The Mysteries of the Court of London — page 95: what you’re looking at

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

76 REYNOLDS’ WORKS present moment, it still appears a something shrouded in ob- scurity and gloom. Yes, it was a dream, —a waking dream, in which I slumbered with my eyes open. I beheld nought, I heard nought, I felt nought. No, I 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 mechan- ically, or else because there was some one nigh to whisper the wordin myear. 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 perceived 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 I 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 sunshine turns into a dark, noisome mist enveloping me in a pestilential haze, the flowers, so beautiful to the eye, appear to exhale poisons, and methinks that if I stretch forth my hand to pluck one, a reptile would start forth from amidst the foliage and fix its venomed fangs upon my flesh. Yes, everything is changed to me. The world appears to be made up of deceits, with a gloss over all; the parterres of roses are but hidden pitfalls for the feet. Is 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? ”’ “Tt is dreadful, dreadful, Bertram,’’ murmured the un- happy young lady, quivering from head to foot. ‘* But for Heaven’s sake, talk no more thus! ” ‘What would you have me talk of?” cried Bertram, with increasing bitterness. ‘‘ Would you have me speak of happiness? It is gone forever. Of hope? There is none for me. What inducement have I to prosecute a career which Gomichbooks (E(0)