but which were at variance with his recently formed resolutions of purity and virtue. He was restless--discontented--uneasy.

At length he remembered his promise to return to Markham Place. The idea seemed to give him pleasure: he longed to see Ellen Monroe once more;--and yet he did not choose to make this admission to himself.

With a beating heart did he cross the threshold of the house in which that delightful vision had burst, as it were, upon his sight on the previous evening. He was immediately conducted to the sick-room, where Ellen was sitting alone by her father's bed-side.

The old man slept.

Ellen rose and tripped lightly to meet him, a smile upon her charming, though pale and somewhat careworn countenance.

Laying her hand gently upon his, she whispered, "He will recover! Mr. Wentworth assures me that he will recover!"

"Most sincerely do I congratulate you upon this happy change," said Reginald. "I can well comprehend the feelings of an affectionate daughter who is allowed to hope that her parent may be restored to her."

"Yes, sir--and so good a father as mine!" added Ellen. "But it was all my fault----"

Then, suddenly checking herself, she cast down her eyes, and blushed deeply.

"Your fault, Miss Monroe?" repeated the rector, inspired with the most lively curiosity to penetrate the mystery of that self-accusation which he had now heard for the second time: "I cannot believe that any fault of yours--you whom I found hanging over your beloved father----"

"Let us speak no more upon that subject," interrupted Ellen, vexed with herself for having so unguardedly said what she had relative to the primal cause of her father's dangerous illness. "He will recover--something tells me that he will recover; and then--oh! how I will cherish him--how I will exert myself to make the remainder of his days happy!"

Her countenance became flushed as she spoke; and Reginald's glances were fixed, by a species of invincible fascination, upon the beautiful being in whose presence he stood.

He felt at that moment that he could sacrifice every thing for her love.

The surgeon and Richard Markham now entered the apartment; and Reginald received the thanks of our young hero for the attention which he had shown to the old man whose life had ceased to be despaired of.

After a somewhat protracted visit, the rector took his leave.

But throughout that day Ellen alone occupied all his thoughts. What fault of hers could have thrown her father upon a bed of sickness, whose only termination was at one time anticipated to be in death? what could have been the conduct of so fond a daughter to have produced such terrible results? Had she strayed from the path of virtue? This was the only feasible solution of such a mystery. Then a terrible pang of jealousy shot through his breast.

And why should he be jealous? What was that young girl to him?

He was jealous, because his ardent passions instinctively attracted him towards that beautiful creature;--and she was every thing to him, because she was so beautiful, and because he desired her!

Yes--a new flame now burnt in his heart--a flame as violent, as relentless, as fierce, as that which had already made him the slave of Lady Cecilia Harborough. But was he this time to become a slave or a victim?

He sat down and reasoned with himself. He endeavoured to crush the feelings of licentiousness which had been re-awakened in his heart.

But as vainly might he have endeavoured to lull the Maelstroom with a breath, or to subdue the rage of Vesuvius with a drop of water!

Such was his frame of mind, when an old woman sought his presence in the evening.

He had made it a rule, throughout his career, never to be difficult of access to those who wished to see him; and now that he felt the fabric of his fair fame to be tottering upon the verge of a precipice, he was not inclined to deviate from any of those outward forms which had aided in the consecration of his renown. He accordingly ordered his house keeper to admit the old woman to his presence.

The instant a hag, with a horribly wrinkled countenance, entered his study, he started--for that repulsive face was not altogether unknown to him.

Then, in another moment, he remembered that he had once seen her standing at the door of Lady Cecilia Harborough's abode in Tavistock Square; and that the glance which she had thrown upon him, on that occasion had for an instant struck him with sinister foreboding.

The old woman seated herself, and, without any preamble, said: "A man of great learning like you, reverend sir, cannot be otherwise than a man of great taste. This conviction has emboldened me to call upon you in preference to any other, relative to a most perfect work of art which fortune has thrown in my way."

Reginald gazed upon the old woman in speechless astonishment: her mysterious--indeed, incomprehensible language, induced him to believe that she was some unfortunate creature bereaved of her right senses.

"Listen to me for a few minutes, reverend sir," continued the hag, "and I will explain my meaning to you. Your charity, as well as your taste, is about to be appealed to."

"Speak," said the clergyman, somewhat impatiently, for he longed to be left alone again with his reflections, which had just assumed a most voluptuous complexion when his privacy was thus intruded upon.

"I will not detain you long--I will not detain you long," cried the old hag. "You must know, reverend sir, that a foreign sculptor--a poor Italian--came some few months ago to lodge at my humble dwelling. He was in the deepest distress, and had not the means to procure either marble or tools. I am very poor--very poor, myself, sir; but I could not see a fellow-creature starving. I bought him marble--and I bought him tools. He went to work, toiling day and night almost unweariedly; and a week ago he put the finishing stroke to the statue of a nymph. His art has enabled him, by means of colour, to give a life-like appearance to that admirable work of art; so that as you contemplate it, it seems to you as if the eyes were animated, the lips breathed, and the bosom rose and sank with respiration."

"And your artist is, no doubt, anxious to dispose of his statue?" said the rector.

"Precisely so," answered the hag. "I do not profess to be a judge myself; but I can speak of the effect which it produced upon me. When I saw it finished--standing upon its pedestal--I was about to address it as a living being."

"The effect must, then, be indeed striking," observed Reginald, with the voluptuous train of whose ideas this picture was well adapted to associate.

"Were you to judge for yourself, reverend sir," said the old hag, "you would find that I have not overrated the perfection of this masterpiece. The sculptor demands but a small price for his statue: it would be a charity were you to purchase it yourself, or recommend one of your friends to do so."

"When and where could I see this matchless work of art?" asked Reginald, whose curiosity was now strangely excited.

"At my own humble dwelling in Golden Lane is this statue concealed," replied the horrible old hag; "and no mortal eyes, save the sculptor's and mine own, have yet glanced upon it. If you will accompany me now, you can inspect it without delay."

Reginald referred to his watch, and found that it was past nine o'clock. The evening was pitch dark; and he did not, therefore, dread being seen in the company of that hideous old woman. Besides, even if he were--was he not often summoned at all hours to attend upon the last moments of some dying sinner?

"I will proceed with you at once to your abode," said the rector, after a few moments' hesitation.

"And you will do well," answered the hag; "for I can promise you a fine treat in what you are about to see."

While the rector stepped aside to put on his cloak and hat, a strange smile curled the lips of the wrinkled harridan; but as Reginald again turned towards her, her countenance instantly resumed its wonted composure.

They then went out together.

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CXXXI. THE STATUE

The old woman led the way at a rapid pace towards Golden Lane, the rector following her at a little distance.

Although there was nothing improbable in the tale which the hag had told him, and nothing improper in the step which he was taking,--nevertheless he experienced a vague and indefinable idea of doing wrong.

Something told him that he ought to retreat; and at the same time a superior influence urged him onward.

And, therefore, he followed the old woman.

The wrinkled creature pursued her way, and at length turned into the dark and dirty court with which the reader is already well acquainted.

"This is a strange place, you will say," observed the old woman, as she pushed open the door of one of the houses in that court,--"this is a strange place to contain such a treasure."

"And for that reason the treasure should not long be allowed to remain here," answered the clergyman.

The hag chuckled:--the sound was between a hollow laugh and a death-rattle; and it seemed horrible to the ears of Reginald Tracy.

The old woman then slowly ascended the narrow and dark staircase, until she reached the landing, where she drew a key from her pocket, and leisurely applied it to the lock of a door.

She fumbled about so long with the key, muttering to herself all the while, that Reginald thought she would never open the door, and he offered to assist her.

But at that moment the key turned in the lock, and the door was slowly opened.

The hag beckoned the rector to follow her; and he found himself in a tolerably large room, decently furnished, and with an excellent fire burning in the grate.

There were no candles lighted; nor did the hag offer to provide any;--but the contents of the apartment were plainly visible by means of the strong glare of the fire.

Heavy curtains of a dark colour covered the windows: the floor was carpeted; the chairs and tables were of plain but solid material; and a large mirror stood over the mantel.

At the farther end of the room was a second door, which was now closed, but evidently communicated with an inner chamber.

"I gave the poor artist the best rooms in my house," observed the hag, as she placed a chair near the fire for the rector. "The statue stands in the adjoining chamber; you can inspect it at once, while I----"

She mumbled the remainder of the sentence in such a way that it was wholly unintelligible to the rector, and then left the room.

For a few minutes Reginald stood before the fire, uncertain what course to pursue. He now began to think that the entire proceeding was somewhat extraordinary; and the singular manner in which the old hag had left him, inspired him with a feeling not entirely free from alarm.

But for what purpose could he have been inveigled thither, if it were not really to behold the marvellous statue? and, perhaps, after, all, the old woman had only left him in order to fetch the candles or to summon the artist? Moreover, had she not informed him that the statue was in the next room, and that he might inspect it at once? It was therefore easy to satisfy himself whether he had been deceived or not.

Ashamed of his transient fears, he threw off his hat and cloak, and advanced towards the door communicating with the inner chamber.

Even then he hesitated for a minute as his fingers grasped the handle; but, at length, he boldly entered the room.

The moment the door was thrown open, he perceived by the light of the fire which burned in the front apartment, that the inner one was a small and comfortably fitted-up bed-chamber. It was involved in a more than semi-obscurity; but not to such an extent as to conceal from Reginald Tracy's penetrating glance the semblance of a female form standing upon a low pedestal in the most remote corner of the room.

"I am not then deceived!" he exclaimed aloud, as he advanced nearer towards the statue.

By this time his eyes had become accustomed to the obscurity of the chamber, into which the glimmer of the fire threw a faint but mellowed light. Still, in somewhat bold relief, against the dark wall, stood the object of his interest,--seeming a beautiful model of a female form, the colouring of which was that of life. It was naked to the middle; the arms were gracefully rounded; and one hand sustained the falling drapery which, being also coloured, produced upon the mind of the beholder the effect of real garments.

