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

by George W. M. Reynolds

  “Oh! you have told me all about him before,” hastily interrupted the Countess, who was alarmed lest the widow should inflict upon her a narrative of oft-experienced tediousness.

  “Dat vare excellent bird—how you call him? Peasant—ah!” observed Baron Torkemdef to the young clergyman, who, like a child, saw, heard, but said nothing. “But after all it no use for to praise one ting or to blame anoder—’cause dem each de idea—de fancy. Dere really no table—no peasant—no wine—no peoples: it all de imagination.”

  And while the philosopher went on expatiating in this manner, the viands disappeared from his plate and the wine from the decanter near him with a marvellous rapidity; so that the young clergyman could not help muttering to himself, “I wonder whether the Baron’s appetite is an idea also.”

  “Seraphina,” whispered the Countess of Brazenphace to one of her daughters, “if you look so much at Count Swindeliski, I shall be very angry. He has got no money, and is not a match for you. There is the Member for Buyemup-cum-Rhino sitting on your right, and he is a wealthy bachelor.”

  “But, dear mamma,” returned Miss Seraphina, also in a whisper, “he is at least sixty.”

  “So much the better,” was the prompt reply: “he is the easier to catch. Now mind your p’s and q’s, Miss.”

  This maternal advice was duly attended to; and, by the time he had tossed off his third glass of champagne, the Member for Buyemup-cum-Rhino had grown very tenderly maudlin towards the red-haired young husband-hunter.

  “Miss Blewstocken, dear,” cried the elder Miss Wigmore, “have you composed nothing appropriate for the present occasion?—no sweet little poem in your own fascinating style?”

  “Oh! dear Miss Wigmore, how unkind!” said the literary young lady, in an affected and languishing manner. “I could not have believed it of you—to appeal to me before so many! If I have told you in confidence, or if it be indeed generally known that ‘The Poetic Nosegay’ was written by me—and if it had a very large circulation—I do not think it is fair to expect——”

  “Ah! Miss Blewstocken,” exclaimed Miss Wigmore, “we are all aware that your pen is seldom idle.”

  “It is really quite provoking to find oneself known to Fame,” said the literary lady, with increasing affectation of manner, and in a drawling, insipid tone. “I wish I had never written at all:—not that I have ever been induced to acknowledge the authorship of that novel which was so successful last year—‘The Royal Fiddlestick,’ I mean. No:—but the time may come——”

  And here the literary lady shook her head in so mysterious a way that if she intended to be incomprehensible, she certainly was most successful in the endeavour.

  “Who is that lady?” inquired the Bishop of Lord Rossville.

  “Miss Blewstocken, the celebrated authoress,” was the reply.

  “Oh!” said the Bishop, in a dry laconic way, which proved that, however celebrated Miss Blewstocken might be, the trumpet of her renown had never sounded in his ears before.

  “Talk of de poetry and de novel,” exclaimed the German Baron, “what are all dem to de researches of de philosoph? Was your lordship ever read my von grand vork on de ‘Ideality of de Universe?’ ”

  “I cannot say that I have ever read it, Sir,” answered the Bishop, with a frown. “I have heard of it, sir—and I consider its doctrines to be opposed to the Bible, sir. I believe it is in fourteen large volumes, sir? Well, sir—then all I have to observe upon it is that so many quartos are themselves too substantial to be a mere idea.”

  “But dey are von idea!” exclaimed the Baron, angrily. “Dey do not really exist, milor—in spite of what your lordship shall say. Everyting is de idea—we be ourselves all de walking, moving idea: dere no such ting as joy—no such ting as pain—dey mere sensation——”

  At this moment the learned philosopher started from his seat with a yell of agony, and began stamping on the floor in a furious manner.

  The fact was that while he was gesticulating in order to bestow additional emphasis on the enunciation of his principles, his hand, raised in the air, came in contact with a cup of coffee which a domestic was about to place before the young clergyman; and the scalding fluid was poured forth on the bald head and down the back of the philosopher.

  “Pray do not mind it, sir,” said the Bishop, drily: “it is merely an idea.”

