“Six months passed away: during that period I was treated with the utmost kindness by the surgeon and his family. But misfortune suddenly overtook that excellent man. The villany of a false friend plunged him from affluence into comparative poverty. This abrupt change preyed so deeply on his mind, that he put a period to his existence. His brother—a man of morose disposition and selfish character—undertook to provide for the widow and her children; and I was then compelled once more to shift for myself. I took an affectionate farewell of those who had behaved so well towards me, and removed to a humble lodging, where I soon experienced all the wretchedness of my lonely and unfriended position. I inserted advertisements in the newspapers, for the purpose of obtaining a situation as teacher in a school or governess in a respectable family; and although I received many replies, I failed to give a satisfactory account of myself. I could not refer to Mrs. Lambkin, nor to Lady Penfeather; and I found that my orphan condition excited but little sympathy in my favour. Thus a year—an entire year—passed; and at the end, I found myself without hope, and without resources. I knew not what would become of me. At length I mustered up all my courage, and proceeded to Rossville House. I inquired for Miss Adeline Enfield. The servant demanded my name, and left me standing in the hall for nearly ten minutes until his return. I was then shown into a small but magnificently furnished parlour; and almost immediately afterwards Adeline made her appearance. She advanced towards me with the most chilling hauteur of manner, and desired to know ‘my business.’—‘Oh! Miss Adeline,’ I exclaimed, ‘have I no claims upon your friendship?’—‘You must remember what took place between us the last time we met,’ she answered. ‘If you require pecuniary assistance, I will succour you for the last time; but circumstances compel me to decline seeing you, or even knowing you in future.’—‘And is this the way you treat me after all I suffered on your account?’ I said, bursting into tears. ‘Do you not reflect that your reputation is in my hands?’—‘If you menace me, Miss Hutchinson,’ she said, ‘I shall know how to treat you. In a word, who would believe your story were you to proclaim it? You would only draw down upon yourself the vengeance of my family by endeavouring to shift your own disgrace on to my shoulders. The whole world would denounce you as a common impostress.’—An instant’s reflection showed me that these assurances were strictly true. But my pride was hurt, and my feelings were poignantly wrung by the blackness of Adeline’s ingratitude. Pushing aside her hand which tendered me a purse of gold, I exclaimed, ‘From this moment, Miss Enfield, I consider myself absolved from all motives of secrecy on your account;’—and, before she could utter a word of reply, I left the room.
“I hurried back to the house where I lodged. The landlady met me upon the threshold of the door. ‘Come, young woman,’ she said, ‘can you pay the fortnight’s rent you owe me?’—‘I have been disappointed,’ was my reply: ‘but in a few days——’—‘People are always being disappointed when they owe money,’ she exclaimed. ‘I shall keep your things till you settle your rent; and I shall let the room to those who can and will pay.’ And she banged the door in my face. This cruel calamity reduced me to despair. I turned away from that inhospitable abode,—not with tears, for there is a grief too profound to find a vent by the eyes—but with an utter hopelessness that was distraction!
“I had eaten nothing since the morning: I was hungry, and I had not a farthing in my pocket. It was moreover cold; and I knew not where to sleep that night. Oh! then how bitterly did I regret the ebullition of pride and feeling which had prevented me from accepting the purse which Adeline had proffered me! It was now too late to conciliate her: I had used menaces; and I felt convinced that it would be impossible to make my peace with that proud and determined spirit. I wandered about the streets in a state of mind which every moment suggested suicide. Then did all the happiness of home and of the days of innocence recur to my memory with a force that nearly crushed me! I thought of my dear departed father and my noble-hearted brother—both hurried to the grave by my wickedness! Evening came—and I was still a wanderer in the streets, without a hope—without a feasible project! Hour after hour passed: midnight was proclaimed by the iron tongues of the thousand towers of this mighty city;—and I sank exhausted on the step of a door in Gerrard Street, Soho. I then became insensible.
