The Mysteries of London, Vol. II [Unabridged & Illustrated] (Valancourt Classics)

by George W. M. Reynolds

  “I shall now continue the narrative of my project against Harriet. Immediately upon my arrival at Holmesford House, I wrote a note to the intended victim: it was thus worded:—‘Come to me, dearest Harriet, without an instant’s delay after the receipt of this. I am in sad tribulation—at the house of a friend; but I cannot spare a moment to give you an idea of the sudden misfortune which has overtaken me. If you ever loved me—and if I have the slightest claim upon your kindness—come! The bearer of this note will conduct you to the friend’s house where I am!’—Poor Harriet! she naturally conceived that it must be some serious event which could prevent me from keeping my engagement with her; and she hesitated not to accompany the female servant who delivered the note to her. She took her child in her arms: the servant of the Marquis suggested that she should leave the babe in the care of Harriet’s own domestic; but Harriet would never separate herself from her beloved infant! The servant could not offer further remonstrance on this point; and Harriet entered the hackney-coach which was waiting to convey her to destruction!

  “It was in the very depth of winter and consequently quite dark when Harriet reached Holmesford House. The lamps over the entrance had been purposely left unlighted; and thus the poor young woman did not observe the vast exterior of the mansion to which she had come. But when the front door had closed behind her, and she found herself in the hall, she exhibited some alarm; for, dimly as it was seen by the lustre of one faint lamp, she observed enough to convince her that she was in no common dwelling. The servant (who had of course received her cue) noticed the impression thus made upon her, and hastened to say something of a reassuring nature. Thus, in a few minutes, Harriet was inveigled into the chamber which I have before described. ‘Permit me to hold the baby, madam,’ said the servant; ‘your friend is ill in that bed.’—Harriet, doubtless bewildered at the strangeness of the whole proceeding, mechanically passed the child to the servant, and advanced towards the bed, the curtains of which were drawn around. She heard the doors close: she looked round—the servant had disappeared with the babe—and Harriet was now alone with the Marquis of Holmesford!

  “Two hours elapsed! I was awaiting, in a distant part of the mansion, the issue of that foul plot. Wine and generous cordials were on the table; and I drank deeply of them to drown the sad thoughts which oppressed me. Never had I before experienced—never have I since known such terrible emotions! All the particulars of my connexion with Harriet rushed to my mind. I remembered how I first beheld her, affectionately tending the dying bed of her father,—how she sate day and night by my side, ministering unto me in my malady as if she was my daughter,—how I had seen her a happy wife, content with retirement and privacy—content even with being, as it were, an unacknowledged wife, so long as she enjoyed her husband’s love,—and how she had conducted herself as a tender mother, fondling and nursing her innocent little one! I thought of all this; and at the same time I was almost distracted with the idea of the infernal treachery which had now ensnared her! Years have passed since that foul night; and its memory haunts me still. I have made many—many lovely girls victims to the lust of my employers:—but none—no, not one—do I regret, save Harriet Markham!

  “Two hours elapsed, I say; and at length the Marquis of Holmesford made his appearance. He was dreadfully frightened: his manner was wild and excited. I could not gather, from the expression of his countenance, whether he had triumphed or lost the victory to which he aspired over a virtuous and defenceless woman. I interrogated him with a gesture of impatience. ‘Damnable woman!’ he exclaimed; ‘if there were not such creatures as you, there would be less scope for the vices of men like me. Begone! I would not endure another such scene—no, not were I offered a sovereign crown!’—I made some observation; but he interrupted me fiercely, and commanded me to depart. I dared not disobey—his manner was actually terrific. He appeared as if he had just witnessed some horrible spectre, or had perpetrated a dreadful crime. I returned home; and never did I pass such a miserable night.

