"What is the matter now, Mrs. Kenrick?" asked the rector, suddenly recovering his presence of mind, and perceiving the immense error into which his excited feelings had betrayed him.
"Nothing, sir—nothing," answered the housekeeper, as she re-lighted her candle by means of a lamp which was standing on the hall-table; "only I thought that something very terrible had occurred to annoy you."
"Yes—yes—I have indeed been grievously annoyed," said Reginald; "and you must forgive my hasty conduct. I was wrong—very wrong. Do not think anything more of it, Mrs. Kenrick. But did you not observe that Lady Harborough had sent a message——"
And as the housekeeper handed her master the perfumed _billet_, she cast a scrutinizing glance upon his countenance.
He was as pale as death—his lips quivered—and his eyes had a wild expression.
"I am afraid, sir, that something very dreadful has happened to you," she observed timidly. "Shall I send for the physician?"
"No—no, Mrs. Kenrick: I shall be quite well in the morning. I have received a violent shock—the sudden communication of ill news—the death of a dear friend——"
"Ah! sir, I was convinced that all was not right," observed the housekeeper. "If you would follow my advice you would take something to compose you—to make you sleep well——"
"An excellent thought, Mrs. Kenrick! If it be not too late, I wish you would send and procure me a little laudanum: I will take a few drops to ensure a sound slumber."
"I will do so, sir," answered the housekeeper.
She then repaired to the kitchen, while Reginald hurried up to his own chamber to read Lady Cecilia's letter, the contents of which ran as follow:—
"Nearly a week has elapsed, dearest Reginald, and I have not seen you! neither have I heard from you. What is the meaning of this? Is it neglect, or extreme caution? At all events the interval which you enjoined for the cessation of my visits to you, has nearly expired; and my impatience will brook no longer delay. I must see you to-night! Precisely as the clock strikes twelve, I will be at your front-door, when you must admit me as on previous occasions—or I shall imagine that you are already wearied of your
"After all," said the rector, "the presence of Cecilia will in some degree console me for my disappointment of this evening! I cannot remain alone with my reflections—it drives me mad to think of what I am, and what I have been! And laudanum is a miserable resource for one who dreads a sleepless night: it peoples slumber with hideous phantoms. Yes—I will admit Cecilia at the appointed hour:—my housekeeper does not suspect me—my guilty conscience alone makes me think at times that she reads the secrets of my soul?"