The Mysteries of the Court of London — page 149: what you’re looking at

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

this; -and the longer I think of it, the more irre- sistibly am I led towards the conviction that William is true to me, and that Lady Sexondale has either been grievously mistaken or guilty of a wilful mis- representation.” Inspired by these thoughts, and cheered with the fervid hope that they would soon receive the fullest confirmation, Florina pursued her way in the direc- tion of the preity little villa where William Deveril dwolt. For during their conversation om the pre- ocding day hs kad informed her of the place of his private abode; and as she was well acquainted with all the envirens ot the fashionable neighbourhood of the Iezent’s Park, she had no difficulty in finding her way to the younz artist’s dwellin;. It was a small but neat and genteel residence, eituated ina samewnat secluded spot, beyond the boundary of the Regent’s Park, and presenting a very picturesque appearance. As she came in sight ef the villa, Florina felt her heart beat with quick. ening palpitations; and on reaching the iron rail- ings which enclosed the front garden, she was again seized with an access of hesitation aud uncertainty whether to proceed. But she had come thus far— she had reached the place of destination—ehe had passed through the loneliness of the Park—and should she now retreat at the very last moment? should she tremble at the accomplishment of her purpose? No: her mind was specdily made up agein: she opened the garden gate, and threading the gravel-walk which was embowered.in evergreens she advanced up tothe frontdoor. It stood open— for the evening was close and sultry: a lamp burnt in the hall, but there were no lights in the front- parlour on the ground floor. The casement of this room was open, and voices issuing from within, reached Florina’s ears. One of those voices was Doveril’s—the other was that of a female; and the very first sounds which the young lady caught struck her as laden with accents of tenderness and en- doarment. A sickening sensation seized upon her—the demon of jealousy again raised its voice in the depths of her soul—ehe felt eas if she were standing on the threshold of a revelation that was to bring a blight upon her heart. Transfized to the spot, she stood unable to lift her hand to touch the bell or the knocker of the door—unable also to advance a step to pass that open portal—unable hkewise to make known her presence in any shape or way. She was thus de- prived of the power either to advance or retreat. Instinctively did she listen: she could not help it, no mattor what amount of impropriety character- ized her conduct—no matter how indiscrest a pert she was playing. Of all this che thought not:—it etruck her not that she was doing i she was incapable of serious or deliberate reflection of any kind. Those sounds of voices which she had eaught had strack her, we said, as being laden with an unmistakable tenderness: but the words them- selves had not reached her ears. Now she listened Gith suspended breath to catch what was bei anid, as if her whole life’s happiness or misery de- pended upon the result. .. “But, my dearest William,” murmured the female voice which she had already heard, and whose tones were of a:lvery softness; “you must tell me what has occurred, for you know how sincerely I love vou.” 198 “BE MYSTERIES OF THE COURT. > Es Ca “Wherefore,’—and it was now the voice d Deveril that was epeaking—“ wherefore will you thus insist that I am dull and melanoholy ?” “Oh! because, my beloved William——” and the remainder of the sentence was breathed in so low a tone that the sense of the words was lost to the “My sweet girl, do not shed tears on my ao- count,” eaid Deveril, in the most scothing and en- dearing accents. “Come, I must not seo you mournful and melancholy like this. While we have been sitting in conversation here the darkness has gathered around us—the twilight has gone—dusk has succeeded. Shall we ring for lights, or ramble in the garden for half-an-hour ?”’ “ Whichever you please, dear William,” that soft and silvery fumale voice. “Oh! how your brows throb! There, let me push back your hair, dear William, from over your forehead. Ah! I am sure that you have expericnced anazoyances this day, Your hand is hot and feverish. Let mo kiss your cheek. Ah! that is burning too! Come, dear Wil- liam—we will walk in the garden a little, for the air in this room is hot and stifling.” All this while Florina was still transfixed to the spot, a prey to the most torturing sensations. Who could this female be? That she was young, the silver melody of her voice sufficiently proved: that she was beautiful, Florina’s jealousy naturally prompted. But, ah! a sudden hope flashed to the young lady’s mind. Might not this female be Deveril's sister? And yet no: for he had never spoken of a sister—end if he possessed one, surely he would have alluded to her in the loag and familiar conversation which he and Florina had held on the previous day? No, no—ehe could not be his sister! Then who was she? Oh! for a jealous heart to ask iteelf that question, what pos- sible answer could be returned? what response could the fevered imagination saggest? The hope which had sprung up an instant back was anni- hitated unmedistely——almost as soom as. was formed; and poor Fiorina felt as if che must scream out in frensy, or ank down in senselessness. Bat they were coming forth to walk in the gar- den—William Deveril and his female companioa! Florina must retreat—ehe must vanish from the scene where she felt convinced that she had a rival in the young artist’s love. But, ah! her feet are still nailed to the spot—she could not stir—it was a terrible crisis in her thoughts and sensations—and if her very life depended upon it, she could not at that instant have moved a limb. Suddenly the parlour. door opened, and Deveril came forth with his female companion into the hall. His aym was thrown round ber waist, and her fair hand lay lov- ingly upon his shoulder. But, heavens! who was the beauteous creature that thus, half-locked in William Deveril’s fond embrace, met the view of the dismayed and anguished Florina ? It was Angela Vivaldi, the Opers-dancer ! A wild cry thrilled from Florina’s lips—the spell which had retaiged her transfixed statue-like to the epot, was suddenly lifted—and as if seised with a mortal terror, she fled precipitately. “Who is it? what does this mean?” exclaimed Deveril, as be rushed forward in pursuit of Florma, whom he had not recognized, because she was veiled, and bocause also the glimpse he had caught of ber GOnMGOOOKS (CO iin