Weak, wearied, subdued,—drenched with the rain that had accompanied the storm; and in state of mind bordering upon madness and despair, the wretched man reached his home at four o'clock in the morning.
But whither he had wandered, and which way he had taken,—whether he had continued running on, or had rested once or often during that terrific night, he never remembered.
He retired to bed, and slept during several hours. When he awoke, the sun was shining gloriously through his casement; but the horrors and the congenial reflections of darkness had left too fearful an impression upon his mind to be readily effaced; for he was not so inured to vice as to treat with levity the events of the past night,—events which to his superstitious imagination had assumed the aspect of celestial warning and divine menace.
CHAPTER CXXX.
MENTAL STRUGGLES.
THE rector of Saint David's fell upon his knees, and, turning his face towards the casement through which the sun glanced so cheerfully into the chamber, poured forth his soul to the Being of whose universal dominion that radiance seemed an emblem.
Reginald could now pray. He had sinned deeply, and he implored pardon; for he conceived that heaven had deigned to convey a special warning to his mind through the medium of the clouds and the storm of the preceding night.
"Oh! I am not yet totally lost!" he exclaimed, joining his hands fervently together: "I am not yet an outcast from divine mercy! Heaven itself manifests an interest in my welfare: dare I neglect the warning? No—no! I have sinned—but there is repentance. Upon my otherwise spotless life there is one stain; but tears of regret shall be shed unceasingly until the mark be washed away! And thou, temptress—never more must we meet as we have lately met; I must shun thee as my evil genius! Yet I do not blame thee—for I myself was fond, and being fond, was weak. If I fell, and can yet aspire to pardon and forgiveness,—I who was strong,—what extenuation may not exist for thee—a poor, weak woman! Oh! let the light of divine grace shine in upon my soul, even as these bright beams of the orb of day penetrate with cheering influence to my very heart! Let me rise up from the depths of sin, stronger than when I fell,—so that sad experience may tend to confirm my resolves to pursue the paths of chastity and virtue!"
Thus spoke aloud Reginald Tracy, as he knelt in his chamber the day after his fall: thus did he breathe vows of future self-denial and purity.
He rose resigned, and penitent,—though at intervals a species of struggle took place in his breast—a conflict between his recently-experienced sensations of amorous delight and his present resolutions of abstinence from carnal pleasures.
In a moment when his better feelings were predominant, he wrote a brief letter to Lady Cecilia, imploring her to forget all that had taken place between them, and enjoining her, if she entertained the slightest interest in his earthly and immortal welfare, never to seek to see him again.