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

by George W. M. Reynolds

  And as he spoke, the grateful man’s voice became tremulous with emotions; and the big tears rolled down his cheeks.

  There was at that moment something so commanding—something so superior about even this vulgar individual, that Chichester and Harborough found themselves unable to reply to him in that strain of levity with which they would have gladly sought to sneer away his eulogies of one whom they hated and feared.

  “Yes,” continued Pocock: “all I possess in the world I owe to the Prince of Montoni. I am now at my ease—I live in my own house, bought with my own hard-earned money:—I can even afford to take a little pleasure, or an occasional ramble, as I was doing just now when accident brought me here. And, what is more, I always have a five-pound note to assist a friend. You cannot wonder, then, if I worship the very name of that man who from a comparatively humble rank has raised himself to such a proud height by his valour and his virtues.”

  “But what has all this to do with your anxiety to see the baronet and me?” inquired Chichester, in a tone displaying little of its wonted assurance.

  “A great deal,” answered Pocock. “I only want an opportunity to show the Prince how grateful I am to him; and for that reason have I looked out for you. Great, powerful, and rich as he now is, the memory of the past cannot oppress him; but still it would be satisfactory to his noble mind to receive from both of you the same confession of his innocence that he has had from me.”

  “What?” cried the baronet and Chichester together, as they exchanged troubled glances.

  “Yes—you know what I mean,” said Pocock; “and you dare not refuse me. Although it is my duty, perhaps, to step up stairs and quietly explain to the people there what kind of acquaintances they have got in you, yet the honour of the Prince is uppermost with me; and I will not expose you, if you at once write out and sign a paper saying that he was innocent and you was the guilty cause of his misfortunes.”

  “Impossible!” cried Harborough.

  “He would transport us!” ejaculated Chichester, turning deadly pale.

  “And no great harm if he did,” said the engraver, drily. “But consideration for me will prevent his punishing you. So if you value the friendship of your chums up stairs——”

  “It would never do to be shown up before them!” whispered the baronet with desperate emphasis to Chichester, whom he drew partially aside for a moment.

  “You will pledge yourself not to show to any one, save the Prince, the paper you require of us?” asked Chichester of the engraver.

  “When once you’ve given me that paper, I want to know nothing more of you or your pursuits,” replied Pocock.

  The two gentlemen exchanged a few hurried whispers, and then signified their assent to the arrangement proposed; for they found Egerton’s purse too useful a means to have recourse to at pleasure, to allow them to risk the loss of their influence over him.

  There were writing-materials in the room where the above conversation took place; and the document was speedily drawn up. Chichester wrote it under the supervision of Pocock, who would not allow him to abate one single tittle of all the infamy which characterised the proceedings that had engendered the misfortunes of Richard Markham.

  The paper was then duly signed, and delivered into the hands of the engraver.

  “Now that this little business is settled,” said he, “perhaps you two gentlemen will just allow me to observe that I have found an honest way of life much happier than a dishonest one, and quite as easy to pursue, if you only have the will; but whether you’ll profit by this advice or not, is more than I can say—and certainly much more than I should like to answer for.”

  With these words Pocock took his departure, the dog following close at his heels.

  Chichester and Harborough exchanged looks expressive of mingled vexation and contempt, and then returned to the drawing-room.

  The vehicles were almost immediately afterwards driven round to the principal entrance; and the company were on the point of leaving the apartment where the festivities had been so unpleasantly interrupted, when an ejaculation which escaped the lips of Colonel Cholmondeley, who was gazing from the window, caused them all to hasten to the casements.

  A travelling barouche was rapidly approaching the mansion!

  CHAPTER CCXLVIII.

  AN UNPLEASANT EXPOSURE.

  Egerton’s countenance grew pale as death, when he beheld that carriage hastening through the Park towards the entrance of the Hall.

  Dunstable perceived and understood his fear: and he himself experienced no little dread lest the approaching vehicle should contain Lady Ravensworth. But, in the next moment, this suspicion vanished; for it did not seem probable that her ladyship would return to a mansion totally unprepared to receive her.

  The old gardener was, however, now shaking with a new alarm; and the departure was hurried as much as possible: but the travelling barouche had stopped near the entrance of the Hall ere Egerton’s party had reached the bottom of the great staircase.

  There was no male domestic in attendance upon the carriage: the postillion accordingly alighted from his horse, opened the door, and assisted two females, both clad in deep mourning, to descend.

  Of those females, one was evidently a lady, and the other her maid.

  The former raised her black veil, immediately upon alighting, and gazed in astonishment upon the three vehicles which had prevented her own from drawing up immediately against the steps of the principal entrance.

  By this time Egerton’s party, followed by the old gardener who was doing his best to hurry the intruders away, had reached the portico; and it was at this precise moment that the lady raised her veil on descending from the barouche.

  Cholmondeley and Dunstable started; and the former exclaimed, “Lady Ravensworth!”

