The Seamstress; or, The White Slave of England — page 135: what you’re looking at

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

128 ——————_—_— A tn et A tm i i i te et Nt NP CHAPTER XLI. THE CLOSE OF THE WHITE SLAVE’S CAREER. Lzr us suppose that two hours have elapsed since the strange and romantic gush of incidents which occurred at the close of the preceding chapter. The scene is changed from the ducal mansion to the humble cottage—from the fashionable regions of Grosvenor Square to the quiet district of Camden Town. In a plainly-furnished but neat room, Virginia Mordaunt was stretched upon a couch by the side of which three persons were assembled. That natural loveliness which nothing could altogether destroy, still hung like a charm around her: but it was mingled with a deep and painful interest that in itself was eloquent with a touching pathos. Her form was wasted into a more than sylphid light- ness—attenuated to a more than fairy-like sym- metry: her complexion, always dazzling fair even in the days of ker vigorous health, was now of that delicate transparency which displayed every minute vein that traced its azure path over her brow ;— but upon each smooth cheek there was the tinge of the sea-shell pink glowing softly through the diaphanous skin. Alas! that charming hue was but the deceptive beauty that decked the victim for the tomb! We said that three persons were by the side of her couch. These were the Duchess of Belmont— My. Lavenham—and the Marquis of Arden. All had been revealed that was desirable or fitting to be known. In the first instance the Duchess and her son-in-law, on leaving the mansion in Gros- venor Square, had proceeded straightway to the temporary residence of Mr. Lavenham. There a mecting that was painful in many respects took place: rapid explanations were given—and Julius Lavenham learnt that Virginia Mordaunt, the poor seamstress, was his daughter! Oh! he needed not to be asked to accompany the Duchess and the Marquis to the humble dwelling where the poor girl lay upon her death-bed: he yearned to em- brace her—to fold her in his arms—to weep over her—and to pray with her! Woy were they long in reaching the cottage: but they alighted at a little distance—and the Duchess entered first, to break to her daughter that intelligence which was only too well calculated to startle her dangerously, even though unfolded with the most delicate pre- caution. And then Virginia Mordaunt learnt that she was the daughter of the grand and magnificent Duchess of Belmont and of Mr. Lavenham—the offspring of their youthful and illicit love: and she now understood the meaning of those emotions which the Duchess had displayed on that occasion when, two years before, the velvet dress was taken home to Belmont House ;—and she likewise com- prehended the instinctive yearnings and the natural sympathies which had attracted her towards Mr. Lavenham, when the dark clouds of misfortune gathered over his head. But, although the revelation of her parentage was broken to her with the most delicate caution and with the most careful tenderness,—and although the instant that the last word of the avowal was uttered, she was caught in the warm and impassioned embrace of that mother who thus revealed herself,—neverthe- —— eee so ee THE SEAMSTRESS. EE ST rere eo AC ES Ra a ee. ee ee = ee we ee ee re we ee less, the shock, with all its mingled wonderment and joy, was a rude one for the shattered mind and broken health of the poor dying gil! Nor did that avowal comprise the whole eluci- dation of mysteries—or rather, the full develop- ment of startling truths which were in store for the maiden. For she had next to learn—and hkewise from her mother’s lips—that her I. Osmond was in feality the Marquis or Arden, the only son of the Duke of Belmont! And more also— for Virginia, while reclining upon her mother’s bosom, which she bathed with tears of elysian bliss, heard likewise that the young Mar- quis was not married—that the tale of seduction and abandonment told by Clementine, was a de- testable fabrication—and that he had not only proved faithful to his love, but was pining ‘and dying with that love so profound—to unalter- able ! Oh! who can imagine—for assuredly none can describe—the emotions of joy, and gratitude, and amazement which flowed up, wave upon wave, from the deep fountains of Virginia’s heart? And it is because earth knows no language and the tongue has no words capable of doing justice to the intensity—the melting tenderness and the thrilling fervour—of those feclings, that we do but glance over that scene which excited them. the same reason must we leave to the conception of our readers the meeting which took place be- tween Virginia on the one hand, and her lover and her father on the other,—a meeting for which the Duchess of Belmont had prepared her way to the utmost of her power! For Ah! yes—the first effusion cf feclings was chiefly composed of transports: because all other ideas and considerations were absorbed in the one thrilling, restored to each other. exciting, rapturous thought of being But even while the kisses so fondly exchanged, were still warm upon the cheeks of ail,—and while the tears of joy so plen- teously poured forth were yet glistening upon the lashes of every eye,—cach heart sank suddenly beneath the weight of a crushing despair ! It was the conviction which pierced through all those agitating emotions,—the dread, the harrowing, the agonizing conviction that death was about to intrude upon the scene! To the minds of Charles, the Duchess, and Mr. Lavenham, the thought that they must lose the darling girl who was so dear to them, pene- trated with the anguish of ten thousand barbed and red-hot arrows piercing to cach heart’s core: while to the soul of Virginia gushed a flood of emotions that made her feel how hard—how very hard it was to die when there was so much happi- ness for which she longed to live! The Duchess of Behnont was affected not only with a profound sorrow, but likewise with a poig- nant remorse. She remembered that day when Virginia stood before her in the elegant boudoir at the ducal mansion,—when she, the mother, found herself face to face with her long-negleeted and almost forgotten daughter ;—and she now said to herself, “Ob! if I had done my duty then, my child would have been spared to me now! IL should have acknowledged her —or at least, L should have befriended her: but I did neither! Inspired with the selfish fear of endangering my reputation,—shrinking from the thought of in- curring the slightest risk of exposure with re- ———— -_