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that moment a glance of mutual recognition had been exchanged between Mr. Langham and the man he had injured beyond all reparation. The lapse of more than twenty years, added to the ravages of disease, had bent the form of Mr. Cressingham; but his eye was still the same,--keen, powerful, and cold; and as it now rested in bitter and immoveable contempt on the face of his aggressor, it seemed to Mr. Langham to beam with every reproach which unqualified hatred could collect, and every threat that the wildest vengeance could utter. Mr. Cressingham at this moment felt the full force of his own gaze, and he would not remove it. At no period of Mr. Langham's life had he felt his spirit so quail within him.

He had often thought of the possibility of such a meeting as the present, and had frequently laid down a plan of conduct for the occasion. But the occasion came, and mind and body were powerless as in infancy. Had any thing like freedom of will remained, he indeed could scarcely have acted as he did; for he arose, as if instinctively, and extending one hand to Mr. Cressingham, while he pressed the other on his brow, the word "forgive," faintly escaped him. It met, however, the ear for which it was intended, and was loudly echoed in a voice of the deepest scorn. "Forgive! -Never!" The laugh that followed was the laugh of momentary madness, the delirium of unrestrained rage and ungratified revenge. Unfortunately for himself, Mr. Cressingham had, through a long interval of years subsequent to the loss of his wife, encouraged, instead of endeavouring to repress, his natural and unavoidable resentment. His betrayer was now, for the first time, fearfully near him, and the feeling that rose in his soul and flushed his death-like cheek to crimson, was nearly allied to what in a ruder state of society would have led to some summary and instant act of retribution. The pause of a moment restored him to the appearance, at least, of self possession, and with a firm voice he said to his weeping daughter, "Come, Isabella; it is not for us to feel shame!" and putting some books he had chosen into the hands of the shopman, added, “For Mr. Cressingham, Montpellier Terrace." Dr. Milman, Lindsay Bathurst, and Hamond, gave way to him as he passed; while Matilda, pale "as ashen cold," and half breathless with terror, begged the use of a private apartment for a few min

ates for her father. Hamond was in a moment by her side and Mr. Langham, yielding himself to their guidance, suffered himself to be led away.

Dr. Milman suggested the ordering of Mr. Langham's carriage. Sir William Sherrard undertook the mission, and Lindsay Bathurst was again left with Dr. Milman.

They had met accidentally in the morning, when Captain Bathurst, afraid of being too early at Mr. Langham's, and so defeating his own wishes, walked into the library, to be secure of the departure for Charlton before his arrival. It was an unfortunate moment. The doctor was reading over the list of new subscribers, and on seeing the name of Cressingham, said to Captain Bathurst, "Do our friends the Langhams know that Mr. Cressingham is in Cheltenham, think you, Captain Bathurst?" It was a delicate and dangerous subject to his hearer; the more so, that Dr. Milman had formerly lived near the parties, and knew and remembered every gossiping detail long since forgotten by the rest of the world. Lindsay Bathurst listened with an interest the speaker little dreamt of: the words he heard were as poisoned arrows, and every moral reflection made by the doctor lent them force to kill. The éclat of the transaction in its fullest infamy was transferred by his imagination from the day in which it happened to the time being, and filled him with misery. He to think of marrying the daughter of a woman who had so acted! He to brave opinion! Better to die. The rencounter of the morning finished what the tête-à-tête with Dr. Milman had so effectually begun. His resolution was taken: he would leave Cheltenham instantly, and England, as soon as he had resigned his commission. He did not think of Jeannette as he ought to have thought of her, but he did think of her, and with the bitterness of despair. At one moment, he wished to fly to her and reveal what he felt, justify himself to her, and be forgiven. The next, he proposed waiting, and feigning some plausible apology for his absence; but for this he abhorred himself, and would not do it. Finally, he walked to her father's house and raised the knocker; but he let it fall noiselessly, as a better thought came over him, and he said, "No, rather let her think ill of me,- as she will, she must,-than that I should give her any portion of the pain I now endure." His heart swelled with anguish as he looked towards the room she

usually sat in, and beheld every blind closely drawn. He felt he was not acting the part of a generous man, but he heeded not the gentle admonition which this self-reproach ought to have been to him. After a brief struggle with himself, his mind was quite made up,-his carriage ordered to the door he threw himself into it, and after a burst of grief that did him more honour than his departure, exclaimed, Thank God! nothing in life like this can ever come again!"

CHAPTER XXX.

