The Mysteries of the Court of London — page 337: what you’re looking at

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

304 THE COURT OF LONDON Mrs. Fitzherbert, demanding more places and pensions for her relatives and friends. And here is a note from Miss Bathurst, stating that as she could not see me to-day when she called, she has written to remind me that I must procure the vacant bishopric for her cousin the dean, and a baronetcy for his second brother the admiral, and a pension for his other brother the great banker who has failed. Well,” continued Venetia, with a sigh, ‘‘ all this must be done, but really these people are insatiable. Day after day, nothing but places, pensions, sinecures, emoluments, and honours, for this cormorant horde of Fitzherberts, Bathursts, and all their relatives, to even the hundredth remove. But, ah! what says Miss Bathurst here in a postscript? — that Mrs. and Miss Arbuthnot must positively be provided for im- mediately, that the mother is anxious to become bedchamber woman in the household of the queen or Princess Charlotte, and that Penelope is resolved to be nothing less than a maid of honour. Well, again I say it must all be done. Here is another invitation — and another—and another — and another,’’ continued Venetia, opening letter after letter and tossing them away as soon as glanced at. ‘‘ Ah! what is this? ’’ and her countenance assumed a different look as she opened a letter signed by Jocelyn Loftus. This was not a letter to be either disposed of with a satirical comment, or to be tossed aside to be perused at leisure. But it was a letter the contents of which seemed to be as serious as they were lengthy, for as Venetia continued the perusal her look became more solemn, until it deepened into sorrowfulness; then on the lashes of each eye slowly glim- mered forth a tear, and presently those crystal drops rolled down the lady’s cheeks, shining in their pearly path like twin drops of dew. Presently a profound sob rose slowly from Venetia’s bosom, which it convulsed with a great heaving, and then, as she listlessly held the letter in her hand, when its perusal was ended, she murmured to herself, ‘‘ Perhaps it is better thus, after all! ”’ But, oh, it was now a mockery, a painful mockery, for Venetia, humbled, sorrowful, and tearful as she was, to retain those dazzling pearls upon her brow. But, heavens! the pearls were as completely forgotten at this moment as if there were no such things in the world, and there she sat, on Eomicbooks (E(@)