Proceed we now to Torrens Cottage, on the road to which place we have just left Tim the Snammer and Josh Pedler.

It was past eleven o'clock, and Mr. Torrens was seated alone in his parlour, examining a pile of papers which lay before him. A decanter more than half emptied of its ruby contents, and a wine-glass also stood upon the table; and the flushed countenance of the unprincipled man showed that he had sought to drown the remorseful feelings of a restless conscience by means of the juice of the grape.

But he could not;—and though ten days had now elapsed since the sacrifice of the beautiful Rosamond had taken place, there were moments when the father felt even more acutely than on the fatal night when, in the solitude of his chamber, he endured the torments of the damned,—mental torments, indescribably more severe than the most agonising of physical pain could possibly be!

He had received the price of his infamy and her dishonour: the last portion of the "price of blood" he had drawn from the bankers in the morning—and he was now arranging and casting up his accounts to satisfy himself that he had actually obtained sufficient to settle all his liabilities.

But his occupation was every moment interrupted by a gush of terrible thoughts to his maddening brain;—and if he laid down the pen, it was to grasp the bottle.

What would the world say if his black turpitude were to transpire?—how should he ever be able to meet Clarence Villiers and Adelais again, if they were to become acquainted with Rosamond's dishonour? He knew that the baronet had hitherto managed somewhat to tranquillise the ruined girl by promises of marriage and eternal affection;—he was also aware that Rosamond had endeavoured to subdue her anguish as much as possible in order to avoid the chance of arousing any suspicion on the part of Mrs. Slingsby! But a term must at length arrive to those specious representations and mendacious assurances adopted by Sir Henry Courtenay to lull the agonising feelings of the unhappy girl;—and then—oh! it was then, that the danger would be terrible indeed! Of all this Mr. Torrens thought; and he suffered more acutely from his fears than from his consciousness of infernal iniquity.

The time-piece upon the mantle had struck the hour of eleven some time, and Mr. Torrens was in the midst of his terrible meditations, when a loud, long, and impatient knock at the front-door caused him to start from his seat.

He had already desired the servants not to sit up on his account, as it was probable that he should be occupied with his papers until a late hour in the night; and he was therefore now compelled to answer the summons himself.

A cold chill struck to his heart—for he entertained a presentiment of what was about to occur: indeed, such an anticipation was natural on his part when we reflect that his soul was a prey to conscious guilt, and that the knock at the door was hasty and imperative.

For a moment he staggered as if about to fall: then, calling all his firmness to his aid, he proceeded to open the front-door, the knocking at which was repeated with increased vehemence.

His presentiment was correct;—for, scarcely had he drawn back the bolt, when the door was pushed open—and Rosamond rushed into the house.

"My dearest father!" she exclaimed, and fell insensible into his arms.

He conveyed her to a sofa in the parlour, tore off her bonnet and shawl, and sprinkled water upon her pale—her very pale countenance.

Merciful heavens! how acute—how agonising was the pang which shot to his heart, as he contemplated that lovely brow on which innocence had so lately sate enthroned, until the spoiler had pressed the heated lips of lust thereon! Then for a few moment all the father's feelings were uppermost in his soul; and he gnashed his teeth with rage at the thought that he himself was dishonoured in that dishonoured daughter!

Oh! to have given her back her purity and her self-respect,—to have known that she could raise her head proudly in maiden pride,—to have been able to embrace her as the chaste and spotless being she was ere hell suggested its accursed machinations to achieve her destruction!

But it was too late!—Here lay the ruined child—and there were piled the notes and gold which had purchased her virtue!

Three or four minutes elapsed, and still Rosamond gave no signs of returning animation. Suddenly the father desisted from his endeavours to restore her; for an infernal thought flashed to his mind.

He would suffer her to die!

No sooner did the atrocious idea enter his soul, than he longed to see it fulfilled. He dared not meet her eyes—even should she be unsuspicious relative to his unnatural treachery. No—it were better that she should die!

But the infernal hopes of the wicked man were not to be realized;—and, monster that he was, he could not slay her with his own hands!

Slowly, at length, her bosom began to heave—a profound sigh escaped her—she opened her eyes, and gazed vacantly around.

"Rosamond," said her father, now mastering his feelings of bitter disappointment so far as to be able to speak in a kind tone: "Rosamond, dearest—what ails you? Fear not—you are at home! But why do you look at me so wildly!"

"Oh! my God—what have I done, that I should have deserved so much misery!" exclaimed the young girl, in a voice of the most piercing anguish, as she covered her face with her hands and burst into a flood of tears:—then, raising herself to a sitting posture on the sofa, she seized her father's hands, saying in a different and more profoundly melancholy tone, "My parent—my only friend! I am unworthy to look you in the face!"