  “All next day I waited in expectation of hearing from the Marquis; but no communication arrived. In the evening I went to Harriet’s lodging, and saw the landlady. In answer to my inquiries, she said, ‘Mrs. Wilmot remained out until a very late hour last night, or rather this morning. It was nearly one when she came home with her child. She was in almost a frantic state, and talked so wildly and incoherently that I could not comprehend her. I persuaded her to retire to her chamber, and offered to sit up with her. She allowed me to conduct her to her room, but insisted on remaining alone. Poor thing! I heard her walking up and down the chamber until past five; and then all became quiet. I supposed she had retired to bed. When I rose at eight, I learnt from the servant that she had gone out with her child half an hour previously. She has not been back since; and I feel alarmed at her absence.’—‘Some sudden calamity has perhaps overtaken her,’ I said, terribly frightened at these tidings. ‘Have the kindness to send your servant to let me know when she returns; but you need not tell her that you do so. I have my reasons.’ The landlady, believing me to be an intimate friend of Harriet, readily promised compliance with my request. I was about to depart, when she suddenly recollected something, and said, ‘I had nearly forgotten to tell you that about an hour ago, the messenger that usually comes from the gentleman who visits Mrs. Wilmot, and who she says is her husband—’—‘Yes, yes,’ cried I impatiently.—‘The messenger has left a small packet for her,’ continued the landlady.—‘Let me see it,’ I said, thinking that its contents might afford some clue to the mystery of Harriet’s disappearance: ‘I am acquainted with all Mrs. Wilmot’s affairs, for you know how intimate we are.’—The landlady showed me the packet without the least hesitation, and I instantly recognised in the address the handwriting of Mr. Markham. I longed to open the parcel, but dared not. So I took my departure, having reiterated my desire to be informed of Harriet’s return, the moment it might happen.

  “The next evening came, and I had neither heard from the landlady nor seen the Marquis. I sent a note to the latter; but he had left town on the previous day. A thought struck me: could he have persuaded Harriet to accompany him? Had he so far overcome the virtue of that pure-minded creature? I thought of the packet from Mr. Markham, and longed to ascertain its contents. A strong suspicion lurked in my mind that it was connected with the affair in some way or another. I however waited a week; and, hearing no tidings of any kind concerning Harriet, went boldly to her lodgings. ‘Mrs. Wilmot’s disappearance is so strange,’ I said to the landlady, ‘that, having consulted my legal adviser, and acting on the plea of being her intimate friend, I am determined to open that packet which was sent for her, and which I think must afford some clue to her absence.’—The landlady gave me the packet, saying, ‘If you take the responsibility on yourself, well and good; but I will have nothing to do with the business.’—This was better than I had even expected; and I departed with the parcel.

  “I was not long in returning to my house, and the moment I had reached my own chamber, I tore open the parcel. It contained four letters: but the contents of one will explain the presence of the other three. That one was from Mr. Markham, and ran as nearly as I can recollect thus: ‘After the terrible discovery which I made last night, I can never see you more. You have wantonly betrayed the confidence and affection of a man who descended from his eminence to court your love in your social obscurity. But the moral bond that united us is riven asunder; and the legal one shall be equally broken should you dare to represent yourself as my wife. The most horrible suspicion now haunts me that even your child may not be mine. Keep that infant, then; and be good to it, if your depraved heart will allow you. And that you may not sink into the lowest grades of crime from the embraces of the noble libertine to whom you have abandoned yourself, I have instructed my banker to pay to you, as Mrs. Wilmot, a monthly stipend of ten pounds. I have destroyed all your letters, save the three which I enclose; and I return them to you in t
he hope that a re-perusal of them will place before you in all its glaring flagrancy the contrast between your protestations and your deeds.’

  “This terrible document bore no signature; but it was impossible, either by its nature or the handwriting, that it could have emanated from any one save Mr. Markham. The three letters accompanying it contained expressions of sincere gratitude and fervent affection towards Mr. Markham, and denoted three particular phrases in Harriet’s connexion with him: namely, her assent to their union, the fact that she was in a way to become a mother, and the announcement of approaching maternity. I wept as I read them:—I wept as I thought of all I had done in accomplishing the ruin of poor Harriet!

