Rage—disappointment—humiliation conspired to make him mad.
The old hag had raised his hopes to the highest pitch; and at the moment when the cup of bliss seemed to approach his lips, it was rudely dashed away.
A woman had triumphed over him—mocked his passion—spurned his offers—read him a lesson of morality—taught him that proud man must not always domineer over feminine weakness.
Oh! it was too much for that haughty—that vain—that self-sufficient ecclesiastic to endure!
As he returned home in a hired cab, he threw from the window of the vehicle the Carmelite gown and cowl which he had worn; and bitterly did he reproach himself for his folly in having been seduced into the degradation of that masqued mummery.
Arrived at his own house, he rushed past the housekeeper who opened the door, and was hurrying up-stairs to the solitude of his chamber, when the voice of the old lady compelled him to pause.
"Mr. Tracy—Mr. Tracy," she exclaimed; "here is a note from Lady Harborough."
"Tell Lady Harborough to go to the devil, Mrs. Kenrick!" cried the rector, goaded almost to madness by this new proof of Cecilia's indiscretion.
The old housekeeper dropped the candle and the note, as if she were thunderstruck.
Was it possible that she had heard aright? could such an expression have emanated from the lips of her master—of that man whom the world idolized?