The Mysteries of the Court of London — page 50: what you’re looking at

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

THE DUCHESS OF MARCHMONT 31 more powerful still, indeed almost overwhelming, were the feelings that agitated in her soul. ‘T am charmed, dearest, that you thus question me,” responded the uxorious duke, ‘and I am delighted to answer your questions. Yes, my younger brother was merely the Honourable Mr. Vivian until about two years back. But, as I was explaining to you just now, it is a little more than a year since he died suddenly. Ah, Eliza, there were cruel circumstances connected with his death. In a word, he re- ceived a very painful shock. It was the intelligence from America that his younger son — his best beloved — had perished — Good heavens, Eliza dearest, are you ill? ”’ “No, my lord, no, it is nothing, I can assure you,” said the duchess, quickly, as she instantaneously recovered her self-possession. ‘‘ This place struck cold to me —” ‘‘ Yes, dearest, it is cold,”’ said the uxorious duke, though in reality the sultry sun of July was pouring its effulgence upon the entire glowing scene without. ‘“ The painters and gilders, the burnishers and decorators, as well as the picture-cleaners, have been here. But perhaps it is the odour of turpentine and paint which has even affected you more than the cold? Come, let us away. We will revisit the gallery on another occasion.”’ Eliza, pale as a marble statue, took her husband’s arm, and accompanied him forth from the gallery. On the landing without, they encountered one of the footmen, and the duke bade him express his displeasure to the steward for not having taken measures to rid the gallery of the disagreeable odour which filled it. He moreover ordered fires to be lighted there, declaring that it was damp, and that what with the exhalation of the paint and the moist chill, her Grace had been rendered quite unwell. Eliza pleaded headache, and withdrew to her own boudoir, where she shut herself up to deliberate on all that had just passed. A veil had fallen from her eyes. She now understood full well — too well — the meaning of those words of caution which her father had uttered in the last moments preceding their separation. She had married into the very family to which Bertram belonged; her husband was none other than the uncle of her lost loved one. That her father all along knew such to be the case, she could not possibly conceal from herself, but that the fact had been religiously ¢om (Q) IDoOakKs (EO)