“When I awoke, I was in a comfortable bed; and the day-light streamed through the windows of a nicely-furnished room. I started up, and glanced around me. On a small table by the side of the bed stood a decanter with some port wine, and a bowl half-filled with broth. I immediately judged by those appearances, and by my own sensations, that the kind hand of charity had administered sustenance to me, as well as providing me with an asylum. From those objects on the table my eyes wandered round the room; and I was surprised and shocked to observe that the pictures on the walls were of a somewhat indecent description. The unpleasant reflections which this circumstance occasioned were interrupted by the entrance of an elderly woman,—very stout, with small grey eyes, and a red nose. She seemed to have literally flung on the cotton gown which she wore; and a dirty night-cap was perched on the top of her head. She advanced with a good-natured smile towards the bed, and, surveying me with great apparent satisfaction, exclaimed, ‘How do you feel, my poor child? I am delighted to see you looking so much better! Dear me, what a state you were in when I found you, in the middle of the night, on the step of my door.’—‘Ah! madam,’ I said, extending my hand towards her, ‘how can I ever repay you for this goodness?’—She pressed my hand warmly, and declared that she was charmed at being able to serve so sweet a young creature. Then she asked me a great many questions; and I gave her to understand that I was the orphan daughter of a clergyman; that I had failed to obtain the renewal of my engagements as a nursery-governess: that I had been turned into the streets by my landlady, who had detained my boxes; and that I should have perished had it not been for the kindness and benevolence of my present benefactress. When I had concluded this statement of as much of my past life as I chose to reveal, the elderly lady exclaimed, ‘And so you are a clergyman’s orphan, my dear? How very singular! Poor curates’ daughters are always falling into difficulties. But cheer up, my dear: I will be a friend to you. And first tell me the address of your hard-hearted landlady: I will send at once and redeem your things for you.’—I gave her the information which she asked, and once more expressed my profound gratitude for her goodness towards me. She patted my cheek, and then left the room, observing that she would send me up breakfast. In a few minutes a good-looking and smartly-dressed servant entered the chamber, bearing a tray containing coffee, hot rolls, eggs, and the usual concomitants of a good meal. ‘What is the name of your excellent mistress?’ I inquired.—‘Mrs. Harpy,’ was the reply, given with a smile the nature of which struck me as being somewhat strange.—‘What is she?’ I asked.—‘She keeps a very respectable boarding-house,’ answered the servant.—I did not like to put any farther questions; and the girl withdrew.
“I ate a very hearty breakfast, and then lay down again; for I was not quite recovered from the fatigues of the preceding day. I fell into a doze; and when I awoke, Mrs. Harpy was once more standing by the side of the bed. ‘Here are your things, my dear,’ she said: ‘I paid your landlady fifteen shillings. That was for two weeks’ rent owing, and a week she claimed because you had left without giving notice. She gives an excellent character of you, and proves all you have told me to be quite true. I am really as fond of you as if you were my own daughter. You are looking much better; and a nice little boiled fowl, with a glass of Port, will set you to rights. What time do you like to dine, dear?’—‘My good lady,’ I replied, ‘you are heaping favours upon me, and I have not the means of paying you for any one of them.’—‘Don’t talk of that, my dear girl,’ ejaculated Mrs. Harpy. ‘I’m sure it is quite a pleasure to do any thing for you. But, by-the-by,’ she added, ‘you may just as well give me a memorandum for what I am paying for you; and as I shall be able
to procure some nice, easy, genteel avocation for you, you can reimburse me at your convenience.’—Of course I was delighted at this opportunity of testifying my honest intentions and good-will; and I instantly affixed my signature to a slip of paper which she produced from her pocket. Mrs. Harpy kissed me very affectionately; and then, casually observing that she kept a very genteel boarding-house, concluded by saying that she would ask some of the young ladies to come up after dinner and keep me company for an hour or two.
