IT was nine o'clock in the morning.

Ellen was lying, pale and tearful, in her bed, by the side of which sate her father.

The past night had worked a fearful change in the old man: his countenance was haggard, his look desolate and forlorn.

At one moment his lips quivered as if with concentrated rage: at another he wiped tears from his eyes.

Ellen watched him with the deepest interest.

"Oh! my dear father, why will you persist in torturing me?" exclaimed Ellen. "Do you think that I have not suffered enough?"

"Oh! I can well believe that you have suffered, Ellen—suffered profoundly," returned Monroe; "for you were reared in the ways of virtue; and you could not have fallen into those of crime without a remorse. Suffered! but how have I not suffered during the last few hours! When I read that fearful secret, I became a madman. I had but two ideas: my daughter was a mother, and her child's name was Richard! What could I think? I went straight to the room where our benefactor was sitting: I closed the door; I approached him, with the rage of a demon in my breast, and I said, 'Villain! is my daughter's honour the price of the hospitality which you have shown towards us?' He was thunderstruck; and I showed him the letter. He burst into tears, exclaiming, 'Could you believe me capable of such infernal atrocity?' Then we reasoned together; we conversed upon the subject; and his noble frankness of manner convinced me that I had erred—grossly erred! He implored me to allow the night to pass ere I revealed to you the appalling discovery which I had made: he dreaded the effects of my excited state of mind; he thought that rest would calm me. But there was no rest for me! I retired to my room; and there—when alone—I felt that I could not endure meditation. I came to your chamber; and then—O God! the doubt to which I had yet so fondly clung was dissipated."

"My dear father, if you knew all," said Ellen, weeping, "you would pity me—oh! you would pity me! Do not think that I surrendered myself to him who is the father of my child, in a moment of passion: do not imagine that the weakness was preceded by affection on my part for him who led me astray!"

"Unhappy girl, what mean you?" ejaculated Mr. Monroe. "Would you rob yourself of the only plea of extenuation which woman in such a case can offer? Speak, Ellen!"

"I will tell you all—that is, all I know," added Ellen, with a blush. "You remember that when we returned to live in that horrible court in Golden Lane, the second time we were reduced to poverty,—you remember what fearful privations we endured! At length our misery reached a point when it became intolerable; and one morning you set out with the determination of seeking relief from the bounty of Richard Markham."

"I well remember it," said Monroe. "Proceed."

"You can then call to mind the circumstance of my absence when you returned home to our miserable abode——"

"I do—I do: hours passed—I had gold—and you were absent!" ejaculated the old man, with feverish impatience.

"And when I returned home—late—" continued Ellen, her voice scarcely rising above a whisper, and her face, neck, and bosom suffused with burning blushes, "did I not bring you gold also?"

"Merciful heavens!" cried Monroe, starting from his seat; "say no more, Ellen—say no more—or I shall go mad! Oh, God! I comprehend it all! You went and sold yourself to some libertine for gold!"

The old man threw himself into his daughter's arms, and wept bitterly.

"Father—dear father, calm yourself," said Ellen.

"I could not see you want—I had no faith in the success of your appeal to him who has since been our benefactor—I thought that there was but one resource left;—but," she added, her eyes kindling with the fire of pride, while her father sank back into his seat, "I call my God to witness that I acted not thus for myself. Oh, no! death sooner should have been my fate. But you, my dear father, you wanted bread; you were starving; and that was more than I could bear! I sinned but once—but once; and never, never have I ceased to repent of that fatal step—for my one crime bore its fruit!"

Monroe was convulsed with grief. The tears trickled through the wrinkled hands with which he covered his venerable countenance; his voice was lost in agonising sobs, and all he could utter were the words: "Ellen, my daughter, it is for me to ask pardon of you!"

"No, say not so, dear father—say not so!" ejaculated Miss Monroe, throwing her arms around him, and kissing his forehead and his hands. "No, my dear father, it was not your fault, if misery drove me to despair. But now you perceive," she added, solemnly, "that I was more to be pitied than to be blamed; and—and," she murmured, the falsehood at such a moment almost suffocating her, "you understand why I cannot tell you who was the father of my child!"

There was something so terrible in the idea that a young, virtuous, and lovely girl had prostituted herself to the first unknown libertine who had bid a price for her charms,—something so appalling to a father in the thought that his only child had been urged by excess of misery and profound affection for him, to such a dismal fate, that Monroe seemed to sink under the blow!

