“But for what purpose? with what view?” demanded Vernon, who saw that he was completely in Greenwood’s power.
“I will come to that presently,” was the calm reply. “You do not even give me credit for the delicacy with which I acted in bringing about this interview?”
“Delicacy!” repeated Vernon, his lip curling haughtily.
“Yes—delicacy,” added Greenwood. “I knew not whether you passed at your lodging by your proper name; and therefore I would not call in person to inquire for you—fearful of betraying you.”
“But I do pass there in my proper name,” said Vernon; “for the old widow who keeps the house nursed me in my infancy, and I can rely upon her.”
“Thank you for this admission, Mr. Vernon,” rejoined Greenwood, complacently: “wherever reliance is to be placed, it is clear that there is something which might be betrayed. You have confirmed the strength of my previous convictions.”
“Do not think that I made that admission unguardedly,” said Vernon, nettled by Greenwood’s manner. “No: I see that I am in your power—I admit it; and therefore I no longer attempted to mislead you.”
“And you acted wisely,” returned Greenwood. “It were far better for you to have me as a friend, than as an enemy. But, as I was ere now observing, it was to avoid the chance of betraying you that I sent my faithful valet, Filippo, to loiter about Stamford Street last evening, and slip my note into your hands. I described your person to him—and he executed my commission well.”
“Then you have no inimical motive in seeking me out—in telling me all that you suspect?” said Vernon, looking suspiciously at Greenwood from beneath his dark brows.
“Not the slightest! How can I have such a motive?” exclaimed Greenwood. “A secret falls in my way—and I endeavour to profit by it. That is all.”
“I scarcely comprehend you,” observed the guilty man, his countenance again becoming overcast.
“In one word, Mr. Vernon,” continued Greenwood, emphatically, “you come to England privately—upon some secret and mysterious errand. Still you pass by your own name at your lodging. That circumstance to superficial observers might seem to involve a strange want of precaution. To me it appears a portion of your plan, and the result of a judicious calculation. You return privately to England, I say—but you retain your own name at a place where you know it will not be betrayed unless circumstances should peremptorily demand its revelation; and then, should certain suspicions attach themselves to you, you would say boldly and feasibly also—‘It is true that I came to England to live quietly; but I attempted no disguise—I assumed no fictitious name.’ Ah! I can penetrate further into the human heart than most people: my experience of the world is of no common order.”
“It would seem not,” said Vernon: “especially as you also appear to know Anthony Tidkins, since you recognised him in my society the other night.”
“There are few men at all notorious for their good or evil deeds, in this great city, who are unknown to me,” observed Greenwood, calmly. “But permit me to continue. You are here—in this country, while really deemed to be abroad—under circumstances of no ordinary mystery; your brother smokes the tobacco you so kindly sent him—and dies; your associate the Resurrection Man and you are now about to proceed to Ravensworth Hall—doubtless convinced that you have allowed a sufficient interval to elapse since your brother’s death in the middle of February, to maintain the belief—where such belief suits your purposes—that you have only just had time to receive that intelligence in the East, and thence return to England. Can you deny one tittle of my most reasonable conjectures?”
“Greenwood, you are an extraordinary man,” cried Vernon, affecting an ease which he did not feel and a sudden familiarity which he did not like. “Did I not before say that I would no longer attempt to mislead you? And I am willing to secure you as my friend.”
“You now speak to the point. I candidly confess that I have told you all I suspect or know concerning yourself and your affairs,” proceeded Greenwood; “and I am perfectly indifferent as to whether you choose to enlighten me farther, or not. Doubtless you have some defined course to pursue; or else the aid of the Resurrection Man would be unnecessary. But whether you hope to inherit largely under your deceased brother’s will; or whether you can establish claims that may benefit you, in spite of the existence of the infant heir of Ravensworth, who was born a month ago——”
“Ah! the birth of that heir has well-nigh destroyed all my hopes!” interrupted Vernon, again rising from his seat. “But, tell me—what do you require at my hands? how am I to secure you as my friend? how am I to purchase your continued silence concerning all you have divined, or now know?”
“With money,” replied Greenwood: “with that article which buys every thing in this world!”
“Money!—I have none!” exclaimed Vernon. “But ere long——”
“Stay!” cried Greenwood: “tell me nothing of your schemes—nothing of your projects! I would rather remain in ignorance of the designs you may have in view; for, look you, Mr. Vernon,—though, between ourselves, I am not over nice in some matters, as you may probably suppose from the fact that Anthony Tidkins is known to me, as well as from my readiness to receive a bribe to ensure my secrecy in respect to your proceedings,—yet I do not care if I tell you that I shudder when I think of the lengths to which you have already gone—to which, perhaps, you are still prepared to go!”
“Was it to read me a moral lecture that you sought this interview?” demanded the Honourable Gilbert Vernon, with a contemptuous curl of the lip.
