The Mysteries of the Court of London — page 55: what you’re looking at

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

36 REYNOLDS’ WORKS painful task which I have undertaken — and yet my soul yearns to make you the confidant of its sorrows. I will compose myself sufficiently to enable me to proceed. Yes, a frightful suspicion struck athwart my father’s brain — and it was speedily confirmed. My mother had learned to love the Viscount Delorme better than her own lawful hus- band. You understand me, Zoe? ”’ ‘Alas, too well, dearest Clarine!’’ responded Lady Octavian, deeply affected. ‘‘ But was there no possibility of error? Might not your father have mistaken some tran- sient levity for an evidence of guilt? ”’ ‘“‘ Alas, no!’’ replied Clarine, in a voice full of the most melancholy pathos. ‘‘ The evidence was irresistible, my father was dishonoured in his wife — and oh, that wife was my mother! Can you conceive any treachery so dark, any perfidy so black, as that of which the Viscount Delorme was suilty? The explosion was terrific, and the viscount fled to avoid the vengeance which my half-frenzied sire vowed to wreak upon him. As for my mother — ” ‘What became of her? ”’ inquired Zoe, in a half-hushed voice, as if fearing to put the question, for Clarine had sud- _denly stopped short, the tears were again trickling down her cheeks, and her bosom was heaving with the sobs that in- wardly convulsed it. ‘“My mother,” she said, in a tone that was scarcely audible, “‘ my mother — alas, she received a shock from which she never recovered! Overwhelmed with the sense of her own degradation, and of the wreck which she had wrought with regard to a fond, devoted husband’s happiness, she died of a broken heart. There was another long pause, and then Clarine, after another outburst of grief, continued as follows: ‘The Viscount Delorme had not only proved himself a black traitor to the sacred ties of friendship, but also a coward. He had fled to avoid the duel to which my incensed father purposed to provoke him. Yes, he fled, leaving his child behind him: and thus the little Alfred became once more indebted to the kind care of the marchioness. My father could not endure to remain at his own mansion, the scene where so much happiness had been so cruelly blighted. He set out for some other clime, taking me with him. Mar- guerite was my nurse. It was my father’s intention to pro- CORNICLIOOKS (E(0)