Then withdrawing his arm from her waist, as a tacit proof of his honourable intentions, but still retaining one of her hands in his own, he looked anxiously in her countenance to read the impression which his words and manner had created.
“Again I say that if I could believe you, I should think myself happy—nay, blest in your friendship,” returned Adeline; “for I am so miserable—so very, very wretched—that I feel the burden of such an existence too heavy to bear. All that has passed between us constitutes a reason to induce me to accept you as my friend, rather than any other;—for I have lately seen so much of the fiend-like disposition of one woman, that I am inclined to abhor the whole sex—yes, even though it be my own! And to you, moreover, I can speak frankly of those causes which have rendered me so very wretched.”
“Speak, dear Adeline—unburden your mind to me,” said Cholmondeley, in a low, but tender tone. “I must, however, inform you that I am already acquainted with many of the incidents regarding the connection between Lydia Hutchinson and yourself, from the moment when Lord Dunstable and I so dishonourably wrote to you both to state that we were going abroad. Yes—Adeline, I have learnt how you were extricated from the embarrassments of that situation in which I shamefully left you,—how, in a word, the offspring of our love was born dead and disposed of, and how your reputation was saved through the means of Lydia.”
“You know all those fearful particulars?” exclaimed Lady Ravensworth, profoundly surprised at what she heard.
“Yes, dearest: for Lydia, some time after she left the school, became the mistress of my friend Dunstable; and she told him all. He related those incidents to me: it was natural that he should do—seeing that we were mutually acquainted with each-other’s loves. And, oh! my dearest Adeline,” continued the Colonel, “I can well understand how completely that odious woman is enabled to tyrannise over you.”
“And you can also comprehend how much I stand in need of a friend?” said Lady Ravensworth; “for it is hard to be compelled to nurse one’s griefs—to conceal one’s sorrows—without being able to unburden to a single living soul a heart surcharged with woe.”
“I will be that friend, Adeline,” replied Cholmondeley.
“But, oh! what dangers do I incur by seeing you—by receiving you here!” exclaimed Adeline. “And this thought reminds me that I am even yet ignorant of the means by which you gained access to my chamber.”
“Nay, Adeline,” said Cholmondeley, in a tender tone, “do not attempt to disavow the encouragement which you so kindly gave me—and to which you now force me to allude.”
“Encouragement!” repeated Lady Ravensworth, with a tone and manner expressive of unfeigned surprise.
“Yes, dearest. That key which I found in the post-chaise—and the few words written upon the paper which enveloped it——”
“My God! there is some fearful mistake in all this!” cried Adeline, seriously alarmed. “But explain yourself—quickly—I conjure you!”
Cholmondeley was now astonished in his turn; and hastily taking a paper from his pocket he handed it to Lady Ravensworth, saying, “The key was enclosed in this.”
Adeline cast her eyes upon the paper, and read these words:—
“The key contained herein belongs to a door on the southern side of Ravensworth Hall: and that door communicates with a private staircase leading to the passage from which my own apartments open. I wish to converse with you in secret—if only for a moment; and though I have taken this imprudent—this unpardonable step, you will surely spare my feelings, should you avail yourself of the possession of the key, by forbearing in my presence from any allusion to the means by which it fell into your hands.”
“Merciful heavens!” ejaculated Adeline, when she had hurriedly glanced over the paper: “I am ruined—I am undone! It must be that fiend Lydia, who has thus paved the way for my utter destruction!”
There was the wildness of despair in the manner of Lady Ravensworth, as she uttered these words; and Cholmondeley could not for another moment imagine that her distress was feigned.
“What do you mean, Adeline?” he said: “did you not send me the key?—did you not pen those lines? Surely—surely the handwriting is yours?”
“As God is my judge, Cholmondeley,” she answered, emphatically, “I never sent you the key—I never penned those lines! No—it is Lydia who has done it: she knows my writing well—she has imitated it but too faithfully! Go—fly—depart, Cholmondeley: ruin awaits me—perhaps both!”
The Colonel dared not delay another moment: the almost desperate wildness of Adeline’s manner convinced him that she spoke the truth—that she had not invited him thither.
“At least let me hope to see you soon again—or to hear from you,” he said, imprinting a hasty kiss upon her forehead.
“Yes—yes—any thing you will, so that you now leave me,” she cried, in a tone of agonising alarm.
Cholmondeley rushed to the door:—Adeline followed him into the passage, bearing a candle in her hand.
The reader may conceive the relief which she experienced, when, upon casting a rapid glance up and down, she found that her torturess was not there either to expose her completely, or to triumph over her alarms.
“Farewell,” whispered Cholmondeley; and he disappeared down the staircase.
Adeline remained at the top, until she heard the private door at the bottom carefully open and as gently close.
Then she breathed more freely, and re-entered her own chamber.
“What could Lydia mean by this perfidious plot?” she murmured to herself, as she sank upon the sofa, exhausted both mentally and bodily. “She was not there to enjoy my confusion; she did not come with the servants to behold what might have been considered the evidence of infidelity towards my husband:—what, then, could she mean?”
