We must now go back a few hours—only to the morning of this eventful day—in order to describe the interview which Mr. Clarence Villiers had with his respectable aunt Mrs. Slingsby, at her residence in Old Burlington Street.

He called at her abode as early as nine o'clock,—for he had passed a sleepless night, in consequence of the communication made to him by the individual whom he as yet knew only as Captain Sparks, and of whose arrest on the preceding night he was as yet ignorant.

Mrs. Slingsby, Adelais, and Rosamond were seated at breakfast in a comfortable little parlour, when Clarence was announced.

At first his appearance at so unusual an hour and when he was supposed to be on his way to his office in Somerset House, excited some alarm, lest he had bad news to communicate; and the sisters already trembled for fear their father had discovered their abode. But he speedily reassured them by declaring that he intended to give himself a holiday that morning, and had therefore come to join them at the breakfast-table.

"You are welcome, Clarence," said Mrs. Slingsby, while Adelais appeared so pleased at this unexpected visit that the enhanced carnation tinge of her cheeks and the joy that flashed in her fine eyes rendered her transcendently beautiful.

But Rosamond seemed pensive and even melancholy—although she endeavoured to smile and appear gay.

"I had a visit from Captain Sparks last evening," observed Clarence. "He is going to America, and he called to take leave of me, as well as to entrust me with some little commission, which I of course undertook."

"And we heard a most wholesome and beneficial discourse from the Reverend Mr. Sawkins," observed Mrs. Slingsby.

"Was Mr. Sheepshanks present?" inquired Villiers, without looking at his aunt, and apparently intent only on carving the ham.

"My dear Clarence," said Mrs. Slingsby in a serious, reproachful tone, "your question is light and inconsiderate. You doubtless intended it as a jest, but the object to which it refers is one painfully calculated to wound those who have the good cause at heart. Mr. Sheepshanks has conducted himself in a manner that has produced the most lively grief as well as the greatest astonishment in what may be strictly termed the religious world. Sir Henry Courtenay was shocked when I narrated the incident to him."

"Oh! Sir Henry was shocked, was he?" exclaimed Clarence. "Well, for my part, I should have conceived that a man of fashion would have cared very little for all the Sheepshanks' and Sawkins' in the universe."

"Clarence!" said Mrs. Slingsby, "what is the matter with you this morning? There seems to be an unusual flippancy in your observations——"

"Not at all, my dear aunt. Only, I conceive that a man who is fond of gaiety—who goes to parties—mixes with the Élite of the West End, and so on, can have but little time to devote to the interests of Cannibal-Clothing Associations."

"My dear nephew, you astonish me!" exclaimed Mrs. Slingsby. "Is it to affix a vulgar nick-name to an admirable institution, that you call it a Cannibal-Clothing Association? I once thought you had some degree of respect for the philanthropic and religious establishments which are the boast and ornament of your native land. But——"

"My dear aunt, pardon me if I have offended you," said Clarence—but in a cool and indifferent tone. "I really forgot at the moment the name of the institution to which that arrant hypocrite and scoundrel Sheepshanks belonged."

"Use not such harsh words, Clarence," enjoined Mrs. Slingsby, who knew not what to think of her nephew's unusual manner and discourse. "Mr. Sheepshanks has lost himself in the estimation of all persons of rightly constituted minds; but the Christian spirit of forgiveness commands us to be lenient in our comments on the actions even of the wicked."

"That may be," said Clarence. "But as I read the account in the newspapers, it certainly looked so black against this Sheepshanks, that had he been sent to Newgate, he would have had no more than his due. Now, my opinion is this:—robbery is always a heinous crime; but he who robs his fellow-creatures under the cloak of religion, is an atrocious sinner indeed. Hypocrisy, my dear aunt, is a detestable vice; and you, as a woman of sound sense and discerning judgment, must admit the truth of my observation. But we were talking of Sir Henry Courtenay."

"You must not utter a word against him," said Adelais, in the most artless manner possible; "for Rosamond has conceived so high an opinion of him——"

"Because dear Mrs. Slingsby has represented his virtues—his mental qualifications—his admirable character to me in terms which make me as enthusiastic as herself in extolling so good and amiable a man," exclaimed Rosamond, speaking with an ardour which was the more striking, because the natural purity of her soul prevented her from seeing the necessity of checking it.

Mrs. Slingsby coloured and glanced uneasily towards her nephew, who did not, however, appear to notice that the conversation had taken a turn which was disagreeable to her.

In fact, the suspicions originally excited in his mind by the communications of the preceding evening, were now materially strengthened; and the more he contemplated the character of his aunt, the more transparent became the film that had so long blinded him as to its real nature.

