“It is the fashion in the aristocratic world to adhere to a friend, but to abandon the seduced girl when she no longer pleases,” said Lydia Hutchinson, who had entered the room unperceived by either Colonel Cholmondeley or Lady Ravensworth, and who now advanced slowly towards them.
The Colonel stared at Lydia for a few moments: but evidently not recognising her, he turned a rapid glance of inquiry upon Adeline, who only hung down her head, and remained silent.
“I see that you do not know me, sir,” continued Lydia, approaching close to Colonel Cholmondeley: then, fixing her eyes intently upon him, she said, “Do you remember me now?”
“My good young woman,” replied the Colonel, with a mixture of hauteur and bantering jocularity, “I really do not think that you have served in any family which I have had the honour to visit: and, even if you had, I must candidly confess that my memory is not capacious enough to retain the image of every lady’s-maid whom I may happen to see.”
“And yet it is not every lady’s-maid,” said Lydia, with a scornful glance towards Adeline, who, pale and trembling, had sunk upon a seat—“it is not every lady’s-maid that can venture to talk thus openly—thus familiarly in the presence of her mistress.”
While she was yet speaking, a light broke upon the Colonel’s mind. Who but one acquainted with Lady Ravensworth’s secret could be capable of such extraordinary conduct? This idea led him to survey Lydia Hutchinson’s countenance more attentively than before;—and, although it was much altered,—although it no longer bore the blooming freshness which had characterised it when he first knew her,—still the expression and the features enabled him to recognise the young woman who had become the victim of his friend Lord Dunstable.
“Ah! you know me now,” continued Lydia, perceiving by a sudden gesture on the part of the Colonel that he had at length remembered her. “Think you that I have no reproaches to hurl at you, sir? Was it not at your house that my ruin was consummated? and were you no party to the infamous treachery which gave me to the arms of your friend? But you have no shame: you are a fashionable gentleman—a roué—one who considers seduction an aristocratic amusement, as well as wrenching off knockers or breaking policemen’s heads. What to such as you are the tears of deceived and lost girls? what to you are the broken hearts of fond parents? Nothing—nothing: I know it well! And therefore: it were vain for me to say another word—unless it be that I shall now leave you to make your peace as best you may with your cast-off mistress there!”
And pointing disdainfully at Adeline, who uttered a low scream and covered her face with her hands as those terrible words fell upon her ears, Lydia slowly quitted the room.
Frightfully painful was now the situation of Lady Ravensworth and Colonel Cholmondeley.
The former was crushed by the terrible indignity cast upon her: the latter was so astounded and at the same time so hurt by all that had just occurred, that he knew not how to act.
He felt that any attempt to console Lady Ravensworth would be an insult; and yet he experienced an equal inability to permit the scene to pass without some comment.
Fortunately for them both, Mr. Graham, the surgeon, entered the room at this juncture.
Adeline composed herself by one of those extraordinary efforts which she had lately been so often compelled to exert; and Cholmondeley, with the ease of a man of fashion (who must necessarily be a thorough hypocrite), instantly assumed a manner that would even have disarmed suspicion, had any been excited.
Having uttered a few ceremonial phrases upon his introduction to Lady Ravensworth, Mr. Graham said, “I am happy to state that Lord Dunstable is in as favourable a state as under the circumstances could be expected. I have succeeded in extracting the ball—and he now sleeps.”
“Thank God!” exclaimed Cholmondeley,—not with any real piety, but merely using that common phrase as expressive of his joy to think that the matter was not more serious than it now appeared to be.
“I am, however, afraid,” continued the surgeon, turning towards Adeline, “that my patient will be compelled to trespass for some few days upon the kind hospitality of your ladyship.”
“In which case Lord Dunstable shall receive every attention that can be here afforded him,” observed Adeline. “It would be but an idle compliment to you, sir, under the circumstances, to say that Ravensworth Hall will be honoured by your presence so long as you may see fit to make it your abode.”
The surgeon bowed in acknowledgment of this courteous intimation.
“For my part,” Colonel Cholmondeley hastened to say, “I shall not trespass upon her ladyship’s hospitality; for—since I am assured that my friend is no longer in danger—I must attend to certain pressing business which calls me elsewhere.”
Adeline threw a glance of gratitude upon the Colonel for this expression of his intention to relieve her from the embarrassment of his presence; and accordingly, after partaking of some luncheon, Cholmondeley took his departure.
But ere he left, Lydia Hutchinson had secretly placed a letter, containing a key, upon the seat of the carriage which bore him away.
CHAPTER CCXV.
THE VOICES IN THE RUINS.
It would be impossible to conceive the existence of a more wretched woman than Adeline Ravensworth.
Though wealth and title were hers,—though every luxury and every pleasure were within her reach,—though with jewels of inestimable value she might deck herself at will, and thus enhance her natural charms,—still, still was she the prey to a constant agony of mind which rendered life intolerable.
For it is not all the wealth of India,—nor all the luxuries and pleasures of oriental palaces,—nor all the diamonds that ever sparkled over the brow of beauty,—it is not these that can impart tranquillity to the soul, nor give peace to the conscience.
