The Mysteries of the Court of London — page 147: what you’re looking at

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mory ;—but when I think of that wilful, wicked selfishness on my part—or rather, those vain and fanciful imaginingse—which prompted me to make you my victim, my very soul is wrung with the agony and crucifixion of remorse! Oh! my beloved—my adored Eleanor, grant me your compassion—your syropathy—your commiseration. Despise me not ' —suffer not your heart toloatheand abhor me; und | when the sense of your own unhappinesssteals irre- sistibly upon you—when, m gasing around, you be- hold wives who can be proud of their husbands and rejoice in a smiling progeny,—then curse me not in the depths of your sickening spirit,—but pause for a moment to reflect that I also am unhappy !” The Ear] had spoken to this length without inter- ruption—for the Countess was almost suffocated by the feelings which his pathetic and touching lan- guage inspired. Her head sank upon his shoulder : he felt her bosom throbbing against his arm like the swell and reflux of a mighty tide;—and her tears rained down.upon his vesture. But this evidence of a warm and generous disposi- tion on her part, only rendered his remorse the more poignant,—crushing his very soul as beneath the weight of centuries: for more vividly than ever was forced upon his mind the conviction that his selfish- ness or his sophistry had demanded and obtained the ‘sacrifice of a lovely woman animated with all the ecstatic fires of youth, sensitive to the seductions of an ardent temperament, and yet able from a sense of duty te subdue the longings of her impassioned nature and the craVings of her glowiny, imagination. Thus, while his heart cherished a very paradise of love for this adorable being, his brain was convulsed with ever-recurring paruxysms of sorrow and re- morse ;—and while the new-born tenderness which ehe now manifested towards him thrilled in transport through his veins, he shuddered because he feared lest it should have kindled suddenly only to expire rapidly. . “Francis—my good, kind husband,” murmured the soft, melting voice of the Countess in his ear,— “will you not believe me when I assure you that our conversation of this day has changed me alto- gether ?—will you not suffer yourself to hope that I can henceforth behave to you in a manner which may become at least a alight atonement for the past? T am well aware that I have made these promises before—that your language has on many, many oc- casions melted me into a softness which has led to similar yows and pledges. But never was the im- pression so deep as it is now—never did I compre- hend your character eo fully as I can read it at pre- sent.” “I could fall on my knees and worship you for these assurances, Eleanor!” exclaimed the Earl, yielding to the tide of delight on which his soul was now borne along. “Oh! then the flowers of my fancy are not dead—and the hopes which I had formed may yet be realized. You will love me as if I werea dear parent—a brother—ora friend ;—and [I shal] continue to worship you as my goddess—as the idol of my devotion.” And, drawing her upon his breast, the Earl im- i kisses on her brow—her cheeks—and her ips :—but those kisses were as chaste and pure as sisters bestow on each other,—gentle caresses, and not the long, ardent, and impassioned enjoyments of love kindling with desire. Nevertheless the lady, unable to restrain the natural ardour of her tem- perament, clung fervently to him, with her arms embracing his neck tenaciously—elmost violently. But, gently disengaging himself from her embrace, he with difficulty subdued the profound sigh that rose from his very heart’s core; while Eleanor re- suming her seat on the sofa, blushed through shame at the evidence of an indomitable into which her passion had betrayed her. CHAPTER XXXIX. THE HONOURABLE ARTHUR EATON. THere was a long pause, during which the Kari and Countess struggled to sabdue the various emotions which animated them;—and at length the former said, “ It was relative to my unhappy niece, dear Eleanor, that I came to seek an inter- view with you this afternoon.” “Have you heard any unpleasant tidings con- cerning her?” inquired the Countess, in a tone which expressed the interest she took in the young lady alluded to. “No: reassure yourself on that point,” answered the Earl of Desborough: “and again, and agam, let me thank you for the tender solicitade which you have ever manifested in her behalf.” “You love her as if she were your own child,” observed Eleanor; “and when I became your wife, I adopted her as such.” “ And had she followed your counsel and exame ple, she would never have brought dishonour on herself,” added the Earl, emphatically. “Oh! when I think of the necessity—the terrible necessity— which has compelled us to place the young girl in such a hateful—detestable -etirement, it is enough to drive me to despair. But the intelligence which I have now to impart to you, Eleanor, is somewhat of a cheering nature.” “Delay not, then, to communicate such welcome tidings,” exclaimed the Countess. “TI have this morning received a letter from the Honourable Arthur Eaton,” continued the Fart. “It appears that, accompanied by his father, he arrived in town last evening; and he has written to me to implore an interview this afternoon. I have accorded his request—and in haif-an-hour he will be here,” added the nobleman, referring to his watch. “But for what purpose can the unprincipled young man have solicited this interview ?” asked the Countess, amazed by the intelligence. “This letter briefly explains the motive,” re- sponded the Earl. “Feeling the very foundations of his existence breaking up, and conscious that some unknown but terrible malady is hurrying him to the tomb, he has been stricken with remorse— and he proposes to render his victim an act of jus- tice which will at least prove his contrition and enable Fernanda to return into society without the blush of conscious shame upon her cheeks.” “ This intelligence would be indeed welcome,” ex- claimed the Countess, “ were I convinced that Fernanda possesses a disposition of a nature cal- culated to admit of such a compromise. For I need scarcely remind you that she is a being whe cap pursue no middle course: all her passions and sen- timents verge into extremes. Madly has she loved Arthur Eaton once—profoundly does she hate him rere ree arene enact EC IOP PIO aPC SI CONNIE OOO (SC SH aCO