Lost in wonder at the success with which the sculptor had performed his work,--and experiencing feelings of a soft and voluptuous nature,--Reginald drew closer to the statue. At that moment the light of the fire played upon its countenance; and it seemed to him as if the lips moved with a faint smile. Then, how was his surprise increased, when the conviction flashed to his mind that the face he was gazing upon was well known to him!

"O Cecilia, Cecilia!" he ejaculated aloud: "hast thou sent thy statue hither to compel me to fall at its feet and worship the senseless stone, while thou--the sweet original--art elsewhere, speculating perhaps upon the emotions which this phantasmagorian sport was calculated to conjure up within me! Ah! Cecilia, if thou wast resolved to subdue me once more--if thou couldst not rest until I became thy slave again,--oh! why not have invited me to meet thine own sweet self, instead of this speechless, motionless, passionless image,--a counterpart of thee only in external loveliness! Yes--there it is perfect:--the hair--the brow--the eyes--the mouth---- Heavens! those lips seem to smile once more; those eyes sparkle with real fire! Cecilia--Cecilia--"

And Reginald Tracy was afraid--he scarcely knew wherefore: the entire adventure of the evening appeared to be a dream.

"Yes--yes!" he suddenly exclaimed, after having steadfastly contemplated the form before him for some moments,--standing at a distance of only three or four paces,--afraid to advance nearer, unwilling to retreat altogether,--"yes!" he exclaimed, "there is something more than mere senseless marble here! The eyes shoot fire--the lips smile--the bosom heaves---- Oh! Cecilia--Cecilia, it is yourself!"

As he spoke he rushed forward: the statue burst from chill marble into warmth and life;--it was indeed the beauteous but wily Cecilia--who returned his embrace and hung around his neck;--and the rector was again subdued--again enslaved!

* * * * *

* * * * *

"And you will pardon me for the little stratagem which I adopted to bring you back to my arms?" said Cecilia.

"How can I do otherwise than pardon you?" murmured the rector, whose licentious soul was occupied only with gross delights, and who would at that moment have dared exposure and disgrace rather than tear himself away from the syren on whose bosom his head was pillowed. "Oh! Cecilia, I have had a violent struggle with my feelings; but I shall now contend against them no more. No! from this instant I abandon all hope of empire--all wish for dominion over myself: I yield myself up to the pleasures of love and to thee! Sweet Cecilia, thou hast taught me how ineffable is the bliss which mortals may taste in this world;--and after all, the sure present is preferable to the uncertain future!"

"Reginald--beloved Reginald, didst thou imagine that I would resign thee so easily as thou wouldst have resigned me!" said Lady Cecilia. "Oh! you know not the heart of woman! There were but two alternatives for me--to bring you back, or to avenge myself on you."

"Avenge yourself!" exclaimed Reginald, starting.

"Yes," replied the wily creature, purposely adopting this discourse in order to enchain her lover in future; "a woman who fondly--madly loves, as I love, Reginald--will not so willingly part with the object of her affection! What,--could you suppose that I would surrender myself to you one day to be abandoned the next? No--never, never would I permit myself to be made the victim of a caprice! You wrote to me to implore me not to seek to see you again: I requested one last interview--you refused me my demand! Then I smarted sorely; but I said to myself, 'He loves me'; and I added, 'I love him also.' I accordingly resolved to attempt one grand effort to draw the anchorite from his cell. Chance threw in my way the old woman whom I sent to you, and in whose house we now are----"

"And what chance was that?" demanded Reginald, who entertained a strong and yet unaccountable aversion for that old hag.

"I will tell you all, dearest Reginald," answered Cecilia. "The evening after I received your cruel note desiring that all might end between us, I was going out with the intention of calling upon you--yes, of throwing myself at your feet----"

"Imprudent Cecilia!" murmured the rector, imprinting a kiss upon her lips.

"Yes--I was on the point of leaving my own abode to seek yours," continued Cecilia, "when I heard a hoarse and ominous voice muttering behind me. I looked round, and perceived that old wretch. She smiled--or rather, leered significantly, and said, 'Happy, happy lady--to enjoy the rector of Saint David's love!'"

"She said that!" cried Reginald. "How could she divine what passed between us?"

"She has since explained to me how she one evening saw you leave my house--with a certain wildness in your manner----"

"True! true!" ejaculated the rector; "and the mind of the old woman being perhaps naturally evil, she conceived evil of others on the faintest suspicion."

"Exactly," answered Cecilia. "When she accosted me in that manner, I was so wretched, so miserable at the idea of being separated from you----"

"Sweetest creature! I was, indeed, ungrateful in return for so much love!"

"I was so unhappy that I was even glad to speak of thee to such a wretch as that old creature. Then she uttered words of consolation, and we talked together--talked for an hour in the cold, damp street----"

"Poor Cecilia!" murmured Reginald.

"What would I not dare for you?" said the wily woman, pressing him warmly in her snowy arms. "And now you can guess the rest--how the old woman proposed that some stratagem should be invented to bring the recreant back to my arms----"

"And you have thus blindly confided yourself--not only your secret, but mine also--to a perfect stranger? O, Cecilia--was this prudent?" exclaimed Reginald in alarm.

"Does love know prudence?" asked the lady. "But fear not: gold will seal the lips of our confidant; and better is it for her obscure dwelling to be the scene of our loves than for our caresses to be exchanged at my abode, where the intrusion of a servant at any moment----"

"True!" interrupted Reginald. "And yet upon what a fearful abyss does my reputation now seem to tremble!"

"Yours!" ejaculated Lady Cecilia, almost scornfully,--for she was resolved to put an end to these repinings on the part of her lover: "Oh! can you be so selfish as to think only of yourself? Should you be detected, you are ruined only in your profession, and not as a man--for with the man there is no dishonour in illicit love;--but if I be detected, am I not lost as a wife, and as a woman? Will not all the wrath of an avenging society light upon me? For it is upon us--upon poor woman--that contumely, and shame, and disgrace fall!"

"Forgive me, dearest Cecilia," murmured the rector, clasping the frail beauty in his arms. "I have been unjust to you--I have thought only of myself, unmindful of the immense sacrifice that is made by thee! But, forgive me, I say--and never again shall the expression of my cowardly alarms--my egotistical terrors impair our happiness! I love you--I love you, my Cecilia: Oh! heaven knows how sincerely--how madly I love you!"

"And you will love me always?" whispered Cecilia.

"Always! for ever--and ever!" answered the rector, now intoxicated--delirious with joy, and reckless of all consequences.

* * * * *

* * * * *

The barrier was now completely broken down; and the rector gave way to the violence of the passion which hurried him along.

That man, so full of vigour, and in the prime of his physical strength, abandoned himself without restraint to the fury of those desires which burnt the more madly--the more wildly, from having been so long pent-up.

Day after day did he meet his guilty paramour; and on each occasion did he reflect less upon the necessity of caution. He passed hours and hours together with her at her abode; and at length he ventured to receive her at his own residence, when his housekeeper had retired to rest.

But he did not neglect his professional duties on the Sabbath;--and he now became an accomplished hypocrite. He ascended the pulpit as usual, and charmed thousands with his discourse as heretofore. Indeed his eloquence improved, for the simulated earnestness which displaced the tone of heart-felt conviction that he had once experienced, seemed more impassioned, and was more impressive than the natural ebullition of his feelings.

Thus as he progressed in the ways of vice, his reputation increased in sanctity.

But the moment he escaped from the duties of his profession, he flew to the arms of her who had seduced him from his career of purity; and so infatuated was he with her who had been his tutoress in the ways of amorous pleasure, that he joyfully placed his purse at the disposal of her extravagance.

Thus was Lady Cecilia triumphant in all points with regard to the once immaculate, but now sensual and voluptuous rector of Saint David's.

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CXXXII. AN OLD FRIEND

Let us now return to the Rattlesnake, whom we left in the act of flying from the pursuit which she knew would be undertaken in respect to her by the Resurrection Man.

Having bade farewell to Mrs. Chichester at Cambridge Heath, Margaret Flathers, with her well-filled bag under her arm, hastened along the road leading to Hackney.

She cared not which direction she pursued, provided she placed a considerable distance between herself and London; for so terrible was the dread under which she laboured from her knowledge of the desperate character and profound cunning of the Resurrection Man, that she conceived it to be impossible for her to be safe so long as she was within even a wide circuit of the great metropolis.

Having passed through Hackney, she speedily left the main road, and struck at random across the fields, careful only to pursue a course which she felt convinced must remove her farther and further from London.

Unweariedly for two long hours did she hurry on her way, until she fell, overcome with weariness, beneath a large tree, whose gigantic leafless boughs creaked ominously in the darkness over her head.

The night was fearfully cold--the grass was damp--and the wind moaned gloomily through the trees.

The Rattlesnake was hungry and thirsty; but she had not food nor drink to satisfy the cravings of nature. In that solitude,--without a light gleaming through the obscurity as a beacon of hospitality,--she felt that her gold was then and there no better to her than the cold soil upon which she rested her weary limbs.

At length, worn out by fatigue and want, she fell asleep.

When she awoke the sun was shining.

But where was she?

Close at hand burnt a blazing fire, fed with wood and turf, and sending up a dense smoke into the fine frosty air. To an iron rod, fastened horizontally to two upright stakes, was suspended a huge caldron, the bubbling of which reached her ears, and the savour of whose contents was wafted most agreeably to her nostrils.

Grouped around the fire, and anxiously watching the culinary process, were two women, four men, and a boy.

Two of the men were not characterised by that swarthy complexion and those black elf-locks which distinguished their two male companions, the women, and the boy.