  Then, recovering his wonted self-command, he advanced towards Adeline, raised his hat, and said, “Your ladyship is doubtless astonished to see so large a party at Ravensworth Hall; but if you will permit me to speak to you five words in private——”

  “I have no secrets to discuss with Colonel Cholmondeley,” interrupted Adeline, in a tone of freezing hauteur and yet of deep dejection: then, turning towards Mrs. Bustard, who had thrust herself forward to learn why the arrival of a barouche containing a lady and her female attendant had produced such a singular excitement amongst the gentlemen of the party, she said, “May I be permitted to inquire, madam, the meaning of this assembly on the day of my return?”

  “If you’ll tell me fust, ma’am, who you are,” replied Mrs. Bustard, “may be I’ll satisfy you.”

  “I am Lady Ravensworth,” was the dignified answer.

  “Well then, my lady, all I can say is—and which I do on the part of my nephew Albert—that you’re quite welcome to occupy a room or two in this edifisk until such times as you can provide yourself with another place——”

  “My dear aunt, allow me to explain myself to Lady Ravensworth,” exclaimed Egerton, now stepping forward.

  “Eh—do, my boy,” cried Mrs. Bustard, whose voice was somewhat husky with champagne, and whose sight, from the same cause, was a little dizzy—so that she did not perceive the glance of mingled anger and astonishment which Adeline threw upon her while she was so politely offering her ladyship the use of apartments in Ravensworth Hall.

  “Lady Ravensworth, permit me—one word, I implore you!” said Lord Dunstable, in an under tone, as he advanced before Egerton.

  “Is this mystery to be explained to me at all?” cried Adeline. “Lord Dunstable, I have no better reason to grant a private interview to you than to your friend Colonel Cholmondeley: I therefore hope that, without further delay, you will inform me to what circumstance I am to attribute the honour which my poor mansion has experienced by receiving so large a party during my absence.”

  “Her mansi
on, indeed!” said Mrs. Bustard, with an indignant toss of the head, as she turned towards her daughters and Mr. Tedworth Jones, all of whom remained mute spectators of a scene, which was to them totally inexplicable.

  “Upon me must the weight of your ladyship’s anger fall,” said Egerton, again advancing, and mustering up all his courage to afford the requisite explanation.

  “No such a thing!” cried Mrs. Bustard. “What right has the lady to be angry? Because her house was put up for sale, and you bought it——”

  “Abraham, will you explain this enigma?” exclaimed Adeline, turning impatiently towards the gardener, whom she suddenly discovered peering from behind Sir Rupert Harborough.

  “Why, my lady,” said the old man, twisting his paper cap over and over in his hands as he dragged himself irresolutely forward, “your ladyship sees these wery respectable folk—leastways, respectable as far as I know anythink to the contrairey,—for my maxim is, my lady—as I often says to my old ’ooman—says I—at such times when she says, says she——”

  Adeline actually stamped her foot with impatience.

  “I’m a-coming to the pint, my lady,” continued the gardener, now completely crushing the paper cap in his hand; “and in doing that, my lady, I must ax your ladyship’s pardon—’cos I’m a poor simple old man which can’t boast of much edication—leastways, as I says to my old ’ooman——”

  “This is insupportable!” cried Adeline. “In one word, did you not receive my letter stating that it was my intention to return to the Hall this week?”

  “No, my lady—no such a letter ever come,” answered the gardener.

  “But you can perhaps inform me in two words how these ladies and gentlemen happened to honour my house with their presence?” said Adeline, speaking in a severe tone.

  “Your house, ma’am!” shouted Mrs. Bustard, her countenance flashing with indignation: “no such a thing! It’s my nephew’s—he bought it—and he is here to tell you so!”

  Thus speaking, she thrust Egerton forward.

  “My dear aunt,” said the young man, tears starting into his eyes, “I have deceived you! I am sorry for the cheat which I have practised upon you: but the truth is——”

  “Don’t tell me no more!” cried Mrs. Bustard. “I see it all. It’s a hoax—a shameful hoax! And I shouldn’t wonder if your Lord and your Baronet and your Honourables are all as Brummagem as our title to this edifisk. Come, Tedworth—come, gals: let’s get back to the Pavement. This is no place for us.”

  And having thus expressed herself, Mrs. Bustard bounced down the steps and clambered like an irritated elephant into the glass-coach, followed by her five daughters. Mr. Jones then mounted to the dickey; the seedy coachman whipped the horses, and the crazy old vehicle rattled away.

  Lady Ravensworth, attended by her maid, passed into the mansion without bestowing any farther notice on the gentlemen who still lingered upon the steps; and when she had thus disappeared, they hastened to take their departure for London, Egerton in a state of mind enviable only by a man about to be hanged.

