The Seamstress; or, The White Slave of England — page 142: what you’re looking at

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

Se sss stnestennsteonnnnnat ———— THE SEAMSTRESS. —~e + i + 133 The silence was solemn in the extreme: the beat- ing of Collinson’s heart was as audible as the tick- ing of the clock—whereas in his youthful opponent every pulsation seemed to be suspended. Suddenly there was a sharp click as of some- thing giving way in the works of the time- piece ;—and this sound—always a warning, but now one of such stupendous omen— was imme- diately followed by the first note of the silver bell. | And the shrill metallic chime was still ringing through the room, when the louder and harsher sounds of the exploding fire-arms burst forth. A fearful cry of mortal agony escaped from the lips of Collinson as he sprang straight up to an incredible height and then fell dead upon the carpet: while, at the same instant, the young Duke of Belmont dropped heavily and expired without a moan. The domestics, whose ears the report of the pistols reached, burst into the hbrary and were struck with horror and consternation on dis- covering the fearful tragedy which had taken place. The physicians, who were in attendance upon the Duchess, were hastily summoned to the scene: but their presence was unavailing—Col- linson was shot through the heart, while his bullet had penetrated the young Duke of Belmont’s brain. CONCLUSION. THE remainder of our history, which for the most part has been so sad and mournful, may be summed up in a few words. The Duchess of Belmont, who had fainted in the hall on hearing of her husband’s suicide, was _re- stored to consciousness soon afterwards; and the report of the fire-arms, which had alarmed the clomestics, reached her ears also. But as if this were not enough to overwhelm the unhappy lady with terror, the hurried and unguarded manner in which her physicians were abruptly summoned elsewhere, convinced her that some new and fearful calamity had occurred. It was impossible to con- ceal the truth from her—no, nor even to break it gradually and cautiously ; for the moment her son- in-law’s name was mentioned in connexion with that of Collinson, all the dark threats which the young noble had so recently uttered in respect to the lawyer, recurred vividly to her memory. She therefore divined the full horror of what had hap- pened, even before the whole truth was actually explained to her in words;—and dashing her hands with frantic violence against her temples, she burst into the mingled shrieks and lamentations of wild delirium. A brain fever supervened—and three days afterwards the once brilliant, beautiful, and magnificent Duchess of Belmont was a corpse! The remains of Virginia Mordaunt repose in the most picturesque spot in one of the suburban cemeteries ;—and three or four times a week, for upwards of two years after her death, Julius Lavenham was accustomed to repair thither and scatter fresh flowers upon the green sward that covers the grave. Yes—and when no loiterers were near, he would fall upon his knees and pray aloud in his anguish that the spirit of the departed Virginia would look down from the mansions of the blest and pity her unhappy sire who yearned so deeply to join her there. Though Mr. Lavenz ham was still in the middle-age of life, yet his hair was as white as snow and his form bowed gs if with the weight of centuries. Nor did he long survive the tremendous misfortunes and excruciat- ing woes which had changed him thus ;—but at the expiration of the above-named period of two years, heaven was merciful and released him from a longer sojourn in this sphere of sorrow. He died after a short illness; and, in pursuance of his last request, his remains were interred in the sanie grave where his daughter slept. The Duke and Duchess of Belmont and the unfortunate Charles were all buried in the family vault: —but little pomp, ostentation, or empty show were observed at their funerals. The ducal title now became extinct; and the estates them- selves were shortly afterwards brought to the auctioneer’s hammer. The creditors were paid about ten shillings in the pound; and the aristo- cracy of the West End seemed to think it highly to the late Duke’s credit that he had not run far more deeply into debt. Lady Clarissa and Lady Mary retired to the country-mansion of a dowager aunt, with whom they took up their abode. The loss of position was as keenly felt by the elder sister as the shocking calamities which had robbed her of her nearest relatives: but, on the other hand, Lady Mary’s grief was utterly devoid of selfishness, and therefore the more poignant as well as the more lasting. Two years after the fearful catastrophe which had occurred, Lady Clarissa had so far recovered her spirits as to be enabled to encourage the addresses of an old fox-hunting country *squire—three times her age, but enormously rich;— and in the course of a few months she became his wife. But it was not until very lately, —indeed, upwards of four years from the date of the calamities which had swept like a desolating torrent through the ranks of the Belmont family, hurrying away some to destruction and leaving the others behind to mourn their loss,—it was not until the lapse of four years, we say, from that , memorable date, that Lady Mary Melcombe could | be induced to accompany the Earl of Mostyndale | to the altar. Not that she loved him less than formerly :—Oh! no—his tender and unremitting attentions, since the fatal events above alluded to, had endeared him more than ever, if possible, to the affectionate young lady. But her mind—her spirits—her very being, had received so dread a shock that it required a long interval of perfect repose and tranquillity to enable her to look with even the faintest smile or the least hope upon the circumstances of life again. Youth is not however the period for utter despair—and the tender assi- duities of a faithful lover may succeed in pouring a balm into the spirit that is most deeply wounded: and thus was it with the amiable and kind-hearted Mary Melcombe. <A few months only have elapsed since she became the Countess of Mostyndale ;—and little as we like the British Aristocracy generally, we nevertheless record our fervid hope that all possible happiness will await that excellent lady and her generous-minded hus- band. Captain Lovel was set at liberty, the prosecutor who had originally caused his arrest having been paid in full and therefore declining to appear against him, Tho villain, who was both forger —_— oe eee a « rr ce ee ees ° : . = (E(0) 6)(6\() ‘S (©) iin