For some time did his daughter vainly endeavour to solace him; and it was only when she herself began to rave and beat her bosom with anguish and in despair, that the old man was recalled to a sense of the necessity of calming his almost invincible emotions.

The father and daughter were at length restored to partial tranquillity by each other's endeavours at reciprocal consolation, and were commingling their tears together, when the door opened.

Markham, followed by Marian, entered the room.

But what was the surprise of Mr. Monroe—what was the joy of Ellen, when Marian advanced towards the bed, and presented the child to her mother!

"A parent must not be separated from her offspring," said Richard; "henceforth, Ellen, that infant must be nurtured by thee."

"Oh! good, generous friend, my more than brother!" exclaimed Ellen, with an ebullition of feeling that might almost be termed a wild paroxysm of joy; and she pressed the infant to her bosom.

"Richard," said Mr. Monroe, "you possess the noblest soul that ever yet blessed or adorned a human being."

Marian stooped over the bed, apparently to caress the sleeping infant, but in reality to whisper these words in Ellen's ears:—"Fear nothing: I was sent to fetch the child; and Mr. Wentworth will keep your secret inviolably."

Ellen cast a look of profound gratitude upon Marian; for this welcome announcement assured her that the surgeon would never admit the fact of possessing any clue, direct or indirect, to the father of the babe which she held in her arms.

"Ellen," said Richard, "I know all! Forgive me, but I reached the door of your room when you were telling your sad tale to your father; and I paused—because I considered that it was improper to interrupt you at such a moment. And, if I overheard that affecting narrative, it was not a mean curiosity which made me stop to listen—it was the deep interest which I now more than ever feel in your behalf."

"And you do not despise me?" said Ellen, hanging down her head.

"Despise you!" ejaculated Richard, "I deeply sympathise with you! Oh, no! you are not criminal; you are unfortunate. Your soul is pure and spotless."

"But the world—what will the world think," said Ellen, "when I am seen with this babe in my arms?"

"The world has not treated you so well, Ellen," returned Markham, "that its smiles should be deeply valued. Let the world say what it will, it would be unnatural—inhuman—to separate a mother from her child; unless, indeed," he added, "it is your desire that that innocent should be nursed among strangers."

"Oh, no—no!" exclaimed Ellen. "But my unhappy situation shall not menace your tranquillity; nor shall the tongue of scandal gather food from the fact of the residence of an unwedded mother beneath your roof. I will retire, with my father, to some secluded spot——"

"Ellen," interrupted Markham, "were I to permit that arrangement, it would seem as if I were not sincere in the interest and commiseration, instead of the blame, which I ere now expressed concerning you. No: unless you and your father be wearied of the monotonous life which you lead with me, here will you both continue to dwell; and let the world indulge in its idle comments as it will."

"Your benevolence finds a reason for every good deed which you practise," said Ellen. "Ah! Richard, you should have been born a prince, with a princely fortune: how many thousands would then have been benefited by your boundless philanthropy."

"My own misfortunes have taught me to feel for those of others," answered Richard; "and if the world were more anxious than it is to substitute sympathy for vituperation, society would not be the compound of selfishness, slander, envy, and malignity, that it now is."

"It is settled, then, Richard," murmured Ellen, "that my babe shall henceforth experience a mother's care!"

And Ellen covered her child with kisses and with tears.

At that moment the infant awoke; and a smile played over its innocent countenance.

Ellen pressed it more closely and more fondly to her bosom.

MR. GREENWOOD was sitting in his study,—the handsomely fitted-up room which we have before described,—the same morning on which the babe was restored to its mother, through the admirable feeling of Richard Markham.

Mr. Greenwood was studying speeches for the ensuing session of Parliament. He employed two secretaries who composed his orations; one did the dry details, and the other the declamatory and rhetorical portions. Each received thirty shillings a week, and worked from nine in the morning until nine at night, with half an hour three times a day for meals—which said meals were enjoyed at their own expense. And then Mr. Greenwood hoped to reap all the honours resulting from this drudgery on the part of his clerks.

The studies of the Member of Parliament were interrupted by the introduction of Mr. Arthur Chichester.

