“Lord, ma’am, don’t be angry with me for just presenting my obscure self to your notice,” said Tidkins, with a horrible chuckle. “You can’t pretend not to know me, after all that’s taken place between us?”
“Know you!—I know only that you are Mr. Vernon’s valet, and that he shall chastise you for this insolence,” cried Adeline, astonished at her own effrontery: but her case was so truly desperate!
“I always thought you was the cleverest woman I ever came near,” said the Resurrection Man; “but I also pride myself on being as sharp a fellow as here and there one. If I was on the rack I could swear to your voice although it is feigned, and though when you came to my crib you kept your face out of sight. But your voice—your height—your manner,—every thing convinces me that I and Lady Ravensworth are old friends.”
“You are mistaken, sir—grossly mistaken,” cried Adeline, almost wildly. “I do not know you—I never saw you before you set foot in this house the other night.”
“And then you recognised me so well that you fainted on the stairs,” returned Tidkins, maliciously. “But if you think to put me off with denials like this, I can soon show you the contrary; for, though I was blindfolded when you brought me to the Hall on a certain night in the middle of February last, I am not quite such a fool as to have forgot the gardens we passed through—the little door leading to the private staircase at the south end of the building—and the very position of the room where the mischief was done. Why, bless you, ma’am, I began to suspect all about it the very first hour I was in this house, when the servants got talking of a certain Lydia Hutchinson who disappeared just about that time.”
“You are speaking of matters wholly incomprehensible to me,” said Lady Ravensworth, whose tone and countenance, however, strangely belied the words which she uttered. “It is true that a servant of mine, named Lydia Hutchinson, decamped in the month of February last; and if you know any thing concerning her——”
“By Satan!” cried the Resurrection Man, stamping his foot with impatience; “this is too much! Do you pretend that it was not Lydia Hutchinson whom you hired me to throttle in your own chamber?”
“Monster!” screamed Adeline, starting from her seat, and speaking in her proper tone, being now completely thrown off her guard: “of what would you accuse me?”
And her countenance, which expressed all the worst and most furious passions of her soul, contrasted strangely with her garb of widowhood.
“Of nothing more than I accuse myself,” answered the Resurrection Man, brutally. “But if you want any other proof of what I say, come along with me, and I’ll show you the very pond in which the body of Lydia Hutchinson is rotting. Ah! I found out that too, during my rambles yesterday!”
Adeline’s cheeks were flushed with rage when he began to answer her last question; but as he went on, all the colour forsook them; and, pale—pale as a corpse, she fell back again upon the sofa.
“There! I knew I should bring it home to you,” said the Resurrection Man, coolly surveying the condition to which he had reduced the guilty woman. “But don’t be frightened—I’m not going to blab, for my own sake. I haven’t even told your brother-in-law about this business. Tony Tidkins never betrays his employers.”
Lady Ravensworth cast a rapid glance at his countenance as he uttered these words; and catching at the assurance which they conveyed, she said in a low and hollow tone, “You have not really acquainted Mr. Vernon with all this?”
“Not a syllable of it!” cried Tidkins. “Why should I? he wouldn’t pay me the more for betraying you!”
“Then how came you here during my interview with him?” demanded Adeline, almost suffocated by painful emotions. “Was he not privy to your presence?”
“He was, my lady,” answered Tidkins, in a less familiar tone than before: “but for all that, he doesn’t know what business I had with your ladyship.”
“This is false—you are deceiving me!” exclaimed Adeline, with hysterical impatience.
“Not a whit of it, ma’am: I’m too independent to deceive any body,” rejoined the Resurrection Man. “In plain terms, your brother-in-law has taken a fancy to this place, and means to stay here for a few weeks.”
“He is very kind!” said Adeline, bitterly.
“But he doesn’t like sitting down to breakfast and dinner by himself, and to lounge about in the drawing-room without a soul to speak to,” continued the Resurrection Man; “for a petticoat is the natural ornament of a drawing-room. So what he wants is a little more of your society; and as he didn’t exactly know how to obtain his wishes in this respect, I offered to use my interest with your ladyship.”