Of the two man thus especially alluded to, as not being of the gipsy race, to which their companions evidently belonged,--the first was about forty years of age and possessed a herculean form. His countenance was weather-beaten and indicated the endurance of great hardship: indeed, he had been abroad to far-off climes, and had gone through privations of an almost incredible nature. He was, however, taciturn and reserved, and ever seemed brooding upon some secret grief or absorbing sentiment of a darker nature: nevertheless, the little he had chosen to tell his present companions relative to his former history had obtained for him the name of the Traveller; and by no other appellation was he known amongst them.

The other man, whose complexion proclaimed him not to be of the Egyptian race, was apparently verging towards thirty; and, although slight, he was well-built and uncommonly active. His name will transpire presently.

The elder of the two male gipsies was a man of nearly eighty years of age. His hair was as white as driven snow; and his bald head was protected from the cold wind by only a thin faded green silk skull-cap. His beard, as white as his hair, hung down over his breast, and formed a strange contrast with his swarthy countenance and piercing black eyes, the fires of which were not dimmed with age. This individual was the King of the Gipsies, and rejoiced in the assumed name of Zingary.

The other male gipsy was the King's son, and was a fine tall handsome fellow of about thirty-five, dark as a Spaniard, and with fine Roman features.

The two women were also very discrepant in respect to age: one was nearly sixty, and was the Queen of the Gipsies, her assumed name being Aischa: the other was a pretty brunette, with fine laughing eyes and brilliant teeth, and was the wife of Morcar, the King's son. Her name was Eva; and she was the mother of the boy before alluded to, and who was between eight and nine years old.

We have thought it as well to state all these particulars at once in order to avoid confusion; although the Rattlesnake was not immediately aware of them.

When the Rattlesnake awoke up and surveyed this strange groups, she instinctively felt for her bag of gold; and a scream of dismay escaped her lips when she perceived that it was gone.

A loud burst of laughter emanated from the gipsies,--for by this general name we shall denominate the band, although two members of it were not of the race;--and the fair-complexioned man, whose name we have not yet stated, exclaimed, "Don't alarm yourself, my dear young woman: we have banked the rag[86] for fear that a buzman[87] should have nabbed you with it in your possession. But you shall have your reg'lars out of it, mind, whenever you want to pursue your way. Only, as you've happened to trespass upon the dominions of his high mightiness King Zingary, you must pay toll."

While this individual was speaking, the Rattlesnake, who had first been struck by the tone of his voice, considered him with great attention, and seemed to forget the loss she had sustained in the interest with which she contemplated the person addressing her.

At length, when he had ceased to speak, she started from the ground, advanced towards him, and exclaimed in an excited tone, "Have not you and I met before?"

"Not unlikely, my dear," was the reply. "Perhaps under the screw[88]--or in the Holy Land,[89] which I visit from time to time--or else in the bottom of a coal-hell[90] in the county of Stafford."

"It is! it is!" ejaculated the Rattlesnake, ready to spring towards him, and throw her arms around his neck. "Don't you remember me now?"

"Remember you?" repeated the man slowly; and he gazed upon the Rattlesnake's countenance for some moments;--then, as if a sudden light dawned in upon him, he started from the ground in his turn, crying, "May I never drink rum slim[91] again if it isn't my old flame, Meg Flathers!"

And they flew into each other's arms.

"Your Majesty," said Skilligalee,--for this was the individual whose name we for a moment suppressed,--"Your Majesty," he exclaimed, when this embrace was over, "allow me to present to you my wife, the lovely and accomplished Margaret Flathers."

"She is welcome," said Zingary gravely. "Young woman, sit down and be welcome. We ask no questions whether you are our comrade's splice[92] or not: it is enough for us that he acknowledges you as such. Aischa--welcome a daughter; Eva--greet a sister."

The old and the young gipsy women advanced towards the Rattlesnake and took each a hand.

"I welcome you, daughter," said Aischa.

"I greet you, sister," said Eva.

They then each kissed her forehead, and resumed their seats close by the fire.

"And I greet you too, my gal," exclaimed Morcar, thrusting out his large muscular hand, and giving that of the Rattlesnake a friendly squeeze.

"And now sit down," said the King, "and moisten your chaffer."[93]

"Ah! do," cried Morcar; "for you must want it after sleeping underneath that tree on the top of the hill, exposed to the cold wind and damp."

This observation led the Rattlesnake to cast a glance around her; and she found that the gipsy-camp was at the bottom of a deep valley, on the brow of which stood the tree to which the King's son pointed, and beneath which she had sunk exhausted on the preceding night.

Meantime Skilligalee had visited a covered van, which stood at a little distance, and near which an old horse was quietly munching the contents of a capacious nose-bag; and in a few moments he returned, bearing with him a large stone bottle that might have held two gallons of liquor.

From his pocket he produced a small horn-cup and, pouring forth a bumper of rum, he handed it to the queen.

"No--there first," laconically said Aischa, pointing towards the Rattlesnake, who was accordingly compelled to drain the horn before her majesty.

"Good--isn't it?" asked Skilligalee, with a sly wink.

"I felt very cold--and it has revived me," replied the Rattlesnake.

"And the contents of that pot will put you right altogether," said Skilligalee, pointing to the caldron that was simmering over the fire. "Beg pardon, majesty," he added, turning towards the queen, and pouring forth another dram.

Aischa drank the contents of the horn-cup without winking; and Skilligalee proceeded to do the honours of the bottle to the rest of the company.

Having served the king, Eva, and Morcar, he approached the Traveller, who had sat a silent spectator of all that passed.

"Now, friend, your turn is come."

"Thank you," said the man, drily; and having tossed off the liquor, he muttered, grinding his teeth savagely, "And some one else's turn must come too, sooner or later."

"Always brooding upon the same thing," exclaimed the laughing, light-hearted Skilligalee.

"And if you had been served by a villain as I was," returned the Traveller, brutally, "you would long for the time to come to settle up accounts with him. Thank my stars! we shall be in London to-morrow, and then--then----"

The remainder of the man's words were lost in mutterings, which, to judge by the terrific workings of his countenance, the violence with which he ground his teeth, and the convulsive rage indicated by the manner in which he clenched his fist, must have been a direful portent.

But a few words which he had uttered, struck sudden dismay to the heart of the Rattlesnake.

"Are you going to London?" she whispered, in a tone of alarm, to Skilligalee, who had now resumed his seat by her side.

"Ah! indeed are we, my dear," was the reply. "The royal palace in the Holy Land is prepared for our reception; and this night at nine o'clock does his majesty make his triumphant entry, disguised as a timber-merchant,[94] into that part of his dominions."

"To London!" gasped the Rattlesnake. "Then--then--I cannot accompany you--I----"

"What have you to fear?" demanded Skilligalee. "Have you not me to defend you individually, and his majesty's protection to shield you generally?"

"No--no," returned Margaret Flathers; "I cannot--will not return to London. I hate the place--I detest it--I abhor it! I am not even now as far from it as I could wish--not half."

"Far from it?" ejaculated Skilligalee, with a merry laugh. "Why, you can almost hear the sounds of the cabs and hackney-coaches where we are now."

"What!" cried Margaret. "How far are we from London? tell me--speak!"

"When you are on the top of that place where I found you sleeping early this morning," answered Skilligalee, "you can see Hornsey Wood on the next hill--about two miles off."

"My God! then in spite of all my care last night, I must have gone a strange round," said Margaret, speaking rather to herself than to her companion.

"Ah! I see how it is, Meg," observed Skilligalee; "you are in trouble about that gold. Well--never mind, old gal--so much the more reason for me to protect you. Now I tell you what it is: not all the buzmen in London can find you out at our crib in the Holy Land; and so you shall come along with us, and you shall keep in doors the whole time: we'll take care of you. What do you think of that?"

"Skilligalee," whispered Margaret, "I am not afraid of the police: they don't trouble themselves about me. But there is a certain man that seeks my life----"

"Oh! if that's all," interrupted her companion, "make yourself perfectly easy. You don't know yet what defences and fortifications the king has got to his palace: a regiment of swaddles[95] would never storm it, or take it by surprise."

"And you really think that I shall be safe?" asked the Rattlesnake, hesitating; for these assurances of protection began to please her more than the idea of being compelled to wander alone about the country.

"Think!" cried Skilligalee, "I don't think--I'm certain. Trust to me--and all will be right. Besides, do you not pay toll to his majesty? and where can you find a more powerful protector than King Zingary? You will see what he can do, when once we arrive at the palace in the Holy Land."

"But--but--will he keep all my gold?" asked the Rattlesnake, hesitatingly.

"Not all, my dear," answered Skilligalee. "One third goes to the Box;[96] another third to be divided amongst all us here who picked you up; and the other remains at your own disposal. Are you content?"

"Quite," said the Rattlesnake, knowing full well that it was no use to remonstrate, and not unwilling, moreover, to pay handsomely for the protection promised to her.

While this conversation took place between the Rattlesnake and Skilligalee, the two women had prepared the repast. The king had in the meantime amused himself with what, in his own lingo, he termed "cocking a broseley;"[97]--the boy fetched the platters, knives, forks, spoons, and other articles necessary for the meal, from the van;--Morcar went to look after the horse;--and the Traveller was buried in a profound reverie. Thus the discourse of Margaret Flathers and her companion was as private and unrestrained as if no one had been by.

And now the immediate vicinity of the fire presented an animated and even comfortable appearance. Upon a huge earthenware dish was piled a stew, which sent forth a most inviting odour. A goose, a sucking-pig, three fowls, a couple of rabbits, and an immense quantity of vegetables, greeted the eye and pleased the olfactory nerve; and a couple of jolly brown quartern loaves flanked the feast. Every guest was furnished with a horn snicker:[98] salt, pepper, and mustard were also provided, to give a zest to the food. Then Skilligalee paid another visit to the van,--for he, it appears, was butler in ordinary to his Majesty King Zingary,--and returned laden with a second enormous bottle, filled to the bung with the very best malt liquor that ever aided to immortalise Barclay and Perkins.

