The Mysteries of London; or, Lights and Shadows of London Life — page 314: what you’re looking at

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

312 head in penitence and prayer. Ask of God to forgive you for the hearts you have broken—for the crimes you have committed; and accept the downfal of the ambitious hopes for which yeu have stained your soal so deeply, as an expiation for them both !” With these words the speaker turned coolly upon his heel, and walked from the house, despite the frantic abuse and imprecations heaped on him by the baronet, whose extreme violence gradually exhausted him, and he was borne, feeble as an infant, to his chamber. When the physician arrived, he saw at once that his patient was death-struck, and he zave no hope of his recovery. The prediction was verified: in less than four-and-twenty hours Sir Walter Mowbray was @ corpse. Just previous to the bridal party setting out to the church where the bishop was to unite them, he sent for his son into his study, and presented him by deed of gift with the mansion in London, all his vast \ estates in Scotland which he had inherited from Lord Bamff, and the securities which he held by mortgage over the lands of the Marquis of Sourton, Of all his fortune he reserved but two thousand a year, as his see was a poor one, and the right of disposing at his death of a sum of twenty thousand pounds. ‘* Too much—too much of kindness, my dear lord,’’ said Gerald; “ your affection makes me more happy than your gifts.” i “Stay,” said the prelate, ‘here is a packet for your cousin; it contains one hundred thousand pounds, Half of it might have been yours, but I anticipate your wishes in the bestowal of it. And now, Gerald,” he added, “amongst your wedding guests there is one whom I am sure you will be glad to see. You will find him in the library.’’ In an instant the young man understood him, and, kissing his hand, hastened into the adjoining room and was met by the companion and friend of his childhood, Lord Erringcourt, whom the bishop had had an interview with over-night, and been reconciled to, and resolved that the day which was to secure his boy’s happiness should, if possible, pass over without a cloud. The bridal parties proceeded to the church, where the bishop himself pronounced the nuptial bene- diction, amid the tears of the blushing brides and the smiles of congratulatory friends. One heart alone was wretched there—the lawyer Prim’s—who, wrapped up in a large great-coat, purposely to disguise him, had stolen into the church at an early hour, and seated himself in a distant pew. Bad as he was, he was almost to be pitied. His heart longed to bless the boys, and yet he felt that it would be profanation. He longed to tell them they were of his blood, and yet he feared lest they should repel him with curses. His eyes were no longer rest- less, but heavy and blood-shot, and he hurried home to his solitary chambers in the Temple, with the de- termined step of a man bent on the fulfilment of a long- meditated p What that purpose was, was apparent when he en- tered the room which had so long served him as an inner Office. Previous to going out in the morning he had fastened a rope to the large oaken beam which ran across the ceiling. Throwing himself into his usual seat, he fixed his eyes upon the fatal cord, and fell into a moody meditation. “1 can’t live,” he said; “my heart is a solitude, or inhabited only by fiends! There must be peace in the churchyard—there can be no regret when -_ ome er - - + THE MYSTERIES OF LONDON. the brain ceases to throb, or the pulse to beat. I could bear the scorn of mankind, poverty, shame, but not the vengeance of that great and terrible God, who speaks to me in dreams—haunts me with terrors! Why,” he added, “did he instil this passion in my soul? why curse me with this unnataral thirst for gold? gold which I now would trample on! gold which I now despise! He cannot punish me for being what He made me! Still there is no hell, or if there is I shall so scare the devils when I reach it that they will fly from it, and I shall reign alone—alone—the usurer, the -nurderer, the damned.” Hastily tearing off his cravat, he mounted the chair, and with a deliberate hand tied the cord about his neck, “Now then,” he exclaimed, “for the secret which has puzzled scholars and philosophers, the solution of the great mystery. I am a fool,” he added; “ conscious~- ness is time, oblivion is eternity—I am going to it.” He sprang from the chair at the last word. ‘There was a creak as the rope stretched, then a whizzing of the beam, which instantly became deluged with blood—a deep groan, and all was still. Immediately after the marriage of his friend, Mow- bray and the now happy Phyllis departed for the continent, where the repentant’ man finally rose to honourable command in the Austrian armies; and his name is still remembered by many veterans, who speak of him as the gallant Mowbray. ia The bishop, forgetful of the ambition which had at | — one time been the guiding star of his existence, re- tired to his diocese, and never mingled in politics more. Occupied in the duties of his high office, in spreading happiness around, he speedily became reconciled to retirement, and passed the evening of his life free from the storms of passion and of feeling which had obscured its morning. The love of his son, who appreciated more and more the sterling qualities of his heart and mind, and the interest he felt in his grandchildren, gilded the decline of life with a pure, unalloyed beam of bliss, and the husband of Ellen expired fullof years and honours, lamented by the poor, respected by the good. His son Gerald was proud of the memory of his father. Twenty years had elapsed since the marriage ef Georgina and her husband. Still they had never heard, except indirectly, from Mowbray. His sensitive uature could not brook the humiliating light | in which his early lapse from the path of honour placed him; and he deprived himself voluntarily of hereditary honours and wealth, resolved to earn a name in a foreign land as an atonement, Georgina and her husband were seated under an aged oak, which was the pride of their domain at Monkshold, an estate the bishop had purchased back into the family. It wasa lovely sunset; and the happy father and mother smiled as they watched their songs | and daughters throwing the wild flowers in frolic sport — at each other, or racing over the lawn with all the en- joyment of rude health. Suddenly their gambols ceased, A carriage was seen driving towards the house; its owners hastened to receive their unexpected visitors, — Just as they reached the portico, the steps were lowered, and a handsome youth, of about nineteen, assisted a military-looking personage from the vehicle, Wounded and emaciated as he was by long suffering and sickness, the stranger and Gerald recognised each other in an instant. * George!” “ Maybird!” The next moment saw them in each other’s arms, CONMIE NOOO <Sareve) —_—-——