For thou hast plucked thine own crown of integrity from thy brow, and hast trampled it under foot.
Henceforth, in thine own heart, wilt thou know thyself as a hypocrite and a deceiver!
* * * * *
* * * * *
It was past eleven o'clock when Reginald Tracy issued from the abode of Lady Cecilia Harborough.
The night was dark; but from time to time the moon shone for a short interval, as the clouds were swept away from its face.
Reginald paused for a moment upon the steps of the door, and gazed upwards.
The tempestuous aspect of the heavens alarmed him; and a superstitious dread crept, like a death-shudder, over his entire frame; for it seemed to him as if the mansion of the Almighty had put on its sable garb in mourning for a soul that was lost unto the blessings of eternity.
Deeply imbued as he was with a sense of the grand truths of the gospel, this sudden and awful idea speedily assumed so dread a shape in his mind, that he felt alarmed, as if a tremendous gulph were about to open beneath his feet.
He hurried on, hoping to outstrip his thoughts; but that idea pursued him,—haunted him,—every moment increasing in terrific solemnity, until it wore the appearance of a mighty truth instead of a phantom of the imagination.
Again he looked upwards; and the dense sombre clouds, which rolled rapidly like huge black billows over each other, imparted fresh terrors to his guilty soul.