The Mysteries of the Court of London — page 242: what you’re looking at

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

a al LL ea NN a THE MYSTERIES OF THE COURT. afraid of being caught in the act of recommend- ing precipitation for once ‘in his life, “having duly considered its eligibility. I do not think that I transgress the bounds of propriety and prudence— certainly not those of the truth—when I state that I experience some degre» of interest in you, and will endeavour to help you on in the world.” “My lord, at this present moment,” returned Frank, “Ican decide upon nothing. It is clear that you will give me no information upon the point most vitally interesting to myself; and there- fore I need intrude on your lordship no longer.” Then, without waiting to ask if there were any letter or message to take back to Lady Saxondale, —without even recollecting upon what errand he had come,—the young page hurried from the room, rapidly descended the stairs, and issuing from the house, continued his way with the same precipitation towards the street indicated on the title-page of the book as that where its publisher resided. Oh! to possess the portrait of her whom he believed to be wis. mother and whose image his mind treasured up, —that would at least be a mitigation of the sorrow he too often experienced when pondering upon the mystery that enveloped his parentage! The street was not above half-an-hour’s walk from Portman Square for a person proceeding leisurely and deliberately: but Frank, who ran the whole way, accomplished the distance in half the time; and so breathless was he on entering the shop, that he could not immediately give utterance to the words that trembled on the tip of his tongue. At length he stated what he required. “LT have not a copy of that book left,” replied the publisher. ‘In fact the whole impression was sub- scribed for before issued; and I do not think that if you were to offer a hundred guineas you could procure a single copy. They all found their way into the hands of persons by no means likely to part . with them.” Here was a disappointment. But suddenly an idea struck the youth,—an idea which in the hurry and excitement of his rapid run had not occurred to him before. The publisher most likely knew who was the original of the engraving simply described as “A Portrait ;” and in vehement haste did Frank put the question, “You seem, young man,” said the bookseller, “to be strangely excited. Is it for yourself, or for the family in whose service you are, that you want the book ?” “No matter,” replied Frank. “ Do pray answer my question—who was the original of the picture described as A Portrait?” Well, I do recollect that there was one so de- scribed; and I believe it was simply because the lady herself had not enough vanity to wish her name to be paraded. But I can’t for the life of me recollect who she was. I entrusted the getting-up of the book to the eminent engraver who undertook the plates; and he borrowed the original pictures from the ladies themselves to make his designs from them. I left it all in his hands, and do not recollect anything more about that portrait you speak of.” “ But the engraver—where does he live ?” “ He is dead,” replied the bookseller. “Dead!” echoed Frank, smitten with-the de- spondency of renewed disappointnent. “ There ee ee ———— ——_—- ee 227 seems to be a fatality about this. Have you note single copy even for your own private use ?” “Tam confident I have not,” replied the pub- lisher. “It was but the other day I was regretting to my wife that we had not saved one for ourselves —but such is the fact, I can assure you.” Francis lingered to ask a few more questions in the hope of discovering some means of gratifying his wishes: but nothing favourable transpired. He accordingly issued from the shop with a slowness of pace very different from the excitement with which he had entered it. He was bending his way mourn fully homeward, pondering upon all that had taken place and inwardly wishing that he had torn out the portrait from the book ere Lord Petersfield re- turned to the room,—when he suddenly heard a female voice exclaim, “Frank! Good God, is it possible? Yes—it is—it is—he is alive!” That voice, even before the young page raised his eyes, touched a chord which vibrated to the depths of his heart; and glancing up, he beheld his sister. ae CHAPTER XLVIII. THE BROTHER AND SISTER. Ir was in the middle of a somewhat secluded street that this sudden and most unexpected encounter took place: but had it been in the middle of Regent Street or any other of the most crowded thorough- fares of London, the brother and sister would have thrown themselves into each other’s arms as they did then and there. The few passers-by at the time were naturally struck by beholding a very well- dressed lady of exceedingly handsome appearance (for such the sister was) thus suddenly fold alivery- page in her arms: but the eja®&iations which escaped their lips, explained the close kinship exist- ing between them. “Oh, my long-lost sister!” cried Frank in the wilderment of his wild joy. “Dearest, dearest brother!” exclaimed the lady in accents of gushing enthusiasm: “it is indeed you—and you are alive! Thank God, thank God!” Full evident indeed was it that both for the mo- ment forgot that it was the open street and the broad daylight of a summer afternoon that they thus met, Expressions of sympathy were uttered around them by those who had paused to witness this affecting scene; and a shopkeeper standing on the threshold of his establishment, in face of which the occurrence took place, considerately stepped for- ward and with much kindness of manner invited the brother and sister to walk into his house. They at once accepted the proposition; and the worthy tradesman, having conducted them up-stairs, to a neatly furnished apartment, left them there. The brother and sister being thus alone, and free from observation, embraced again and again; and when the first excitement of feelings attendant upon this meeting was over, they naturally began to ask each other a thousand questions, so that neither for the first few moments could give any replies. It was a perfect torrent of tender and affectionate queries—but no answers, “My dear Frank,” said his sister, at length laughing at the confusion into which the very ecs- tacy of their emotion plunged them, “we shall ——— —— oe ee ———— eee we i COMIC OOO© eS (CO)