Old St Paul's (Historical Novel). William Harrison Ainsworth

are right?" asked Parravicin, searching for the key.

      "Quite sure," returned Pillichody. "Don't you see some one behind that wall?"

      "I see nothing," rejoined the knight. "You are afraid of shadows, major."

      "Afraid!" ejaculated Pillichody. "Thousand thunders! I am afraid of nothing."

      "In that case, I shall expect to find you have slain Disbrowe, on my return," rejoined Parravicin, unlocking the door.

      "The night is chilly," observed the major, "and ever since my campaigns in the Low Countries, I have been troubled with rheumatism. I should prefer keeping guard inside."

      "No, no, you must remain where you are," replied the knight, shutting the door.

      Pillichody was about to take to his heels, when he felt himself arrested by a powerful arm. He would have roared for aid, but a voice, which he instantly recognised, commanded him to keep silence, if he valued his life.

      "Is your companion in the house?" demanded Disbrowe, in a hollow tone.

      "I am sorry to say he is, Captain Disbrowe," replied the bully. "I did my best to prevent him, but remonstrance was in vain."

      "Liar," cried Disbrowe, striking him with his clenched hand. "Do you think to impose upon me by such a pitiful fabrication? It was you who introduced me to this heartless libertine—you who encouraged me to play with him, telling me I should easily strip him of all he possessed—you who excited his passion for my wife, by praising her beauty—and it was you who put it into his head to propose that fatal stake to me."

      "There you are wrong, Captain Disbrowe," returned Pillichody, in a supplicatory tone. "On my soul, you are! I certainly praised your wife (as who would not?), but I never advised Parravicin to play for her. That was his own idea entirely."

      "The excuse shall not avail you," cried Disbrowe, fiercely. "To you I owe all my misery. Draw and defend yourself."

      "Be not so hasty, captain," cried Pillichody, abjectedly. "I have injured you sufficiently already. I would not have your blood on my head. On the honour of a soldier, I am sorry for the wrong I have done you, and will strive to repair it."

      "Repair it!" shrieked Disbrowe. "It is too late." And seizing the major's arm, he dragged him by main force into the alley.

      "Help! help!" roared Pillichody. "Would you murder me?"

      "I will assuredly cut your throat, if you keep up this clamour," rejoined Disbrowe, snatching the other's long rapier from his side. "Coward!" he added, striking him with the flat side of the weapon, "this will teach you to mix yourself up in such infamous affairs for the future."

      And heedless of the major's entreaties and vociferations, he continued to belabour him, until compelled by fatigue to desist; when the other, contriving to extricate himself, ran off as fast as his legs could carry him. Disbrowe looked after him for a moment, as if uncertain whether to follow, and then hurrying to the house, stationed himself beneath the porch.

      "I will stab him as he comes forth," he muttered, drawing his sword, and hiding it beneath his mantle.

      Parravicin, meanwhile, having let himself into the house, marched boldly forward, though the passage was buried in darkness, and he was utterly unacquainted with it. Feeling against the wall, he presently discovered a door, and opening it, entered a room lighted by a small silver lamp placed on a marble slab. The room was empty, but its furniture and arrangements proclaimed it the favourite retreat of the fair mistress of the abode. Parravicin gazed curiously round, as if anxious to gather from what he saw some idea of the person he so soon expected to encounter. Everything betokened a refined and luxurious taste. A few French romances, the last plays of Etherege, Dryden, and Shadwell, a volume of Cowley, and some amorous songs, lay on the table; and not far from them were a loomask, pulvil purse, a pair of scented gloves, a richly-laced mouchoir, a manteau girdle, palatine tags, and a golden bodkin for the hair.

      Examining all these things, and drawing his own conclusions as to the character of their owner, Parravicin turned to a couch on which a cittern was thrown, while beside it, on a cushion, were a pair of tiny embroidered velvet slippers. A pocket-mirror, or sprunking-glass, as it was then termed, lay on a side-table, and near it stood an embossed silver chocolate-pot, and a small porcelain cup with a golden spoon inside it, showing what the lady's last repast had been. On another small table, covered with an exquisitely white napkin, stood a flask of wine, a tall-stemmed glass, and a few cakes on a China dish, evidently placed there for Disbrowe's return.

      As Parravicin drew near this table, a slip of paper, on which a few lines were traced, attracted his attention, and taking it up, he read as follows:

      "It is now midnight, and you promised to return early. I have felt your absence severely, and have been suffering from a violent headache, which has almost distracted me. I have also been troubled with strange and unaccountable misgivings respecting you. I am a little easier now, but still far from well, and about to retire to rest. At what hour will this meet your eye?"

      "MARGARET."

      "Charming creature!" exclaimed Parravicin, as the paper dropped from his hand; "she little dreamed, when she wrote it, who would read her billet. Disbrowe does not deserve such a treasure. I am sorry she is unwell. I hope she has not taken the plague. Pshaw, what could put such an idea into my head? Lydyard's warning, I suppose. That fellow, who is the veriest rake among us, is always preaching. Confound him! I wish he had not mentioned it. A glass of wine may exhilarate me." And pouring out a bumper, he swallowed it at a draught. "And so the fond fool is pining for her husband, and has some misgivings about him. Egad! it is well for her she does not know what has really taken place. She'll learn that soon enough. What's this?" he added, glancing at a picture on the wall. "Her miniature! It must be; for it answers exactly to Pillichody's description. A sparkling brunette, with raven hair, and eyes of night. I am on fire to behold her: but I must proceed with prudence, or I may ruin all. Is there nothing of Disbrowe's that I could put on for the nonce? 'Fore Heaven! the very thing I want!"

      The exclamation was occasioned by his observing a loose silken robe lying across a chair. Wrapping it round him, and throwing down his hat, he took the lamp and went up stairs.

      Daring as he was, Parravicin felt his courage desert him, as having found the door of Mrs. Disbrowe's chamber, he cautiously opened it. A single glance showed him that the room was more exquisitely, more luxuriously furnished than that he had just quitted. Articles of feminine attire, of the richest kind, were hung against the walls, or disposed on the chairs. On one side stood the toilette-table, with its small mirror then in vogue, and all its equipage of silver flasks, filligree cassets, japan patch-boxes, scent-bottles, and pomatum-pots.

      As he entered the room, a faint voice issuing from behind the rich damask curtains of the bed, demanded, "Is it you, Disbrowe?"

      "It is, Margaret," replied Parravicin, setting down the lamp, and speaking with a handkerchief at his mouth, to disguise his voice and conceal his features.

      "You are late—very late," she rejoined, "and I have been ill. I fancied myself dying."

      "What has been the matter with you sweet, Meg?" asked Parravicin, approaching the bed, and seating himself behind the curtains.

      "I know not," she replied. "I was seized with a dreadful headache about an hour ago. It has left me; but I have a strange oppression at my chest, and breathe with difficulty."

      "You alarm me, my love," rejoined Parravicin. "Were you ever attacked thus before?"

      "Never," she replied. "Oh! Disbrowe! if you knew how I have longed for your return, you would blame yourself for your absence. You have grown sadly neglectful of late. I suspect you love some one else. If I thought so———"

      "What if you thought so, Margaret?" demanded Parravicin.

      "What!" cried Mrs. Disbrowe, raising herself in the bed. "I would requite your perfidy—terribly requite it!"

      "Then learn that Captain Disbrowe is faithless," cried Parravicin, throwing back the curtains, and disclosing himself. "Learn that he loves another, and