“At four o’clock the pretty servant made her appearance with the boiled fowl and a small decanter of wine; and when the things were cleared away, the young ladies were duly ushered in. There were five of them. Their ages varied from seventeen to twenty-three; and they were all remarkably good-looking. It however struck me as somewhat singular that they were every one dressed in extremely low-bodied gowns, so as to exhibit a great deal more of the bust than was consistent with my notions of decorum. But as they were very affable and kind in their manners, and ‘dear’d’ me with much apparent sincerity, I ceased to think of that peculiarity. Presently Mrs. Harpy sent up a bottle of wine and some fruit, with her kindest compliments; and then the young ladies laughed and enjoyed themselves in the happiest manner possible. They drank the wine with great freedom and relish; and by degrees their conversation turned upon the topic of love. With this subject they were quite familiar; and the more they drank, the more license they allowed their tongues. They spoke of the kindness of Mrs. Harpy, of the gaiety of the life which they led in her establishment, and of the high acquaintance which they enjoyed. They seemed to know every young lord and wealthy gentleman about town, and compared the various qualifications of those personages. Their discourse became more and more animated in proportion as their imaginations were warmed with the wine; and at length they allowed such observations to escape them which made me blush. I was surprised at their levity, and had already begun to entertain strange suspicions of their virtue, when a bell suddenly rang on the landing. They all started up, and rushed out of the room,—leaving me a prey to the reflections which their remarkable conduct had very naturally excited.
“I kept my bed, by Mrs. Harpy’s advice, all that day; but I did not feel sleepy in the evening, after the young ladies had left me;—and even if the contrary were the case, I should not have been able to indulge a wish for repose, for after eleven o’clock the whole establishment seemed to be in a constant bustle. People ran up and down stairs; doors were banged; shouts of laughter awoke every echo in the place; glasses rattled on trays that were carried to the different rooms; and the boisterous mirth of men rose at intervals above the other sounds and noises. This confusion, as it appeared to me, continued until about two o’clock; and then the house became quiet. My suspicions were seriously excited relative to the respectability of Mrs. Harpy’s establishment; but I endeavoured to quiet them by all the arguments I could conceive in that lady’s favour, and which were prompted by my gratitude towards her. At length I fell asleep.
“In the morning the servant brought me up my breakfast. I asked her the meaning of the bustle I had heard during the night. She answered carelessly, ‘Oh! Mrs. Harpy is very gay, Miss, and is fond of company.’—After breakfast I got up, and had just dressed myself, when a door was opened violently on the opposite side of the landing, and a male voice exclaimed, ‘Well, if the old woman won’t give me credit for a miserable bottle of champagne, after all the money I’ve spent in the place, I’ll never set foot in it again. So good bye, ’Tilda. Here’s a sovereign for you, my girl. It’s the last time I shall ever sleep in this house.’—Thereupon the individual, who had so expressed himself, descended the stairs with a tremendous stamping of his feet, as if he were very indignant at the treatment he had complained of; and Miss Matilda—one of the young ladies who had visited in my room on the preceding evening—returned into her apartment, banging the door violently behind her. This incident opened my eyes to the dread truth:—I was in a brothel!
“I threw myself on a chair and burst into a flood of tears. Merciful heavens! for what fate was I reserved? Had I indeed fallen so low that my only home was a loathsome den of iniquity like that? For some minutes after the occurrence of the incident just related, I felt as if my senses were leaving me. Suddenly the door opened, and Mrs. Harpy made her appearance. She seemed astonished at the condition in which she found me, and was about to make some remark, when I threw myself at her feet, exclaiming, ‘I conjure you, madam—if you have any pity for a poor friendless orphan—let me leave your house this moment!’—‘And where will you go, my dear child?’ she said.—‘To the workhouse, ma’am: anywhere, rather than remain here!’ I answered.—‘This is a pretty recompense for my kindness towards you,’ she observed. ‘If it had not been for me, you would have died in the streets.’—‘Far better for me were it, had I so perished!’ I exclaimed.—‘Now, Miss,’ cried Mrs. Harpy, growing angry, ‘what is the meaning of all this nonsense?’—‘Can you ask me?’ I demanded. ‘Oh, that the feelings which prompted you to assist me, should have been any other save the disinterested benevolence for which I so sincerely thanked you!’—‘Then you know where you are, Miss, I suppose?’ she said, with a leer; and, before I had time to give any reply, she added, ‘I meant you to find it out in a day or two; and it is as well now as a few hours later. Here you are and here you will stay. You shall be treated just in proportion as you behave; and this evening, I shall introduce some fine nobleman or gentleman to you.’—‘Never!’ I cried: then moving towards the door, I said, ‘Detain me at your peril!’—‘So I shall,’ answered Mrs. Harpy, coolly. ‘I’ve got your I.O.U. for twenty pounds; and if you go anywhere it will be to Whitecross Street prison, before you’re many hours older. Remember, it’s for necessaries; and so no plea of minority or any other gammon of that kind, will avail you.’—I remembered the slip of paper which I had signed; and my heart sank within me, as I saw how completely I was in the power of that vile woman.—‘So now you understand how you are situated,’ she continued, softening in her tone and manner. ‘This is what all young girls like you must come to, sooner or later; and you’ll be very happy here, I can assure you. This evening a nobleman who patronizes my house, will call upon you; and if you have any of your nonsense with him, I’ll send you straight to Whitecross Street to-morrow morning.’—With these words she left the room, locking the door behind her.