"Do not speak thus, Rosamond," said Mr. Torrens, seating himself by his daughter's side, and maintaining a demeanour which bespoke the deepest interest in her behalf. "Something has cruelly afflicted you?" he added interrogatively—as if he had yet the fatal truth to learn!

"Oh! heavens—your kindness kills me, dearest father!" shrieked Rosamond. "Yes—never did you appear so kind to me before—and I—I——But, merciful Saviour! my brain is on fire!"

"My sweet child," returned Mr. Torrens, whose soul was a perfect hell as he listened to the words which came from his daughter's lips,—"you can surely have no secrets from me? Has any one caused you chagrin? has any one dared to insult you? And what means this sudden arrival at home—at so late an hour—and when I fancied that you were staying with that excellent woman, Mrs. Slingsby?"

"Mrs. Slingsby!" repeated Rosamond, with a shudder which denoted the loathing and abhorrence she entertained for that woman. "Oh! my dear father, that Mrs. Slingsby is a fiend in human shape—a vile and detestable hypocrite, who conceals the blackest heart beneath the garb of religion!"

"Rosamond—Rosamond—you know not what you are saying!" exclaimed Mr. Torrens, affecting to be profoundly surprised and even hurt at these emphatic accusations.

"Alas! I know too well—oh! far too well, the truth of all I am saying!" said Rosamond, a hectic glow of excitement appearing upon her cheeks, hitherto so ashy pale. "Yes, father—that woman is a disgrace to her sex! This evening—but two hours ago—I accidentally heard a few words pass between her and Sir Henry Courtenay——"

"Sir Henry Courtenay is at least an honourable man," said Mr. Torrens.

"Sir Henry Courtenay is a monster!" cried Rosamond emphatically: then, bursting into tears again, she threw herself at her father's feet, exclaiming, "Oh! that I had a mother to whom I could unburthen all the woes that fill my heart:—but to you—to you—my dearest parent—how can your daughter confess that she has been ruined—dishonoured—undone?"

"Unhappy girl!" cried the hypocrite, affecting a tone and manner denoting mingled indignation and astonishment: "what dreadful things are these that you have come home to tell me?"

"The truth, my dear father—the horrible, the fatal truth!" continued Rosamond, in a fearfully excited tone.

"Speak lower—lower, my child," said Mr. Torrens: "the servants will be alarmed—they will overhear you. And now resume your seat near me—rise from that humiliating posture—and——"

"Humiliating indeed," interrupted Rosamond, sinking her voice to a comparative whisper, but with an utterance that was almost suffocated by the dreadful emotions raging within her bosom:—"because I myself am so signally humiliated!" she added. "And yet I am innocent, dear father—it was not my fault—not for worlds would I have strayed from the path of virtue! But a hideous plot—a diabolical scheme of treachery—devised between that bad woman and that still more dreadful man——"

"No more—no more, Rosamond!" exclaimed Mr. Torrens, still maintaining a well-affected semblance of indignation and astonishment. "I understand you but too well—and you shall be avenged!"

"Alas! vengeance will not make me what I once was—a happy and spotless girl!" said Rosamond: "and now that I am dishonoured, it would require but the contumely with which the world would treat me, to drive me to utter desperation—to madness, or to suicide!"

Mr. Torrens said all he could to console his unhappy child; and he very readily promised her to abandon all ideas of vengeance on those who had been the authors of her shame.