A potent wand doth Sorrow wield!-
What spell so strong as guilty fear?
Repentance is a tender sprite :

If aught on earth have heavenly might,
'Tis lodged within her silent tear.

WORDSWORTH.

THE pride of the human mind can very rarely endure the rejection of any overture to pardon. Whatever the offence, the humility of entreaty seems to him who makes the sacrifice more than sufficient to cancel it. But it was not so with Mr. Langham. He had almost learned to judge himself as he would another; and he felt, in all the agony of sincere remorse, that he had deserved the vengeance of contempt which had been cast upon him by Mr. Cressingham. No man can make such an admission without a prostration of heart which it would be fearful to contemplate, did we not know, that after crime it must precede the restoration to moral dignity, must be the first step towards reconciliation with God. But once made, nothing else is difficult: the heart, in search of peace, eagerly adopts any measure that promises to secure it.

Mr. Langham, for many hours after the interview with Mr. Cressingham, remained alone. He requested as a favour of Hamond and Matilda, that they would not come near him; and, painful as was obedience, they no farther transgressed his wishes than occasionally to steal to his door, and patiently wait there till some movement in the apartment

relieved them from fears to which they dared not give utterance. The first person he expressed a wish to see was Doctor Milman, and to him, as far as man can reveal to man his inmost thoughts, he poured out his soul. The very calm temperament of Dr. Milman made him not only a patient but most useful confessor. A man of quicker feelings or more ready sympathy would probably have sought to change the current of his thoughts by unequivocal condemnation of Mr. Cressingham's conduct, or to have bound up the wounds of a heart thus laid naked and fast bleeding before him. Dr. Milman did neither he listened with gentleness and with pity; but he did not thoroughly comprehend the misery he witnessed, when he permitted himself mentally to admit a fear that it was deserved.

"If he knew," said Mr. Langham, for Mr. Cressingham's was a name he never ventured to pronounce, "all I have endured-he could not withhold his pardon, if he but knew the tragedy my life has been!"

And fearlessly as he had previously blamed his own conduct, his former prevailing thought that he himself was the greater sufferer took possession of his mind, and forbade his seeing with his usual clearness the impropriety of the measure he was about to adopt. Like a gambler who throws his all upon a cast, he forgot that the turn of the die might render his position more utterly desperate.

"If he but knew," Mr. Langham continued, "that she on her bed of death prayed for his forgiveness to her memory-that the yearning for his pardon was to her heart then, what now it is to mine, Dr. Milman, could he refuse to grant it?" As he made this inquiry, Mr. Langham, undoubting of any difference of opinion, seated himself at his writing-table, and Dr. Milman's reply" If you write, I will willingly be the bearer of your letter," was received as a matter of course.

VOL. I.-9

CHAPTER XXXI.

Give thy prayers to Heaven!

Pray, albeit but in thought-but die not thus!

MANFRED.

MR. LANGHAM did write, and Dr. Milman, on the following day, delivered his letter into Mr. Cressingham's own hands. Mr. Cressingham was in bed, and the mocking smile of irony that crossed his thin and care-worn face was so terrible to Dr. Milman, that, as he apologized for his mission, he repented deeply of having undertaken it. May I hope," he concluded, "that you will see for one half hour the unhappy man whose ambassador I am this day ?”

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Mr. Cressingham echoed the words "See him!" in accents so deep and sepulchral that they seemed to come from the grave.

Dr. Milman was startled, and he continued to speak in the most soothing and conciliating tone and words that he could command,-"Or, if this is asking too much, a few words of pardon, either written or sent by me, will be sufficient, Mr. Cressingham, to calm one human heart, and perhaps relieve your own."

"Ah! indeed-that is more than I looked to--Sir, I thank you, I will write." Had Dr. Milman only heard the words uttered by Mr. Cressingham, he would have felt happy in the success of his embassy. But the terrific smile which had before alarmed him again overspread the features of the speaker, and his heart shrunk within him. To Dr. Milman's preception it continued to increase in bitterness and malignity as the invalid ordered materials for writing to be brought to him, and raised himself in his bed to make use of them. This man of peaceful emotions then exclaimed-"My God! sir, consider what you are about to do."

"Sir, I do!" was the brief answer of Mr. Cressingham, in a calm and commanding tone, in shocking opposition to the conflict of passion that seemed tearing him to pieces. For his eye either gleamed wildly, while his mind summoned from the past every vestige of misery that could inflame

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