"And so you are a great admirer of Sir Henry Courtenay, Rosamond?" he said, endeavouring to maintain as calm and placid an exterior as possible.

"Rosamond is fully aware that virtue deserves respect, wherever it exists," returned Mrs. Slingsby hastily.

"And Sir Henry Courtenay is the pattern of all virtue, dear madam—is he not?" exclaimed Rosamond.

"He is a very good man, my dear, as I have frequently assured you," said the pious widow. "But let us change a conversation which does not appear agreeable to Clarence?"

"I would not for the world manifest so much selfishness," observed Villiers, coolly, "as to quit a topic which gives so much gratification to Rosamond. At the same time—as the future husband of Adelais, and therefore soon to be your brother-in-law, dear Rosamond—I must warn you against conceiving extravagant notions of the integrity and immaculate virtue of any man who belongs to what is called the Fashionable World."

"But dear Mrs. Slingsby has assured me, Clarence," ejaculated Rosamond, warmly, "that Sir Henry Courtenay is an exception to the general rule—that he is the very pattern of every thing generous and good—and that no one could err in following his advice, whatever it might be. Oh! I can assure you——"

Rosamond stopped short; for Mrs. Slingsby, seeing that her nephew's countenance was becoming purple with indignation as the artless girl thus gave vent to the enthusiasm excited in her soul by the most insidious representations,—Mrs. Slingsby, we say, had touched her with her foot beneath the table—a movement naturally construed by Rosamond into a hint to cut short her observations.

"You can retire, dear girls," said Mrs. Slingsby. "I wish to have a little conversation with Clarence."

"Do not keep us away long, dear madam," exclaimed Adelais, in a playful manner, as she rose to quit the room with her sister.

Clarence and Mrs. Slingsby were now alone together; and the position of each was a most painful one.

The aunt saw that something was wrong; and her guilty conscience excited a thousand vague fears within her bosom; while the nephew felt convinced that the relative, whom he had hitherto loved and respected, was worthy only of his abhorrence and contempt.

There was a long pause in the conversation after the sisters had left the room; but at length the silence, so irksome to both nephew and aunt, was broken by the latter.

"Clarence—something appears to have vexed—to have annoyed you this morning," she observed, in a tremulous tone.

"Do you know," he said, turning abruptly round towards her, and fixing a searching glance upon her countenance, "that you act most unwisely—most indiscreetly—nay, most incorrectly, to expatiate so much upon the virtues of Sir Henry Courtenay? When I first entered the room this morning, I found Rosamond pensive and thoughtful; and she said not a word until that man's name was mentioned, when she became as it were enthusiastic in his defence, although no actual attack was made by me upon his character. What is the meaning of this strange conduct?"

"Clarence—if, in my respect for Sir Henry Courtenay—I have been too warm in my praises of his character,—if——"

"Aunt, there is no supposition in the case," interrupted Villiers, almost sternly. "You have been too warm—and heaven only knows with what object! God forbid that I should impute the worst motives to your conduct in this respect: but a dreadful suspicion has been excited in my mind——"

"A suspicion!" murmured Mrs. Slingsby faintly, while the glance which she threw upon her nephew was full of uneasiness.

"Yes—a suspicion!" he repeated; "and most painful—oh! most painful is it to me to be compelled to address you in this manner. But the case is too serious to allow me to remain silent. In one word, have you not made an impression on the mind of that artless girl which may endanger her peace?—have you not been encouraging in her breast an admiration for a man old enough to be her grandfather—an admiration which is not natural, and which is calculated to inspire her with feelings towards a sexagenarian dandy——"

"Clarence!" exclaimed the pious lady, in a hysterical manner; "how dare you address me in this dictatorial tone? Would you seek to invest my conduct in bestowing well-merited praise on a good man, with an aspect so black——"

"Your indignation is well feigned!" cried Villiers, his lips quivering with rage. "But the day of deception has passed—hypocrisy shall no longer impose upon me. If I accuse you unjustly, I will grovel as an abject wretch at your feet to manifest my contrition. Before I thus debase myself, however, you must prove to me that you are indeed the noble-minded—the open-hearted—the immaculate woman I have so long loved and revered! Tell me, then, the real—the true history of that night when a boy was received into this house through charity—a few years ago——"

Mrs. Slingsby became as pale as death, and sate gazing with haggard eyes upon her nephew—unable to avert her glance, and yet shrinking from his.

"Then you are guilty, madam," he said, after a few moments' pause; "and the excellent—the virtuous—the upright Sir Henry Courtenay is your lover! My God! did the world ever know hypocrisy so abominable—so black as this?"

