The Mysteries of the Court of London — page 36: what you’re looking at

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

ar. ——— 30 anguish in her tones, “ you know not all the arts that were adopted to enmesh me in this web which is inextricable. God forgive me that I should thus have to allude to my own father: but it is so! As TI have a soul to be saved, I knew not that my husband was your uncle until the know- ledge came too late. Never had I heard that the Marquisate of Viviandale had been changed into the Dukedom of Marchmont af “One word, Eliza!” ejaculated Bertram, who during the first portion of her speech had become all confidence and trustfulness in her sincerity,— but in whose heart the reptile of suspicion sud- denly lifted up its head again: “is it possible that during the months of courtship my uncle never once alluded to myself?” “Never once!” responded Eliza emphatically. “He never spoke of his relations—much less named them. And my father was careful that the mame of Vivian should never be mentioned in my hearing, in connexion with the Duke of March- mont. Are you not aware that the nuptials were private P” “Ah, private! I understand!” ejaculated Ber- tram bitterly ; “ the better to exclude the members of the family! But as you have mentioned the nuptials, Eliza,” he went on to say—and now his eyes were riveted upon her with all the scruti- nizing keenness of fresh suspicion, fresh distrust,— “when the minister was performing the ceremony, did he not ask you if you would take John Ferdi- nand Henry Vivian, Duke of Marchmont, as your husband? And you said yes !” “ Bertram,” responded Eliza, steadily meeting his gaze with looks that were all ingenuous sad- ness and mournful innocence,—“ that marriage ceremony was to me a dream at the time: it ap- pears tome a dream now. I beheld everything through a mist: and if [ look back upon it from the present moment, it still appears a something shrouded in obscurity and gloom. Yes, it was a dream—a waking dream, in which I slumbered with my eyes open. I beheld naught—I heard naught—I felt naught. No—lI felt not even when the marriage-ring was placed upon my finger ; and if I responded yes to the question that was put to me, it was either mechanically, or else because there was some one nigh to whisper the word in my ear. Had the name of him whom I was taking as a husband, been that of Lucifer himself, I should not have heard it—I should not have per- ceived it in that paralysis of the senses: I should have unconsciously become the bride of Satan! Oh, Bertram! it is not the least cruel of all the phases of the ordeal of torture through which my lorn and desolate existence has been dragged,— it is not the least cruel, I say, that 1 am compelled to give these explanations—these self-vindications now !” “Oh! wretch that I am, it is I who torture you!” exclaimed Bertram, literally shivering from head to foot in the wildness of his excitement and the frenzy of his feelings: “I who love you so madly, am torturing you thus horribly! But again I declare to you, Eliza, that I am not master of myself! God knows I strive to look upon the world in the same light that I used to regard it— as one of sunshine and of flowers: but the sun- shine turns into a dark noisome mist enveloping me in a pestilential haze—the flowers, so beautiful THE MYSTERIES OF THE COURT. ec a mR emma aR ET Dn ea TE TT to the eye, appear toe exhale poisons; and methinks that if I stretch forth my hand to pluck one,’a rep- tile would start forth from amidst the foliage and fix its venomed fangs upon my flesh! Yes—every- thing is changed to me. The world appears to be made up of deceits, with a gloss over all: the par- terres of roses are but hidden pitfalls for the feet. Ts it not dreadful, Eliza, that one so young as I, should have his heart thus seared—thus warped— thus devastated, so that everything I behold or reflect upon is viewed with suspicion and mis- trust P” “ It is dreadful—dreadful, Bertram !”’ murmured the unhappy young lady, quivering from head to foot. ‘“ But for heaven’s sake, talk no more thus !” * What would you have me talk of?” cried Ber- tram, with increasing bitterness. “Would you have me speak of happiness P—it is gone for ever. Of hope P—there is none for me. What induce- ment have I to prosecute a career which would have led me on to fame and fortune ?—she on whose brow it would have been the proudest mo- ment of my life to place the laurels won by intel- lect, or the coronet to be gained in the service of my country, has become another’s, Ah, Eliza!” he ejaculated abruptly, as a fresh suspicion flashed to his mind: “you said just now that you had some knowledge of those letters which 1 wrote to your father <f “T found them in his desk after his decease,” interrupted the Duchess. ‘“‘Then—and not till then—did I learn that you were alive. Then too —and not till then—did I learn that I might have been your’s. No mortal eyes, Bertram, beheld my rending anguish on that occasion. But God saw it !—and believe me, that never did the heart of woman throb with such throes—never did hn- man eyes shed such tears—never did living crea- ture kneel for a while in such profound, dark, un- utterable despair! And yet there was one thing, Bertram, for which I thanked God—and only one thing! It was that you had not perished in the deep waters—that your young life had not been snatched away !” “Would to heaven that I had so died, Eliza!” ejaculated Bertram bitterly. “ But those letters of mine—those two letters did your father leave them that you might become acquainted with his guilt P” “No,” she responded. “ Perhaps you have been told that he died suddenly—that he was stricken down all in an instant “6 “ Aye, as if by the blasting lightning !” inter- jected Bertram, with a fitrce sardonic bitterness, ‘‘ Perhaps there was heaven’s retribution in that !” “Spare me, spare me!” moaned the wretched Eliza, clasping her hands in agony. “ Remember that it is to the daughter of that departed father you are now speaking !” “God help me, Eliza!” exclaimed Bertram, once more pressing his hand to his brow, and stag- gering back a few paces: “I tell you that I am | going mad. But those letters—wherefore had he | not destroyed them ?” “Tt is a mystery which I cannot explain,” re- plied the Duchess, in a low murmuring voice. |‘ Perhaps an unknown— an unaccountable in- | fluence led him to preserve them:—or perhaps it was an oversight 4 — TGOMUGDOO) |