CHAPTER V.
Versed in the world as pilot in his compass.
The needle pointed ever to that interest
Which was his loadstar, and he spread his sails
With vantage to the gale of others’ passion.
The Deceiver—a Tragedy.
Anthony Foster was still engaged in debate with his fair guest, who treated with scorn every entreaty and request that she would retire to her own apartment, when a whistle was heard at the entrance-door of the mansion.
“We are fairly sped now,” said Foster; “yonder is thy lord’s signal, and what to say about the disorder which has happened in this household, by my conscience, I know not. Some evil fortune dogs the heels of that unhanged rogue Lambourne, and he has ’scaped the gallows against every chance, to come back and be the ruin of me!”
“Peace, sir,” said the lady, “and undo the gate to your master.—My lord! my dear lord!” she then exclaimed, hastening to the entrance of the apartment; then added, with a voice expressive of disappointment,—“Pooh! it is but Richard Varney.”
“Ay, madam,” said Varney, entering and salu-
