This eBook was produced by Dagny, and David Widger, BOOK IX. I go, the bride of Acheron.--SOPH. /Antig./ These things are in the Future.--/Ib./ 1333. CHAPTER I. * * * "There the action lies In its true nature * * * * * * * What then? What rests? Try what repentance can!"--/Hamlet/. "I doubt he will be dead or ere I come."--/King John/. IT was a fine afternoon in December, when Lumley Ferrers turned from Lord Saxingham's door. The knockers were muffled--the windows on the third story were partially closed. There was sickness in that house. Lumley's face was unusually grave; it was even sad. "So young--so beautiful," he muttered. "If ever I loved woman, I do believe I loved her:--that love must be my excuse. . . . I repent of what I have done--but I could not foresee that a mere lover's stratagem was to end in such effects--the metaphysician was very right when he said, 'We only sympathise with feelings we know ourselves.' A little disappointment in love could not have hurt me much--it is d----d odd it should hurt her so. I am altogether out of luck: old Templeton--I beg his pardon, Lord Vargrave--(by-the-by, he gets heartier every day--what a constitution he has!) seems cross with me. He did not like the idea that I should marry Lady Florence--and when I thought that vision might have been realised, hinted that I was disappointing some expectations he had formed; I can't make out what he means. Then, too, the government have offered that place to Maltravers instead of to me. In fact, my star is not in the ascendant. Poor Florence, though,--I would really give a great deal to know her restored to health!--I have done a villainous thing, but I thought it only a clever one. However, regret is a fool's passion. By Jupiter!--talking of fools, here comes Cesarini." Wan, haggard, almost spectral, his hat over his brows, his dress neglected, his air reckless and fierce, Cesarini crossed the way, and thus accosted Lumley: "We have murdered her, Ferrers; and her ghost will haunt us to our dying day!" "Talk prose; you know I am no poet. What do you mean?" "She is worse to-day," groaned Cesarini, in a hollow voice. "I wander like a lost spirit round the house; I question all who come from it. Tell me--oh, tell me, is there hope?" "I do, indeed, trust so," replied Ferrers, fervently. "The illness has only of late assumed an alarming appearance. At first it was merely a severe cold, caught by imprudent exposure one rainy night. Now they fear it has settled on the lungs; but if we could get her abroad, all might be well." "You think so, honestly?" "I do. Courage, my friend; do not reproach yourself; it has nothing to do with us. She was taken ill of a cold, not of a letter, man!" "No, no; I judge her heart by my own. Oh, that I could recall the past! Look at me; I am the wreck of what I was; day and night the recollection of my falsehood haunts me with remorse."