The Mysteries of the Court of London — page 122: what you’re looking at

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CER eee THE MYSTERIES OF THE COURT. re nn ———E em. aT, Oh - Qe eee 111 I myself was horrified. I consented—yes, willingly consented, to abide by the dictates of Marguerite’s guidance ; and she bade me pen a letter to Alfred Delorme, to the effect that everything must be con- sidered to be at an end between us. On this con- dition—and on this condition only—would she agree to place upon her lips the seal of silence in respect to what had occurred. I penned that letter —yesterday morning I gave it to Marguerite; and Jast night she left it in the chapel, so that when Alfred Delorme should penetrate thither he might find it. She herself chose not to have an inter- view with him: she deemed it useless to learn what had bees his intentions, inasmuch as she felt the impossibility of their being carried out.” “And it was after all Alfred Delorme,” said M. Volney, “whom I saw last night stealing along the passage! It was he, too, whom your ladyship ”— addressing himeelf to Zoe—“ on two occasions be- held !” “ And now, my dear father,” continued Clarine, not pausing to ask a question nor make a com. ment in respect to the words which M. Volney had just uttered,—“ cas you pardon me for all that I have done? Ob! you know not how my heart was rent when in your study you delivered that soleron injunction in respect to Alfred Delorme! I longed to throw myself at your feet and confess everything: but I dared not! Again I ask, can you forgive me?” “Yes, my dear child—I forgive you !” exclaimed her father: ‘from the very bottom of my heart do I forgive you !” Clarine threw herself into her sire’s arms; and for several minutes she remained clasped there, weeping upon his breast—and he himself weep- ing over her. The ecene was full of an exquisite pathos: and Zoe was profoundly affected. “‘ Retire, my love—retire to your own chamber,” said M. Volney at length; and then he added with accents of deepest fervour, “And may heaven biess you !” “ But have you nothing more to say to me, dear father?” inquired Clarine, upturning her looks towards M. Volney’s countenance, and with an éxpression of half-surprise, half-affliction on her features. “Will you not put me out of all sus- nsee——’? “ Listen, Clarine !” interrupted her father, who after an instant’s air of anguish, suddenly appeared to nerve himself with the fortitude requisite for the utterance of an inflexible decision. “ You may as well know the worst at once, and be re- Heved of all s Clarine, my poor girl— doubly dear to me since that horrible suspicion has been banished from my mind!—your union with the Viscount Delorme is an impossibility, God help thee, my poor child !” These last words were spoken with the tremu- lous accents of deepest emotion; and they were followed by a sob which seemed to convulse M. Volney’s breast, Clarine bent upon him a look fall of wunatterable misery; and then she fell senseless in the arms of Lady Octavian. M. Vol- ney, half distracted, flew to fetch restoratives ; and when he perceived that his unhappy daughter was slowly returning to consciousness, he pressed Zoe’s hand with nervous violence, —eaying, “I cannot wait till she is completely restored! For heaven’s sake scothe—console—strengthen her! But remember, Lady Octavian—remember ! —that decision of mine is inflexible !” And with these words M. Volney rushed from the room. uaa CHAPTER CVI. THE ALPINE TRAGEDY. Ir was after breakfast on the following morning— a meal however at which Clarine was not present, and of which neither M. Volney nor Zoe scarcely partook—that he requested her ladyship to join him presently in his study, as he wished to speak to her on matters of the utmost importance. Zoe hastened first of all to see whether her ministra- tions were required by Clarine, who was ill in bed ; and in about a quarter of an hour she repaired to the study. She found M. Volney pacing to and fro, not with a visible excitement and agitation— but in a slow solemn manner, and with a deep de- jection of the looks. He placed a chair for Lady Octavian’s accommodation: he then sate down at his desk; and he said in a mournful voice, “ How fares my daughter now P” “ My opinion is still the same, M. Volney,” an- ewered Zoe. “As I told you the instant we met at the breakfast-table, Clarine has received a shock which she will never recover—unless joyous intelligence be speedily conveyed to her. She will die of a broken heart, M. Volney: for all her happiness is centered in her love for Alfred De- lorme !”” The pallor which already overspread the French gentleman’s countenance, deepened into ghastli- ness: it was a paleness like that of the dead: it appeared as if all the vital blood had suddenly quitted his body. Even his lips became ashy white: a fearful struggle was evidently taking place within him. In a few moments he rose from his seat—opened the door of the study—and looked forth into the passage with which it communi- cated. Satisfied that no one was there, he closed the outer door carefully: then he shut an inner door, which was covered with green baize and which usually stood open. “‘ Be not alarmed, Lady Octavian, at these pre- cautions,” he said, slowly returning to his seat: “but I am about to speak to you on a subject for which there must be no listeners.” If Zoe were not exactly alarmed, she neverthe- less felt a chill strike glacially to her heart: for there was something so fearful in M. Volney’s looks at the moment—something so full of ghaatly horror, that it was only too well calculated to pro- duce this effect. He resumed his seat: he drew his chair closer towards her: and he said in a voice which had now changed from a deep mourn- fulness to a sepalchral hollowness, “That whjch I am about to tell you, has never yet been breathed to mortal ears; and from your lips must it never go forth again. I need your advice in the awful dilemma in which I am placed: I feel myself totally unable to act according to the guidance of my own soul’s promptings. Strong as my mind has hitherto been, the incidents which are nuw passing have reduced it to a mure than childhood’s weakness. You, Lady Octavian, have shown your- (CO G OOO SS} (CO