This eBook was produced by Dagny,

and David Widger,

BOOK IX.

I go, the bride of Acheron.—SOPH. /Antig./

These things are in the Future.—/Ib./ 1333.

CHAPTER I.

    * * * "There the action lies
   In its true nature * * * *
    * * * What then? What rests?
   Try what repentance can!"—/Hamlet/.

"I doubt he will be dead or ere I come."—/King John/.

IT was a fine afternoon in December, when Lumley Ferrers turned fromLord Saxingham's door. The knockers were muffled—the windows on thethird story were partially closed. There was sickness in that house.

Lumley's face was unusually grave; it was even sad. "So young—sobeautiful," he muttered. "If ever I loved woman, I do believe I lovedher:—that love must be my excuse. . . . I repent of what I havedone—but I could not foresee that a mere lover's stratagem was to endin such effects—the metaphysician was very right when he said, 'We onlysympathise with feelings we know ourselves.' A little disappointment inlove could not have hurt me much—it is d——d odd it should hurt herso. I am altogether out of luck: old Templeton—I beg his pardon, LordVargrave—(by-the-by, he gets heartier every day—what a constitution hehas!) seems cross with me. He did not like the idea that I should marryLady Florence—and when I thought that vision might have been realised,hinted that I was disappointing some expectations he had formed; I can'tmake out what he means. Then, too, the government have offered thatplace to Maltravers instead of to me. In fact, my star is not in theascendant. Poor Florence, though,—I would really give a great deal toknow her restored to health!—I have done a villainous thing, but Ithought it only a clever one. However, regret is a fool's passion. ByJupiter!—talking of fools, here comes Cesarini."

Wan, haggard, almost spectral, his hat over his brows, his dressneglected, his air reckless and fierce, Cesarini crossed the way, andthus accosted Lumley:

"We have murdered her, Ferrers; and her ghost will haunt us to our dyingday!"

"Talk prose; you know I am no poet. What do you mean?"

"She is worse to-day," groaned Cesarini, in a hollow voice. "I wanderlike a lost spirit round the house; I question all who come from it.Tell me—oh, tell me, is there hope?"

"I do, indeed, trust so," replied Ferrers, fervently. "The illness hasonly of late assumed an alarming appearance. At first it was merely asevere cold, caught by imprudent exposure one rainy night. Now theyfear it has settled on the lungs; but if we could get her abroad, allmight be well."

"You think so, honestly?"

"I do. Courage, my friend; do not reproach yourself; it has nothing todo with us. She was taken ill of a cold, not of a letter, man!"

"No, no; I judge her heart by my own. Oh, that I could recall the past!Look at me; I am the wreck of what I was; day and night the recollectionof my falsehood haunts me with remorse."

"Pshaw!—we will go to Italy together, and in your beautiful land lovewill replace love."

"I am half resolved, Ferrers."

"Ha!—to do what?"

"To write—to reveal all to her."

The hardy complexion of Ferrers grew livid; his brow became dark with aterrible expression.

"Do so, and fall the next day by my hand; my aim in slighter quarrelnever erred."

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