“No—far from that!” responded Greenwood. “And therefore enough of this style of discourse on my part. Still the observations were not unnecessary; for they serve to explain the relative positions in which we stand. You have already committed one fearful crime—and I know it: perhaps you meditate another—and I suspect it. But it is not for me to betray you—nor to reason with you:—I am not inclined to do either—provided you are grateful.”
“Mr. Greenwood,” said Vernon, speaking thickly between his set teeth, “you shall have a noble reward, if you religiously keep my secret.”
“Such is the understanding at which I was desirous to arrive,” observed Greenwood.
Gilbert Vernon then took his leave, in no very enviable state of mind under the conviction that his crimes had placed him so entirely in the power of such an extortioner as the Member for Rottenborough.
We must observe, ere we conclude the chapter, that Filippo, the Italian valet, had listened at the door of the drawing-room where this interview took place; and that not a syllable of the whole conversation was lost upon him.
In the evening Filippo obtained leave of absence for a few hours; and he availed himself of this license to repair to the villa in which Eliza Sydney dwelt.
CHAPTER CCXXXII.
SCENES AT RAVENSWORTH HALL.
It was about five o’clock in the afternoon of the same day on which the interview between George Montague Greenwood and the Honourable Gilbert Vernon took place, that a post-chaise advanced rapidly through Ravensworth Park, towards the Hall.
In a few minutes it stopped at the principal entrance of the mansion; and the Honourable Mr. Vernon alighted.
Quentin, who received him, made some inquiry in a respectful tone concerning his baggage.
“My valet will be here in the evening with my trunks,” replied Vernon, abruptly.
Thus, without committing himself by a positive assertion, he led Quentin and the other domestics who were present to infer that he had only just arrived in England, and had left his servant in London to clear his baggage at the Custom-House.
Quentin bowed as he received that answer, and hastened to conduct Mr. Vernon to the drawing-room where Lady Ravensworth was seated.
The widow and her brother-in-law now met for
the first time.
Vernon saw before him a young and beautiful woman, very pale, and with a countenance whose expression denoted much suffering—mental rather than physical. It was true that she had only lately become a mother,—that little more than a month had elapsed since she had given birth to an heir to the proud title and broad lands of Ravensworth;—and though the pallor of her face was the natural consequence of so recent an event, yet the physical languor which usually follows also, had given place to a nervousness of manner—a restlessness of body—a rapid wandering of the eyes—and an occasional firm compression of the lips, which indicated an uneasy mind.
Alas! upon that woman’s soul lay a crime heavy and oppressive as a weight of lead! The voice of the murdered Lydia was ever ringing in her ears;—the countenance of the murdered Lydia was ever staring her in the face—ghastly, distorted, and livid in appearance;—the form of the murdered Lydia was ever standing before her! At night the spectre placed itself between the opening of the curtains, and seemed more palpable—more horrible—more substantial in the hours of darkness.
No wonder, then, that her mind was restless—that her manner was nervous—and that her looks were wandering and unsettled!
But let us continue the thread of our narrative, taking it up at the moment when the Honourable Gilbert Vernon entered the apartment where Lady Ravensworth rose to receive him.
Extending her hand towards him, she said, “Welcome to this mansion: it is kind of you to answer so speedily in person the letters which it was my painful duty to address to you at Beyrout.”
These words reassured Vernon on one important point: they proved that letters had been sent, conveying the intelligence of his brother’s death.
“Accept my gratitude for the cordiality with which you receive me, sister—for such you will permit me to call you,” answered Vernon; “and believe me——. But, good God! what ails you? what is the matter, Lady Ravensworth? You are ill—you——”
“That voice—that voice!” shrieked Adeline, staggering towards a chair, on which she sank helplessly. “Oh! Mr. Vernon——”
Gilbert was astounded at the affrighted manner and strange ejaculations of his sister-in-law;—but, seeing that she was on the point of fainting, he snatched from the table a small bottle of powerful scent, and handed it to her.
She inhaled the perfume, which acted as a slight restorative; but it was chiefly to the natural vigour of her mind, and to the imperious necessity in which dread circumstances had placed her of constantly maintaining as much command over herself as possible, that she was indebted for her almost immediate recovery from the state into which sudden surprise and profound alarm had thrown her.
“Perhaps your ladyship is desirous that I should withdraw?” said Vernon. “There many be something in my countenance—my manner—or my voice that recalls to your mind painful reminiscences of my lately-departed brother:—it is natural that you should experience these feelings;—and I will leave you for the present.”
“No, Mr. Vernon—stay!” exclaimed Adeline, in a tone which denoted the most painful excitement and agitation.
“Compose yourself, then: attempt not to pursue the conversation immediately,” said Gilbert; “for as—with your permission—it is my intention to become your guest for a few weeks——”
“My guest!” repeated Adeline, with a shudder.
