The Mysteries of the Court of London — page 35: what you’re looking at

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

— eee THE MYSTERIES OF THE COURT. 29 miracle—or by almost one—I was rescued from a watery grave in the depths of the Potomac. I knew that the report of an accident in which so many lives were lost—indeed all save one—would be copied from the American into the English newspapers ; and when recovered from the almost fatal illness of many weeks into which the shock and horror of the calamity plunged me, [I lost no time in writing to your father. Not a doubt was in my mind but that your fears would have been relieved as to myself, long before that letter could reach England: but if not, it was beyond the power of human conception to suppose that your father would keep you in that dark, dreadful belief of my death. Oh, Eliza! how I counted the months—the weeks—the days—the hours, that were to elapse ere I beheld you again!—Oh, how T cherished your image! Never man loved as I loved—never, never !”” He turned abruptly aside; and his convulsive sobbings smote upon Eliza’s ears—striking her very brain as if with a succession of heaviest blows —impaling her heart upon the stake of indescrib- able agony. And yet she dared not stretch out a hand to touch him—to awaken him as it were from that night-mare of hideous woe. She re- membered that she was a wife; and though the very thought was crucifixion, it was nevertheless one which she must endure. “Yes, Eliza,” continued Bertram, when after a short space he grew calmer: “no man ever loved as [ loved! At length I reached England,” he continued, abruptly taking up the thread of his nar- rative —“ joy, ineffable joy in my heart. Behold yon butterfly sipping the honey from the flower on which it has settled. Thus did my soul rest on the delicious sweets of its own reflections: thus did my spirit repose in delight upon the roseate tints of love, the fairest flower of the human heart! But what if a rude hand were abruptly stretched forth to clutch that poor butterfly, and stripping off its wings, were to toss it, still alive, on that parterre, to writhe out the rest of its existence in agonies—never more to sip the sweets of the flower from which it was taken? But thus was it with me: thus was it with the soul that lives in this breast !” And as Bertram spoke, he beat his clenched fist violently upon his chest. “You will drive me mad!” murmured Eliza, who seemed as if she were about to faint. “ Heaven forgive me,” cried Bertram, “ for tor- turing you thus!—but I cannot check this out- pouring of my feelings. The burden of my sufferings is too great, Eliza, for my soul to bear. I have but a few words more to say; and IL entreat you to hear them. I was at Liverpool when I read the account of your marriage in the paper— @ marriage with my own uncle! What could I think, but that you were faithless to me? When reason returned, I wrote to the Government, en- treating to be at once appointed to a post in another Embassy: for I had resigned my situation in that at Washington. My request was promptly acceded to: I was nominated to the Embassy at St. Petersburgh. Thither I sped without delay. Never did man travel so fast! It was the mad endeavour to outstrip my thoughts—to distance, so to speak, the agonies which, like pursuing fiends orf ravenous wolves, were upon my track. At length | I was ordered home to England with important despatches. I arrived, as you are aware, but a few days back; and I said to myself, ‘I will see her once more. Such perfidy as her’s, in return for so much love, must not go unreproached. Whatever the risk be, I will see her !’—And there was another reason too, Eliza: it was that I pur- posed to give back your ring, and to demand mine.” “Take back your ring, Bertram,” said Eliza, in a low tremulous voice ; and now it seemed to her that she was about to sever the very last feeble tie which in any way connected her with an ely- sian past ;—and as she spoke, she slowly drew forth the ring from her bosom. “Ah!” ejaculated Bertram Vivian, a wild joy flashing suddenly in his eyes: “you have kept it there—next to your heart! Oh! then, Eliza, you have not ceased to love me, even when becoming another’s ?” “ Bid the flower divest itself of its fragrance— 7 bid the green plant put off its verdure of its own accord,” she answered solemnly; “and it is com- manding impossibilities. Bid the waters of that fountain cease to well upward while the motive power is there; and it were also commanding what cannot be done. Think not therefore that my heart could put away that love which has be- come as inseparable from it in life as the fragrance is from the flower or the verdure from the plant while the warm season lasts! Think not either that it is in my power to still the feelings which rise upward from the hidden springs of my soul !” There was a holy solemnity—a sanctified pathos, in Eliza’s tone as she thus spoke; and as her words ceased, she proffered the ring which she had drawn forth from her bosom. “No, Eliza—no!” exclaimed Bertram, with renewed excitement. “I will not take it back! Whatever henceforth we may be to each other and that perhaps is as nothing,” he added bitterly “still, still shall you retain the pledge of my love, as I will keep the pledge of your’s. There can be no sin in this!” “T will keep it, Bertram,” answered the Duchess, after a few moments’ hesitation; and she con- signed the ring back to its resting-place next her heart. “Oh! but if all this be possible,” abruptly ex- claimed Bertram Vivian, as fresh ideas came sweeping through his mind, but replete with newly awakened suspicion and mistrust, all the force and anguish of which were at the same in- stant reflected in his countenance,—“ how was it, Eliza, that you bestowed your hand upon mine own uncle? Did it not strike you that there was something to shock the purity of the feel- ings +P] “Accuse me not, Bertram,” interrupted Eliza, with a look full of candid yet mournful ingenuous- ness. “There is not a question you can put to me, which I am not prepared to answer. And I will answer every one frankly and truthfully. Oh! if this were not my purpose, I might shield myself in dissimulations of all kinds—I might affect offended pride and indignant innocence at being thus questioned ! needs not such artifices wherein to take refuge. Bertram,” continued the young lady, with an ex- pression of ineffable woe upon her countenance and But as my soul is guileless, it . ANUGCLOOOKS (C(O) C6)