  “Yes—it de idea, no doubt!” ejaculated Baron Torkemdef, as he wiped his head with his pocket-handkerchief, while the domestic murmured an apology and slunk away: “but de idea was come in de unpleasant shape—dat noting against my doctrine—tousand devils, how him do burn!”

  And, particularly disconcerted, the learned man sank back into his seat, where he consoled himself with a renewed application to the decanter near him.

  Meantime Count Swindeliski was rendering himself very amiable to the Honourable Miss Helena Sophie Alexandrina Wigmore, next to whom he sate.

  “Poland, then, must be a very beautiful country?” said the young lady, duly impressed by a most graphic description which the Count had just terminated.

  “It vare fine—vare fine,” returned the fascinating foreigner. “De ancestral castle of the Swindeliskis vare grand—touch de clouds—so long dat when you do stand at de von end you shall not see de oder—so wide dat horses shall always be kept saddled for to cross de court. My father was keep tree tousand dependants: me not choose for to spend de revenue in dat vay—me only may keep von tousand.”

  “And can you prefer England to your own beautiful country?” inquired Miss Helena Wigmore.

  “Me shall not prefare England,” answered the Count: “me shall choose wife of de English ladies—dey vare beautiful—vare fine—vare clevare. Den me take my wife to Poland, where she shall be von vare great lady indeed.”

  And, as he spoke, he threw a tender glance at his fair companion.

  But Miss Helena Sophie Alexandrina Wigmore knew full well that every word the Count uttered concerning his fortune and castle was false. She was, however, too polite not to seem to believe him; and she was, moreover, pleased at engrossing the attentions of the handsomest man in the room. She therefore permitted herself to flirt a little with him, especially as her mother was not present to control her actions; but, like all young ladies in fashionable circles, she was too astute and wary to entertain the least idea of a more serious connexion.

  The breakfast was now over; a carriage and four drove up to the front of the mansion; and the hour of departure had arrived for the “happy couple.”

  Maria withdrew for a few moments in company with Lady Ravensworth and the two bridemaids and when she returned she was dressed for travelling.

  “Happy fellow!” whispered Major Dapper to his friend; “blow you!”

  “Fooleth Thmilackth!” returned Sir Cherry Bounce. “But I am weally veway happy—ekthepth that curthed wide on the fatht twotting horth. Good bye: I thall wite to you in a few dayth.”

  The farewells were all said; and Maria resigned her hand to him who was about to bear her away from the Hall.

  She wept not—she sighed not: but despair was written on her marble visage—though none present could read that sombre and melancholy language.

  “I have directed Flora to accompany you,” whispered Lady Ravensworth; “and you can keep her altogether, if you choose. Should the young woman whom you have hired, make her appearance, I will retain her, and give her a trial. But what is her name? I had forgotten to ask you.”

  Maria gave an answer; but there was such a bustle in the room at the moment and such a confused din of many voices, that the name escaped Adeline’s ears.

  Sir Cherry at the same instant led Maria towards the stairs; and in a few minutes the carriage, containing the newly-married pair, was rolling away from Ravensworth Hall on its journey to Cherry Park in Essex.

  “I wi
sh I was bound on a similar trip with a sixth,” thought Mrs. Berrymenny, as she watched from the window the departure of the carriage.

  “I wish I could get off my eighth and ninth as easily as the Rossvilles have done with Maria,” thought the Countess of Brazenphace. “But I am afraid that the member for Buyemup-cum-Rhino will not bite.”

  “I wish I had not eulogised the single state in my poems,” thought Miss Blewstocken, with a profound sigh.

  “Me wish me shall soon find de agreeable lady dat will make me de von happiest of men,” said Count Swindeliski to Miss Helena Sophie Alexandra Wigmore.

  “After all,” said Baron Torkemdef, who had recovered his equanimity, by dint of frequent libations, “de marriage only de idea—de fancy, like any oder ting. Dat handsome chariot do not actually exist—it only de idea; and dat loving pair what shall sit in it are only idea as well. All is idea—me an idea—and dat Lord Bischop wid de lawn-sleeves only an idea.”