  “The Marquis came no more to my house;—I saw by the newspapers that he had returned to London, a few weeks after the sad incidents just described;—again I sought an interview with him, but he would neither see nor correspond with me. My other patrons deserted me: they had been introduced by the Marquis; and, finding that he had some private reason to shun me, they fell off rapidly. I was compelled to break up my establishment: it ruined me in pocket, as it had ruined many, many young females in virtue. But for none of my victims did I reck—no, not one, save Harriet Markham.

  “I fell gradually lower and lower in the scale of my avocations; but still I contrived to gain a living in various ways which have no connexion with the object of this narrative. It was about a year after the sad events above recorded, that I one day met Harriet Wilmot face to face in the neighbourhood of Bloomsbury. She was poorly clad and sickly in appearance; and her countenance was expressive of profound mental dejection. She held a letter in her hand; but she had not her child with her; and she was hurrying rapidly along—most probably to the post-office. ‘Harriet!’ I exclaimed, catching her by the hand.—She started at being thus accosted; but the moment her eyes fell on my countenance, she shuddered visibly, and cried out, ‘You!’—then she darted away as if in affright, dropping the letter upon the pavement. For some moments I was so stupefied by her abrupt flight, that I stood as it were paralyzed. But seeing the letter upon the pavement, I recovered the use of my limbs and hastened to pick it up. It was addressed ‘To the Marquis of Holmesford, Holmesford House.’ I hurried away with it, saying to myself, ‘Now I shall discover how far the connexion between Harriet and the Marquis went.’—But I was disappointed: the letter merely contained, as far as I can remember, these words:—‘I ought not to address your lordship, under the peculiar—the distressing circumstances which made us acquainted; but necessity compels me to appeal to your lordship’s bounty. It is not for myself, however, that I implore your aid; but for the sake of my child, who is starving! Oh! my lord, if you only knew what the feelings of a mother are when she beholds her infant shrieking for food, and turning its eyes towards her countenance in so piteous a manner that they speak the language of famine far more eloquently than its tongue could possibly do, were it able to express its wants in words,—if you could understand these feelings, you would not think ill of me because I thus appeal to your bounty.’—An address was given in an obscure street in Bloomsbury; and the letter was signed ‘Harriet Wilmot.’

  “Again I felt for that poor creature, who was now reduced, with her poor infant of fifteen months old, to such a state of penury; and I do not say it to render myself less despicable than I must appear in the eyes of those who may peruse this narrative,—but I merely state it as a fact, that I hastened home, gathered together the few shillings which I possessed, and hurried off to the address mentioned in Harriet’s letter. But when I reached the house indicated, I learnt from the landlady that Mrs. Wilmot had suddenly departed half an hour before. ‘She was very poor,’ observed the woman; ‘but she was honest. She strove hard to maintain herself with her needle, and starved herself to feed her infant. She thought herself quite happy when she earned five shillings in a week. Night after night did the poor creature sit up till she was nearly blind, toiling constantly at her work. And when she went away so suddenly just now, she offered me her shawl in payment of the little arrears of rent due. My God! I would sooner have given her all I had than have taken a rag from her! Ah!’ added the woman, wiping her eyes, ‘there’s something very wrong somewhere in the country when such good mothers are allowed to die by inches through sheer famine!’

  “I went away, very miserable. I felt convinced that Harriet, when she perceived she had lost her letter, suspected that it might fall into my hands, and that I should thereby learn her place of abode. And it was clear that she had departed so abruptly to avoid me! I have kept that letter—as well as all the others to which I refer in my history.