"All is ready," said Eva, in a respectful manner to her father-in-law, the King.

Zingary stroked down his beard in a majestic manner, murmured a grace in a language totally incomprehensible to the Rattlesnake, and then helped himself to a portion of the mess.

This was the signal for the attack; and Margaret Flathers was by no means sorry to receive upon her platter, from the gallant and attentive Skilligalee, a good proportion of the savoury comestibles.

The Traveller did his duty in respect to the repast; but he seldom joined in the gay discourse which seasoned it, apparently brooding over the one absorbing idea of vengeance, which now seemed to constitute the only object for which that man lived.

Margaret Flathers could not help noticing the great respect which all present paid to the King and Queen of the Gipsies. Their majesties joined familiarly in the conversation; and it was evident from their remarks, especially those of Zingary, that they had travelled over every inch of Great Britain, not a crevice or corner of which was unknown to them. Margaret also gathered from their discourse that they had visited foreign countries in their youth; and Zingary boasted more than once of the intimate terms upon which he stood with the sovereigns of the Gipsies of Spain and Bohemia.

Morcar listened to his father with deep attention and marked respect; and expressed, with deference, his own opinions upon the various topics of discourse. Eva spoke little, but she was an interested listener; and from time to time she bestowed a caress upon her boy, or exchanged a glance or a smile of affection with her husband.

In a word, the members of the royal family of the gipsies appeared to exist upon the most comfortable terms with each other.

When the meal was over, Skilligalee beckoned Margaret Flathers aside, and said, "We will go and seat ourselves under the brow of yonder hill, and pass an hour in conversation. I have much to tell you, and you must have something to tell me."

"I have--I have indeed!" exclaimed Margaret, as she accompanied Skilligalee to the spot indicated, where they seated themselves on some large blocks of wood that lay there half buried in the soil.

"I have often read and heard of the King of the Gipsies," said Margaret; "but I always imagined that he was a fabulous character. Is that old man yonder really the King; or has he only assumed the distinction by way of amusement?"

"He is as much the sovereign of the gipsies, Margaret," answered Skilligalee, with unusual solemnity, "as Victoria is the Queen of England; and more so, for the whole tribe pays him a blind and implicit obedience."

"How came the king and his family with such strange names as those by which I heard them call each other?" inquired the Rattlesnake.

"The Gipsies in England are of two distinct races, although united under one ruler," replied Skilligalee. "They are Egyptian and Bohemian, and the royal family always adopts names likely to please both parties: Zingary and Aischa are, amongst the gipsies, supposed to be Egyptian names; Morcar and Eva are held as Bohemian. The parents who have Egyptian names, give Bohemian ones to their children; so that the rulers of the tribe are alternately looked upon as Egyptian and Bohemian."

"Then Morcar and Eva will be king and queen at the death of Zingary?" said the Rattlesnake.

"Just so," replied Skilligalee.

"Now tell me, who is that moody, melancholy, scowling fellow that you call the Traveller?" continued Margaret.

"We know but little of him," was the answer. "He joined us--or rather, we picked him up in a state of starvation, a few miles from Liverpool, about six weeks or two months ago; and the king has allowed him to tramp with us, because he is without friends or money. Moreover, he was anxious to get to London; and, for some reason or other, he is afraid to be seen on the high-roads, or in the towns and villages. So our wandering life just suited his convenience; and he feels himself safe in our company. He seldom speaks about his own affairs; but he has said enough to enable us to understand that he has suffered deeply in consequence of the treachery of some person in whom he had put confidence, or who was his pal in former times; and he is going up to London with the hope of finding out his enemy. He seems a desperate fellow; and I should not like to be the person that has offended him."

"He is not a gipsy?" said Margaret, interrogatively.

"No--not a whit more than myself," answered Skilligalee; "and I dare say he will leave us in London. As he was with us when we banked your rag, he will have his reg'lars, and that will set him up."

"And you have no idea what he has been, or who he is?" inquired the Rattlesnake.

"We never ask questions, Meg; we listen to all that is told us, but we never seek to pry into secrets. The king was quite contented with seeing your well filled bag; but if you remained in his company for a hundred years from this time, he would never ask you how you came by it. All impertinent curiosity is against the laws of the Zingarees."

"Zingarees! who are they?" exclaimed the Rattlesnake.

"The Gipsies--with another name--that's all, Meg," replied Skilligalee. "But I was telling you about the man that we call the Traveller. When his heart has been the least thing warmed with sluicing his bolt[99] and cocking his broseley, he has told us strange stories of foreign countries, so that even old Zingary, who has travelled a good deal, has turned up the whites of his eyes. But there is no doubt that the sulky stranger has seen much, and gone through much also. He talks of the Cape of Good Hope and Cape Horn, and Australia, and heaven only knows what distant places, almost as well as you and I should about the coal-hells in Staffordshire."

"And does he mean to kill the man that has offended him?" demanded the Rattlesnake.

"I'll warrant he does," was the answer; "for all that he possessed in the world, when we picked him up nearly frozen to death in a pit where he had crept for shelter,--all that he possessed besides his rags, was a long dagger, which he calls a poniard: it is as bright as silver, and so flexible that you can bend it double without breaking it. So determined is he to bury it some half dozen inches in his enemy's heart, that he wouldn't even sell it, it appears, when famishing for a morsel of bread."

"He seems a desperate-looking fellow," observed the Rattlesnake. "I never beard of so terrible a man--except one; and hell doesn't contain a greater demon than him. But I will tell you all about that another time: you must answer me my questions first."

"Oh! of course," exclaimed Skilligalee, with a merry laugh; "because you are the lady, and I am the gentleman. What else do you want to know?"

"Why, the king is going up to London?"

"He always does at this season of the year, to meet the chiefs of the different districts, and settle a good deal of business. But you will see all about it when once we get up into the Holy Land--that is, if you've made up your mind to go with us."

"I have," answered the Rattlesnake. "And now tell me all that has happened to you since we parted in that hurried manner--you know how."

"Well--I will," cried Skilligalee: "so listen attentively, as all story-tellers say."

Then, clearing his throat with a loud hem, he commenced his narrative in the following manner.

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CXXXIII. SKILLIGALEE'S HISTORY

"You remember the day we parted, after having lived together for nearly six months. I gave you two guineas to find your way up to London, where I recommended you to proceed to seek your fortune; and I told you that I had as much left for myself, to help me to get away from a part of the country where the numerous burglaries I had committed had put all the constables on the alert after me. But in reality I had but two or three shillings remaining in my pocket. I knew that if I told you the real state of my finances, you would not accept so much as I had given you; but I was afraid that you might be implicated in my difficulties, and so I was determined that you should have sufficient to convey you clear away from Staffordshire.

"Well, when we parted, I walked along the road leading away from the village, as disconsolate as might be; and yet you know that I am not naturally of a very mournful disposition. It was nine o'clock in the evening, if you remember, when I put you into the waggon that was to take you to London. I went on until I reached a lonely public-house, by the way-side. It was then eleven o'clock; and I was both tired and hungry. I entered the Three Compasses (which was the sign of the public-house), and sat down in the parlour. There was another traveller there--a short stout man, with a very red face, and who was committing desperate havoc upon a large cheese and loaf, from which he, however, occasionally diverted his attention, in order to pay his respects to a pot of porter. I ordered some refreshment, and inquired if I could be accommodated with a bed. The old widow woman who kept the place, said that the only bed she had to spare was already engaged by the gentleman then at supper, but that I might sleep in the hay-loft if I chose. Thereupon the red-faced man gave a long stare at me, shrugged his shoulders, and went on eating. I suppose that my appearance was not respectable enough to induce him to resign half of his bed for my accommodation; and, indeed, I was dreadfully shabby--almost in rags, as you may well remember. So I accepted the offer of the hay-loft; and retired to that place as soon as I had finished my supper.

"But as I clambered up the ladder to my roosting-place, my unfortunate trousers caught a nail; and one leg was split completely down to the foot. I was now in a most wretched dilemma, not knowing how I should contrive to mend my luckless inexpressibles. But I soon fell asleep, in spite of my unpleasant reflections; and when I awoke, the dawn of the mild spring morning was just breaking. I examined my garment, and was reduced to despair at its appearance. At length I resolved to dress myself, go down stairs, borrow a needle and thread of the old woman, and be my own tailor. When I descended into the yard, I found a lad busily employed in cleaning a pair of boots, while a pair of trousers lay upon a bench, neatly folded up, having evidently gone through the process of brushing. I immediately recognised the stout drab pantaloons which the red-faced man wore on the preceding evening; and my eyes dwelt longingly upon them. In reply to my questions, the boy said that his grandmother (the old widow who kept the public-house) was not up yet, but that he could get me a needle and thread, as he knew where she kept her work-bag. I begged him to do so; and he very obligingly went into the house for that purpose.

"The moment he had disappeared I snatched up the red-faced man's drab trousers in one hand, and his excellent pair of bluchers in the other: then, without waiting to look behind me, I jumped over the fence which separated the stable-yard from the fields, and was speedily scampering across the open country as fast as my legs would carry me. When I had run about a mile, I reached a little grove, situated on the bank of a stream: and there I halted.

"The red-faced gentleman's boots were a wonderful improvement upon my old broken shoes; but his pantaloons fitted somewhat awkwardly, being a world too wide round the waist, and a foot too short in the legs. However, they were better than my old tattered unmentionables, and I could not complain that they were dear!

"I pursued my way along the banks of the stream until past mid-day, when I came to a village, where I halted at a public-house to take some refreshment. My two or three shillings were still unchanged, because I had not paid a single penny for my entertainment at the Three Compasses. While I sate enjoying my bread and cheese and beer, I revolved in my mind various plans to better my condition. But my attention was speedily averted from that topic to the conversation of two old men, who were sitting at another table in the tap-room.

