coward; but his genius sunk before the genius of Falkland. He left his
vengeance to the disposal of circumstances. He was secure that his
animosity would never be forgotten nor diminished by the interposition
of any time or events. Vengeance was his nightly dream, and the
uppermost of his waking thoughts.

Mr. Falkland had departed from this conference with a confirmed
disapprobation of the conduct of his neighbour, and an unalterable
resolution to do every thing in his power to relieve the distresses of
Hawkins. But he was too late. When he arrived, he found the house
already evacuated by its master. The family was removed nobody knew
whither; Hawkins had absconded, and, what was still more extraordinary,
the boy Hawkins had escaped on the very same day from the county gaol.
The enquiries Mr. Falkland set on foot after them were fruitless; no
traces could be found of the catastrophe of these unhappy people. That
catastrophe I shall shortly have occasion to relate, and it will be
found pregnant with horror, beyond what the blackest misanthropy could
readily have suggested.

I go on with my tale. I go on to relate those incidents in which my own
fate was so mysteriously involved. I lift the curtain, and bring forward
the last act of the tragedy.




CHAPTER X.


It may easily be supposed, that the ill temper cherished by Mr. Tyrrel