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e, with her head and shoulders resting on the chair. CHAPTER XII. MR. VANE was putting Mrs. Woffington into her chair, when he thought he heard his name cried. He bade that lady a mournful farewell, and stepped back into his own hall. He had no sooner done so than he heard a voice, the accent of which alarmed him, though he distinguished no word. He hastily crossed the hall and flew into the banquet-room. Coming rapidly in at the folding-doors he almost fell over his wife, lying insensible half upon the floor and half upon the chair. When he saw her pale and motionless, a terrible misgiving seized him; he fell on his knees. "Mabel, Mabel!" cried he, "my love! my innocent wife! Oh, God! what have I done? Perhaps it is the fatigue--perhaps she has fainted." "No, it is not the fatigue!" screamed a voice near him. It was old James Burdock, who, with his white hair streaming and his eye gleaming with fire, shook his fist in his master's face--"no, it is not the fatigue, you villain! It is you who have killed her, with your jezebels and harlots, you scoundrel!" "Send the women here, James, for God's sake!" cried Mr. Vane, not even noticing the insult he had received from a servant. He stamped furiously, and cried for help. The whole household was round her in a moment. They carried her to bed. The remorse-stricken man, his own knees trembling under him, flew, in an agony of fear and self-reproach, for a doctor! _A doctor?_ CHAPTER XIII. DURING the garden scene, Mr. Vane had begged Mrs. Woffington to let him accompany her. She peremptorily refused, and said in the same breath she was going to Triplet, in Hercules Buildings, to have her portrait finished. Had Mr. Vane understood the sex, he would not have interpreted her refusal to the letter; when there was a postscript, the meaning of which was so little enigmatical. Some three hours after the scene we have described, Mrs. Woffington sat in Triplet's apartment; and Triplet, palette in hand, painted away upon her portrait. Mrs. Woffington was in that languid state which comes to women after their hearts have received a blow. She felt as if life was ended, and but the dregs of existence remained; but at times a flood of bitterness rolled over her, and she resigned all hope of perfect happiness in this world--all hope of loving and respecting the same creature; and at these moments she had but one idea--to use her own power, and bind her lover
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