  “As nearly as I can recollect, two years and three quarters passed away; and I again saw Harriet. It was in the month of January, about noon on a bitter cold day; and I was walking through Long Acre, when I suddenly perceived her enter a house, which was evidently let in lodgings to poor families. She did not observe me; but I felt a violent longing to make my peace, if possible, with that unfortunate victim of my treachery. The door stood open for the accommodation of the various inmates; and I hurried up the staircase. I heard footsteps before me—and I followed them to the very top of the house: then I caught a glimpse of Harriet entering a back garret. I advanced to the door, and knocked gently. Harriet immediately opened it; but when she beheld me, she recoiled with such an expression of horror and alarm upon her death-like countenance, that I was dreadfully embarrassed. ‘My dear friend,’ I said, at length: ‘pray—in the name of heaven! hear me!’—‘You!’ she cried, in that shrieking kind of tone which had marked her utterance of the word when we met before, and which showed her utter abhorrence of me—a sentiment I well deserved: ‘hear you! Oh! no—no!’—and she closed the door violently. I knew not how to act. I felt convinced that she had never communicated with Mr. Markham since the period when he made that mysterious but ‘terrible discovery’ to which he alluded in his letter that fell into my hands. I thought I would acquaint her with the existence of that letter and the nature of its contents; because it promised an income which would have placed her above want. So I sate down upon the stairs to reflect how I should proceed to induce her to hear me. In a few minutes the door opened quickly, and Harriet, with her child (who was then four years old) in her arms and a small bundle in her hand, appeared on the landing. She shrank back when she saw me—she evidently thought I was gone. Then, recovering herself, she exclaimed, ‘Wretch! why do you haunt me? Have you not injured me enough already? Will you not even let me die in peace?’—I started up, saying, ‘Do hear me! You know not how important——.’—But ere I could utter another word, she rushed wildly past me, and ran down the stairs with a precipitation which manifested her profound horror at my presence.

  “Thus had I involuntarily driven her a second time from her humble home! I was sorely afflicted, for many reasons—but chiefly because my motives were not on either occasion wrong. I was about to take my departure, when I thought I would cast a look at the interior of the chamber which she had inhabited. By its appearance I hoped to judge of her circumstances, which I sincerely wished might be improved. I entered the room: it was evidently a ready-furnished garret. I am able to recognise such facts at a glance. Though not absolutely wretched, it was mean—very mean—too mean to permit the idea that she, poor creature! was comfortable in her resources. Several papers were burning in the grate: she had evidently set fire to them the moment ere she left the room in the precipitate manner described. I hastened to extinguish the smouldering flames, but redeemed the fragment of only one important paper. It contained the commencement of a letter evidently written that morning, as I discovered by the date. Strange to say, it was another epistle addressed ‘To the Marquis of Holmesford, Holmesford House.’ Its contents were to this effect:—‘Your lordship will pardon me for again intruding myself upon your notice; but a deep sense of the duty I owe to my child, and the dread of leaving the poor innocent girl to the mercy of strangers—for the
hand of Death seems to be already upon me—must serve as my excuse for thus troubling you. And when your lordship reflects that it is to you that I owe all the hideous misery which has been my lot for nearly four years,—through you that I lost the love and confidence of my husband,—your lordship’s heart will not allow this appeal to be made in vain. Hitherto your lordship has remained unacquainted with the name of that husband of whom I speak: but now it is my duty to reveal it to you, that your lordship may see him and ex——’

  “The remainder had been so scorched that it was illegible. Conjecture relative to the termination of the sentence was vain. Was the unfinished word explain? Or was it express? Often—often have I sate and wondered what the end of the passage originally was, ere the flames singed that sad letter. She felt the hand of Death already upon her; and I had driven her from the place where she wished to die in peace! Wretch—wretch that I was!

  “From that time forth I never saw her more!

  “All that I know of Harriet Markham is now told. The only link that is missing in the chain of my narrative is the detailed account of the mode in which Mr. Markham discovered that his wife had become the victim of the Marquis of Holmesford. That mystery the Marquis himself may be enabled to explain.

  “My task is terminated: nor would I for worlds be compelled to accomplish it over again. It has given additional poignancy to thoughts that frequently oppress me, and has aroused others equally painful, but which had slumbered for years and years until now. And where I write—I dare not name the place, nor even those at whose command I write—there is a fearful gloom that is congenial, too congenial with those appalling reminiscences. Perhaps I should have felt and expressed less remorse for the past, had I written under more pleasant circumstances; perhaps, in that case, many of those dread images which here haunt my mind and are reflected in the bewailings and self-reproaches which appear in these pages, would not have visited me: still, had I performed this task in a cheerful chamber and in the gladdening sun-light,—even then I must have felt some remorse—for of all the bad deeds of my life, the treachery which I perpetrated towards Harriet is the blackest!