"'So poor old Joe Dobbin's scapegrace nephew is coming home at last?' said one.--'Yea,' replied the other: 'he has been seeking his fortune, as a sailor, all over the world, for the last ten years; and now that he hasn't a penny, and is a-weary of a sea-faring life, he has written to say that he is coming home to his poor old blind uncle.'--'Ah! Tom Tittlebat has been a wild 'un in his day, I'll answer for it,' said the first old man. 'But his uncle seems quite delighted at the idea of seeing him again,' observed the other old fellow.--'He says that he shall persuade upon Tom to stay at home and take care of him; and then he'll be able to turn away cross old Margery, who robs him and ill-treats him in a shameful manner.'

"I devoured every word of this conversation; and my mind was instantly made up. I accordingly joined in the discourse, called for some ale, of which I made the two old fellows partake, and so artfully pumped them that in half an hour I knew all about old blind Dobbin and his graceless nephew Tom Tittlebat, without having appeared even to ask a single question concerning them. At length, when I had my lesson complete. I burst out into a hearty laugh, and cried out, 'What, Master Buckley, don't you remember me then? and you, good Master Dottings, am I quite a stranger to you too?' The old men stared; and then, with another hearty laugh I boldly announced myself to be Tom Tittlebat. You should have seen the old fellows--how glad they were! One swore that he had all along suspected who I was; and the other vowed that my features were unchanged since he last saw me, although my face was a little tanned! Then I called for more ale, and plied the old boys well, so that they might help to favour the imposture which I meditated.

"Away we went to the cottage inhabited by old Dobbin, my two aged companions really showing me the way, while I pretended to be quite familiar with it. The moment we came in sight of my alleged uncle's residence, old Buckley and Dottings (whose names I had found out from their own discourse with me) hobbled forward, exclaiming, 'Here's the prodigal returned, Brother Dobbin!'--'Kill the fatted calf, Brother Dobbin!' And in a few moments I was in my alleged uncle's arms.

"Then the fatted calf was indeed killed. Dame Margery, the old man's housekeeper, was compelled to bustle about to prepare a copious supper--a duty which she performed with a very bad grace, and with sundry suspicious leers and side-glances towards me. I took no notice of her ill-humour, but rattled away about my adventures by sea and land till the three old men were quite astounded at the marvellous things I had seen and the tremendous perils that I had escaped. Buckley and Dottings were invited to stay to supper; and a merry meal we had. When the things were cleared away, I undertook to brew the punch, assuring the old folks that the compound would be made according to a recipe which I had obtained from the king of the Inaccessible Islands.

"Well, the punch was made; and there it stood steaming in an enormous bowl upon the table. I was determined to enjoy myself; for I purposed to pack up every thing portable during the night and decamp before dawn, for fear that the rightful nephew should return before I had turned my trick to advantage. So I filled the tumblers, and plied the punch to such an extent that even old Margery's ill-humour was overcome by the gaiety of the scene; and she consented to sit down and join us.

"I was just in the middle of a most exciting account of a conflict which I had with a shark at the South Pole, when a loud knock at the door resounded through the house. Margery hastened to obey the summons; and Old Dobbin observed, 'I shouldn't be surprised if this was my cousin George, for I wrote to him the day before yesterday to say that my nephew Tom was coming home, and invited him down to pass a week or so on the happy occasion.' I heard this remark; but the punch had produced such an effect upon me, that I felt no uneasiness. I thought I should be able to get over cousin George as easily as I had done Uncle Dobbin; and so I amused myself by filling the glasses round from the second bowl, which had only just been mixed.

"Meantime Dame Margery, having answered the door, returned, exclaiming, 'It be Master George,' and followed by a person whom her tall gaunt form in some measure hid from me until they were both close to the table. Then what a dreadful scene took place! In cousin George, to my horror and dismay, I beheld the red-faced man that I'd met at the Three Compasses, and whose drab trousers adorned me at that very moment!

"I leapt from my seat, and was making as fast as I could to the door, when cousin George shouted out, 'Holloa! who have we here?'--and, springing forward, he collared me in a moment. 'What's the matter? what's the matter?' demanded old Dobbin.--'My stars! what's this mean?' exclaimed Dame Margery.--'Why, it means that this fellow is a robber, and has got on my breeches and boots!' vociferated cousin George, growing purple in the face with rage, and giving me a violent shake.--'Your breeches!' cried old Buckley.--'Your boots!' mumbled old Dottings.--'Yes, to be sure!' shouted the red-faced man. 'Go and fetch a constable.'--Why, you don't mean that nephew Tom has done this?' said old Dobbin.--'Nephew Tom!' exclaimed cousin George, letting go his hold upon my coat: 'no!'--'But I say yes, though,' said I, putting a bold face upon the matter: 'I knew you directly when I met you at the Three Compasses last night, and only did it by way of a lark.'

"But this turn did not serve me. While I spoke, cousin George surveyed me attentively; and, again rushing upon me, he roared out, 'He's a cheat! he's an impostor! Tom has a mole on the left cheek, and he's none: Tom has a cut over the right eye, and he hasn't. Go for a constable.'--'Well, I thought all along he was a rogue,' cried Dame Margery, hurrying off to execute this most unpleasant order.

"My case now seemed desperate; and not a moment was to be lost. Casting my eyes rapidly around in search of some weapon of defence or avenue of escape, I espied the punch-bowl, three parts full of steaming liquor, within my reach. With the rapidity of lightning I seized it, and dashed it over like a hat upon cousin George's head. He uttered a terrific yell as the hot punch streamed down him; and I precipitated myself from the room as if a blood-hound was at my heels.

"Away I scudded--a hue and cry after me: but I ran like a race-horse; and in a few minutes was beyond the sound of the 'Stop, thief,' raised by cousin George's ominous voice.

"That was an excellent adventure; I have often and often laughed at it since, and wondered whether the real Tom Tittlebat ever did return. At all events I kept cousin George's trousers and boots; but they got me into more scrapes yet.

"I strolled along through the fields, diverting myself with reflection upon the past, and pondering upon what might be in store for the future, until I reached a large market town, where I went boldly to the tap-room of the principal tavern. I ordered an excellent supper, with plenty of ale, feeling convinced that some lucky adventure would enable me to pay for my cheer--for I had now but one shilling left, the remainder of my money having been spent at the inn where I met the two old acquaintances of blind Dobbin.

"The tap-room was filled with people; and the conversation was pretty general. There was, however, one individual who took no part in the discourse, but sate apart in an obscure corner smoking his pipe. He did not even appear to listen to what was said around him; but maintained his eyes moodily fixed on the floor. His horrible sallow complexion, deep wrinkles, and large mustache, gave him an aspect very far from inviting. Nevertheless, I endeavoured to enter into conversation with him--simply, I suppose, because he appeared to be so reserved, and my curiosity was excited with respect to him; but he threw upon me a look of the most sovereign contempt, and made me no answer. I shrank back from the fierce glance of his dark black eyes, and felt abashed and cowed--I scarcely knew why. But soon recovering my usual good spirits, I also called for my pipe and my pot, and mingled in the conversation. Rattling away with my anecdotes, and now and then singing a snatch of a song, I speedily made myself so agreeable to the drovers and waggoners assembled in the tap-room, that they called for punch and invited me to partake of it with them.

"At twelve o'clock the waiter came in, and bawled out, 'Any more orders, gentlemen? any more orders?' No answer being given, he said, 'I will receive each gentleman's account, if you please.'--This announcement came like a clap of thunder upon me: I had but a shilling in my pocket, and owed nearly three. What to do I could not tell. Meantime the waiter went round, collecting the money due to him from each individual; and the nearer he drew to the table where I was sitting, the more fidgetty I became. As I glanced round me with feverish anxiety, I saw the dark black eyes of the sallow-faced stranger fixed upon me; and I thought that they glared with fiendish delight, as if they had penetrated my secret. I felt ashamed--and my eyes fell beneath the demon-like glance. In another moment the waiter stood before me. 'Now, sir--if you please, sir: steak, one shilling--taturs, penny--bread, penny--fourteen-pence; two pints of ale, eight-pence--screw of bakker, penny--pot porter, four-pence,--that's two-and-three, sir.' I sat aghast for a few minutes, and then began to fumble in my pockets, the waiter every moment growing more impatient. At that instant the sallow-faced stranger pointed to the bench on which I was sitting, and said in a surly tone, 'No wonder, young man, that you can't find your money in your pocket, when you let it roll about in all directions.' He then sank back into his corner, and seemed to take no more notice of me or my concerns. I thought he had a mind to banter me; but, turning my eyes towards the place which he had indicated, to my surprise I perceived a couple of half-crowns lying there. I am sure the waiter must have seen how my countenance brightened up with sudden joy; but he made no remark; and I paid my bill. He then passed on to the sallow-faced man, who settled his own account, and hastily left the room, without condescending to cast another glance upon me.

"I was at a loss to make out whether the sallow-faced stranger had done a most generous action, or whether some one else had dropped the money there, and he had really fancied it to be mine. I did not, however, lose much time in conjecture; but, taking the whole affair for a good omen, ordered another glass, and then went jovially to bed. I awoke early, had some breakfast, and went out to take a stroll in the town. I naturally directed my steps towards the market-place, knowing that it was market-day, and hoping to find a watch or a purse in the crowd.

