It was none for Mr. Torrens, who saw himself ruined beyond all hope of redemption,—ruined in spite of the immense sacrifices he had made to avert the impending storm—the sacrifice of his daughter's innocence to Sir Henry Courtenay, and the sacrifice of himself to an abandoned and profligate woman!
Miserable—miserable man! what hast thou earned by all thine intriguings—thy schemings—thy black turpitude—and thy deplorable self-degradation? Oh! better—better far is it to become the grovelling, whining beggar in the streets, than to risk happiness—character—name—honour—all, on such chances as those on which thou didst reckon!
And now, behold him issue forth from that office into which he had entered with head erect, self-sufficient air, and smiling countenance:—behold him issue forth—bent down—crushed—overcome—ten years more aged than he was a few minutes previously,—and an object of pity even for that poor beggar-woman whom ere now he had treated with such sovereign contempt!
Miserable—miserable man! has not thy punishment commenced in this world?—is there not a hell upon earth?—and is not thy heart already a prey to devouring flames, and thy tongue parched with the insatiate thirst of burning fever, and thy soul tortured by the undying worm? Oh! how canst thou return to thy house in the vicinity of which lies interred a corpse the discovery of which may at any time involve thee in serious peril?—how canst thou go back to that dwelling whence thine injured daughter has fled, and over the threshold of which thou hast conducted a vile strumpet as thy bride?
When we consider how fearfully we are made,—how manifold are the chances that extreme grief—sudden ruin—and overwhelming anguish may cause a vessel in the surcharged heart to burst, or the racked brain to become a prey to the thunder-clap of apoplexy,—it is surprising—it is truly wondrous that man can support such an enormous weight of care without being stricken dead when it falls upon him!
And yet to what a degree of tension may the fibres of the heart be wrung, ere they will snap asunder!—and what myriads of weighty and maddening thoughts may agitate in the brain, ere reason will rock on its throne, or a vein burst with the gush of blood!
In the meantime occurrences of importance were taking place at Torrens Cottage.
Mrs. Torrens—late Mrs. Slingsby—was whiling away an hour in unpacking her boxes and disposing of her effects in the wardrobe and cupboards of her bed-chamber; congratulating herself all the time on the success which her various schemes had experienced. She had obtained a husband to save her from disgrace; and that husband had set out to receive, as she fancied, a considerable sum of money, which would relieve him of his difficulties, and enable him to pursue his undertakings in such a manner as to yield ample revenues for the future! She was moreover rejoiced that Rosamond had quitted the house;—for, shameless as this vile woman was, she could not have failed to be embarrassed and constrained in her new dwelling, had that injured girl met her there!
While Mrs. Torrens was thus engaged with her domestic avocations and her self-gratulatory thoughts in her bed-chamber, the stable-boy, who had been hired on the preceding day, was occupying himself in the garden.