“Your interest!” repeated Lady Ravensworth, disdainfully.
“Yes, ma’am—and that can’t be small either,” returned Tidkins, with a leer. “Now all you have to do is to show yourself more in the drawing and dining-rooms—and on my part I engage not to breathe a word of the Lydia Hutchinson affair to Mr. Vernon.”
“And can you for a moment think that I shall submit to be dictated to in this manner?” cried Adeline, again becoming flushed with indignation.
“I do indeed think it, ma’am,” answered Tidkins, coolly; “and what is more, I mean it, too—or, as sure as you’re there, I’ll drag up the body of Lydia Hutchinson, as I did last night!”
“O heavens!” shrieked Adeline: “what do you mean?”
“I mean, my lady, that when I heard the servants talking about the loss of your jewel-casket, I began to suspect that you had sacrificed it to create an idea that Lydia Hutchinson had bolted with it,” answered Tidkins; “and I thought it just probable that I should find it in the pond. So last night I fished up the dead body——”
“Enough! enough!” cried Adeline, wildly: “Oh! this is too much!—you will drive me mad!”
“Not a bit of it, ma’am,” returned Tidkins. “A clever and strong-minded lady like you shouldn’t give way in this manner. All I wanted was the casket and——”
“And what?” said Adeline, speaking in a tone as if she were suffocating.
“And I got it,” was the answer. “But I rolled the body back again into the pond; and there it’ll stay—unless you force me to drag it up once more, and bring it to the Hall.”
“No: never—never!” screamed Lady Ravensworth. “Were you to perpetrate such a horrible deed, I would die that moment—I would stab myself to the heart—or I would leap from this window on the stones beneath! Beware, dreadful man—or you will drive me mad! But if you require gold—if you need money, speak: let me purchase your immediate departure from this house.”
“That does not suit my book, ma’am,” answered Tidkins. “Here I must remain while it suits the pleasure of my master,” he added, with a low chuckling laugh.
“And what business keeps your master here? what wickedness does he meditate? why does he force his presence upon me?” cried Adeline, rapidly.
“I don’t know any thing about that,” answered the Resurrection Man. “All I have to say can be summed up in a word: leave your own chamber and act as becomes the mistress of the house. Preside at your own table—this very day too;—or, by Satan! ma’am, I’ll take a stroll by the pond in the evening, and then run back to the Hall with a cry that I have seen a human hand appear above the surface!”
Having thus expressed his appalling menaces, the Resurrection Man hurried from the apartment.
Lady Ravensworth pressed her hands to her brow, murmuring, “O heavens! I shall go mad—I shall go mad!”
CHAPTER CCXXXVI.
WOMAN AS SHE OUGHT TO BE.
A quarter of an hour after the interview between Lady Ravensworth and the Resurrection Man, Eliza Sydney repaired to the little parlour before mentioned, in compliance with a message which had been conveyed to her from Quentin.
The moment she entered
that room she was struck by the ghastly and alarming appearance of the valet.
He was pacing the apartment with agitated steps; his face was as pale as death—his eyes rolled wildly in their sockets—and his entire aspect was that of a man who had just seen some terrible spectacle, or heard some appalling revelation.
“In heaven’s name, what is the cause of this excitement?” asked Eliza, advancing towards the valet, after she had carefully closed the door.
“Oh! madam—oh! Mrs. Beaufort,” exclaimed Quentin, clasping his hands together through the intenseness of his mental anguish; “by playing the part of your spy I have learnt a most dreadful secret! Merciful God! this house has become the head-quarters of diabolical crime: its very atmosphere is tainted with the foul breath of murderers;—destruction lurks within its walls. Oh! accursed house, of which not one stone should be left upon another!”
“Quentin, you alarm me!” cried Eliza. “Speak—explain yourself! What mean these strange expressions?”
“Madam,” said the valet, drawing close to her, and speaking in a low and hollow tone, “have you heard of a certain Lydia Hutchinson, who disappeared from this dwelling about two months ago?”
