The Argosy — page 328: what you’re looking at

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

Lady Arabella. 309 This version of the chronicle reached poor old Mocourt at length, and her last glimmer of sense and reason gave way. She was worn to a shadow by these endless pilgrimages over land and sea ; her nerves had grown frailer than thread paper ; and her religion a dumb fatalism, which let in no ray of light. But this was the crowning blow. She lay down on her bed, determined to die. Lady Arabella was disturbed by her gasps and sobs, and ran in to ask what had happened. At sight of her, Mocourt went off into spasms. Evidently, the first thing to be done was to restore the poor creature to composure. After Arabella had spilled a great bottle of aromatic vinegar over the sheets, scorched the pillow-case with ammonia, and dosed her with red ink, which she mistook for lavender, Mocourt was able to sit up, wring her hands, and weep like a fountain. Which did her good. ‘“‘ What on earth is the matter?” cried Lady Arabella. “Is it your chest, or your heart?” | “Oh, don’t laugh!” shivered the old lady. ‘‘ I’d as soon see you laugh at your own funeral.” ‘“‘T only wanted to cheer you up a little, my poor old dear,” said her pupil. ‘You are completely worn out. The least thing upsets your nerves.” | “It’s not my nerves!” moaned the patient. ‘‘Oh, what will the Earl say? I shall be blamed. The whole family will believe it to be my fault. They’ll all pounce on me: I know they will!” _ “Let me see them try it!” flashed Lady Arabella in her chivalry. ** But what is it they will think your fault ?” ‘The whole story ! Oh, nothing so dreadful ever happened to any- body in the world. My poor dear girl—my own love!” ‘But you must tell it me.” In a series of jerky squeaks, interspersed with much red-lavende drinking, the old lady related the slanders in their full atrocity. Her listener quailed for the first time. It occurred to her that she was paying rather dearly for gratifying her obstinacy, her love of wayward freaks. But she had self-control enough left to hide the full extent of her dismay from poor Mocourt. “‘It does not matter what the Florentines say,” she averred. ‘‘ They are noted for never telling the truth. And the English and French, sojourning here, are worse than the natives.” _ “Slander is always believed everywhere,” groaned Mocourt. “It always will be, on this side heaven.” There was so much truth in the assertion, that Lady Arabella staggered for an instant, could not speak. Slander flies about of itself,” sobbed Mocourt, in her anguish. “The winds carry it; the birds of the air repeat it; just remember your Virgil! Remember how it always is,” she continued, trembling between the effects of her own eloquence and her dread of rousing GONG OOO (CO)