“As you’ve had the trouble of taking me, policeman, you’d better go to the extra trouble of finding out what you want to know about me,” said Jem.
“You needn’t be uppish with me, because I did my dooty,” returned Mr. Crisp. “Remember, I don’t ask—but I s’pose you’ve been living in London—eh?”
“Well—and if I have——”
“There! I knowed you had,” cried Crisp.
“I didn’t say so,” observed Jem Cuffin, angrily.
“No—but you can’t deny it, though. Well, then—as you have been living in London, according to your own admission,” continued Mr. Crisp, “in course you must have hung out in some partickler quarter. Remember, I don’t ask you—but I des say it was in the Holy Land.”
“I dare say it wasn’t,” returned Jem, drily.
“Then it was in the Mint, I’ll be bound,” cried Crisp. “I don’t ask, you know—but wasn’t it in the Mint?”
“No—it wasn’t,” said Crankey Jem, with a movement of impatience.
“Not the Mint—eh? Well, if you says so, it must be true—’cos you should know best. But I s’pose you won’t deny that it was somewhere in Clerkenwell?”
“You’re out again,” returned Crankey Jem.
“The devil I am!” exclaimed Crisp, rubbing his nose. “And yet I’m a pretty good hand at a guess too. Now it isn’t my wish or my dooty to pump a prisoner—but I should like to be resolved as to whether you haven’t been living in the Happy Valley?”
“No,” cried Jem; “and now leave me alone.”
“Not the Happy Valley—eh?” proceeded the indefatigable Mr. Crisp: then, perceiving that his endeavours to find out the prisoner’s place of abode were useless, he went upon another tack. “Well—it isn’t my business to pump you; but I am really at a loss to think how you could have been such a fool as to go back to your old tricks and break into that house there—down yonder, I mean—you know where? Come now?”
And Mr. Crisp fixed a searching eye upon Crankey Jem’s countenance.
“I tell you what it is,” exclaimed the prisoner, seriously irritated at length; “you want to entrap me, if you can—but you can’t. And for a very good reason too—because I haven’t broken into any house at all, or done a thing I’m ashamed of since I came back to England.”
With these words, Crankey Jem turned his back upon the baffled Mr. Crisp, and looked out of the window.
Almost at the same moment an inner door was thrown open, and one of the Under Secretaries for the Home Department beckoned Mr. Crisp into the adjacent room, where the principal Secretary was already seated, he having arrived by the private entrance.
Crisp remained with the Minister for about ten minutes, and then returned to the ante-room, but it was merely to conduct Henry Holford and Crankey Jem into the presence of the Home Secretary and the Chief Magistrate of Bow Street.
“You may withdraw, Mr. —— ahem?” said the Home Secretary, addressing the police-officer.
“Crisp, my lord—Crisp is my name.”
“Oh! very good, Mr. Frisk. You may withdraw, Mr. Frisk,” repeated the Minister.
And the police-officer retired accordingly, marvelling how the examination could possibly be conducted in a proper manner without his important presence.
The magistrate commenced by informing Henry Holford of the accusation laid against him by Crisp, and then cautioned him in the usual manner to beware of what he said, as any thing he uttered might be used in evidence against him.
“I have no desire to conceal or deny a single particle of the whole truth,” returned Holford. “I acknowledge that I fired at the Queen and Prince Albert—and with pistols loaded with ball, too.”
“No—there you are wrong,” exclaimed Jem; “for I loaded the pistols myself, and I took good care only to put powder into them.”
Holford cast a glance of unfeigned surprise on his friend.
“Yes,” continued the latter, “what I say is the truth. Your manner was so strange when you came to me to borrow the pistols, that I feared you meant to make away with yourself. I did not like to refuse to lend you the weapons—particularly as I knew that if you was really bent on suicide, you could do it in other ways. But I was resolved that my pistols should not help you in the matter; and I only charged them with powder. Then I followed you all the way down to the Park; and as you did not stop anywhere, I know that you couldn’t have either bought balls or altered the charge of the pistols.”