"I am off to France to-morrow," said this gentleman, throwing himself lazily upon a sofa; "and I called to see if I could do any thing for you on that side of the water."

"No, nothing," answered Greenwood. "Do you propose to make a long stay in France?"

"I shall honour Paris with my presence for about a month," said Chichester.

"During which time," added Greenwood, with a smile, "you will contrive to get rid of all the money which Mrs. Viola Chichester so generously supplied."

"Generously indeed!" said Chichester, laughing heartily. "So far from thinking of running through the money, I hope to double it. Although the public gambling-houses have been abolished in France, there is plenty of play at the private clubs. But you must not imagine that I have a perfect fortune in my possession: the means adopted to obtain the cash cost a mint of money: then were five hundred pounds to Tomlinson for his assistance; five hundred to you for your aid, advice, and advances—(there is a splendid alliteration for you!)—and three hundred to poor Anthony Tidkins."

"Poor indeed!" ejaculated Greenwood. "According to what you told me, the miserable wretch must be in a blessed state of pecuniary nudity."

"It was perfectly true," said Chichester. "When he came to meet me and Tomlinson on the night that Viola was to be released, in the dark alley adjoining his house, he was like a furious hyena. It seems that he had awoke up ten minutes before the hour appointed for our meeting, and then discovered his loss as I before described it to you."

"I should not like to have such a man as my enemy," observed Greenwood, carelessly.

"Nor I either. Bless me, how he did swear! I never heard such imprecations come from a human being's mouth before. He vowed that he would undertake no other business, nor devote himself to any other pursuit, until he had traced the woman who had robbed him, and avenged himself upon her. Flaying alive, he said, was too good for her! Well, I gave him twenty pounds, poor devil, through good nature; and Tomlinson gave him ten through fear; for it appears that this Tidkins exercises some extraordinary influence over that cowardly stock-broker—"

"By no means. But he is a useful fellow, and one might want him again."

"True," said Greenwood: "he is one of the necessary implements which men of the world must make use of at times, to carve out their way to fortune. Hare you heard any thing of your beloved wife?"

"Nothing more than what I have already told you," answered Chichester. "She has given up her abode at the Cambridge Heath gate, and taken apartments at a house in the very heart of the City, and where there are plenty of other lodgers. She is determined to be secure. However," continued Chichester, with a smile, "so long as she holds her tongue about that little matter—which she seems inclined to do—she need not fear any further molestation from me."

"I question whether you would have released her that evening, had she not made her escape," said Greenwood.

"Oh, indeed I should," returned Chichester; "I did not wish to push things too far; and I really believe that another week's confinement in that terrible place, which I have described to you, would have turned her mad in reality. Then again, I should have been afraid of that cowardly, snivelling fool, Tomlinson, who insisted upon accompanying me to ensure her release. That man has every inclination to be a downright rogue; but he lacks the courage."

"Have you seen your friend Harborough lately?" inquired Greenwood.

"To tell you the truth, he is going with me on my present expedition to Paris. His name, you know, sounds well: Sir Rupert Harborough, Bart., son-in-law of Lord Tremordyn,—eh?"

"His name must be somewhat worn out, I should imagine," observed Greenwood, playing with his watch-chain. "Have you seen Lady Cecilia?"

"No: she has her suite of apartments, and Sir Rupert has his—they do not interfere with each other. Sir Rupert, however, notices that Lady Cecilia has a great many visitors of the male sex; and amongst others, an officer of the grenadier guards, seven feet seven inches high, including his bear-skin cap."

"Indeed! Lady Cecilia is then becoming a confirmed demirep," observed Greenwood, without pausing to think who helped to make her so.

"There is no doubt of that," said Chichester. "But you seem up to your neck in business as usual."

"Yes: I am busily engaged in behalf of the Tory party," answered Greenwood. "The future Premier has great confidence in me. I have bought him over seven votes from the Whig side during the recess; and the moment the Tories succeed to power, I shall be rewarded with a baronetcy."

"You are making your way famously in the world," said Chichester, rising to leave.

"Pretty well—pretty well," returned Greenwood, with a complacent smile.

Chichester then shook hands with his friend, and departed.

Half an hour elapsed, during which Mr. Greenwood pursued his studies, when he was again interrupted by the entrance of a visitor.

This time it was Mr. Tomlinson, the stock-broker.