  For nearly two years had Adeline been a voluntary exile from her native land; and, in the seclusion of a charming villa in the south of France, she had devoted herself to the care of her child, whom the gipsy Morcar had so miraculously saved from death. She also endeavoured, by the exercise of charity and a constant attention to her devotions, to atone for the crimes which she had committed; but, though deeply penitent, her soul could not stifle the pangs of an intense remorse. And thus had many—many sleepless nights—often rendered terrible by the shade of the murdered Lydia—dimmed the fires of Adeline’s eyes, and given to her cheeks the pallor of marble!

  Her only solace was her child, on whom she doated with all the affection which can be bestowed by a heart that has nothing else to love—nothing else to render existence even tolerable. The more she alienated her mind from the frivolities and levities which had occupied her when she was a brilliant star in the galaxy of London fashion,—and the more successfully she wrestled with those burning passions which had rendered her the willing victim of the seducer, even in her girlhood,—so much the more profound became her affection for the infant Ferdinand. But that consolation was not to endure. Five months before her return to England the boy was snatched away from her,—suddenly snatched away by the rude hand of Fever, as the rose-bud is cropped by the bleak north wind.

  Then how desolate became the heart of Adeline! She felt that her punishment had not yet ceased on earth.

  No longer were there charms for her in a foreign land; and she panted to return to her native clime. For some weeks she wrestled against this inclination; but having imparted her desire to Eliza Sydney, with whom she regularly corresponded, a letter from that excellent lady set her mind at ease as to the expediency of re-visiting England. Eliza offered no argument against the project; and Lady Ravensworth accordingly hastened her preparations for a departure from the south of France.

  The faithful Quentin was still in her service; but the English lady’s-maid, who had followed Adeline to the Continent, had married and settled in France. A French woman, therefore, supplied her place; and it was this foreign servant who accompanied Lady Ravensworth on her return to the Hall.

  Adeline’s desire was to retrace her way in privacy to the mansion which, according to the conditions of her late husband’s will, had become her own—for there was now no male heir to the proud title and broad lands of Ravensworth: and her intention was to dwell in the strictest retirement at the mansion. She had written to the gardener to command him to prepare for her return; but, by some accident, the letter had miscarried—and hence the old man’s ignorance of the approach of his mistress.

  On her arrival, by the Calais steam-packet, at London Bridge, Adeline had left Quentin to clear the baggage at the Custom-House, and had proceeded direct to the Hall. The incidents which immediately followed her arrival are already known to the reader.

  It may, however, appear strange that Adeline should come back to a dwelling where she had suffered so much, and which could not fail to recall to her with renewed force the black crime which lay so heavily upon her conscience. But her mind was in that morbid state which is so well calculated to engender idiosyncratic ideas; and she believed that the very fact of her return to the scene of her enormity would prove a penance most salutary to the soul. Such purely Roman Catholic sentiments are frequently found exercising a deep influence over minds which contrition for great crimes has disposed to superstitious tendencies.

  There were also considerations of a more worldly nature which to some extent urged Lady Ravensworth to return to the Hall. She loathed the idea of dwelling amidst the noise, the din, and the crowds of the metropolis: she craved for the retirement of the country. Whither, then, could she repair save to the mansion which was her own? what excuses could she offer to those who knew her, for settling in any other part of the suburbs of London?—for near, though not in, the capital had she resolved to dwell, in order to be enabled to see her parents occasionally, and Eliza Sydney frequently.

  In addition to all the influences, moral and worldly, now enumerated, there was another which had confirmed Adeline in the idea of returning to the Hall. But this was a secret influence for which she could not account,—an influence that ever interposed amidst her waverings, to settle them in favour of the project,—one of those influences to which even the strongest minds are frequently subject, and for the existence of which they can give no satisfactory reason. Such an influence as this the Turk would denominate the irresistible current of Destiny; but the pious Christian believes it to be the secret and all-powerful will of heaven.

  Let us, however, proceed with our narrative.

  The intruders had departed; and Lady Ravensworth was as it were alone in that vast mansion which had so many sad and gloomy memorials for her!

  She entered the drawi
ng-room where Egerton’s party had banqueted; and, seeing the table covered with the bottles and glasses, turned away in disgust. Passing into the adjacent suite of apartments, she opened the shutters, and gazed around the large and lonely rooms in which the silence of death seemed to reign.

  She looked at the pictures which hung upon the walls; and then it struck her that some change had taken place in those rooms, each feature of which she remembered well. The more earnestly she gazed about her, the firmer became her conviction that every thing was not as she had left it. At length she perceived that three or four of the most valuable pictures had disappeared: a costly timepiece, too, was missing from the mantel of one apartment: several ornaments were wanting in another.

  Thinking that these objects might have been shifted from their usual places, she entered another suite of rooms; and there, instead of finding the things which were lost from the first, she perceived more vacancies amongst the pictures and the ornaments.

  The conduct of the old gardener in allowing a party of persons to use the mansion, the care of which had been entrusted to him, recurred more forcibly than at first to her mind; and what had hitherto appeared a comparatively venial fault, now assumed a complexion, when coupled with the disappearance of the pictures and ornaments above mentioned, which naturally created in her mind most alarming suspicions of his honesty.