“This is important,” said the magistrate to the Home Secretary.
“Very important,” answered the latter functionary, who, from the first moment that Holford entered the room, had never ceased to gaze at him in the same way that one would contemplate an animal with two heads, or four tails, in the Zoological Gardens.
“It is very evident that the man was no accomplice in the proceeding,” remarked the magistrate, in an under tone.
The words did not, however, escape Holford’s ears.
“He an accomplice, sir!” cried the youth, as if indignant at the bare idea. “Oh! no—he has been a good friend to me, and would have advised me quite otherwise, had I mentioned my purpose to him. He was the first to rush upon me, and—I remember now—knocked up my arm when I was about to fire the second pistol.”
Crisp and the other policeman were called in separately, and examined upon this point. Their evidence went entirely to prove that James Cuffin could not have been an accomplice in the deed.
When the policemen had withdrawn, the Home Secretary and the magistrate conversed together in a low tone.
“This man Cuffin’s evidence will be absolutely necessary, my lord,” said the magistrate; “and yet, as a condemned felon, and with another charge—namely, that of returning from transportation—hanging over him, he cannot be admitted as a witness.”
“You must remand him for farther examination,” returned the Home Secretary; “and in the mean time I will advise Her Majesty to grant him a free pardon.”
“And Henry Holford will stand committed to Newgate, my lord?” said the magistrate, inquiringly.
The Minister nodded an assent.
The policemen were re-admitted, the depositions were signed, and the necessary instructions were given for the removal of the prisoners.
Two cabs were procured: Holford was conducted to one, and conveyed to Newgate,—but not before he had shaken hands with Crankey Jem, who shed tears when he took so sad a farewell of the lad, whom he really liked.
He himself was shortly afterwards removed in the other cab to the New Prison, Clerkenwell.
CHAPTER CCXIII.
THE TORTURES OF LADY RAVENSWORTH.
A week had now elapsed since Lydia Hutchinson entered the service of Lady Ravensworth.
The service! Oh! what a service was that where the menial had become the mistress, and the mistress had descended to the menial.
From the moment that Lydia had expressed her unalterable resolution to remain at the Hall, Lord Ravensworth scarcely ever quitted his private cabinet. He had a bed made up in an adjoining room, and secluded himself completely from his wife. Vainly did Adeline ask him—go upon her knees before him—and beseech him, with the bitterest tears and the most fervent prayers, to return to an active life:—he contemplated her with an apathetic listlessness—as if he were verging, when but little past the prime of life, into second childhood. Or if he did manifest a scintillation of his former spirit, it was merely to command his wife to leave him to his own meditations.
And again did he have recourse to the pipe: in fact he was never easy now save when he lulled his thoughts into complete stupefaction by means of the oriental tobacco. Even when, in the midst of her earnest prayers, his wife implored him to come forth again into the world—to live, in fine, for the sake of his as yet unborn babe, the fi
re that kindled in his eyes was so evanescent that an acute observer could alone perceive the momentary—and only momentary—effect which the appeal produced.
The guests had all taken their departure the day after the bridal; and the splendid mansion immediately became the scene of silence and of woe.
To all the entreaties of his wife—to all the representations of his favourite page Quentin, that he would engage eminent medical assistance, Lord Ravensworth turned a deaf ear, or else so far roused himself as to utter a stern refusal, accompanied with a command that he might be left alone.
Thus was he rapidly accomplishing his own destruction,—committing involuntary suicide by slow, certain, and yet unsuspected means,—even as his brother, the Honourable Gilbert Vernon, had declared to the Resurrection Man.
Adeline had no inclination to seek the bustle and excitement of society. Her love of display and ostentation was subdued—if not altogether crushed. She was so overwhelmed with sorrow—so goaded by the tyranny of Lydia Hutchinson—so desperate by the mere fact of having to submit to that oppression, and by the consciousness that she dared not unbosom her cares to a single sympathising heart,—that she at times felt as if she were on the point of becoming raving mad, and at others as if she could lay herself down and die!