  “Where is Lord Ravensworth?” inquired Adeline of a domestic.

  “His lordship felt suddenly unwell a few moments ago, my lady, and has retired to his cabinet.”

  “Ah! a reaction—a recurrence to the meerschaum!” murmured Lady Ravensworth, a cloud passing over her brow.

  “Please your ladyship,” said the servant, “a young woman has just arrived from London. She says that she was hired by Miss Villiers—I beg pardon Lady Bounce—and that an accident to the vehicle in which she came to the Hall has delayed her.”

  “Oh! she is to remain with me,” returned Adeline. “Tell her that I will take her into my service on the same terms that were arranged between her and Lady Bounce. She is to replace Flora.”

  “Very good, my lady;”—and the servant was about to retire.

  “One moment, William,” said Adeline, beckoning him back. “Did this young woman mention her name—for as yet I am really ignorant of it?”

  “Yes, my lady,” answered the domestic: “her name is Lydia Hutchinson.”

  And the servant withdrew.

  “Lydia Hutchinson!” murmured Lady Ravensworth, turning deadly pale, and tottering to a seat.

  “Are you unwell, Adeline?” inquired Lady Rossville, approaching her daughter.

  “No—a sudden indisposition—it is nothing,” replied Adeline; and she hastened from the room.

  CHAPTER CCVI.

  THE PATRICIAN LADY AND THE UNFORTUNATE WOMAN.

  Lady Ravensworth retired to her boudoir; and, throwing herself upon a voluptuous ottoman, she burst into a flood of tears.

  The wife of one of England’s wealthiest nobles,—mistress of a splendid mansion and numerous household,—young, beautiful, and admired,—with a coronet upon her brow, and all the luxuries and pleasures of the world at her command,—this haughty and high-born lady now trembled at the idea—now shrunk from the thought—of meeting an obscure young woman who was forced to accept a menial place in order to earn her daily bread!

  It was a strange coincidence that thus brought Lydia Hutchinson beneath the roof of Lady Ravensworth, whom the young woman was very far from suspecting to be that same Adeline Enfield who had been her companion—nay, her tutoress—in the initiative of wantonness and dishonour.

  Mrs. Chichester had manifested a sisterly kindness towards the unfortunate Lydia; and, instead of shrinking in disgust, as so many others would have done, from the young woman who had been urged by stern necessity to ply a loathsome trade, she had endeavoured, by the most delicate attentions, to reclaim the mind of society’s outcast from the dark ocean of despair in which it was so profoundly plunged.

  The reader has doubtless seen that Lydia Hutchinson had never courted vice for vice’s sake. She was not naturally of a depraved nor lascivious disposition. Circumstances—amongst which must be reckoned the treachery exercised by Lord Dunstable to accomplish her seduction, and the accident which threw the poor creature upon the tender mercies of Mrs. Harpy,—had conspired,—fearfully conspired, to brand her with infamy, and to drag her through the filth and mire of the various phases which characterise the downward path of a career of prostitution. Necessity had made her what she was!

  Mrs. Chichester comprehended all this; and she was not one of those who believe that there is no sincere penitence—no reformation for the lost one. She longed to afford Lydia an opportunity of entering on a course of virtue and propriety. She would have willingly afforded the poor creature a permanent asylum, as a matter of charity, and even to insure a companion to cheer her own species of semi-widowed loneliness; but she was well aware that eleemosynary aid of such a kind, by retaining its object in a condition of idleness and of dependence, was of a most demoralising nature. She wished to give Lydia an opportunity of retrieving her character in her own estimation, and of regaining a proper confidence in herself; and she resolved that no excess of indulgence, nor extreme of charity, on her part, should permit the young woman to live in an indolence that might unfit her for any occupation in case of ultimate necessity, and that would thus fling her back upon the last and only resource—a recurrence to the walks of ignominy and crime. To reclaim and reinstate, as it were the unfortunate Lydia Hutchinson, was Viola Chichester’s aim; and the object of this humane solicitude was deeply anxious to second, by her own conduct, the intentions of her generous benefactress.

