NO sooner had “dear Julian” recovered, which he really had not quite accomplished until the day had begun to wear away (so great a shock had that intelligence of Charles been to his guilty mind), than the gratified and prudent mother fancied this a famous opportunity to leave the young couple to themselves.  It was after dinner, when they had retired to the drawing-room; and I will say that Emily had never seemed so favourably disposed towards that rough, but generous, heart before.  So then, on some significant pretence, well satisfied her favourite was himself again, as bold, and black, and boisterous as ever, the masculine mother kissed her hand to them, as a fat fairy might be supposed to do, and operatically tripped away, coyly bidding Emily “take care of Julian till she should come back again.”

The momentary gleam of good which glanced across that bad man’s heart has faded away hours ago; his repentant thoughts had been occasioned more from the sudden relief he experienced at running now no risks for having murdered, than for any better feeling towards his brother, or any humbler notions of himself.  Nay, a strong reaction occurred in his ideas the moment he had seen his brother’s writing; and when he fainted, he fainted from the struggle in his mind of manifold exciting causes, such as these:—­hatred, jealousy, what he called love, though a lower name befitted it, and vexation that his brother was—­not dead.  Oh mother, mother! if your poor weak head had but been wise enough to read that heart, would you still have loved it as you do?  Alas—­it is a deep lesson in human nature this—­she would! for Mrs. General Tracy was one of those obstinate, yet superficial characters, whom no reason can convince that they are wrong, no power can oblige to confess themselves mistaken.  She rejoiced to hear him called “her very image;” and predominant vanity in the large coquette extended to herself at second-hand; self was her idol substance, and its delightful shadow was this mother’s son.

The moment Mrs. Tracy left the room, Julian perceived his opportunity:  Charles, detested rival, far away at sea; the guardian gone to London; Emily in an unusual flow of affability and kindness, and he—­alone with her.  Rashly did he bask his soul in her delicious beauty, deliberately drinking deep of that intoxicating draught.  Giving the rein to passion, he suffered that tumultuous steed to hurry him whither it would, in mad unbridled course.  He sat so long silently gazing at her with the lack-lustre eyes of low and dull desire, that Emily, quite thrown off her guard by that amiable fainting for his brother, addressed him in her innocent kind-heartedness,

“Are you not recovered yet, dear Julian?”

The effect was instantaneous:  scarcely crediting his ears that heard her call him “dear,” his eyes, that saw her winning smile upon him, he started from his chair, and trembling with agitation, flung himself at her feet, to Emily’s unqualified astonishment.