The Mysteries of the Court of London — page 57: what you’re looking at

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

42 - THE MYSTERIES. ness which seemed to be the blending of their spirit, indescribable sensations of joy, and pleasure, and bliss came over her—and she suffered him gently to remove her bonnet and her thick winter- shawl. Then he smoothed down her shining auburn hair, and toyed with her long glossy ringlets that framed her blushing cheeks and swept over her heaving bosom ;—and the maiden felt how delicious it was to love and be beloved! “You told me that you had so much to say to me, George,” she murmured, her words appearing to borrow a more liquid intonation from the moist- ness of the inviting red lips between which they passed, “Yes, my angel,” he replied, his own voice be- coming more tender and seductively low: * I wished to make you comprehend how sincerely—how de- votedly I love you! But now that we are together, my feelings are so intense that it seems as if no language were capable of explaining them. I am lost as it were in the contemplation of the bound- lessness of my love, to which I can no more assign a limit than even the wisest philosopher ean form an idea of infinite space or eternity. For my love is as vast as space and as enduring as time itself; and I know not how to describe it otherwise. Tell me, dearest,—have you ever, when gazing at night up into the vault of heaven, studded with stars,— have you ever fancied that your soul expands with the greatness of that empyrean space which it contemplates ?—and then, after striving to pene- trate in imagination into the mysteries which lie beyond, have you felt your spirit return as it were to its clay, wing-weary—humbled—and dissatis- fied? Ifsuch have ever been your sensations, you can conceive how vain it is for me to seek to measure the illimitable love which I bear you— how useless to calculate its immensity—aud how depressed becomes my soul when I cannot find words to shape the ideas which I would fain convey to your comprehension.’ Octavia hung with rapture and delight upon every syllable that fell, in such soft and melting harmony, from the lips of her lover; and so lost was she in the dream-like voluptuousness that enveloped her as with a halo—so completely did she abandon herself to the heavenly vision that seemed to have stolen over her senses—that she observed not the encroachment of Harley’s hand upon the treasures of her virgin bosom. And as he now pressed the glowing—-palpitating—heaying- orb, he bent his face down so that his cheeks re- posed against her’s; and then he fastened his lips to her’s—inhaling all the fragrance of her breath. By degrees he became bolder; and Octavia, awakening as it were from her dream of bliss, struggled to extricate herself from his embrace: but he wound his arms around her—he strained her to his breast —he murmured impassioned words, and yows, and protestations in her ear—and with kisses he stifled the remonstrances and the beseechings that rose to her lips. The imagination of the young maiden grew in- flamed, as the toying of her lover became bolder ; and half-raising her in his arms, he supported her across the room to a door which opened to his touch at the farther end. But no sooner did the light ot the wax-candles reveal to her the fact that there was a bed in this inner chamber, than suddenly Neen een enemies as recovering all her presence of mind, and casting off ina moment the voluptuous languor that had come over her, Octavia tore herself from his embrace, exclaiming, “O George! is this your love for me ?—would you plunge me into the depths of shame and degradation ?” * Beautiful being!” cried Harley, seizing her hands and pressing them one after the other to his lips: “ wherefore do you reproach me? Should not I rather ask you where is that love which you have suffered me to believe that your soul cherishes for me? Oh! give me a love that knows nothing save its own inclinations—that can obey no dic- tates save those of the heart which contains it— and that absorbs in its own intensity all worldly considerations, all social conventions, and all the cold repugnances of a miserable prudery !—give me such a love as this, my Octavia,’ exclaimed Harley, his countenance becoming absolutely splendid as he made this impassioned appeal to the maiden’s feelings,—* give me such a love as this, my angel—and I will deserve it by a life devoted to you—by an existence surrendered altogether to the delightful duty of ensuring your happiness— and by the homage, the adoration, and the worship of my heart !” And as he uttered these last words, he dropped her hands and extended his arms towards her. “ O George! what would you have me do?” she murmured, throwing herself upon his breast and raising her countenance to receive the feryid kisses which he imprinted upon her cheeks, “I would have you become mine—wholly mine !” he answered, after a short pause: “I would have you receive me as your husband now—this very evening—that I may be assured of having won you so completely that I need fearno rival! For Iam jealous, Octavia—Oh f if I have a fault, it is that I am jealous ;—and until your father has returned and given his assent to our union—aye, even until our hands are joined at the altar—I shall never know an instant’s peace, And it is because I love you so devotedly, my Octavia—because I adore you with such a full measure of worship—that Iam jealous of you;—and if I beseech you to have compassion upon me, and give me every proof of love that woman can give—tis only that I may console myself when away from you by the convic- tion that I have secured a treasure which oo rival can take from me!” “ My God! what shali I do?” murmured Octavia, weeping with mingled delight and pain. “Oh! why demand such a proof of my affection, George? Can you not put faith in me ?—can you not believe that I love you?” “Forgive me, dearest, if Ireiterate the tale of my jealousy,” exclaimed Harley, straining the yielding maiden more closely to his breast: “ but *tis a weakness that I cannot conquer. Have pity upon me, then—have pity upon me!—torture me not with those racking anxieties——” “Have pity upon me, George!” cried Octavia, gliding from his arms and sinking at his feet—her hair, which had escaped from its confinement, flowing all dishevelled down her back, and her dress in the disorder into which his toyings had thrown it :—* have pity upon me, I say—have pity upon me!” And she extended her clasped hands towards him, a a a lll LL DL LLL A A, a Oe a COM Gbhooksscom