  As time wore on, Lydia improved greatly in mental condition and personal appearance: her thoughts became settled and composed, and her form resumed much of the freshness which had characterised her youth. She speedily began to express a desire to exert herself in some honest employment to gain her livelihood;—she also felt that indolence and dependence, even in the presence of the best moral examples, produce a vitiated frame of mind;—and she revolted from the mere idea of a relapse into the horrible path from which a friendly hand had redeemed her, as the most appalling catastrophe that her imagination could conceive.

  Mrs. Chichester felt so persuaded of Lydia’s firmness of purpose in pursuing a career of rectitude, that she resolved to take a step which only the extreme urgency of the case and a settled conviction of the young woman’s inclination to do well, could justify. This was to obtain her a situation in some family. Lydia was overjoyed at the proposal. An advertisement was accordingly inserted in a newspaper; and a few days brought many written answers. Miss Villiers—now Lady Bounce—called personally, and was so pleased with Lydia’s manner that she put no special questions to Mrs. Chichester.

  Viola, however, addressed Miss Villiers thus:—“The young woman who now stands before you has been unfortunate—very unfortunate; and hers has been the fate of the unfortunate. She is most anxious to eat the bread of industry and honesty. I am persuaded that a kind hand stretched out to aid her in this desire, will raise her to happiness, and ensure her lasting gratitude.”

  Miss Villiers was a young lady of an excellent heart: she did not completely understand all that Mrs. Chichester meant; but she comprehended enough to render her willing to assist a fellow-creature who sought to earn her livelihood honourably, and who seemed to possess the necessary qualifications for the employment desired. Thus the bargain was hastily concluded; and when Miss Villiers desired Lydia to join her on a certain day at Ravensworth Hall, the young woman entertained not the least idea that her school friend Adeline Enfield was Lady Ravensworth, the mistress of that lordly habitation.

  We will now return to Adeline, whom we left weeping in her boudoir.

  The presence of Lydia in that house was indeed enough to alarm and embarrass her. Not that she precisely feared exposure at Lydia’s hands in respect to the past—especially as it would be so easy to deny any derogatory statement of the kind. But Adeline felt that she should now possess a dependant before whom her dignity and self-confidence would ever be overwhelmed by the weight of that dread secret of which Lydia’s bosom was the depository. Such a prospect was most galling—most humiliating—
most degrading to the mind of the haughty peeress.

  “But of what avail are tears?” said Adeline, suddenly. “The danger is here—the evil is before me. We must meet:—it were better that I should see her at once! Doubtless she is unaware in whose abode she is now a menial!”

  Adeline wiped her eyes, rang the bell, and reseating herself, assumed as composed a manner as possible under the circumstances.

  In a few moments she heard footsteps approaching.

  “This is my lady’s apartment,” said the house-keeper in the passage.

  “Thank you,” replied another voice.

  Oh! how Adeline’s heart beat;—the well-remembered tones of Lydia Hutchinson had just met her ears.

  Then she heard the retreating sounds of the housekeeper’s footsteps; and there was a gentle knock at the door of their boudoir.

  “Come in,” said Adeline, in a half-stifling voice.

  The door opened, and Lydia Hutchinson entered the room.

  Lady Ravensworth’s countenance was averted towards the fire; and it was not until she heard the door close that she turned towards Lydia, who was in a state of trembling anxiety, mingled with curiosity, as to what might be the disposition of her mistress.

  But no pen can describe the astonishment of the young woman, when by that pale but beautiful countenance, which was now suddenly turned towards her, she recognised her whom she had so much reason never to forget.

  Staggering towards the mantel for support, and with her eyes fixed almost wildly upon her mistress, she exclaimed, “Miss Enfield! Is it indeed you?”

  “I am Lady Ravensworth,” was the somewhat haughty answer.

  “Oh! now I understand it all!” cried Lydia, an expression of sincere gratitude animating her countenance, while she clasped her hands fervently together: “you have taken compassion on me at length,—you discovered where I was residing,—you sent some friend to engage me as if for herself—and you were determined to surprise me by this proof of your goodness—this token of your kind remembrance of me!”