“I cannot attempt to explain the nature of my feelings during the remainder of that day. A good dinner was sent up to me; but I could not eat a mouthful. The servant asked if I should like to see any of the ‘young ladies;’ and I answered in a manner which convinced her how I recoiled from the detestable proposal. She smiled—as I thought, significantly,—as much as to say, ‘You will talk differently in a very short time.’—At about nine o’clock Mrs. Harpy sent up word that I was to dress myself in my best attire—a command with which I positively refused to comply; for I was determined that, happen what might, I would not assist in the sacrifice of myself!
“At ten o’clock the servant brought up wax-lights, and a tray containing a bottle of champagne, glasses, and several plates of fruits and cakes. I watched these preparations in a state of dumb despair, bordering on stupefaction. Another half hour passed; and steps once more ascended the stairs. My heart palpitated violently! The door was thrown open;—a man elegantly dressed entered the room;—I cast one glance towards him, and, uttering a faint cry, sank insensible on the carpet. It was Lord Dunstable!
“When I awoke, I found that nobleman hanging over me, bathing my temples. He compelled me to drink a glass of wine; and I soon recovered full consciousness of the miseries of my condition. Starting from the half-embrace in which Lord Dunstable had clasped me, I surveyed him with horror. ‘Do I frighten you, Lydia?’ he exclaimed. ‘I must confess that our meeting is a strange one. The old woman sent to tell me that she had a prize; but I little expected to find you here.’—‘My presence in this house of infamy, my lord,�
�� I answered, ‘is one of the links in that chain of degradation of which you forged the first link. To you I owe all the disgrace and all the sorrow that I have endured. Not contented with my ruin, you deprived me of my brother.’—‘Come, Lydia, this is absurd,’ he cried. ‘In the first place, a young female who meets a gentleman and walks with him in Parks or elsewhere, must not expect to escape the usual consequences. Secondly, your brother challenged me, like a rash and headstrong young fellow as he was: I sent him due warning by my second that I was certain to shoot him; but he would not take good advice, and I did shoot him.’—‘And had you no regard for me at that moment?’ I asked.—‘Egad!’ he replied, ‘I only thought of myself. I fancied that if I did not shoot him, he might perform that good office for me; and so I was resolved not to give him a second chance.’—‘Surely you cannot be in your senses, my lord,’ I exclaimed, ‘to talk of so serious a matter in such a flippant style?’—‘Come, let us understand each other, Lydia,’ he said. ‘I did not come to such a house as this to receive a lesson in morals. Do you wish me to remain here with you until to-morrow?’—‘No: a thousand times no,’ I replied. ‘Your hand is red with the blood of my poor brother.’—‘Very well, Lydia,’ he answered coolly; ‘then I will take myself off as quietly as I came. But for old acquaintance’ sake, I must do the thing handsomely.’—I heard his observation, the flippant tone of which made me avert my head from him in disgust; and I did not therefore see why he lingered for a few moments. At length he left the room, saying, ‘Bye, bye, Liddy;’ and when the door closed behind him, he began to hum an opera-tune, as he descended the stairs.
The Mysteries of London, Vol. II [Unabridged & Illustrated] (Valancourt Classics) Page 42
