The Mysteries of the Court of London — page 31: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

18 THE MYSTERIRGS OF FEE COURT. should be renewed. She had never seen this letter since the day it arrived—she had | she is marble pale. from the tomb; and as a ghost If she caught the reflection never read it but once; yet she now recognised it | of her own image in the mirror opposite, she in a moment—and every line of ite contents was imprinted on her memory as if seared there with red hot iron. Her first impulse was to open and read it again—but she checked herself: the very thought struck her as being an infidelity to her husband. She could not prevent herself from thinking of Bertram—she could not prevent her mind from clinging with a soft, sad, serene affection to his image: she had no power over her own vo- lition. But on the other hand, she felt that she had no right to do a positive deed which might re- suscitate all the frensy of her regrets for his loss: she had no right to voluntarily seek for the evi- dences of that love which heaven had refused to crown with happiness. Therefore, under the in- fluence of this most scrupulous delicacy, Elisa put the letter aside; and again cast her looks into the But, Ah! wherefore does she start? What writing is this which next meets her eye? what letter is that which, adres’ 6 een ae eagerly, greedily, almost frantically snatches up? She examines the direction—she looks at the post- marks—a faintness comes over her : the letter drops from her hand. She snatches it up again: and she scrutinises the post-marks. Thoughts of strange and wild contexture sweep through her mind, — fancies so poignant, so bewildering, so franght with a solemn woadermaat and at the same | — time a fearful suspense, that they are almost over- powering. A single glance at the interior of that letter would clear up all doubt—relieve her of all suspense: and she knows—she feels—she has the _ conviction that it will do so: but there is within her a shuddering awful horror to arrive at that certainty. Thoughts so wild—apparently so im- possible—are in her brain ; and yet what she thinks of, ie posstble—for the proof is there: she holds it in her hand! There is within her the certainty that it ie so; and yet she flutters, and trembles, and quivers with all the doubt of agonis- ing suspense. This state is intolerable. She opens the letter—she reads—but only a few words, and for a few moments; and she sinks down upon her | sations knees with a low, deep, long-drawn, gasping moan, the full meaning of which it would be almost im- possible to describe. Her head is bowed upon the chair from which by a monument af a loved Yet it is not that she is in a state of unconscious- : ber sense remains—but experienced only as a stunned, dismayed eonsternstion. There is something awf profoundly solemn —in the mental condition of that kneeling lady. She weeps not—her bosom is not convuleed: there is not a tremor thrilling through her form—not even the slightest creeping agitation to give sign of life. ‘Yet she lives: but her’s are unutterable, ineffable feelings. Minutes elapee while she thus remains kneeling by the chair, ber face buried in her hands. At length slowly—Oh! so slowly, she rises up like a an 66 nae 3 Would start in dismay: ahe would not believe, in the first shock, that it was herself she beheld umaged there. But she has no outward vision for anything: her eyes behold nothing in the room. All her thoughtse—all her senses—all her faculties, are absorbed in one idea which lies 2% the bottom of her soul. Again several minutes elapse ; and then with a slow mechanical movement, as if unconscious of the very impulse which she is obeying, Elisa stoops down and picks up the letter which has fallen from her hand—that letter which has pro- duced all which we have just been And now she site down, and reads it calmly and deliberately. Oh, with what a calmness! It is the calmness which the ocean of hyperburean regions displays when frozen into solid ice,—the calmness of that glacial spell which can alone tranquilize the mighty waters that if the talis- mene power were removed, would boil and rage im all the wild ebullition of the tempest. It is the calmness of the volcano that sleeps under a power superior to its own, when its lava is hard- ened mto petrifaction—but which, if the spell “I thank thee, O God, for one thing,” she said, in a voice which seemed as if borne upoa a breath of ice,—“ anid only for one thing. The rest is all dark—horrible—frightful—incredible |’ It did not seem to strike her that she hed given | utterance to something savouring of impious blas- phemy, in accepting only one of the many dispen- sations of Providence on which her thoughts were evidently fixed. But she was in that state when the human soul is so chilled by despair, that the form to which it belongs is but a breathing, ani- mated marble statue. She looked over the papers in the desk : there was another letter, in the same hand- writing—of a recent date—a very recent date— and this also Elisa read. Again were her feelings excited poignantly—horribly——egonisingly; and for - | sonre minutes she was vtonvuleed with the tortures of anguish, while the tears rained down her cheeks. She wrung her hands too—yes, wrung them bit- teriy, bitterly ;—and it was long ere she recovered even the calmness of despair. Then she again looked into the desk : but there was nothing more to intere est her. Impossible indeed would it have been for any other paper to produce a state of being more de- plorable—more the whole world’s com- miseration—than those which had already placed a petrifying spell upon the heart of the unhappy Duchess of Marchmont. Sbe locked up all the papers in the desk again; and the desk itself she secured in a buseau of which she kept the kev. For (SOL (C DOO Col