These words were uttered with extreme bitterness—and Mrs. Slingsby burst into a flood of tears, while she covered her face with her hands.

Clarence possessed a generous heart; and this sight moved him.

"My dear aunt," he said, "I do not wish to mortify you—much less to humiliate you in my presence. In your own estimation you must necessarily be humiliated enough. Neither will I dwell at any length upon the pain—the intense grief which I experience in finding you so different from what I have ever believed you to be—until now!" he added, in a mournful tone. "Were you my sister, or did you stand with reference to me in a degree of relationship that would permit me to remonstrate and advise, I should perhaps both reproach and counsel you. But it would ill become a nephew to address his aunt in such a manner."

"Clarence, will you expose me? will you ruin me?" demanded Mrs. Slingsby, in a hysterical tone.

"Not for worlds would I injure you!" ejaculated the young man. "But I must receive no more favours at your hands! Here—take back the money which you gave me a few days ago. Thank God! I have not yet expended any of it—and the arrangements I had made to furnish a house for the reception of my Adelais, can be countermanded. She will not object to share a lodging with me—until, by my own honest exertions," he added proudly, "I may be able to give her a suitable home."

And, as he spoke, he cast a roll of Bank-notes upon the table.

"Oh! Clarence—if I have been weak—frail—culpable," cried the widow, "you are at least severe and cruel; for I have ever done all I could to serve your interests."

"Were I to express my real opinion on that head," answered Villiers, "I might grieve you still more than I have already done. A bandage has fallen from my eyes—and I can now understand how necessary an instrument of publicity I have been for your assumed virtues. But, in the name of God! let us argue the point no further; for sincerely—sincerely do I assert my unwillingness to give you additional pain. Pardon me, however, if I declare how impossible it is—how inconsistent it would be—to leave those innocent girls in a dwelling which is visited by such a man as that Sir Henry Courtenay."

"How could you remove them elsewhere, without exposing me, Clarence?" demanded his aunt in an imploring tone. "What explanation can you or I give them, to account in a reasonable manner for the suddenness of such a step?"

Villiers paced the room in an agitated manner.

He knew not how to act.

To leave Adelais and Rosamond in the society of his aunt was repugnant to his high sense of honour and his correct notions of propriety; and whither to remove them he knew not.

He had seen and heard enough at the breakfast-table, to convince him that Mrs. Slingsby had some sinister motive in creating in the mind of Rosamond,—that innocent, artless mind, which was so susceptible of any impressions which a designing woman might choose to make upon it,—a feeling of admiration in favour of the baronet; and although he had to a considerable extent curbed the resentment and the indignation which his aunt's conduct in this respect had aroused within him, still to leave that young maiden any longer within an atmosphere of infection, was impossible! No: he would sooner restore the sisters to their father, and leave to circumstances the realization of his hopes in regard to Adelais!

While he was still deliberating within himself what course to pursue, and while Mrs. Slingsby was anxiously watching him as he paced the room with agitated steps, the servant entered with the morning's newspaper.

Clarence took it from the table in a mechanical manner and glanced his eye over the first page: but his thoughts were too painfully pre-occupied to permit him to entertain, even for an instant, any idea of reading the journal.

No:—it was one of those unwitting actions which we often perform when sorely embarrassed or bewildered,—an action without positive motive and without aim.

But how often do the most trivial deeds exercise a paramount influence over our destinies!

And this simple action of glancing at the newspaper proved to be an instance of the kind.

For at the moment when Clarence was about to throw the journal back again upon the table and resume his agitated walk, his eyes encountered an advertisement which instantaneously arrested his attention.

Then, with beating heart and with an expression of joy rapidly spreading itself over his countenance, he read the following lines:—

"To A. and R.—Your distressed and almost heart-broken father implores you to return to him. The past shall be forgotten on his side; and no obstacle shall be opposed to the happiness of A. Your father is lying on a sick bed, and again implores that this prayer may not be made in vain."

"God be thanked!" cried Villiers, no longer able to restrain his joy; and handing the newspaper to his aunt, he directed her attention to the advertisement.

"Here is an apology at once for the removal of the young ladies from this house, Clarence," observed Mrs. Slingsby. "And now that you are saved from the embarrassment in which you were plunged but a few minutes back, will you promise never—never to reveal—and, if possible, to forget——"

"You allude to your conduct towards Rosamond?" said Villiers. "Tell me its motive—and I swear solemnly——"

"In one word, then," interrupted his aunt, "let Rosamond beware of Sir Henry Courtenay! And now answer me a single question—for I see you are impatient to be gone:—How came you to discover——what meant your allusion—to—to the boy who was received into this house——"

"I cannot stay to explain all that," cried Villiers. "But rest assured that your character stands no chance of being made the subject of scandalous talk—unless, indeed, your future actions——"

"Enough, Clarence!" exclaimed Mrs. Slingsby. "I know that you must despise me: but spare me any farther humiliation!"