After having transacted a little pecuniary business together, Greenwood said, "What have you done with the old man?"

"I have taken a lodging for him in an obscure street of Bethnal Green, and there he is residing," answered Tomlinson.

"My plan was better," observed Greenwood, dogmatically: "you should have had him locked up in one of Tidkins's subterranean cells, and allowed three or four shillings a week for his maintenance."

"Impossible!" cried Tomlinson, indignantly. "I could never have acted so unmanly—so ungrateful—so atrocious a part."

"Well, just as you please," returned the Member of Parliament: "of course, you know best."

"We will not discuss that point," said Tomlinson.

"That is precisely what I said some time since to a deputation from the free and independent electors of Rottenborough, when they sent to remonstrate with me on a certain portion of my parliamentary conduct," observed Mr. Greenwood.

At this moment Lafleur entered and whispered something in his master's ear.

Tomlinson took his leave, and the valet proceeded to admit Marian into the presence of his master.

"Ah!" exclaimed Mr. Greenwood: "any thing wrong, Marian?"

"That may be according to the light in which you view the news I am come to communicate, sir," replied the servant. "In a word, Miss Monroe's father and Mr. Markham have discovered all."

"All! no—not all!" cried Greenwood, turning deadly pale; "surely Ellen could not——"

"When I said all, sir," replied Marian, "I was wrong. Mr. Monroe and my master have discovered that Miss Ellen is a mother; and her child is now with her."

"What! at Markham Place?" demanded Greenwood.

"Yes, sir."

"And is it known also who—what person—the father, I mean——"

"Miss Ellen has maintained that a profound secret, sir," said Marian.

"Thank heaven!" ejaculated Greenwood, now breathing freely. "But Mr. Wentworth—the surgeon——"

"He has also promised to remain dumb relative to what little he knows. You are best aware, sir, whether Miss Monroe has studied your wishes, or your interests, in remaining silent herself relative to you, and in recommending Mr. Wentworth, through me, to say nothing that may prove that she is really acquainted with the father of her child."

"But how was the discovery made? Tell me all," exclaimed Greenwood impatiently.

"The explanation is short. Mr. Wentworth sent a note relative to the health of the infant, last evening, to Miss Monroe; and she inadvertently left it upon the table in the same room where her father was sitting."

"And her father—and Richard—Mr. Markham, I mean," said Greenwood, "are acquainted but with the bare fact that she is a mother?"

"That is all, sir. But, oh! if you only knew the excuse that Miss Ellen made to avoid additional explanations," continued Marian, "you yourself—yes, you, sir, would be affected."

"What was that excuse?" demanded Greenwood.

"I can scarcely believe for one moment that it was true," said Marian, musing, rather than replying to his question.

"But what was it?" cried the Member of Parliament, impatiently.

"Ah! she said that," murmured Greenwood. "And were her father and your master satisfied?"

"The old man wept well-nigh to break his heart, and Mr. Markham said that henceforth the child should stay with its mother in his house. Oh! sir, there lives not a man of nobler disposition than my master: he is all that is generous, humane, liberal, and upright!"

Mr. Greenwood turned aside, and appeared to contemplate some papers with deep interest for nearly a minute; and then he passed a handkerchief rapidly over his face.

Marian thought, as she afterwards informed Ellen, that he wiped tears from his eyes!

He made no reply, however, to her observations; but rang the bell for his French valet.

When Lafleur entered the room, Mr. Greenwood said, "You will proceed immediately to the abode of Mr. Wentworth, at Holloway: you will hand him from me this bank-note for fifty pounds; and you will say to him these words: 'As the child has been removed through an unforeseen occurrence from your care, its father sends you this as a small token of his gratitude for the kindness you have manifested towards it; and he hopes that, should you be questioned upon the subject, you will not reveal the fact that you ever had the slightest communication from its father.' Go—and return quickly."

Lafleur received the bank-note, bowed, and left the room.

"You can inform Miss Monroe of the step which I have thus taken to ensure the surgeon's secrecy," said Greenwood, addressing himself to Marian.

"I shall not fail to do so, sir," answered the servant.

She then withdrew.

When the door closed behind her, Greenwood threw himself back in his chair, murmuring, "My child beneath Richard's roof!"

IT was about three o'clock in the afternoon that the Earl of Warrington alighted from his horse at the door of Mrs. Arlington's residence in Dover Street.

