Beautiful Rienzi; or, The secret vendetta — page 147: what you’re looking at

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

142 BEAUTIFUL RIENZI. and weave into tissues of—ahem! as Mrs. Lesmar, Horten- sia, Georgiana, Leonora, Mary and Betty Lesmar, assisted by my sister, Lu, can weave such webs as endless as Penel- ope’s, if you give them time. I sha’n’t aid them; I’ll stay here.” | Having thus expressed herself, Miss Belle picked up her little hat from the floor, fished her parasol, vail, and card-case from under the piano, and followed me up stairs. After having pulled off her gloves and shawl, Miss Belle, in dead silence, dived into her pocket, and, after unfolding two or three circulars and charitable cards of various kinds, at last handed mea cut-out paragraph of a newspaper, which she bade me read. ‘‘The London Post says that a party of gentlemen, who had pene- trated into the deserts of Persia for scientific purposes, after under- going several strange adventures, which are minutely described, left Astrabad with a caravan of Calaite merchants, and reached the frontier in safety; from whence they made all haste to return to their insular brethren, quite reconciled to pursue their experiments at home in fu- ture. The plague they report as raging through Astrabad; and they were amazed to meet a young English gentleman there, who was work- ing heart and hand among the smitten wretches as a physician. This adventurous Englishman is called Victor Joselyn, and is the only rep- resentative of anold English family, whose estates are in Somerset- shire.” “Do you know what I thought when I read that, this morning?” said Belle, when I had finished. “I thought, ‘All will be well with Isolina if she loves so noble a man!’ Why should we fear anything, Iva, my darling! Dry your tears. If Heaven spares Victor Joselyn, we may trust him with our dear Isolina’s happiness.. Let us never grieve our hearts with a question which we do not understand. In- comprehensible as their friendship appears to us, I know that it is right. So true a man—so brave and compassion- ate—must be the soul of honor.” Her enthusiasm infected me. I dashed away the tears of dismay and grief, which first had sprung to my eyes, and looked almost with adoring regards at the name of my un- known hero. ‘‘Oh, may Heaven spare his life!” I aspirated. Miss Cranstown echoed my prayer with an embrace, and told me to keep the scrap of paper. ‘“‘T knew that strange picture vexed and puzzled you,” ECONnnicloo@® (7) (©)