She then rang the bell, and desired the servant to summon Adelais and Rosamond.

We need not pause to describe the joy which those fair beings experienced when Clarence showed them the advertisement inviting them to return home; although tears immediately afterwards started into their eyes, when they read that their father was upon a bed of sickness.

They once more retired to their bed-chamber to prepare their toilette for departure; and, when a hackney-coach drove round to the door, they took leave of Mrs. Slingsby with demonstrations of gratitude which struck to her heart like a remorse.

Clarence accompanied them back to the cottage; and his heart palpitated violently—he scarcely knew wherefore—when he assisted them to alight.

The front door was opened by the female servant, who uttered a cry of joy on beholding the young ladies once more; and with trembling steps Adelais and Rosamond entered the parlour, followed by Clarence.

To their surprise—and, at first, to their great delight—the sisters found themselves, on crossing the threshold of the room, in the presence of their father, who was looking pale, it was true—but with concentrated anger, and not with illness.

Adelais and Rosamond fell on their knees before him, exclaiming, "Forgive us, dear father—forgive us!"

"How am I to receive you, Adelais?" he asked in a cold voice: "as Miss Torrens—or as——"

"As Miss Torrens at present, sir," answered Clarence stepping forward, and speaking in a firm though respectful tone. "But, in accordance with the promise held out in that advertisement which appears in to-day's journal, I hope that your elder daughter will soon be mine—and with your permission and blessing also."

"Where have my daughters been residing during their absence, sir?" inquired Mr. Torrens, without appearing to notice the latter portion of Villiers' observations.

"Under the protection of a female relative of mine, sir," answered Clarence, with increasing misgivings at the cold demeanour of the father of his beloved.

"Thank you for the information, sir," said Mr. Torrens, with a smile of triumph. "At least you have so far disarmed my resentment, that you have brought me back my daughter pure and innocent as when you enticed her away, with the aid of a villanous robber."

"A robber!" ejaculated Clarence indignantly.

"Yes, sir," continued Mr. Torrens, in a sneering tone; "your worthy colleague, Captain Sparks, is a common highwayman—a thief—properly named Thomas Rainford; and at this moment he is a prisoner in Horsemonger Lane Gaol. Scarcely ten minutes have elapsed since I received a note from Mr. Howard, a solicitor, informing me of the fact."

Clarence was so astounded by this announcement, that for a few moments he could make no reply; and the young ladies, who had in the meantime slowly risen from their suppliant posture and were now standing timidly by their father's side, exchanged glances of painful surprise.

"Yes," resumed Mr. Torrens in a stern and severe tone, "that man, who aided you to effect the abduction of these disobedient girls, is a common highwayman—and you could not be ignorant of that fact!"

"As I live, sir," ejaculated Clarence, at length recovering the power of speech. "I was ignorant of the fact; and even now——But," he added, correcting himself, "I cannot doubt your word! At the same time, permit me to assure you that I had never seen him until that night——"

"I require no farther explanation, sir," interrupted Mr. Torrens. "My daughters are now once more under the paternal roof—inveigled back again, it is true, by a stratagem on my part——"

"A stratagem!" repeated Clarence, while Adelais uttered a faint shriek, and sank weeping into her sister's arms.

"Yes—a stratagem, sir!" ejaculated Mr. Torrens. "And now learn my decision, Mr. Villiers! Sooner than she shall become your wife," he continued, pointing towards the unhappy girl, "I would give her to the meanest hind who toils for his daily bread. Depart, sir:—this house is at least a place where my authority can alone prevail!"

"Mr. Torrens—I beseech—I implore you——" began the wretched young man, whose hopes were thus suddenly menaced so cruelly.

"Depart, sir!" thundered the angry father; "or I shall use violence—and we will then see whether you will strike in return the parent of her whom you affect to love!"

And he advanced towards Villiers in a menacing manner.

"I will not stay to irritate you, sir," said Clarence, feeling as if his heart were ready to burst. "Adelais—remember one who will never cease to remember you! Rosamond, farewell!"

Mr. Torrens became more and more impatient; and Villiers quitted the house with feelings as different from those which had animated him when he entered it, as the deepest despair is different from the most joyous hope.

But the anguish of his heart was not greater than that which now filled the bosom of her from whom he was so unexpectedly and cruelly separated.