The Mysteries of the Court of London — page 274: what you’re looking at

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

THE MYSTERIES. ess: 26 6 ED © & OO SR ORO © PR OR eRets 9S CEE - G8 AED CCUED Clee © AD C482 Wh EE C88 EE © 6 OR a, On tt Lyn Ct hbtyee-e OCEPeCnEEe we 2 we oe eee om ~e Zhi Philip Ramsey—the Aylesbury banker—who was hanged——.” | The Countess of Desborough gave a convulsive start—while a ghastly, a hideous pallor seized upon her countenance: but her lips, that had suddenly become of an ashy hue, were compressed with a clenching tightness, as if to keep back the scream that rose to the very tip of her tongue. “ Heavens! what is the matter?” exclaimed the Duchess of Devonshire, literally bounding from her seat and catching her friend by the hand. “ What ails you, my dearest Eleanor ?—what ails you?” “Nothing—a transitory indisposition—but it is gone,” faultered the Countess, with a superhuman struggle to stifle the menaced outburst of agonised feelings which naturally accompanied the torturing reminiscences so abruptly awakened in her soul. “Pray proceed, Georgiana — pray proceed,” she murmured, with quivering lip, while her whole frame still trembled like an aspen-leaf. ‘‘ Eleanor, tn the name of all our friendship, what means this emotion ?” demanded the Duchess. “You are not a child to be terrified by a ghost- story, which in the sequel will prove to have been nothing supernatural after all;—and you have nof been seized with the sudden indisposition which you alleged as the means of tranquillising my fears concerning you. Tell me, then—tell me——” “Oh! my beloved friend,” exclaimed the Coun- tess, now bursting into that flood of anguished weeping which would no longer be restrained; “ I am very, very unhappy !"—and she threw herself upon the bosom of the Duchess. “Compose your feelings, Eleanor—give not way to this dreadful grief!’ said the generous-hearted Georgiana, in a tone of the most tender solace. “There! let me wipe those streaming eyes, as if I were your sister—for you know that I love you as well as if you were my sister. Giddy, dissipated, frail as I may be, Eleanor,” added the Duchess in a voice full of a touching pathos, “I entertain nothing but the kindest feelings towards you.” “I know it, Georgiana—I know it,” marmured the unhappy Countess, embracing her friend with the warmth of deepest gratitade : then, disengaging herself gently from Georgiana's arms, she wiped the tears from her countenance, saying in a firmer tone, “ Yes—I am unhappy—very unhappy: but the time has now come,—accident has pointed it out—circumstances have indicated it,— when I must make a confidant of you.” “What! have you other secrets that weigh upon your mind, my poor Eleanor, in addition to the one tremendous sorrow that you revealed to me a few months ago ?”—and the looks of the Duchess, as she thus spoke, were full of mingled sympathy and curiosity. “Oh! yes—I have other secrets of a fearful nature—secrets which at times convulse my heart with a mortal anguish,” exclaimed the Countess of Desborough, in a tone of concentrated bitter- ness. “ But proceed with your narrative first, my dear Georgiana: tell me all that you have to narrate—and then I will pour forth my sorrows into your sympathising bosom.” “But wherefore ask me to return to a history which has becomo dull and even absurd in com- parison with the tale of those afflictions which I am 60 anxious to hear from your lips?’ demanded Georgiana. ewer = eey whee wee (eee . “IT have my reasons for the request which I have just made,” responded Eleanor. “Continue your narrative, then, my dear friend—omit not a ainglo detail—abridge not one particular;—and you will presently comprehend the motives which influence me in beseeching this favour at your hands.” ‘Be it as you say, Eleanor,” remarked the Duchess, utterly at a loss to imagine how the his- tory of her adventures at Stamford Manor could have any possible connexion with the woes ot her friend. By this time the Countess had regained a certain tranquillity of demeanour,—although the colour still remained absent from her cheeks of delicate olive complexion, and her bosom was every now and then convulsed with a stifled sob. CHAPTER CLAXXVIIL TILE BED-ROOM SCENE AT STAMFORD NANOR, “TI was telling you, my dear Eleanor,” continued the Duchess of Devonshire, “that a certain Mr. and Mrs. Page whom we found at the Manor, were fall of the belief that they had seen the apparition of Philip Ramsey, the Aylesbury banker, who suf- fered the extreme penalty of the law some months ago at Newgate. Of course neither his Royal Highness nor myself put any faith in the tale,— ascribing the circumstance to the fevered or per- haps affrighted imaginations of two persons in whose minds the awful tragedy connected with the Manor was doubtless uppermost. Mr. Page, who possesscd an inordinate love of hearing himself talk, entered elaborately upon the alleged occur- rence, and even described with peculiar minuteness every feature of Ramsey's countenanee. He, in- deed, was one of the witnesses against that person —or at all events in some manner instrumental in bringing him to justice,—and he therefore knew his personal appearance well. It seemed that Ramsey was a very handsome young man, as the newspapers reported at the time: he was eight- and-twenty—tall and well-made—with a Grecian countenance—fine dark eyes —splendid teeth—and an olive complexion, a little more dusky than your own, dear Eleanor.” * Go on, Georgiana—go on,” said the Countess, with the petulance of a nervousness torturingly poignant. “This Mr. Page of whom I have been speaking,” continued the Duchess, “ not only described Ram- sey’s appearance with the minuteness arising from a personal knowledge of the man—but he likewise produced a portrait of the original.” “ A portrait?” ejaculated Eleanor, to whose mind flashed the incident of that picture which wa; painted by George Woodfall, and the exhibition of which had revealed simultaneously to her husban:| and herself the real name and character of the guest whom Ae was entertaining and she was loving as Gustavus Wakefield. “Yes — a miniature portrait,” returned the Duchess, in answer to Lady Desborough’s cjacula- tory question. “It appeared that some one had found it between the mattresses in a bed-room ; and it is therefore probable that the picture had been given by the criminal to Lady Stamford, who, you may remomber, was his paramour. 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