We will afford the reader an idea of the mode of life which the once proud and haughty Lady Ravensworth was now compelled to lead beneath the crushing despotism of Lydia Hutchinson.
It was on the seventh morning after the arrival of the latter at Ravensworth Hall.
The clock had struck nine, when Lydia repaired to the apartment of her mistress—her mistress!
Until she reached the door, her manner was meek and subdued, because she incurred a chance of meeting other domestics in the passages and corridors.
But the moment she entered Adeline’s apartment—the moment the door of that chamber closed behind her—her manner suddenly changed. No longer meek—no longer subdued,—no longer wearing the stamp of servitude,—Lydia assumed a stern expression of countenance—so terrible in a vengeful woman—and in an instant clothed herself, as it were, with an appearance of truly fiend-like malignity.
Adeline slept.
Approaching the bed, Lydia shook her rudely.
Lady Ravensworth awoke with a start, and then glanced hastily—almost franticly—around.
“Ah! you here again!” she murmured, shrinking from the look of bitter hatred which Lydia cast upon her.
“Yes—I am here again,” said the vindictive woman. “It is time for you to rise.”
“Oh! spare me, Lydia,” exclaimed Adeline; “allow me to repose a little longer. I have passed a wretched—a sleepless night: see—my pillow is still moist with the tears of anguish which I have shed; and it was but an hour ago that I fell into an uneasy slumber! I cannot live thus—I would rather that you should take a dagger and plunge it into my heart at once. Oh! leave me—leave me to rest for only another hour!”
“No:—it is time to rise, I say,” cried Lydia. “It has been my destiny to pass many long weary nights in the streets—in the depth of winter—and with the icy wind penetrating through my scanty clothing till it seemed to freeze the very marrow in my bones. I have been so wearied—so cold—so broken down for want of sleep, that I would have given ten years of my life for two hours’ repose in a warm and comfortable bed:—but still have I often, in those times, passed a whole week without so resting my sinking frame. Think you, then, that I can now permit you the luxury of sleep when your body requires it—of repose when your mind needs it? No, Adeline—no! I cannot turn you forth into the streets to become a houseless wanderer, as I have been:—but I can at least arouse you from the indolent enjoyment of that bed of down.”
With these words Lydia seized Lady Ravensworth rudely by the wrist, and compelled her to leave the couch.
Then the revengeful woman seated herself in a chair, and said in a harsh tone, “Light the fire, Adeline—I am cold.”
“No—no: I will not be your servant!” exclaimed Lady Ravensworth. “You are mine—and it is for you to do those menial offices.”
“Provoke me not, Adeline,” said Lydia Hutchinson, coolly; “or I will repair straight to the servants’ hall, and there proclaim the astounding fact that Lord Ravensworth’s relapse has been produced by the discovery of his wife’s frailty ere their marriage.”
“Oh! my God—what will become of me?” murmured Adeline, wringing her hands. “Are you a woman? or are you a fiend?”
“I am a woman—and one who, having suffered much, knows how to revenge deeply,” returned Lydia. “You shall obey me—or I will cover you with shame!”
Adeline made no reply; but, with scalding tears trickling down her cheeks, she proceeded—yes, she—the high-born peeress!—to arrange the wood in the grate—to heap up the coals—and to light the fire.
And while she was kneeling in the performance of that menial task,—while her delicate white hands were coming in contact with the black grate,—and while she was shivering in her night gear, and her long dishevelled hair streamed over her naked neck and bosom,—there, within a few feet of her, sate the menial—the servant, comfortably placed in an arm-chair, and calmly surveying the degrading occupation of her mistress.
“I have often—oh! how often—longed for a stick of wood and a morsel of coal to make myself a fire, if no larger than sufficient to warm the palms of my almost frost-bitten hands,” said Lydia, after a short pause; “and when I have dragged my weary limbs past the houses of the rich, and have caught sight of the cheerful flames blazing through the area-windows of their kitchens, I have thought to myself, ‘Oh! for one hour to sit within the influence of that genial warmth!’ And yet you—you, the proud daughter of the aristocracy—recoil in disgust from a task which so many thousands of poor creatures would only be too glad to have an opportunity of performing!”