"Elbowing my way through the graziers, drovers, and butchers, I got into the middle of the market, and there a most extraordinary spectacle met my eyes. A man was leading a woman along by a halter, which was tied round her neck. At first, I thought that a public execution was about to take place; but, seeing no gibbet--no police--no sheriffs--and no clergyman,--and observing, at a second glance, that the woman was giggling and laughing very much unlike a person just going to be hanged, I was at a loss to account for so strange a sight. The crowd appeared to enjoy the fun--for fun it evidently was--excessively; and, at length, I learnt that 'Bob Fosset, the dog's-meat-man, was about to sell his wife to Will Wyatt, the costermonger.' And, sure enough, such was the fact. Bob Fossett led his wife--a comely-looking woman enough--to the centre of the market, and tied the halter to a sheep-pen. He then mounted on the top bar of the pen, and shouted out: 'I hereby put up my wife, Jenny Fossett, to public auction; and I declare that she shall go to the highest bidder.'--'So I will, Bob,' cried the woman.--'Hooray, Bob Fossett,' bawled the crowd assembled; and then there was such laughing, and joking, and sky-larking, it seemed for all the world just like a fair. Well, Will Wyatt steps forward, and exclaims: 'I bid one shilling for that woman.'--'One shilling bid,' said Bob Fossett.--'One shilling and a pot of beer,' cries some wag in the crowd.--'One shilling and a pot of beer is bid,' shouts Fossett; 'who bids any more?'--'One shilling and a gallon of beer!' bawls Will Wyatt.--'One shilling and a gallon of beer for this woman!' cries Bob Fossett: 'who'll advance on that? Going for one shilling and a gallon of beer: going--going,--will no one bid?--gone! Will Wyatt, my lad, that woman's yours!' So Will Wyatt steps forward, kisses the woman, takes off the halter, and tacks her under his arm as cozy as if they'd just been spliced at church. Then they all three went off to the nearest public-house, the crowds hooraying, and shouting, and squeaking, and roaring, as they made way for the party to pass along. I determined to see the remainder of the fun, and so I followed them to the public-house.

"The moment we entered the parlour, I saw a person sitting in one corner, whose face seemed more or less familiar to me. He was a fine, tall, powerfully-built man; and his countenance was very handsome, but so dark that he appeared to be an East-Indian. But it was the peculiar expression of the mouth, and the piercing glance of the eyes, that struck me. I looked--and looked again; and thought that a slight smile curled the stranger's lips as I surveyed him, although he did not seem to take any notice of me, or even to know that I was staring at him. 'Well,' I thought to myself, 'if you are not my sallow-faced friend of last-sight, I'm terribly mistaken--that's all;' for I knew too much of disguises myself to be bothered by the difference of complexions. So I went and sat down close by him; and, having ordered something to drink, at length boldly whispered to him, 'I have seen you before.'--'Very likely,' answered the man, coolly; 'but take care of yourself, or you may still get into a scrape on account of cousin George's breeches.' With these words he rose, drained his glass, and walked coolly out of the room.

"You may imagine how astonished I was at the ominous words which he had whispered in my ear; but, collecting my ideas, I began to feel alarmed for my safety; and, having no longer any interest in the party whom I had followed into the public-house, I abruptly departed--without partaking of, or paying for, the refreshment which I had ordered. Hurrying away from the place, I got out of the town as quick as possible; and, avoiding the main-road, struck into the fields.

"I wandered about for two or three days, until all my money was gone; and I was one afternoon roaming along a by-lane, wondering what was to become of me, and thinking that it would be much better to break into some house, as a last and desperate resource, when I suddenly encountered a man and woman at the turning of the road. They were dressed as poor country people; but the darkness of their complexions immediately struck my attention; and, at a second glance, I recognised in the man the very person who had whispered those mysterious words in my ears, concerning cousin George's trousers, and whom I could almost certainly identify with the sallow-faced stranger. 'What, not got rid of cousin George's trousers yet!' he exclaimed, laughing heartily; and the woman, who seemed to understand the joke, joined in her companion's mirth.--'Who are you?' I said, 'and how do you happen to know about that little adventure of mine?'--'You see that I do know all about it' returned the man, with another laugh; 'and you may perhaps be surprised when I tell you that I consider the abstraction of the trousers to be even a more pleasant freak than the personation of Tom Tittlebat.--'The deuce!' I cried, now completely bewildered: 'if you are a constable, say so, and we will have a fight for it; if not, tell me who you are, and how you came to be acquainted with my affairs.'--'I am certainly no constable,' answered the man, 'or I might have apprehended you some days since on two several occasions, and when there would have been no necessity to fight for it. As to how I know any thing about you, ask no questions, because you will receive no satisfactory answers. But if you wish to earn a shilling or two, say so; and you can do it within an hour.'--I professed my willingness to serve this strange individual.--'Come with us,' he said; and, striking into a narrow path, he led the way for about half-a-mile across the fields, until we came in sight of a large farm-house. 'You see that farm,' he said: 'now listen attentively. You must go there, and under any pretence you can think of, obtain admission into the kitchen, or get into conversation with one of the servants, so as to glean all the information you can about the family. There's three daughters: find out whether they are engaged to be married, or who the young men are that principally visit at the house, and all particulars of that kind. We will wait for you in yonder copse.'

"The stranger and his companion hastened away towards the place where I was to meet them again, and I proceeded towards the farm. It was by no means difficult to gain admittance into the kitchen of that hospitable establishment: a simple request for a cup of milk led to an invitation from a buxom cook and a smart servant-maid to walk in and rest myself a little. Then bread and cheese, and a foaming tankard of home-brewed were set before me; and, while I ate and drank, I gradually drew the two women into the conversation which suited my purpose. They proclaimed the praises of 'master and missis;' and told me how the old people were very well off; and how Miss Jemima, the eldest daughter, was engaged to a young farmer in the neighbourhood; how Miss Mary, the second daughter, had been courted by an officer in the army who had been quartered in the neighbouring town, but who had since left, and had never written to her afterwards; and how Miss Frances, the youngest, had been very melancholy ever since she had visited an aunt at Stafford, where it was well known an attorney's clerk had paid her very great attention. These, and various other particulars relative to the family, were related to me in the course of conversation; and, having remained at the farm for a couple of hours, I was about to take my leave, as well informed relative to the inmates as if I had lived with them all my life. But just as I was rising to depart, I espied a purse lying in a work-box upon a shelf; and I began to reflect how I could make it my own. Accident served my purpose: the cook insisted upon drawing me some more ale, and went into the cellar for that purpose; and the maid-servant stepped to the door of the kitchen to receive a can of milk which a boy brought there at the moment. To dart toward the shelf and secure the purse was the work of an instant; and when the maid turned towards me again, I was sitting as composedly as if I had never left my chair. The cook made her appearance with the ale, of which I drank; and I then took my leave, with many thanks for the kind entertainment I had received.

"I proceeded to the copse, where I found my strange employer and his female companion waiting for me. I told them all that I had gleaned relative to the farmer and his family; and they were highly delighted with the information so procured. The man gave me five shillings, and told me that he did not require my services any farther. I was not sorry to get away from the neighbourhood; and, taking leave of the persons who had employed me in so singular a service, pursued my way. When at a convenient distance from the spot where I had left them, I examined the purse, and, to my joy, found that it contained four sovereigns and about seven shillings in silver.

"Considerably cheered at this change in my pecuniary position, I pursued my way until long after dusk, when I entered a village where I determined to put up for the night. Having supped at a public-house, I inquired about a bed, and found that I could be accommodated with one in a double-bedded room, the other being already retained by a traveller who had arrived before me, but who had stepped out, I was informed, to transact some business with certain inhabitants of his acquaintance. Being tired, I went up to the room where I was to sleep, before the return of the person who was to occupy the other bed; but before I sought my own nest I looked about for a secure spot where I could conceal my purse, as I fancied that my companion might probably be no more honest than myself. I accordingly hid my treasure between the mattress and the sacking; and, putting my clothes under my pillow, lay down to rest. I soon fell into a deep sleep, from which I did not awake until aroused by the noise of some one moving about the room. I started up, and rubbing my eyes, asked what o'clock it was. The person who occupied the other bed was shaving himself at a looking-glass, with his back turned towards me; but the moment my voice fell upon his ears, he started round; and--to my horror--I recognised but too well, beneath a thick coat of lather, the never-to-be-forgotten countenance of cousin George.

"Here was a precious scrape! The red-faced man was deaf to my prayers for mercy, and alarmed the whole house. Landlord, boots, ostler, and pot-boy rushed up stairs, while cousin George vociferated, 'Fetch a constable! this is the rogue who stole my breeches and boots. Fetch a constable, I say! Here's the villain that imposed upon poor old blind Dobbin. Fetch a constable!' A constable was accordingly fetched; and I was duly given into his charge. While I was huddling on my clothes, cousin George exclaimed, with savage malignity, 'Ah! there's the boots, the scoundrel! There's the drab trousers, the scamp!' and I really believe he would have wrested them from me had it not been necessary for me to wear them in order to accompany the constable.

"I did not choose to drag forth my purse from its place of concealment, for fear it might involve me in a worse dilemma than that in which I found myself, and which, after all, was not particularly serious. I however left it beneath the mattress, with deep regret, and was led away by the constable, every soul in the public-house turning out to witness my departure. The landlord, moreover, gave me a parting blessing after a fashion--accusing me as a thief who had run up a score of three shillings and seven-pence halfpenny at his house, without the slightest means of paying it! To this very natural conclusion he came, inasmuch as the constable, upon searching me, had found nothing in my pockets.

"The clergyman of the village was a justice of the peace; and before his worshipful reverence was I accordingly taken. He was an elderly man, very corpulent and very stern; and he frowned upon me in a ferocious manner when I was conducted into the library, where he intended to hear the case. Cousin George, who had only shaved one side of his face, and had a black bristly beard over the other, stepped forward and stated the entire case, which comprised the theft of his garments and the imposture practised upon his relative. In the latter business, however, the magistrate refused to interfere, and confined his attention to the abstraction of the trousers and boots. I, of course, set up the usual defence,--'Had never seen the gentleman before in my life--had bought the trousers and boots of a man that I met at a public house, and whose name I did not know; that I was an honest hard-working young fellow, out of employment; and had never been in trouble before.' The magistrate was, however, obstinate, and would not believe a word I uttered. He accordingly ordered me to be committed for trial at the sessions; and I was moved to an out-house, there to wait in the custody of the constable, until my mittimus was made out, and a cart was obtained to take me to the county gaol. Cousin George, satisfied with what he had done so far, threw a glance of triumph upon me as I was moved away from the magistrate's library.