Scarcely had these words passed Adeline’s lips, when the door opened, and her torturess entered the room.
CHAPTER CCXVI
THE PROGRESS OF LYDIA HUTCHINSON’S VENGEANCE.
“What means this new device, terrible woman?” cried Adeline, advancing towards Lydia Hutchinson, and giving vent to the question which was uppermost in her mind.
“Ah! you have already detected my handiwork in the new source of torment which is now open against you?” said Lydia, with a smile of triumphant contempt.
“I know that you have forged a letter in imitation of my writing—” began Adeline.
“And that letter has already produced the desired effect,” interrupted Lydia, coolly; “for five minutes have scarcely elapsed since Colonel Cholmondeley stole from the private door opening upon the garden.”
“Then you were watching the results of your detestable scheme,” cried Lady Ravensworth, in a tone bitter with rage.
“Not only I—but half a dozen of the other dependants of the household,” returned Lydia.
“Merciful God! you have done this, vile woman?” screamed Lady Ravensworth. “No—no: you surely could not have been so wicked?”
“I have done it,” replied Lydia, in her calm, impassive manner.
“Then it is now for me to think of vengeance!” said Adeline, conquering the turbulent emotions of passion which agitated within her, and flinging herself once more upon the sofa, while her thoughts wandered to the address concealed in the casket of jewels.
“You think of vengeance!” repeated Lydia, scornfully. “Oh! I should rejoice if you were to meet me with my own weapons—for such conduct on your part would afford me scope and excuse for augmenting the means of punishment which I employ. And now listen to the details of that scheme by which I have this evening so successfully degraded you.”
“Wretch!” muttered Adeline, hoarsely between her teeth.
“Hard names break no bones, my lady,” said Lydia. “But again I enjoin you to listen to what I have
to tell you. I knew your handwriting well—and it was no difficult thing to imitate it. I penned that letter which the Colonel ere now showed you—and I enclosed the key. In the note I desired that no allusion might be made by him to that letter, because I wished the interview to be a long one, and I suspected that the suddenness and boldness of his unexpected intrusion would cause a protracted conversation ere any question on your part would elicit from him the means by which he had obtained access to your privacy. Nor was I mistaken.”
“Then you listened—you overheard all that passed between us?” cried Adeline.
“Nearly every word,” answered Lydia: “I only quitted the door of this chamber when he was about to leave it.”
“And therefore you are well aware that he received no criminal encouragement on my part?”
“Oh! is there nothing criminal in the fact of a lady accepting her seducer—her former lover—the father of her first child, as her friend? And such a friend as Cholmondeley would prove!” continued Lydia, in a tone of the most mordant sarcasm: “such a friend! Good heavens! does your ladyship suppose that that man who is so selfish in his pleasure—so unprincipled in his adoption of means to procure the gratification of his wishes—would content himself with the cold title and small privileges of a friend? No—no! Were you to encourage his visits to this boudoir, ere the third were passed, you would become criminal again!”
“And was it to render me criminal again that you inveigled him hither by an atrocious forgery?” exclaimed Adeline.
“Such was not my object,” replied Lydia; “although I have no interest in protecting your virtue! Your virtue—the virtue of Adeline Enfield—the virtue of Lady Ravensworth! Where was ever virtue so immaculate?”
“Beware lest you destroy every particle of virtue—that is, of forbearance—remaining within me,” cried Adeline, her thoughts again reverting to the address which she had concealed in her jewel-casket.
“Could you kill me, I believe you capable of laying violent hands upon me,” returned Lydia; “for I know how you must hate me—even as sincerely as I loathe you! But I have before told you that I am stronger than you!”
Adeline made no answer: her mind now dwelt with less horror than before upon the possible use which she might be driven to make of the address in the casket.
“Oh! brood—brood over plans of vengeance,” exclaimed Lydia; “and remember that I defy you! All the dark malignity which is now expressed in your lowering countenance, does not terrify me. But listen to the conclusion of the narrative which I ere now began. My object in effecting the prolongation of the interview between Cholmondeley and yourself, was to afford me leisure to warn those of your servants to whom I had already hinted my suspicions of your infidelity.”
Adeline started convulsively, but checked the reply which rose to her lips.
“I stationed myself in the garden, accompanied by the housekeeper,” continued Lydia; “for I suspected that your Colonel would not allow one evening to elapse ere he availed himself of the invitation which he supposed to have come from you. Nor was I mistaken. We saw him creep stealthily along towards the private door: we saw him enter. Then, while I flew hither to listen in the passage to what might pass between you, the housekeeper hastened to fetch Quentin——”
“Quentin!” cried Adeline, with a shudder.
“Yes—your husband’s principal valet and four of the other servants, that they might watch your supposed lover’s departure,” continued Lydia. “But fear not that the tidings will reach your husband. No: my vengeance does not seek to wound him:—I pity him too much for that! My sole object was to degrade you in the eyes of your domestics, as I have been degraded in the eyes of the world; for I must reduce your situation as nearly as I can to the level of what mine so lately was—that you may understand how much I have suffered, and how strong is my justification in avenging myself on the one whose bad example and ungrateful heart threw me into the ways of vice and sorrow.”
