s
or study the play, but to stroll in the saloon. A supper in the
Finish completed the void in his pockets, and concluded his day's rank
experience of life. By the gray dawn he stole back to his bed, and as
he laid himself down, he thought with avid pleasure of Paris, its gay
gardens and brilliant shops and crowded streets; he thought, too, of
his father's calm confidence of success, of the triumph that already
had attended his wiles,--a confidence and a triumph which, exciting
his reverence and rousing his emulation, had decided his resolution.
He thought, too, of Lucretia with something of affection, recalled her
praises and bribes, her frequent mediation with his father, and felt
that they should have need of each other. Oh, no, he never would tell
her of the snare laid at Guy's Oak,--never, not even if incensed with
his father. An instinct told him that that offence could never be
forgiven, and that, henceforth, Lucretia's was a destiny bound up in his
own. He thought, too, of Dalibard's warning and threat. But with fear
itself came a strange excitement of pleasure,--to grapple, if necessary,
he a mere child, with such a man! His heart swelled at the thought. So
at last he fell asleep, and dreamed that he saw his mother's trunkless
face dripping gore and frowning on him,--dreamed that he heard her say:
"Goest thou to the scene of my execution only to fawn upon my murderer?"
Then a nightmare of horrors, of scaffolds and executioners and grinning
mobs and agonized faces, came on him,--dark, confused, and indistinct.
And he woke, with his hair standing on end, and beard below, in the
rising sun, the merry song of the poor canary,--trill-lill-lill,
trill-trill-lill-lill-la! Did he feel glad that his cruel hand had been
stayed?

EPILOGUE TO PART THE FIRST.

It is a year since the November day on which Lucretia Clavering quitted
the roof of Mr. Fielden. And first we must recall the eye of the reader
to the old-fashioned terrace at Laughton,--the jutting porch, the quaint
balustrades, the broad, dark, changeless cedars on the lawn beyond. The
day is calm, clear, and mild, for November in the country is often a
gentle month. On that terrace walked Charles Vernon, now known by his
new name of St. John. Is it the change of name that has so changed the
person? Can the wand of the Herald's Office have filled up the hollows
of the cheek, and replaced by elastic vigour the listless languor of
the tread? No; there is anoth