Adeline sobbed bitterly, but made no reply.
The fire was now blazing in the grate: still the high-born peeress was shivering with the cold—for ere she could put on a single article of clothing, she was forced to wash the black dirt from her delicate fingers.
Then that lady, who—until within a week—had never even done so much as take, with her own hands, a change of linen from the cupboard or select a gown from the wardrobe, was compelled to perform those duties for herself;—and all the while her servant,—her hired servant, to whom she had to pay high wages and afford food and lodging,—that servant was seated in the arm-chair, warming herself by the now cheerful fire!
“Do not be ashamed of your occupation, madam,” said Lydia. “It is fortunate for you that there is a well-stocked cupboard to select from, and a well-provided wardrobe to have recourse to. Your linen is of the most delicate texture, and of the most refined work: your feet have never worn any thing coarser than silk. For your gowns, you may choose amongst fifty dresses. One would even think that your ladyship would be bewildered by the variety of the assortment. And yet you are indignant at being compelled to take the trouble to make your selections! For how many long weeks and months together have I been forced, at times, to wear the same thin, tattered gown—the same threadbare shawl—the same well-darned stockings! And how many thousands are there, Adeline, who dwell in rags from the moment of their birth to that of their death! Ah! if we could only take the daughters of the working classes, and give them good clothing,—enable them to smooth their hair with fragrant oil, and to wash their flesh with perfumed soaps,—and provide them with all those accessories which enhance so much the natural loveliness of woman,—think you not that they would be as attractive—as worthy of homage—as yourself? And let me tell you, Adeline, that such black ingratitude as I have encountered at your hands, is unknown in the humble cottage:—the poor are not so selfish—so hollow-hearted as the rich!”
While Lydia Hutchinson was thus venting her b
itter sarcasm and her cutting reproach upon Lady Ravensworth, the latter was hurriedly accomplishing the routine of the toilet.
She no longer took pride in her appearance:—she scarcely glanced in the mirror as she combed out those tresses which it was Lydia’s duty to have arranged;—her sole thought was to escape as speedily as possible from that room where insults and indignities were so profusely accumulated upon her.
But her ordeal of torture was not yet at its end.
So soon as Lady Ravensworth was dressed, Lydia Hutchinson said in a cool but authoritative tone, “Adeline, you will comb out my hair for me now.”
“Provoke me not, vile woman—provoke me not beyond the powers of endurance!” almost shrieked the unhappy lady; “or I shall be tempted—oh! I shall be tempted to lay violent hands upon you. My God—my God! what will become of me?”
“I am prepared to stand the risk of any ebullition of fury on your part,” said Lydia, in the same imperturbable manner in which she had before spoken. “Lay but a finger upon me to do me an injury, and I will attack you—I will assault you—I will disfigure your countenance with my nails—I will tear out your hair by handfuls—I will beat your teeth from your mouth;—for I am stronger than you—and you would gain nothing by an attempt to hurt me.”
“But I will not be your servant!” cried Adeline, fire flashing from her eyes.
“I tended your ladyship when you lay upon the humble couch in my garret, in the agonies of maternity,” replied Lydia; “and your ladyship shall now wait upon me.”
“No—no! You would make me a slave—a low slave—the lowest of slaves!” ejaculated Adeline wildly. “You degrade me in my own estimation—you render me contemptible in my own eyes——”
“And you have spurned and scorned me,” interrupted Lydia; “you have made me, too, the lowest of slaves, by using me as an instrument to save you from shame;—and now it is time that I should teach you—the proud peeress—that I—the humble and friendless woman—have my feelings, which may be wounded as well as your own.”
The Mysteries of London, Vol. II [Unabridged & Illustrated] (Valancourt Classics) Page 82
