The Mysteries of London; or, Lights and Shadows of London Life — page 209: what you’re looking at

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

rs , ee ' ! es 4IGHTS AND SHAVOWS OF LONDON LIF. unreined passion; nor was it till she felt that his ing hand had invaded the modest kercbief which shielded her swelling bosom that she found sufficient to rise from the seat on which she half reclined,.and gently push him from her. Bursting into a flood of tears, she exclaimed: “For the honour of her who bore you, respect me, Gerald! Save me from myself!” But our hero was too much excited to listen to the voice of reason, or the appeal to his generosity. Again | his eager arms encircled her, and her struggles be- came less and less resolute while folded in the em- brace of the man she loved; when heaven, to pre- vent the sacrifice of so much innocence and virtue, sént its guardian angel to herr lief. The door of the illen sank upon a seat, whilst Gerald, riend. It was the first time he had ever blushed at 7 thought,” exclaimed the dying man, “ the bit- terness of death had passed; but find a sister’s weakness and a friend’s dishonour were wanting to complete it. Begone!” he added, in a voice to which indignation gave unusual strength. “Serpent, quit the paradise you would have stained—the roof you would have dishononred. Oh! Ellen, Ellen!” Heartbroken at the tone of reproach in which her name was uttered, the still weeping creature sank upon her knees and kissed the struggling hand of him who, even in death, watched over her. “ Hear me!” exclaimed the culprit, recovering from his confusion. “I only am to blame.” “ Bepone!” “ We love,” added the guilty friend. “Love!” iterated the curate. “Oh! man, man! Friendship is violated —honour sacrificed — purity which angels might have smiled to gaze upon, sullied at the shrine of lawless passion, and the perpetrator’s excuse is love!” “Hear me!” continued Gerald. “Let not a moment’s weakn°ss close thy heart to the voice of friendship or the cry of innocence. Angels have fallen; we only have been tempted. We love; Heaven hath created us for each other. Ellen may soen need a protector. Thon art a priest of Him whose will is mercy, and not sacrifice; thy ministry can legitimatise our passion. Give me this very hour a husband’s right. The brother may pardon where the friend condemns, Restore me to myself—my own esteem and thy confiding heart. Kneel with me, Ellen,” he continued, “jein thy prayer with mine, and he will not resist it.” , The still kneeling Ellen raised her eyes, and fixed them with an imploring glance upon her brother; she feit that marriage alone could restore her to her own esteem, to her lover’s affection and respect ; for although still pure as the virgin snow upon the mountain’s crest, the breath of passion bad passed over her. Despite his love for his sister, and the natural de- sire he felt not to leave her without a protector in the trials and temptations of the world, the curate hesi tated; he knew that such a marriage, although strictly legal, rendered him liable to the censure of ai cue eit it atan wncanonical hour; “Be it so,” he at Jast replied, “and may He who —_—— — 206 reads His servant’s heart forgive him if he errs. Love her,” he added, turning to our hero, who, happy in the consciousness that his atonement was complete, now met his gaze; “be to her all a husband should be—all,”’ he added, “that her brother would have been, had he been permitted to watch over her.” The young couple who kept the curate’s house, and who were devotedly attached both to him and his sister, were speedily summoned to the apartment, and in their presence the rite which made Ellen a wife, and the impetuous, but not ungenerous, Fitzgerald a hus- band, was completed. Two certificates were written, and signed by the curate, the bride and bridegroom, and the witnesses : one was entrusted to the humble but faithful servants, with a strict injunction never to part with tt; the other was placed by the curate in the hands of the agitated Ellen. “ Guard it,”’ he exclaimed, kindly to her, “as you would your honour—the memory of a dying brother. When I am in the grave, it will be a memorial that I fulfilled our parents’ trust, and to the gasp of life watched over you. Lead me to my room,” he added; ‘the excitement of this scene has exhausted me, I feel I have not many days to live.” His weeping sister, and the bridegroom, to whom the speaker was now perfectly reconciled, assisted him to his chamber, knelt by his bedside and prayed with him, tilla sleep, as calm and peaceful as an angel’s slumber, stole over him. A thousand burning blushes stole over the cheek of Ellen as her husband led her from the room. “You will be late in college,” she observed to him, as soon as they reached the study of the curate, which separated her bedchamber from her brother’s; “ good night,” she added, “and away at once.” & “I shall not return to college to-night,” whispered Gerald, encircling her trembling form in his manly arms, This time it was with a husband’s right, “Oh! Gerald, you must despise me for my weak- ness.” The warm kisses of her bridegroom reassured her, as she sank almost faintisg in his embrace. The adoring Gerald bore her in his triumphant arms into the chamber. Here let the chaste Hymen throw his saffron mantle over the tender mysteries of the nuptial couch, our readers, like guests invited to the marriage, hay- ing accompanied them to the door of the chamber. Fitzgerald’s first care was to obtain permission to reside out of college, which, as he was knewn to be a reading map, was easily obtained; and his whole time, much to the discontent of his friends, was passed with his young bride, to whom he became, as her mind gradually unfolded itself, more and more attached. For many reasons it was decided that bis marriage should, for a while, remain a secret; and Ellen, with that devotion which woman’s heart alone is capable of, was content to endure the vulgar stare and the inquiring glance of those whom they fre- quently encountered in their walks, with patience. Digby alone, of all ovr hero’s friends, ventured to question him upon the nature of his relations with the fair girl who hung so tenderly upon his arm, when by accident he met them in his solitary rambles; but even to his intimate friend Fitzgerald returned a cold reply, and a gradual estrangement was the con- sequence. The cynic looked on him as a heartless seducer—the character, perhaps, he most abhorred— and seeretly pitied the supposed victim of his friend’s | ' ee ee _ gees slsst>slnSlr=~>onl ree epee. eommicrioaks (C(O) m —_