Such was the bitter truth that Adeline was now compelled to acknowledge!
Shortly after the departure of Colonel Cholmondeley, which occurred at about four o’clock in the afternoon, Lady Ravensworth felt so deeply the want of undisturbed solitude for her meditations and of fresh air to relieve the stifling sensation which oppressed her, that she determined to take a long walk through the quiet fields.
Hastily slipping on a plain straw bonnet and a thick warm shawl, she left the house unperceived by her torturess—Lydia Hutchinson.
Passing through the spacious gardens at the back of the mansion, she gained the open fields, where the cold fresh breeze somewhat revived her drooping spirits.
“Heaven grant that the babe which now agitates in my bosom may prove a son!” she thought, as she cast a hasty but proud glance around: “or else the broad lands which I now behold, and the soil on which my feet now tread, will stand but a poor chance of remaining long beneath my control. Yes—they would pass away to one whom I have never seen—whom I have never known save by name—and who could not possibly be supposed to entertain any sympathy for me! But if my babe should prove a boy—if he should live, too—then adieu to all thy hopes and chances, Gilbert Vernon.”
These reflections led to a variety of others—all connected with Adeline’s interests or her sorrows.
So profoundly was she plunged in her painful reverie, and at the same time so invigorated did she feel by the freshness of the air, that she insensibly prolonged her walk until the shades of evening gathered around her.
She had now reached the ruined remains of a gamekeeper’s lodge which marked the boundary of the Ravensworth estate in that direction.
Feeling a sudden sensation of weariness come over her, she seated herself on a bench which still existed near the dilapidated remnant of the cottage-portico.
Scarcely had she taken that place, when a voice from the other side of the ruined wall caused her to start with sudden affright: but the words that met her ears conquered this first feeling of alarm, and inspired one of curios
ity.
She accordingly lingered where she was; and as the darkness was every moment growing more intense, she knew there was but little danger of being perceived.
“I tell you that I am a man capable of doing any thing for money,” said the voice, in an impatient tone. “If you think there is any squeamishness about me, you are deucedly mistaken. What I have promised you, I will perform, when the time comes, and if there should be a necessity for such a step. I value a human life no more than I do that of a dog. If any one came to me and said, ‘There is my enemy, and here is your price—now go and kill him,’ I should just count the money first to see that it was all right, and the remainder of the job would soon be done, I can assure you.”
“Well—well, I believe you,” said another voice, whose deep tones rolled solemnly upon the silence of the dark evening. “To all that you have proposed I must assent—I have gone too far to retreat. But we must now separate.”
“And when shall I see you again?” demanded the first speaker: “because now that you have made me acquainted with the whereabouts, I shall constantly be ascertaining how things go on, and I ought therefore to be able to communicate very often with you. That is—I ought to see you frequently; for I hate doing business by letter.”
“Can you not give me your own private address?” asked the individual with the deep-toned voice; “and then I might call upon you every other evening.”
“Well said,” exclaimed the first speaker: then, after a pause, during which Adeline distinctly heard the rustling sound of paper, he said, “Have you got a pencil in your pocket? for I can feel to write a few words in the dark.”
“Yes—here is a pencil,” returned the deep-toned voice.
There was another short pause.
“All right!” cried the first speaker, at length. “That bit of paper contains the name and address of the most daring fellow that London ever produced,” he added with a low chuckle. “Talk of your bravos of Spain or Italy—why, they are nothing to me! And isn’t it odd, too, that whenever a rich or great person wants any thing queer done for him, it is sure to be me that he gets hold of somehow or another?”
“I have no doubt that you enjoy a most extensive patronage,” said the deep-toned voice, rather impatiently—and even haughtily. “But we must now separate. The day after to-morrow—in the evening—I shall call upon you.”
“Good: I shall expect you,” returned the other.
The two individuals then separated—each taking a different way; but one came round the angle of the ruined wall, and passed so close to Adeline that she shrank back in a dreadful state of alarm lest her presence there should be discovered;—for, mysterious as was the conversation which she had just overheard, there was one fact which it too intelligibly revealed—and this was the desperate nature of those two men’s characters.
But the individual who passed so closely, did not observe her—for the evening was very dark, and she moreover was sitting in the still deeper obscurity of the ruined portico.
Neither was she enabled to obtain a glimpse of his countenance: the outline of a tall and somewhat stout figure, as he hurried by her, was the extent of the view which she caught of him.
In a few moments all was again silent: the sounds of the retreating footsteps no longer met her ears.
She did not immediately leave the ruins: she paused to reflect upon the strange conversation which she had overheard. But all its details were dark and mysterious—save that one man was a wretch who gloried in his readiness to perform any crime for a commensurate reward, and that the other was either his accomplice or his employer in some fearful plot that was in progress.
There was one expression that had fallen from the lips of the former miscreant, and on which Lady Ravensworth principally dwelt:—“Now that you have made me acquainted with the whereabouts, I shall be constantly ascertaining how things go on.”
Could the whereabouts, or locality, alluded to, have any connexion with that neighbourhood? And, if so, did the observation refer to the Ravensworth estate? Or were the two men merely discussing, in those ruins, matters which regarded some other and totally distinct spot?