“Really, my dear sister,” exclaimed Vernon, somewhat impatiently; “I am at a loss to understand the meaning of this excitement on your part. It is not caused by those reminiscences to which I ere now alluded: it begins to assume the aspect of aversion towards myself. Pardon me if I speak thus plainly; but if I be indeed hateful to you—if slanderous tongues have wronged me in your estimation—if even my own brother were cruel enough to malign me to his wife——”
“Mr. Vernon,” interrupted Adeline, with a kind of feverish haste, “your conjectures will never lead you to discover the true cause of that agitation which I could not conquer, and which has offended you. The moment you addressed me, I was seized with a strange surprise—a wild alarm; and those feelings still influence me to some extent,—for methinks that I have heard your voice before!”
And she fixed her eyes in a penetrating manner upon his countenance.
“It may be,” answered Vernon, quailing not beneath that look—for he had so desperate a part to play at Ravensworth Hall, that he knew how much depended upon a self-command and a collectedness of ideas that might avert suspicion,—“it may be, sister, that some years ago—ere I left England—we met in those circles in which we both move by right of birth and social position; and, although I do not remember that I ever had the pleasure of seeing you until now, still such a meeting may have occurred, and your mind may have retained certain impressions——”
“No, Mr. Vernon,” again interrupted Adeline; “that surmise—even if correct—will not account for the cause of my agitation. To speak candidly, my impression was—and still is,—and yet,” she added, suddenly recollecting herself, “if that impression should be indeed erroneous, I should insult you—insult you grossly by explaining it——”
“Proceed, dear sister,” said Vernon, gaining additional assurance, in proportion as Lady Ravensworth hesitated. “State to me candidly the impression which you received; and I will as candidly answer you.”
“Yes—I will tell you the reason of that excitement which nearly overcame me,” cried Adeline, whose suspicions were robbed of much of their strength by the calm and apparently open manner of her brother-in-law.
“And believe me when I declare that I shall readily pardon you, however injurious to myself may be the impression my voice has unfortunately made upon you. I can make ample allowances for one who has lately lost a beloved husband, and whose anxieties have been increased by the duties of maternity,” added Gilbert.
“In one word, then, Mr. Vernon,” continued Adeline, “it struck me that on a certain evening—in the month of February—I heard your voice,—yes, your voice in conversation with another person, in a ruined cottage which stands on the verge of the Ravensworth estate.”
And, as she spoke, she again studied his countenance with the most earnest attention.
Desperate was the effort which the guilty man exerted over the painful excitement of feeling which this declaration produced within him:—in a moment he recalled to mind all the particulars of his meeting with the Resurrection Man at the ruined lodge; and he also remembered that he had lost on the same occasion the scrap of paper on which was written the address of his terrible agent in crime. But he did succeed in maintaining a calm exterior:—steadily he met the searching glance fixed upon him;—and though his heart beat with fearful emotions, not a muscle of his countenance betrayed the agitation that raged within his breast.
“My dear sister,” said Vernon, in a cool and collected tone, “you are labouring under a most extraordinary delusion. Think you that there is not another voice in the world like mine? Believe me, had I been in this country at the time to which you allude, I should have only felt too much rejoiced to have paid my respects to you at an earlier period than the present.”
Adeline listened to the deep tones of that voice which now rolled upon her ear like a perpetuation of the echoes of the one which she had heard in the ruins;—and she was still staggered at the resemblance! She also remembered that, in spite of the darkness of the night, she had on that occasion caught a glimpse of the tall and somewhat stout form which had passed near her, and which she knew not to have been that of the Resurrection Man, whom she had since seen:—and she was bewildered more and more.
But the calmness with which Vernon denied the circumstance of being in England at that time,—the steady, honest manner with which he declared that she was labouring under a delusion in identifying his voice with the one she had heard in the ruined lodge,—and the absence of any motive which she could conj
ecture for his maintaining his presence in this country (even were he really here at the period alluded to) so profoundly secret,—these arguments staggered her still more than even her contrary suspicions.
On his side, Vernon was congratulating himself on the evident embarrassment of his sister-in-law; and he felt convinced that the sound of his voice alone—and nothing that had passed between him and Tidkins in the ruined cottage—had produced an impression upon her.
“You will then forgive me for a momentary suspicion that was injurious to you?” said Adeline, after a short pause, and now adopting the only course open to her in the matter.
“I have come to England to form your acquaintance—your friendship,—to see if I can be of service to you in the position in which my brother’s death and the birth of a son have placed you,—to aid you in the settlement of any affairs which may require the interference of a relative,” answered Vernon; “for these purposes have I come—and not to vex you by taking umbrage at impressions which, however painful to me, are pardonable on the side of one in your situation.”
“Then let us banish from our conversation the disagreeable topic which has hitherto engrossed it,” exclaimed Adeline. “It is my duty to give you some information in respect to certain matters; and the family solicitor will, when you may choose to call upon him, enter into more elaborate details. You are aware that your poor brother died ere his child was born. But so far back as last November his lordship made a will the provisions of which were so prudentially arranged as to apply to the welfare of either male or female progeny, whichever might be accorded by Providence. Two distinguished noblemen are now my son’s guardians, under that will, and consequently the trustees of the entailed estate.”
The Mysteries of London, Vol. II [Unabridged & Illustrated] (Valancourt Classics) Page 103