Giving his horse in charge to his mounted groom, the nobleman entered the dwelling.

The Enchantress received him in the drawing-room; but, to her surprise, the air of the earl was cold and formal.

He seated himself in a chair at a distance from the sofa which Diana occupied; and for some moments he uttered not a word.

A sentiment of pride prevented her from saying any thing to elicit an explanation of his ceremonial manner, because she was not aware that she was guilty of a fault meriting such treatment.

At length that silence, most embarrassing to both, was broken by the earl.

"Diana," he said, "we must separate. You have conducted yourself in a manner that has made me the laughing-stock of all who know me."

"My lord!" exclaimed Diana, perfectly astonished at this accusation; "you must have been misinformed; or you are bantering me."

"Neither the one nor the other," replied the earl. "You may probably conceive whether I am inclined to jest, when I state that your kind consideration towards Sir Rupert Harborough has reached my ears."

"Indeed, my lord!" cried Diana. "I do not attempt to deny that I forwarded, anonymously, to Sir Rupert Harborough a sum of money to extricate him from a fearful embarrassment."

"It would be unmanly in me to do more than remind you whence came that money which you could afford to fling away upon an unprincipled profligate," said the Earl of Warrington; "at the same time, you cannot suppose that it is pleasant to my feelings to learn that the world makes itself merry at my expense."

"Your lordship is aware that I am the last person in existence to do aught to occasion you the slightest uneasiness. Perhaps I was wrong——"

"You cannot, with your good sense, think otherwise. But let us not dispute upon the point: the thing is done, and cannot be recalled; but its effect is fatal to our connection."

"Your lordship does not mean——"

"I mean that we must separate, Diana," interrupted the nobleman, firmly.

"Is my fault irreparable in your eyes?" asked the Enchantress, tears trickling down her cheeks.

"No man can endure ridicule—and I am particularly sensitive in that respect."

"But where did you learn that such was the result of my foolish kindness?" said Diana, almost bewildered by the suddenness with which this blow had come upon her.

"I will give you every explanation you require, as in duty bound," replied the earl. "Captain Fitzhardinge, an officer in the Grenadier Guards, is an acquaintance of mine. He is a visitor at the house of Sir Rupert Harborough; and last evening Lady Cecilia Harborough told him what she called a capital anecdote of how she had cheated her husband out of a thousand pounds. Then, it appears, they laughed heartily at this excellent joke; and Lady Cecilia proceeded to inform him that she had discovered whence the handsome subsidy emanated. She concluded, in terms more galling than polite, by ridiculing the Earl of Warrington, who was foolish enough to supply Mrs. Arlington so munificently with money, that she was enabled to spare some for her ancient lovers. You have asked me for the plain truth, and I have told it, as Captain Fitzhardinge stated it to me."

"And thus a trivial indiscretion on my part has created all this mischief," sobbed the Enchantress.

"You have acted most unwisely, Diana: I will not go so far as to say that you must have had some particular motive in forwarding that money to one who——"

"Heaven knows the purity of my motive!" exclaimed Diana, wiping away her tears, and glancing proudly towards the nobleman.

"The world will scarcely admit that purity of motive in such a case was possible. Consider the inferences that must be drawn——"

"And do you, my lord, believe that any unworthy reason of that kind led me to assist Sir Rupert Harborough?" demanded the Enchantress.

"If I may judge by your outward conduct towards me, I should give a decided negative in reply to your question. But we should no longer be happy in each other's society, while the least ground for unpleasant suspicions existed. We will, then, separate—but separate as good friends."

"The lease of this house, and every thing it contains, are yours," continued the earl, after a moment's pause: "in this pocket-book there is a cheque——"

"No, my lord," interrupted Diana; "your bounty has already done much for me—more than you seem to think I have deserved: I cannot accept another favour at your lordship's hands."

The Earl of Warrington was struck by this answer, which proved that his mistress was not selfish; and for a few moments he was upon the point of making overtures for a reconciliation.

But the dread of ridicule—the fear of being laughed at as a man who kept a mistress for the benefit of others—the horror of being made the laughing-stock of all the rakes and demireps in London, smothered the lenient feelings that had awoke in his breast.

"You refuse to accept this token of my friendship, Diana?" he said.