"Until this evening," said Rosamond, her head reclining upon her father's shoulder, "I had hoped that Sir Henry Courtenay would repair the wrong he had done me by means of marriage,—for, alas! my dear father, I loved him! But—two hours ago—I overheard a few words pass between him and Mrs. Slingsby,—a few words which rivetted me to the spot where I was at first only an involuntary listener. Then I became a willing and attentive eaves-dropper,—for, oh! the little which had already met my ears, intimately—too intimately regarded myself! And, dear father, you can conceive with what horror and dismay I learnt enough to convince me, that she whom I had loved and esteemed as a dear friend and a model of perfection, was a vile—an abandoned—an infamous woman,—the mistress of Sir Henry Courtenay, and in the way to become a mother also! I could not believe my ears—I fancied that I was dreaming. But, alas! it was indeed a frightful reality;—and then I heard that I had been sold,—yes, sold—I, your daughter, sold to Sir Henry Courtenay,—and, I suppose, by that dreadful woman! Yes—yes—father," she continued wildly, "I was sold to his arms,—and he never intended to marry me! I screamed not,—I uttered not a word: I was crushed too low—I had too great a load of misery upon my soul to be able to give vent to my feelings; but I dragged myself away from the spot where I had overheard that terrible discourse,—a veil had fallen from before my eyes, and I saw all the extent of my hopeless position in its true light. How I managed to reach my bed-room I know not: my brain began to whirl, and I thought that I should go mad! Of what followed I have but a dim recollection; but methinks that, having put on my bonnet and shawl, I was flying from the house, when Sir Henry Courtenay pursued me down the stairs—and how I escaped from him I cannot say! There was a chaos in my bewildered brain; and when I was enabled to collect my scattered thoughts—when consciousness, as I may term it, came back, I found myself hurrying along the streets. I looked round, fearful of being pursued; but there was no cause for alarm. Nevertheless, I hastened on,—and all that long distance have I accomplished on foot, dear father; for, oh! I felt that home was the place where my deep sorrows would receive sympathy, and where only I could hope to enjoy security. And now, my beloved parent," added Rosamond, throwing her arms around his neck, "you will not spurn your unhappy daughter,—you will not thrust her from you! My God! why did I ever reveal to you all this? Oh! it was because my heart was so full of woe, that if I had not unburthened it to you in the hope of receiving consolation, it would have broken—it would have broken!"

"Rosamond," said Mr. Torrens, "you did well to reveal all these dreadful things to me; because I alone am the proper person to counsel and console you. A fearful crime," he continued, shuddering at his own monstrous duplicity, "has been perpetrated; but, alas! the criminals must go unpunished. Yes,—Rosamond, you were right when you declared that vengeance would lead only to exposure; and that exposure would kill you. My poor child, not even your sister must be made acquainted with this awful calamity."

"No—no!" exclaimed Rosamond: "it is sufficient that you are aware of the ignominious treatment which I have received! Not for worlds would I have the bridal happiness of my dearest sister poisoned by the revelation of my wrongs! And Clarence, too—Clarence—oh! from him, of all men, must this secret be kept; or he would, perhaps, be urged to wreak on his aunt, and on that vile baronet, a vengeance which would lead to exposure, and render Adelais miserable for ever!"

"It charms me, Rosamond," said Mr. Torrens, "to perceive that the wrongs heaped upon you have not impaired your prudence. Between you and me shall this secret now remain,—for, depend upon it, the authors of this cruel outrage will not themselves be anxious to publish their own infamy. You are now beneath the paternal roof—and here you are certain to enjoy security; and from this night forth, Rosamond, let us place a seal on our lips so far as the one dread topic is concerned."

"And you, my father," asked the ruined girl,—"shall you not love me the less? Shall you not look with loathing and abhorrence upon your daughter? Oh! if there be a change in your sentiments towards me, I shall have no alternative save to die!"

The miserable and criminal father embraced his dishonoured child, and said every thing he could to console her.

Rosamond then retired to her chamber,—that chamber which she had left ten days previously a pure and spotless virgin, and to which she now returned a deflowered and ruined girl!

Mr. Torrens remained in the parlour.

Amidst all the horrible thoughts that forced themselves upon his mind, he saw one glimmering of consolation: and this was that Rosamond suspected not his complicity in the nefarious plot which had destroyed her. It was evident that in the conversation which she had overheard between Mrs. Slingsby and the baronet, his connivance had only been hinted at,—too darkly and mysteriously for Rosamond to comprehend the meaning of those words which alluded to the fact of her having been sold!

But what pen can describe the tortures which the guilty man experienced, as he pondered on the scene that had just occurred? In spite of that gleam of solace he was the prey to ineffable anguish,—for he could not help feeling as a father: nature asserted her empire,—and he was in despair as he contemplated the awful crime which had led to the dishonour of his own child!

Never had she appeared to him so beautiful as when, ashy pale, she had awakened from the deep trance into which she fell on crossing the parental threshold;—never did he feel more inclined to love her, or to be proud of her charms, than when he afterwards saw her kneeling at his feet, the light of the lamp falling with Rembrandt effect upon her upraised countenance! Alas! through him was she ruined—by his machinations was she destroyed! And of what avail was that beauty now, since honour was lost?

He fixed his eyes upon the gold, and endeavoured to console himself with the contemplation of the glittering metal.

It seemed dross—vile dross in his eyes; and could he have recalled the deeds of the last ten days, he would gladly have fallen back into the inextricable labyrinth of his pecuniary difficulties, and have dared even the disgrace and punishment of a debtors' prison, so that he might not have had to reproach himself with the sale of his daughter's virtue!