“And how can you, detestable woman, prevent my servants from circulating this terrible scandal?” cried Lady Ravensworth, trembling as she beheld ruin and disgrace yawning like a black precipice at her feet, ready to engulph her: “how can you seal the lips of Quentin, so that this same scandal shall not reach the ears of my husband?”
“I have enjoined them all to secresy on many grounds,” answered Lydia: “I have pointed out to them the necessity of waiting for ampler proofs of your guilt—I have represented to them the propriety of sparing you in your present position, so near the time of becoming a mother as you are—and I have also conjured them to exercise forbearance on account of their lord, for whom they all feel deeply.”
“Oh! how kind—how considerate were you in my behalf!” exclaimed Adeline, bitterly: “and yet—were I already a mother—you would not hesitate, doubtless, to wreak your fiend-like vengeance upon my poor innocent babe.”
“God forbid!” cried Lydia, emphatically: “no—it is enough that I punish you.”
“And yet every taunt you throw in my teeth—every indignity you compel me to undergo—every torture you inflict upon me, redound in their terrible effects upon the child which I bear in my bosom,” said Lady Ravensworth, pressing her clasped hands convulsively to her heart.
“I know it—and I regret it,” returned Lydia coldly: “but I cannot consent to forego one tittle of all the tortures which my mind suggests as a punishment for such a bad and heartless creature as yourself. I shall now leave you; for I have more work in hand. I have undertaken to sit up during the first half of the night, in the chamber of the wounded Lord Dunstable. The housekeeper will relieve me for the second half.”
“Heavens! have you found another object whereon to wreak your vengeance?” exclaimed Adeline. “Then may God have mercy upon the unhappy man!”
“Yes—pray for him, Adeline: he will have need of all your sympathy!”
With these words Lydia Hutchinson left the boudoir.
It was now nine o’clock in the evening: Mr. Graham had been left to dine alone; and Adeline felt the necessity of proceeding to the drawing-room, to join her guest in partaking of coffee.
A plea of indisposition was offered for her absence from the dinner-table; and to her questions concerning his patient, Mr. Graham replied favourably.
The evening dragged its slow length wearily along; for Adeline was too much depressed in spirits to prove a very agreeable companion. She moreover fancied she beheld an impudent leer upon the countenances of the domestics who served the coffee; and this circumstance, although in reality imaginary, only tended to complete her confusion and paralyse her powers of conversation.
Were it not that she now dreamt of vengeance in her turn,—were it not that she beheld a chance of speedily ridding herself for ever of the torturess whom circumstances had inflicted upon her,—she could not possibly have endured the weight of the last indignity forced upon her.
To be made the object, as she deemed herself to be, of her very servants’ scandalous talk and insulting looks, was a position so utterly debasing, that she would have fled from it by means of suicide, had she not consoled herself by the idea that a terrible vengeance on the authoress of her degradation was within her reach.
Crime is like an object of terror seen dimly through the obscurity of night. When afar off from it, the appearance of that object is so vaguely horrible—so shapelessly appalling, that it makes the hair stand on end; but the more the eye contemplates it—the more familiar the beholder grows with its aspect—and the nearer he advances towards it, the less terrible does it become; until at length, when he goes close up to it, and touches it, he wonders that he was ever so weak as to be alarmed by it.
We have seen Lady Ravensworth recoiling with horror from the bare idea of perpetrating the crime which the possession of the self-vaunted bravo’s address suggested to her imagination:—the next time it e
ntered her thoughts, she was less terrified;—a few hours passed—and she was now wondering calmly and coldly upon the subject.
O God! what is the cause of this! Is there implanted in the heart of man a natural tendency towards even the blackest crimes—a tendency which only requires the influence of particular circumstances to develop it to its dark and terrible extreme?
* * *
We may here explain the motives which had induced Colonel Cholmondeley to endeavour to renew his connexion with Adeline.
Of love remaining to her he had none—even if he had ever experienced any at all. But his interests might have been probably served by the restoration of his former influence over her.
He was a man of ruined fortunes—having dissipated a large property; and although he still contrived to maintain appearances, the struggle was a severe one, and only kept up with the desperate view of “hooking an heiress.”
Thus, when he found the letter and the key in the carriage—naturally presuming that Adeline had herself thereby intimated her readiness to renew their former liaison,—he began to reflect that Lord Ravensworth was dying—that Lady Ravensworth might, should she have a son, be speedily left a wealthy widow—or that at all events she must acquire some fortune at her husband’s decease,—and that he should be acting prudently to adopt all possible means to regain his ancient influence over her.
This explanation will account for his readiness to act in accordance with the hint which he had fancied to have been conveyed by Adeline through the medium of the letter and the key: it will also show wherefore he humoured her, during their interview in respect to accepting the colder denomination of friend, instead of the warmer one of lover.
The reader may imagine his confusion, when an explanation took place relative to the letter and the key; nor need we describe the bitter feelings with which he beat his ignominious retreat.
The Mysteries of London, Vol. II [Unabridged & Illustrated] (Valancourt Classics) Page 85