The Mysteries of the Court of London — page 101: what you’re looking at

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

82 THE COURT OF LONDON Jocelyn threw a rapid glance around; and it was some relief to his immense perplexity to be assured that no ob- server was nigh. Indeed, he was most cruelly bewildered. The ardour of the young lady’s language, her impassioned manner, her wild looks, and then her apparently deep anguish, all staggered him. Himself too little versed in the treacheries and hypocrisies, the feints and the artifices, of which the human mind is capable, he could not believe that this scene was all duplicity, all a studied tragedy, from the beginning up to the present stage. And yet he could not bring himself to fancy it entirely genuine and real. Thus, tormented by uncertainty, fearful of proving harsh on the one hand, and recoiling from the idea of being made a dupe on the other, he dared not withhold commiseration, and he dared not proffer 1t. ‘“ Miss Owen,”’ he said, 1n a voice that was serious without being severe, and in a manner that was reserved without be- ing harsh, “‘ I must beg and implore that you permit me at once to escort you back to the hotel. There is a duty which you owe to yourself, there is a duty which you owe to me as a fellow creature. That is, to control your feelings, to what- ever extent they may be excited.” “Oh, this is maddening — maddening!” exclaimed Emma, clasping her hands as if in despair. “‘ How can you preach patience, calmness, and duty to one who is goaded to frenzy? You say that you love another. Well, I seek not to interfere with the happiness of that being whom you have blessed with this enviable love. You have a whole life to devote to her; can you, then, refuse me one single day, one single hour of love, since you have stolen away my heart? Ah! it is a dreadful confession to make, and I feel the tingling of shame from the crown of my head to my very feet; but this confession must be made all thesame. And it is that I love you with a madness of passion, with a frenzy that will prove my death; and that madness, that frenzy, must be appeased. Surely no woman ever loved so wildly, so in- tensely, and so enthusiastically before. My doom, then, is in your hands. Give me one day, one single day, of that blessed love of thine, and I shall sustain myself on the memory thereof for the rest of my life. Nay, I shall even be happy, contented, rejoiced; and I shall treasure up the recollection of that one day’s consummated bliss as the only ECORNICLIOOKS (E(0)