"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.
CHAPTER 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.
CHAPTER 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.
CHAPTER 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.
CHAPTER 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.