The Mysteries of the Court of London — page 165: what you’re looking at

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

c_—— A ESAS THE MYSTERIES OF THE COURT. ote =, nen EN your boszes on the lid ef the very bath which be- came his coffin! You implored me to conceal the effects of your fault—to hide the damning proof of your guilt. Then was it that the idea strack me of rendering your charms subservient to my purposes, I propounded my plan—you swore in your despair to do anything or everything if I would only cousign, to the earth that evidence of your frailty which was still unburied. I consented—but, mistrusting you I vowed that the corpse should not be moved uatil you had performed your portion of the compact To this you were compelled to agree. We came to England—and you fulfilled your agreement, playing you part admirably with the Prince and obtaining the requisite document. Then I forced yqu to visit your uncle aud receive the money for the pocket- book. This you did likewise: and then I allowed the corpse to be interred. Thus far we have been of mutual assistance: and now we should grant mutual pardon likewise. But no such thing. You get a new crotchet into your head—and you say that you are determined upon a separation. I say that { won’t have it at the price: and now it remains to be seen who will get the best off if we go to war with each other.” Ernestina made no reply—but sate gazing ab- stractedly upon the grate in which the fire was now extinguished. She was motionless: her coun- tenance was ghastly pale—and she only held the knife mechanically in her hand, without being conscious that she still retained it. Deep and anutterable thoughts were concentrated in her mind,—thoughts of her dead lover, his many ad- mirable qualities, the graces of his person, and the boundless affection which he had entertained for her! | “ Weill, have you nothing to say?” inquired her husband, after a pause of upwards of a minute. Ernestina started—recollected herself—and re- plied in a cold tone, “Nothing more than the resolve which I have already communicated to you. “Then you are decided” he said, in a voice hoarse with passion. “Unalterably,” was her answer. “ You may kill me—but while I have life in me I will never con- sent to remain with you after this night.” “Bat for the rest of this night——” “We must stay beneath the same roof. I am ill—exhausted—worn out alike in mind and body,” said Erneatina, in a plaintive voice: “or I would quit the house this moment. Would that I had never come back to it!” she added, bitterly. “ Well, I consent that we occupy different cham- bers,” said Dysart, completely puzzled how to act: “but I warn you that I shall make you a prisoner in the house till you swear the most solemn oath that you renounce all ideas of leaving me.” “Let us ocoupy different chambers, then,” ob- served Ernestina, repeating his proposal; and she felt her courage and her spirits alike reviving at the advantage she had already gained in the con. test with hor brutal husband. Still retaining the knife in her hand, and now clutching it with the consciousness that it was a weapon of defence, she took up a candle and moved towards the door. Dysart not only made way, but retreated to some distance, as if to convince her that he would not attempt to do her an injury. In fact, the bully was somewhat cowed and much eS dismayed by the cold desperation of her manner: the long speech which he had delivered, had evi- dently failed in its intended effect of overawing ‘her—and his hope was that the morrow would find her in a more plastic humour and ductile tem- perament. | He therefore allowed her to ascend tranquilly and unmolested to the chamber which she selected for herself: and following her at a distance, he locked the door of that room which she thus en- tered. He then retired to his own apartment, muttering to himself, “Her old uncle shall either agree to double the proposed income—or I will keep her with me, and make a market of her charms.” With this diabolical reflection uppermost in his mind, Paul Dysart went to bed and soon fell asleep. But in the meantime Ernestina had not sought her couch—nor was she making the slightest pre- paration to retire to rest. On the contrary, she had thrown herself into an arm-chair and was giving way to her reflections. The physical and mental exhaustion of which she ere now com- plained, was no longer felt: her courage had re- vived—she was nerved with a desperate energy. The dreadful scene that had just taken place between her husband and herself, convinced her that henceforth she must either become the slave of his despotic will, or else behold in him an im- placable enemy. She understood full well the reasons which prevented him from agreeing to a separation: and she did not choose to allow her uncle's generosity to be taxed beyond the amount which he himself had volunteered as an adequate provision for Dysart. Nor would she consent to remain with a man who was base enough to con- template the barter of her charms for gold. In addition to all these powerful motives urging her to adopt some resolute and decisive step, the feel- ing of revenge had flamed up in her bosom and was already gnawing at her heart's core. Her mind was speedily made up. She saw a méeans—one and the only means—of effecting her emancipation and wreaking her vengeance at the same time. The plan was bold—desperate—and fraught with danger to herself, inasmuch as it might, if suspected and seen through by her hus- band, lead him to adopt a counter-vengeance and proclaim the tale of the bath-room and the buried body. But still she saw a way of carrying out her purposes, and yet inducing Dysart to keep the seal of silence upon his lips relative to that ap- palling tragedy. Her resolve was accordingly taken: she would dare and risk everything for freedom and revenge ! It was now past, two in the morning: but she had not the least inclination to sleep. Besides, when a desperate and vindictive woman has deter- mined upon a particular course of action, she does not rest while she should be working in the far- therance of her design. Ernestina was a prisoner in that chamber: but it was important for her to leave it for a short half-hour. How was this to be done, so that her husband should not discover in the morning that his precaution of locking the door had been vain and futile? Ernestina examined the door carefally. It had one of those usual bed-room locks which instead of being inserted in the wood-work itself, was eS a ae. Bg « ee) Se i Pe Ee cam aw @ aie wen. 2 On ~an ElLOOO Cs Ff