The Mysteries of the Court of London — page 202: what you’re looking at

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

a SASS eteiehseeesases THE MYSTERIES OF THE COURT. her seat—placed her hand upon his shoulder—and thus leaning lightly upon him, gazed tenderly in his face, as ahe said, “ Lord Petersfield will doubt- leas indulge in many bitter invectives against me: it is for you, as my husband, to defend me.” “ Defend you!” stammered Saxondale, who was afraid of suffering his wife to know how well he was acquainted with all the particulars of ber trial in Paris two years back. “Yes, Edmund—defend and vindicate me!” she said emphatically : and now he felt her hand grasp his shoulder for a moment with a sudden spasmodic violence. ‘You must not think that I am igno- rant of what is uppermost in your mind: I am wal] aware that you know all the past as it relates tome: and I thank you, my Edmund, for having 195 manner as possible: and he was about to cross the threshold. “No, my lord—his lordship is not at home,” responded the domestic, with marked emphasis. “You lying scoundrel!” ejaculated Edmund, crimson with mingled rage and mor. — becoming tification. “I saw your master enter the dining- room yonder.” “JT don’t care what you saw,” re the footman doggedly and even insolently. “I tell you he is s0¢ at home.” , For an instant Edmund was inclined to turn away: but thinking that it would be quite safe to give vent to his ill-temper by bullying the lacquey, he exclaimed, “You impertinent scoundrel, how can you stand there, looking me in the face, and ing such an infernal falsehood ?” with eo much delicacy abstained from alluding to | telling it. The charge was most odious—most foully falee. You can conceive the pain and ish it occasions me to be compelled thus to allude to it. Not for a moment must you, Edmund, believe that I was guilty! No—if the world has been unjust towards me, it jis for you as my husband to make me the fullest amends by your kindness and your eonfdence. Go you, therefore, to Lord Petersfield -~—tell him that you are convinced of my entire innocence of the dreadful accusation levelled against me—and t to him that if he be a man of justice and honour, of merey and of humanity, he will adopt the same view. And now go.” Thus ing, Adelaide threw her arms around her husband’s neck—imprinted a long and sensuous kiss upon his lipe—and sent him forth with ecstacy thrilling through his form, but with bewilderment in his brain. Was she indeed innocent? could it he possible? Ah! what would he not give to be enabled to believe her so! And again he tried— again he strove, to clutch that belief: but he could wr dade wiycdiz pered that she was really guilty. He proceeded on foot towards Lord Petersfield’s residence: but while repairing thither, he delibe- rated whetber he should have recourse to his guardian, or whether he should raise a loan from the money-lender who was recommended by Emily Areher, and who hed before accommodated him. : marriage. H not ischief was brewing; and yet he knew not what. He was nervous and uneasy: his mind was filled with vague apprehensions of impending evil: he longed to see Petersfield for one reason, yet dreaded to meet him for another. While thus hesitating and deliberating, he arrived within sight of the house where his lordship dwelt. He looked at his watch to see whether it were yet too early to pre- sent himself there: but finding that it was eleven o’clock, he resolved to put as bold a face upon the matter as possible, and see his guardian. He accordingly knocked at the door: was at once answered by a footman; and at the same instant Edmund caught sight of Lord Peters- field passing into a room at the extremity of the sous hall « Oh, I see his lordship is at home,” obeerved Edmund, assuming as off-hand and eelf-possessed a “Scoundrel!” echoed the man: “who do you call a scoundrel? At all events my wifo is an honest woman—and not a murderess.” With these words he banged the door in the face of Lord Saxondale, who stood upon the steps livid and trembling with rage. So violent were his feelings that he could have screamed out—he could have dashed himself against the door—he could have torn it with his nails: but people were passing at the time, and he felt that he was already sufficiently mortified—nay, crushed and beaten down—to avoid farther exposure. He therefore hurried away; and flinging himself into the first hackney-coach that he perceived, he ordered him- self to be driven to the office of Mr. Musters in the City. During the drive thither, Edmund’s reflections were of the most painful nature. Already cut by the entire fashionable world—looked coldly upon, or scarcely spoken to, by his acquaintances —denied admittance into the house of his own ian—and insulted by a lacquey,—the pos- seasor of a splendid title, and with enormous re- venues in the prospective, was at this instant the most wretched mortal upon the face of the earth. It was therefore in no very pleasant frame of mind that he was set down at the office of the money-lender: but again putting on the best pos- sible face, he said to himself, as he ascended the dark dingy staircase, “At all events, old Musters won’t care who I have married; and as he has been paid once, he will be ready enough to lend me money again.” In the front office a wretched starveling boy was writing at a desk; and in response to the young nobleman’s question, he said that Mr, Musters was alone and disengaged. Edmund accordingly passed into the back-room which the money-lender made his private office, and where he was now seated at a desk covered with papers. He was a little old man, looking as if he had been completely shrivelled ‘up, without being actually scorched, by the ordeal of some intense process of heat: his countenance had something vile and mean, as well as sharp and ing, in its ex- pression: he was dressed in a suit of rusty black— his. linen was none of the cleanest—and by his personal appearance he rather resembled a decayed tradesman or broken-down undertaker, than a man who, if he chose, could write his name to a cheque for a hundred thousand pounds. Yet such was the case: for during a long series of years, Mus- ters had been amassing wealth by every variety of usurious, dirty, and dishonest expedient,—taking (COL (C DOO CS (COL