“Yes: the nurse was this morning telling me something about that event,” answered Eliza; “but Lady Ravensworth hastened to change the conversation.”
“And no wonder, madam—no wonder!” observed Quentin. “Oh! that I should still remain in the service of one who has perpetrated such a deed!”
“Will you explain yourself, Quentin?” cried Eliza, somewhat impatiently. “I see that you have learnt a dreadful secret: but wherefore keep me thus in suspense?”
“Pardon me, madam—forgive me,” said Quentin, “I ought not to trifle with you! But, ah! madam, what will you think—how will you act, when you learn that she for whom you are so generously striving to combat the wicked plots of Gilbert Vernon,—that Lady Ravensworth, in a word, is—is——”
“Is what?” said Eliza, hastily.
“A murderess!” returned Quentin, shuddering from head to foot as he uttered the appalling word.
“Just heaven! what do I hear?” exclaimed Eliza, the colour forsaking her cheeks. “Oh! no—no: it cannot be! Recall that assertion, Quentin; for you are labouring under some strange delusion!”
“Would that I were, madam,” said the valet, in a mournful tone; “but, alas! I heard too much—and that much too plainly—to entertain a doubt! Yes, Mrs. Beaufort—that lady to whom you have devoted yourself, is the murderess of poor Lydia Hutchinson!”
“Oh! this is indeed a house of crime, Quentin!” exclaimed Eliza Sydney, now greatly excited. “But tell me how you made this fearful discovery!”
“I will endeavour to collect my thoughts sufficiently to explain it all, madam,” said the valet. “You must know, that about two hours ago, the miscreant Tidkins brought me a note, written by his master, and to be sent up to my lady. To this note a verbal message was returned that my lady would see Mr. Vernon in an hour in the drawing-room.”
“Yes—that interview took place with my entire concurrence,” observed Eliza.
“Obedient to your instructions, madam,” continued Quentin, “I kept a constant watch upon Tidkins; and when the hour for the meeting between my lady and Mr. Vernon approached, I saw Tidkins accompany his master to the drawing-room. This circumstance struck me to be so singular, that I concealed myself in an ante-room, separated only by folding doors from the saloon itself. It appears that Tidkins had placed himself behind the screen; for, after a few words of little consequence had passed between my lady and her brother-in-law, the latter left the apartment—and Tidkins burst forth from his hiding-place! Oh! madam, never shall I forget the scene which followed! By means of the key-hole I could perceive, as well as hear, all that occurred in the drawing-room. With the most insolent familiarity did Tidkins address my lady; and, though for a time she steadily denied all participation in the murder of Lydia Hutchinson, at length she acknowledged it—she admitted it!”
“Miserable woman that she is!” exclaimed Eliza. “Oh! this accounts for her sleepless nights—her constant nervousness—her strange looks!”
“And it is the corpse of Lydia Hutchinson, madam,” added Quentin, “which was last night dragged from the pond by that fiend who was hired by my lady to murder her!”
The valet then detailed at length all the conversation which had taken place between the Resurrection Man and Lady Ravensworth, and which explained wherefore Tidkins had fished up the body of the murdered woman.
“It is therefore clear,” said Eliza, horror-struck at all she heard, “that it is the lost casket which Tidkins buried at the foot of the tree.”
“Doubtless, madam. But it now remains for you to decide what course you will pursue,” continued Quentin: “as for me, my mind is made up—I shall depart within an hour from this abode of crime!”
“Such will not be my conduct,” said Eliza, firmly. “Dreadful as is the guilt of Lady Ravensworth, I cannot find it in my heart to abandon her to her enemies. She must have received some fearful provocation to have been driven thus to rid herself of a servant whom, under ordinary circumstances she might have abruptly discharged.”
“I think that I can penetrate into the mystery of this crime, madam,” observed Quentin. “Her ladyship admitted a certain Colonel Cholmondeley to her chamber; and this intrigue was known to Lydia Hutchinson.”
