This severe rebuke, from a quarter, whence I least expected it, threw me back with shame and confusion.  As if a mirror had been held up to me, I saw my own deformity.  I saw that Eugenia was not only the guardian of her own honour, but of mine, and of the happiness of Miss Somerville, against whom I now stood convicted of foul deceit and shameful wrong.  I acknowledged my fault, I assured Eugenia that I was bound to her, by every tie of honour, esteem, and love; and that her boy and mine should be our mutual care.

“Thank you, dearest,” said she:  “you have taken a heavy load from my mind:  henceforth remember we are brother and sister.  I shall now be able to enjoy the pleasure of your society; and now, as that point is settled, let me know what has occurred to you since we parted—­the particulars I mean, for the outline I have had before.”

I related to her everything which had happened to me, from the hour of our separation to the moment I saw her so unexpectedly in the theatre.  She was alternately affected with terror, surprise, and laughter.  She took a hearty crying spell over the motionless bodies of Clara and Emily, as they lay on the floor; but recovered from that, and went into hysterics of laughter, when I described the footman’s mistake, and the slap on the face bestowed on him by the housemaid.

My mind was not naturally corrupt.  It was only so at times, and from peculiar circumstances; but I was always generous, and easily recalled to a sense of my duty, when reminded of my fault.  Not for an empire would I have persuaded Eugenia to break her vow.  I loved and respected the mother of my child; the more when I reflected that she had been the means of preserving my fidelity to Emily.  I rejoiced to think that my friendship for the one, and love for the other, were not incompatible.  I wrote immediately to Emily, announcing my speedy return to England.

“Having the most perfect reliance on your honour, I shall now,” said Eugenia, “accept of your escort to London, where my presence is required.  Pierre shall accompany us—­he is a faithful creature, though you used him so ill.”

“That,” said I, “is all made up, and Pierre will be heartily glad of another tumble for the same price.”

All our arrangements were speedily made.  The house was given up—­a roomy travelling barouche received all our trunks; and, seated by the side of Eugenia, with the child between us, we crossed the Gironde, and took our way through Poictiers, Tours, and Orleans, to Paris; here we remained but a short time.  Neither of us were pleased with the manners and habits of the French; but as they have been so fully described by the swarms of English travellers who have infested that country with their presence, and this with the fruits of their labours, I shall pass as quietly through France, as I hope to do through the Thames Tunnel, when it is completed, but not before.