“The latter supposition must be the right one,” said Adeline to herself, after a long meditation upon the subject. “The only person in the world who could have any interest in learning ‘how things were going on’ in this neighbourhood, is Gilbert Vernon; and he is in Turkey. Moreover—even were he in England—he would have no need to spy about in the dark: he is on friendly terms with his brother, and might present himself boldly at the Hall.”
Thus reasoning against the vague and temporary fears which had arisen in her mind, Adeline rose from the bench and was about to retrace her steps homewards, when the moon suddenly appeared from behind a cloud, and its rays fell upon a small white object that lay at the lady’s feet.
She mechanically picked it up:—it was a piece of paper on which she could perceive, by the moonlight, that a few words were written; but she could not decypher them.
Nevertheless, the mode in which the short lines were arranged struck her with the idea that this paper contained an address; and a natural association of facts immediately encouraged the belief that she held in her hand the one which the self-vaunted bravo had given ere now to his companion, and which the latter might probably have dropped by accident.
Hastily concealing it in her bosom, Adeline retraced her steps to Ravensworth Hall.
On her arrival she hurried to her boudoir, lighted the wax tapers, and examined the paper ere she even laid aside her bonnet and shawl.
Yes—it contained an address; and the words were scrawled as they would be if written in the dark.
There could, then, be no doubt that this was the address which one of the men had given to his companion in the ruins of the gamekeeper’s lodge.
“It is useful to know that such a villain as this can be hired for money!” muttered Adeline to herself, as she concealed the paper in one of her jewel-caskets. “What did he say? That if any one went to him and whispered, ‘There is my enemy, and here is your price—now go and kill him,’ he would take the bribe and do the deed. And did he not boast that he was employed by the rich and the powerful? In what manner could such persons require his aid? Assuredly in no good cause! Ah! Lydia—Lydia,” continued Adeline, her brows contracting and a dark cloud passing over her countenance as she spoke, “be not too confident! You are now in my power!”
But scarcely was the fearful thought thus implied, when Adeline seemed to recoil from it with horror: for, covering her face with her hands, she almost shrieked out, “No—no! I could not do it!”
“What can you not do, dearest?” said a low voice close by her ear; and almost at the same instant she was clasped in the arms of Colonel Cholmondeley.
“Release me—release me!” exclaimed Adeline, struggling to free herself from his embrace.
“Not till I have imprinted another kiss upon those sweet lips,” returned the Colonel: “not till I have made my peace with you, dearest Adeline, in respect to the past:—else wherefore should I have come hither?”
And as he uttered these words, he glued his lips to hers, although she still continued to resist his insolence to the utmost of her power.
“Oh! my God!” she murmured in a faint tone, “am I to submit to this new indignity?”
Cholmondeley supported her to the sofa; then, throwing himself at her feet, he took her hands in his, and said in a fervent tone, “Adeline—dearest Adeline, wherefore do you receive me thus coldly? Is it possible that you can have altogether forgotten those feelings which animated our hearts with a reciprocal affection some years ago? But perhaps my conduct—my ungrateful, my ungenerous conduct—has completely effaced all those emotions and excited hatred and disgust instead? Oh! I admit—I acknowledge that my conduct was ungrateful—was ungenerous! I abandoned y
ou at a moment when you most required my counsel—my assistance! But was my fault so grave that it is beyond the possibility of pardon? When I found myself this morning brought by an imperious necessity—or rather by a strange chance—to this mansion, I thought within my breast, ‘I shall now see Adeline once again: but we must be strangers unto each other. Cold ceremony must separate hearts that once beat in the reciprocities of love.’—And you know, Adeline, with what formal respect I sought to treat you. But when I beheld you so beautiful, and yet so unhappy,—when I saw that the lovely girl had grown into the charming woman,—oh! I was every moment about to dash aside that chilling ceremony and snatch you to my breast. And now, Adeline, will you forgive me?—will you say that you do not quite detest me—even if you cannot call me your lover—your friend?”
With her head drooping upon her bosom,—with tears trembling upon her long dark lashes,—and with her hands still retained in those of Colonel Cholmondeley, did Adeline listen to this specious appeal.
The words “your friend” touched a chord which vibrated to her heart’s core.
“Oh! yes—I do require a friend—a friend to advise and console me,” she exclaimed; “for I am very—very miserable!”
Cholmondeley was man of the world enough to perceive that his appeal was successful—that his victory was complete; and, seating himself by Adeline’s side, he drew her towards him, saying, “I will be your friend, dearest—I will advise you—I will console you. You shall pour forth all your sorrows to me, as if I were your brother: and I swear most solemnly, beloved Adeline, that if it be your wish, I will never seek henceforth to be more to you than a brother!”
“Oh! if that were true—if I could rely upon your word!” cried Adeline, joyfully.
“By every sacred obligation with which man can bind himself, do I vow the sincerity of that promise,” returned Cholmondeley.
The Mysteries of London, Vol. II [Unabridged & Illustrated] (Valancourt Classics) Page 84