“Oh! crime upon crime!” ejaculated Eliza Sydney, with a shudder. “Yet will I not abandon this very guilty and very miserable woman! No!—for the sake of her babe will I still aid her in defeating her enemies! And this duty becomes the more imperious, inasmuch as if Gilbert Vernon should be made acquainted with her enormities—if the miscreant Tidkins should betray her to his master—he would obtain a hold upon her that must further all his vile schemes.”
“And will you remain, madam, in the midst of these murderers?” asked Quentin, profoundly surprised at the resolution of Eliza Sydney:—“will you remain in the same house with Vernon, the murderer of his brother,—with Tidkins, who lives by murder,—and with Lady Ravensworth the murderess of Lydia Hutchinson? Can you continue to dwell in such horrible society?”
“As a matter of duty—yes,” answered Eliza. “Were the infant heir of Ravensworth abandoned to the designs of those dreadful men, his life would not be worth a month’s purchase; and his mother would not dare to publish the foul deed, even were he murdered before her face!”
“The protection of that child is indeed a duty,” said Quentin, in a musing manner; “and my lord was always a good and kind master to me! I have eaten his bread for many years—I have amassed in his service enough to keep me in my old age! Madam,” added the valet, turning abruptly round towards Eliza, “your noble example shall not be lost upon me! I will remain here—I will obey your instructions—for you are a lady of whose confidence a humble individual like myself should feel proud!”
How powerful is the moral influence of a virtuous woman, performing painful but solemn, though self-imposed duties! And, oh! had that man, who now felt and acknowledged this influence,—had he known that he stood in the presence of one whose brow had been adorned with a diadem, and who still possessed a ducal title, although she used it not,—had he known all this, he would have fallen at her feet, in homage to one so great and good!
“Your resolution, Quentin, to remain here as the protector of your lamented master’s heir, does you honour,” exclaimed Eliza. “And, as you are indeed deserving of my confidence, I will acquaint you with the course which I shall adopt towards Lady Ravensworth. For the sake of her family—for the sake of the memory of her deceased husband—for the sake of her child, I will spare her that exposure, and those fearful consequences of such exposure, which justice seems to demand in expiation of a crime so foul as hers. Never—never could I consent to be the means of sending one of
my own sex to a scaffold! No: I will gently break to her my knowledge of her guilt; I will enjoin her to pray often—long—and fervently to that Almighty Power which can show mercy to those who truly repent, be they never so deeply stained with crime; and I will endeavour to conduct her mind to that state which shall atone for the great sin which lies so heavy on her soul!”
“Ah! madam,” exclaimed Quentin, in unfeigned admiration of this excellent lady; “were there more like you in this world, there would be far less need for prisons, criminal judges, and public executioners!”
“Reformation is better than punishment, Quentin,” said Eliza, impressively. “But let us now separate. I need not enjoin you to the strictest silence in respect to the awful discovery of this morning.”
“Oh! madam, tell me how to act, and I would not for worlds deviate from your instructions,” cried the valet.
“Thank you for this assurance,” said Eliza. “Before we separate, let me ask if you will assist in the performance of a painful but solemn duty which circumstances impose upon us?”
“Speak, madam,” returned Quentin: “I almost think that I can anticipate your explanation.”
“The corpse of the murdered woman must not be allowed to remain in that pond,” said Eliza, in a low, but emphatic tone.
“I had divined your thoughts, madam,” observed the valet. “To-night I will bury it—painful, horrible though that duty be.”
“And I will assist you in the sad task,” returned Eliza. “Nay—offer no objection: I am determined. To-night, at eleven o’clock, I will meet you in the garden near the wicket leading into the fields. You must be provided with the necessary implements for the purpose. In respect to the casket of jewels, leave it where it is—leave it to that dreadful man who will not long remain at large to dishonour human nature with his atrocities; for he and his present master will fall together—and the same knell shall ring for them both!”
The Mysteries of London, Vol. II [Unabridged & Illustrated] (Valancourt Classics) Page 107