"I must beg most respectfully to decline it, my lord—with fervent gratitude, nevertheless, for your generosity."

Again the earl wavered.

He looked at that beautiful woman who had been so charming and fascinating a companion,—who had advised him as a faithful friend in various matters upon which he had consulted her,—and who, to all appearances, had conducted herself so well towards him, save in this one instance;—he gazed upon her for a few moments, and his stern resolves melted rapidly away.

"Diana," he said, "we——"

At that moment the sounds of voices in the street caused him to turn his head towards the window; and he perceived Captain Fitzhardinge and another gentleman riding by on horseback.

They were laughing heartily, and gazing towards the house.

The Earl of Warrington's sensitive mind instantly suggested to him the idea that the anecdote of the thousand pounds was being again retailed, and most probably accompanied by the intimation that that was the house of the complaisant Earl of Warrington's mistress!

The Enchantress, with that keen perception which characterises woman, had seen all that was passing in the earl's mind,—had observed him waver twice, and had felt convinced on the second occasion that he would court a reconciliation.

But when those voices and that hearty laughter from the street fell upon her ears, and when she saw the blood rush to the earl's countenance as he glanced in that direction, she knew that all was over.

The earl rose and said, "Give me your hand, Diana: we will part, as I said, good friends; and remember that I shall always be ready to serve you. Farewell!"

"Farewell, my lord," returned Mrs. Arlington, extending her hand, which the nobleman pressed with lingering tenderness.

Then, afraid of another access of weakness, the Earl of Warrington wrung her hand warmly, and precipitated himself from the room.

The Enchantress hurried to the window, concealed herself behind the curtain, and watched him as he mounted his horse to depart.

He did not glance once upwards to the window: perhaps he knew that she was there!

And yet her pride prompted her to conceal herself in that manner.

When he was out of sight she threw herself upon the sofa and wept.

"Oh! if I had but said one word when his hand pressed mine," she exclaimed, "I might still have retained him! He is gone!—my best, my only friend!"

But Diana was not a woman to give way to grief for any length of time. She possessed great mental fortitude, which, though subdued for a short space, soon rose predominant over this cruel affliction.

She then began to reflect upon her position.

She had a house beautifully furnished; and she possessed a considerable sum of ready money. She had therefore no disquietude for the present, and but little apprehension for the future; for she knew that her personal beauty and mental qualifications would at any moment bring another lover to her feet.

But she seriously thought of renouncing the species of life to which she had for some years been devoted: she longed to live independently and respectably.

In this frame of mind she passed the remainder of the day, pondering upon a variety of plans in accordance with her new desire.

She retired early to rest; but, not feeling an inclination to sleep, she amused herself with a book. The candle stood upon a table by the side of the bed; and Diana, luxuriously propped up by the downy pillows, culled the choicest flowers from Byron's miscellaneous poetic wreath.

An hour elapsed; and at length she grew sleepy. The book fell from her hand, and her eye-lids closed.

Then she remembered no more until she was suddenly aroused by a sensation of acute pain: she started up, and found the bed enveloped in flames.

She sprang upon the floor; but her night-dress was on fire:—she threw herself on the carpet, and rolled over and over in terrible agony, piercing screams issuing from her lips.

Those screams were echoed by loud cries of "Fire!" from the street; and then there was a rush of footsteps upon the stairs.

The door of the chamber was forced open; and Diana was caught up in the arms of a policeman, who had effected an entry into the house through the ground-floor windows.

She was carried in a state of insensibility down into the parlour, where a cloak was hastily thrown over her, and she was conveyed to a neighbouring hotel. Fortunately a medical man was passing at the moment; and he tendered his aid.

Meantime the fire spread with astonishing rapidity. The servants were extricated from the burning pile; but little property was saved.

A considerable time elapsed before the engines arrived; and when they did reach the spot, an adequate supply of water could not be procured, as the springs were ice-bound by the frost.

An immense crowd collected in the street; and all was bustle or curiosity.

The broad red flames shot upward with a roar like that of a furnace: the scene for a great distance round was as light as noon-day; and the heavens immediately above appeared to be on fire.

At one time the neighbouring houses were endangered; but suddenly the roof of the burning tenement fell in with a terrific crash; and then the conflagration seemed smothered.

But in a few minutes the flame shot upwards once more; and another hour elapsed ere it was completely subdued.

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.

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."