"I still hope she is innocent."
Pomander smiled, and said he hoped so too.
"And if she is what you think, I will but show her she is known, and,
blaming myself as much as her--oh yes! more than her!--I will go down
this night to Shropshire, and never speak word to her again in this world
or the next."
"Good," said Sir Charles.
"'Le bruit est pour le fat, la plainte est pour le sot, L'honndete homine
trompe s'eloigne et ne dit mot.'
Are you ready?"
"Yes."
"Then follow me."
Turning the handle gently, he opened the door like lightning, and was in
the room. Vane's head peered over his shoulder. She was actually there!
For once in her life, the cautious, artful woman was taken by surprise.
She gave a little scream, and turned as red as fire. But Sir Charles
surprised somebody else even more than he did poor Mrs. Woffington.
It would be impertinent to tantalize my reader, but I flatter myself this
history is not written with power enough to do that, and I may venture to
leave him to guess whom Sir Charles Pomander surprised more than he did
the actress, while I go back for the lagging sheep.
CHAPTER VIII.
JAMES TRIPLET, water in his eye, but fire in his heart, went home on
wings. Arrived there, he anticipated curiosity by informing all hands he
should answer no questions. Only in the intervals of a work, which was to
take the family out of all its troubles, he should gradually unfold a
tale, verging on the marvelous--a tale whose only fault was, that
fiction, by which alone the family could hope to be great, paled beside
it.
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