"While I was pent up in the out-house, I went up to the window and looked out upon that open country which seemed the scene of a freedom now lost to me. As I was standing there, pondering on my condition, and wondering whether the numerous burglaries which I had committed in a neighbourhood not very far distant, would be brought against me, my attention was suddenly attracted to a number of people who were advancing rapidly towards the house. As they drew near, to my surprise I recognised the swarthy stranger and his female companion, both evidently in the custody of two constables, and followed by the cook, maid-servant, and other persons belonging to the farm-house. An idea of the real truth instantly flashed through my mind; and I felt sorry--very sorry for the two poor creatures who, I had no doubt, were suffering under a suspicion of the robbery which I had perpetrated. Moreover, I could not help thinking that the swarthy man and the sallow-faced man were one and the same person, and that the two half-crowns had been purposely thrown in my way by him, at the inn in the market-town, to relieve me from that embarrassment into which his keen eyes had penetrated. These reflections suddenly filled me with deep interest in the stranger and his female companion.

"The procession passed the window (from which I drew back), and entered the magistrate's house. Half-an-hour passed away; and then the clergyman's man-servant made his appearance with a jug of ale and some bread and meat for the constable who had me in charge. But nothing was given to me, either to eat or drink! 'There's a new case on in the library,' said the servant.--'Ah! what's that?' inquired the constable.--'Two gipsies,' was the answer, 'man and woman, have been prigging a purse down at farmer Clodhopper's. The purse belonged to a young servant gal, and was missed out of her work-box just after the gipsies had left the house last night. But the constables were put on the scent, and soon found the thieves.'--'And was the purse recovered?' asked the officer who had me in custody.--'Deuce a bit of it,' said the servant, 'those gipsies know a trick worth two of that. It seems that they went down to the farm late last night, and told all the young ladies and servant girls their fortunes; so they were taken into the kitchen and fed with the best, besides all the money they'd had given to them by the young ladies and the servants. Not content with all that, they stole the purse, the vagabonds!'--'No, they didn't, though!' I exclaimed, stepping forward; for somehow or another my blood boiled and my heart ached to think that those two poor creatures should be punished for a crime of which they were innocent. Besides, I made sure that all my past offences would be brought against me at the assizes; and I knew in that case that I should be booked for transportation; so one robbery more or less could not make much difference to me. Well, both the constable and the servant stared when I spoke in that manner. 'Yes,' I continued, 'it is perfectly true that those two gipsies are innocent of the theft; and if you will take me before his worship again, I will prove my words.' The constable accordingly conducted me back to the library.

"The moment I entered the room, the gipsy-man and his companion exhibited the greatest surprise and interest. I gave them a re-assuring glance; and then, turning towards the magistrate, I said, 'Your worship, these two poor creatures are innocent of the crime imputed to them.'--'How do you know?' demanded the justice roughly, for his lunch-time was now drawing near.--'Because I stole it myself,' was my answer. The greatest astonishment pervaded the assembly; joy animated the countenance of the two gipsies; while the cook and maid servant cried out, 'Dear me!' and 'Who would have thought it!' as loud as they could. The justice looked tremendous savage, and declared that he would order the room to be cleared of strangers if they interrupted the business in that indecent manner! I was then called upon to explain the assertion which I had made.--'These two persons,' I said, pointing towards the gipsies, 'are accused of stealing a purse from farmer Clodhopper's kitchen?'--'They are. Well?'--'Then they didn't steal it, because I stole it myself; and these servants can prove that I was there yesterday afternoon.'--'So he was!' exclaimed the cook and maid in the same breath.--'And now,' I continued, 'if you will send and search under the mattress of the bed which I slept in last night at the public-house where I was arrested, you will find the purse.' But this trouble was avoided; for scarcely had I uttered these words, when in came the landlord of that public-house, holding the purse in his hands. His wife, it appeared, had found it when making the beds; and suspicion instantly pointed to me as the person who had placed it in the spot where it was discovered. This circumstance brought the case safe home to me; and the gipsies were instantly discharged, with a warning to take care of themselves in future!

"Nothing could exceed the looks of deep gratitude which those two innocent persons cast upon me as they left the room:--but that of the man was significant of something more than a mere sense of obligation for the act of duty which I had done. I don't know how it was, too--but, rogue as I was, I felt an inward satisfaction at the part which I had just performed.

"I was taken back to the out-house, with another serious charge hanging over my head; and the cart was every moment expected to convey me to the county gaol. But time slipped away, and it did not arrive. At length the constable became impatient, and talked about the impropriety of trifling with the time of a public officer like him, adding that he didn't know if he shouldn't write to the prime minister about it. Presently the man-servant came in with some dinner for him--but not a bite nor a sup for me! Neither did the constable offer me any thing. 'Here's a pretty business,' says the servant; 'the man that was to drive you over to the county gaol has got drunk somehow or other, and can't go; and the horse has suddenly gone dead lame.'--'What's to be done, then?' cried the constable.--'Why, you must wait till the man's sober, and the veterinary surgeon has looked to the horse.'

"And sure enough we did wait until eight o'clock in the evening before we started; and then no thanks to the man nor the veterinary surgeon, for the former was still too tipsy to move, and the latter could do nothing for the horse. However, another man came forward, at a late hour, and offered his services. He not only cured the horse in a few minutes, but also undertook to drive the cart. The constable accordingly put a pair of handcuffs on me and took me out into the yard where the vehicle was waiting. A man with a sallow face and bushy red hair, was already seated in front, holding the whip and reins; and as I mounted he gave me a look which I immediately understood. That man was no other than my friend, the swarthy gipsy, so well disguised that his own mother would have scarcely known him.

"Away we went at a rattling pace: it was soon dark, and the constable told the driver not to go at such a rate. But he did not obey the command: on the contrary, he whipped the horse the more; and the cart bounded along the road as if it was for wager. The constable swore and prayed by turns: the driver laughed; and presently the cart upset into a dry ditch. 'Run for your liberty!' cried the driver to me, as he pulled me from the ditch; and I followed him across the fields with a speed that was increased by hearing the constable shouting 'Stop, thief!' behind me. But in a very few minutes those cries became fainter and fainter, until they at length ceased altogether. Still my deliverer pursued his way, and at such a rate, too, that I was scarcely able to keep up with him.

"At length we stopped in a thicket, and sat down to rest. My deliverer took a file from his pocket and worked away at my manacles with such a skill and energy, that in a few minutes I was relieved from them. He then produced some food, and I made a hearty meal. When the meal was over, my companion condescended to give me an explanation of certain matters which had hitherto remained wrapped up in some degree of mystery.

"'You must be informed,' he said, 'that my name is Morcar, and that I am the son of Zingary, king of the gipsies. The female whom you saw with me yesterday and this morning, is my wife. A considerable portion of the money earned by our race consists of fees paid by the simple and credulous, for having their fortunes told. In order to obtain the necessary information relative to the inhabitants of those places or dwellings which we visit, we are compelled to assume many disguises, or to make use of the agency of others, not connected with us, to gather that information for us. Some days ago, at an early hour in the morning, I was loitering about in the neighbourhood of the Three Compasses, and from behind a hedge saw you make off with the boots and trousers which a boy had been brushing in the yard. Chance led me that same afternoon to the village where you played your famous trick upon old Dobbin; and, as the story spread like wild-fire through the place immediately after your detection by cousin George, I could not avoid hearing all the particulars. I got a lift in a cart from that village to the market-town where I met you the same night at the inn. I could not help admiring your boldness and ingenuity; and, while I sat quietly smoking my pipe in the tap-room, listening to the discourse of the inmates, and picking up a variety of information, to be turned to future account, I noticed your embarrassment at the appearance of the waiter to collect the money owing by each individual. I had made a good day's work in a certain way, and was disposed to be liberal: accordingly, at a moment when you were turned in another direction, I placed the two half-crowns close by where you sate on the bench. Next day I threw off what I call my 'sallow disguise', and repaired to another public-house, near the market, to glean additional information, all of which our women have since turned to ample profit. Then I was enabled to give you a warning which was really important to you, as old Dobbin's cousin George had actually arrived that morning in the town to attend the market. A few days afterwards I was roving with my wife along the by-lanes in the neighbourhood of Clodhopper's farm, endeavouring by some means to glean what we could concerning the young women at that place--for our finest harvests are always reaped at farm-houses. Again I met you; and I made you the instrument of my design. But,' added Morcar, with a smile, 'you went farther than you were instructed: you did a thing which we never do--I mean, steal money. We take for our use a sucking-pig, a fowl, or a goose; and we do not consider that stealing. We also snare rabbits and game; and we look upon it as no crime. However, you saw the scrape into which that business of the purse got me and my wife this morning. You saved us, and I vowed to save you also. The moment I was discharged I went to the stable where the horse that was to convey you to gaol was kept, and bribed the ostler to drive a nail into his foot so as to touch the flesh. Then I found the man who was to drive you, and plied him so well with liquor that he was unable to perform his duty. My object was to delay your journey until the evening, because I knew that I could ensure your escape in the dark. You have seen how well my plans have succeeded, because you are now free.'

"You may suppose that I thanked my kind deliverer most sincerely for all he had done to serve me. He, however, cut me short in my expressions of gratitude, by saying, 'What are you going to do? If you will join us, you will be assured of your daily food, and will be more or less protected from danger. My father has a van, in which you can at any time hide when concealment is necessary; and we will do all we can to serve you, for I still consider myself to be indebted to you on account of your generous conduct of this morning. I could have borne punishment myself; but the idea of my wife being plunged into such misery--no, never--never!'

"I accepted the welcome offers of Morcar, and that very night was conducted to the encampment where his father and mother had taken up their quarters. Eva presented her son to me, saying, 'You have preserved for this little one a father and mother: henceforth the Zingarees will know thee as a friend!' From that moment I have lived with the gipsies until the present time; and, though some years have passed away since I first joined them, I have not yet become weary of our wandering mode of existence."

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CXXXIV. THE PALACE IN THE HOLY LAND

The wanderer amidst the crowded thoroughfares of the multitudinous metropolis cannot be unacquainted with that assemblage of densely populated streets and lanes which is situate between High Street (St. Giles's) and Great Russell Street (Bloomsbury).

The district alluded to is called the Holy Land.

There poverty hides its head through shame, and crime lurks concealed through fear;--there every thing that is squalid, hideous, debauched, and immoral, makes its dwelling;--there woman is as far removed from the angel as Satan is from the Godhead, and man is as closely allied to the brute as the idiot is to the baboon;--there days are spent in idleness, and nights in dissipation;--there no refinement of habit or of speech is known, but male and female alike wallow in obscene debauchery and filthy ideas;--there garments are patched with pieces of various dyes, and language is disfigured with words of a revolting slang;--there the natural ruffianism and brutal instincts of the human heart are unrepressed by social ties or conventional decencies;--there infamy is no disgrace, crime no reproach, vice no stain.

Such is the Holy Land.

In a dark and gloomy alley, connecting two of the longer streets in this district, stood a large house four storeys high, and with windows of such narrow dimensions that they seemed intended to admit the light of day only by small instalments.

Four steep stone steps, each only about six inches broad, led to the front door, which always stood open during the day-time.

This front-door gave admittance into a small square compartment, which was denominated "the lobby," and from which a second door opened into the house.

The inner door just alluded to was kept constantly shut, save when admittance was demanded by any one who had the right of entry into the habitation. But even that admittance was never granted without precaution. In the ceiling of the little hall or lobby described, there was a small trap-door, let into the floor of the room above; and by these means the sentinel on duty up-stairs was enabled to reconnoitre every one who knocked at the inner door.

The interior of the house resembled a small barrack. The apartments on the ground floor were used as day-rooms or refectories, and were fitted up with long tables and forms. The floors were strewed with sand; and the appearance of the place was more cleanly and comfortable than might have been expected in such a neighbourhood. The lower panes of the windows were smeared with a whitewash, which prevented passers-by from peering from the street into the apartments.

The upper storeys were all used as dormitories, some being allotted to the male and others to the female inmates of the house. These rooms were furnished with mattresses, blankets, and coverlids; but there were no bedsteads. The aspect of the dormitories was as cleanly as that of the day-rooms.

To the ceiling over the landing-place of the second floor was hung a large bell, to the wheel of which were attached numerous ropes, which branched off, through holes in the walls and floors, in all directions, so that an alarm could be rung from every room in that spacious tenement.

Behind the house there was a large yard, surrounded by the dead walls which formed the sides of other buildings; thus, in no way, was the dwelling which we have described, overlooked by the neighbours. At the bottom of the yard was a door opening into a court which communicated with another street; and thus a convenient mode of egress was secured to any one who might find it prudent to beat a precipitate retreat from the house.

We have now endeavoured to furnish the reader with an idea of King Zingary's Palace in the Holy Land.

In order to complete the description, it only remains for us to state that the various precautions to which we have alluded, in connexion with the Palace, were adopted for the protection and safety of those inmates who, either in the course of their avocations or otherwise, might happen to render themselves obnoxious to the myrmidons of the law. Not that the pursuits of the subjects of King Zingary necessarily comprised practices which rendered their headquarters liable to constant visits from the police: but persons accustomed to a vagabond kind of existence, could not be otherwise than often tempted into lawless courses; and his Majesty did not dare disown or discard a dependant who thus became involved in danger. Moreover, the protection of the gipsies was frequently accorded to persons who rendered them a service, or who could pay for such succour, as in the respective cases of Skilligalee and the Rattlesnake: or it was not unusually granted upon motives of humanity, as in reference to the man called the Traveller. This intercourse with characters of all descriptions was another reason for the adoption of precautionary measures at the Palace; but seldom--very seldom was it that the necessity of those measures was justified by events, the police being well aware that no good ever resulted from a visit to the royal mansion in the Holy Land.

It was ten o'clock at night; and the king of the gipsies was presiding at the banqueting-table in his palace.

Upwards of sixty gipsies, male and female, were assembled round the board. These consisted of the chiefs of the different districts into which the gipsy kingdom was divided, with their wives and daughters.

Skilligalee, the Rattlesnake, and the Traveller were also seated at the table, and were honoured as the king's guests.

The meal was over; and the board was covered with bottles containing various descriptions of liquor, drinking mugs, pipes, and tobacco.

With all the solemn gravity of a chairman at a public dinner, Zingary rapped his knuckles upon the table, and commanded those present to fill their glasses.

The order was obeyed by both men and women; and the king then spoke as follows:--

"Most loyal and dutiful friends, this is the hundred and thirty-first anniversary of the institution of that custom in virtue of which the provincial rulers of the united races of Egyptians and Bohemians in England assemble together once every year at the Palace. A hundred and thirty-one years ago, this house was purchased by my grandfather King Sisman, and bequeathed to his descendants to serve as the head-quarters and central point of our administration. There is scarcely an individual of the united races who has not experienced the hospitality of this Palace. Every worthy Zingaree who visits the metropolis enjoys his bed and his board without fee and without price for seven days in our mansion, the superintendence of which is so ably conducted, while we are absent, by our brother on my right." Here the king glanced towards a venerable-looking gipsy who sate next to him. "In his hands our treasures are safe; and to-morrow he will place before you an account of the remittances he has received from the provincial districts, and the expenditures he has made in the maintenance of this establishment. You will find, I have reason to believe, a considerable balance in our favour. Let us then celebrate with a bumper the hundred and thirty-first anniversary of the opening of our royal palace!"

This toast was drunk without noise--without hurrahs--without clamour,--but not the less sincerely on that account.

"My pretty Eva," said the king, after a pause, "will now oblige us with a song?"

Zingary's daughter-in-law did not require to be pressed to exhibit her vocal powers; but in a sweet voice she sang the following air:--

THE GIPSY'S HOME.

Oh! who is so blythe, and happy, and free As the ever-wandering Zingaree? 'Tis his at his own wild will to roam; And in each fair scene does he find a home,-- Does he find a home!

The sunny slope, or the shady grove, Where nightingales sing and lovers rove; The fields where the golden harvests wave, And the verdant bank which the streamlets lave, Are by turns his home.

The busy town with its selfish crowd, The city where dwell the great and proud, The haunts of the mighty multitude, Where the strong are raised and the weak subdued, Are to him no home.

Oh! ever happy--and ever free, Who is so blest as the Zingaree?-- Where nature puts on her gayest vest, Where flowers are sweetest and fruits are best, Oh! there is his home.

"Thank you, sweet Eva," said the king, when the gipsy woman had concluded her song, in the chorus of which the other females had joined in a low and subdued tone. "Ours is indeed a happy life," continued Zingary. "When roving over the broad country, we enjoy a freedom unknown to the rest of the world. No impost or taxes have we then to pay: we drink of the stream at pleasure, and never feel alarmed lest our water should be cut off. We can choose pleasant paths, and yet pay no paving-rate. The sun lights us by day, and the stars by night; and no one comes to remind us that we owe two quarters' gas. We pitch our tents where we will, but are not afraid of a ground-landlord. We do not look forward with fear and trembling to Lady-day or Michaelmas, for the broker cannot distress us. We move where we like, without dreading an accusation of shooting the moon. In fine, we are as free and independent as the inhabitants of the desert. A health, then, to the united races of Zingarees!"

This toast was drunk in silence, like the former; and the king then called upon the pretty dark-eyed daughter of one of the chiefs to favour the company with a song.

The request was complied with in the following manner:--

"COME HITHER, FAIR MAIDEN."

Come hither, fair maiden! and listen to me, I've a store of good tidings to tell unto thee-- Bright hopes to call smiles to those sweet lips of thine, And visions of bliss little short of divine.

Come hither, fair maiden! the poor Zingaree Hath promise of love and of fortune for thee: Away from the future the dark cloud shall fly, And years yet unborn be revealed to thine eye.

Come hither, fair maiden! no more shall thou be Alarmed lest the fates act unkindly to thee;-- The planet that governed the hour of thy birth Shall guide thee to all the fair spots of the earth!

Come hither, fair maiden! futurity's sea Shall roll on no longer unfathomed by thee; With me canst thou plunge in its dark depths, and know How rich are the pearls that Hope treasures below.

In this manner did the gipsies pass the evening, until the clock struck eleven, when they separated to their dormitories.

The Rattlesnake was astonished to observe the order and regularity which prevailed with the strange association amongst which accident had thrown her. The festival had passed without noise and without intemperance; the presence of the king and queen seemed alone sufficient to maintain tranquillity and prevent enjoyment from passing the barriers of propriety.

We need not, however, linger upon this portion of our tale. Suffice it to say that a fortnight glided away, during which the king of the gipsies was detained in the metropolis by the business which he had to transact with his chiefs. The Rattlesnake did not venture out of the house; and Skilligalee was her constant companion.

The Traveller meantime disguised himself in a manner which would have defied the penetrating eyes of even a parent, had he met his own mother; and from morning until evening did he prowl about London, in search of the one individual against whom he nourished the most terrible hatred. But, every evening, when he returned home to the Gipsy Palace, his countenance was more gloomy and his brow more lowering; and, if questioned relative to the causes of his rage or grief, he replied in a savage tone, "Another day is gone--and he still lives: but I will never rest until I trace him out."

And then he would grind his teeth like a hyena.

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