“I understand you, madam,” said Quentin. “That casket could never return to the possession of Lady Ravensworth, with safety to herself.”
The valet then retired; and Eliza hurried back to Adeline’s apartments.
There a most painful—a most distressing scene took place.
The nurse was dismissed with the child into a remote chamber of the same suite; and when Eliza was alone with Adeline, she broke to the miserable lady her knowledge of the fearful crime which had put an end to the existence of Lydia Hutchinson.
And, oh! how gently—how delicately—and in what a purely Christian spirit of charity, did Eliza perform this most difficult—this most melancholy duty!
It was not as an avenger, menacing the thunders of the law, that Eliza spoke: it was not as one prepared to deliver up the criminal to justice, that she addressed herself to Lady Ravensworth. No:—it was as a true disciple of Him with whom is vengeance as well as mercy, that she communed with Adeline: and this wretched woman found, to her astonishment, that she possessed a friend who would pray with her, solace her, and conceal her guilt, instead of a being prepared to expose, to disgrace, and to abandon her upon the plea of performing a duty which every one owes to society!
Then, when Lady Ravensworth was sufficiently composed—when the first terrific shock was over,—she related, truly and minutely, her entire history: she revealed to Eliza all those particulars of her connexion with Lydia Hutchinson, which are known to the reader; she concealed nothing—for the unparalleled generosity of Eliza’s mind and conduct aroused in Adeline’s heart all the better feelings of her sex and nature.
Though the crime of murder is so horrible that there exists for it scarcely the shadow of extenuation,—still when the case of Lady Ravensworth was calmly considered,—when it was remembered how she had been goaded to madness and desperation by the conduct of Lydia Hutchinson,—when all the circumstances that united at the time to cause her reason to totter upon its seat, were dispassionately viewed,—even the well-ordered mind of Eliza Sydney was induced to admit that, if ever such shadow of extenuation did exist, it was in this most lamentable episode in the history of the human race.
And, oh! with what feelings of profound—ineffable gratitude did Adeline throw herself at the feet of that angel who seemed to have been sent from above to teach her that there was hope for even the greatest criminal, and that “there is more joy in heaven over the repentance of one sinner than over ninety-nine just persons who need no repentance!”
“You ask me not to leave you—not to abandon you,” said Eliza: “such an idea never entered my mind. Where the plague rages, there should the physician be; and if the physician fly away through fear of infection, he is unworthy to exercise an honourable calling. For it is not the healthy who require his services. And if the rich man offer alms to those who are as wealthy as himself, his charity becomes a mere mockery, because it is only offered where he knows it will be refused. No—it is the abodes of misery which he should visit; and it is amongst those who need his assistance that he should dispense his bounty. I fear not, Adeline, that I shall be endangered by the infection which has so unhappily seized upon you: on the contrary, I hope to eradicate from your heart the seeds of the pestilence of sin! And it is also you who require the alms of sympathy and solace; for you must be very—very wretched! Do not think, then, that I will desert you: oh! no—the more guilty, the more miserable you are, the stronger shall be the bond that unites me to your interests!”
This was the holy and touching language with which Eliza Sydney sought to move the heart of Lady Ravensworth to penitence.
Could such wholesome means fail of success?
No:—and Adeline felt rejoiced that her secret had become known to one who availed herself of that knowledge for such excellent purposes!
The comprehensive mind of Eliza Sydney enabled her to embrace at a glance all the new difficulties which the crime of Adeline had conjured up. Eliza’s aim, as before stated, was to take such effectual steps to stop the guilty career of Vernon, that the heir of Ravensworth should be entirely freed from any farther peril at the hands of his unnatural uncle. But the very same moment that ruined Vernon and his atrocious assistant, might bring destruction upon Adeline; for when the strong grasp of the law once fixed itself on Tidkins, there was no guarantee that he would not, in his rage, reveal the terrible mystery respecting the fate of Lydia Hutchinson.
This chance was duly weighed by Eliza Sydney; but she conceived a plan to save Adeline from the overwhelming consequences of such an exposure.
What this project was will be explained hereafter:—suffice it for the present to say that it obviated the necessity of any change in the policy already adopted to defeat and punish Gilbert Vernon and Tidkins; and that Adeline gratefully assented to the conditions which it involved.
A far more embarrassing subject for immediate consideration presented itself to the mind of Eliza Sydney. This was how to advise Lady Ravensworth to act in respect to the requisition made by Gilbert Vernon, and so energetically backed by Anthony Tidkins, relative to her presence in the drawing and dining rooms. But at length Eliza decided upon recommending Adeline to yield in this instance.
“You will suffer too much in exposing yourself, by refusal, to the menaces and constant persecutions of Anthony Tidkins,” said Eliza; “and moreover, we must remain faithful to our plan of not allowing Vernon to suspect that his plots are being met by counter-schemes. I shall always be with you when you are compelled to endure his presence; and therefore it will be better thus to humour him.”
“I shall be guided by you in all things,” returned Adeline.
She accordingly presided at the dinner-table that very evening:—and thus was the promise, made by the Resurrection Man to his employer, fulfilled to the letter.
During the repast, Vernon endeavoured to ingratiate himself as much as possible with the two ladies: but Adeline was too unhappy even to affect any feeling beyond cold politeness; and Eliza Sydney was only distantly courteous.
Coffee was served in the drawing-room; and afterwards the ladies withdrew to their own apartments.
“One grand point is at least gained,” said Vernon to himself, when he was alone: “my amiable sister-in-law has been forced to leave her nest! In a day or two I must ask to see the child. But with what spell Tidkins effected this change in Adeline’s conduct, I am at a loss to imagine!”
* * *
That night, at eleven o’clock, Eliza Sydney stole from the mansion, Adeline and Quentin being alone cognisant of her proceeding.
In the garden she met the faithful valet, who was provided with a drag, a mattock, a spade, and a sack.
They repaired together to the field in which was the pond where the remains of Lydia Hutchinson were concealed.
Quentin, who had purposely reconnoitred the vicinity in the afternoon, proceeded to dig a grave in a spot where there was no grass, and at a distance of about twenty yards from the water.
This labour occupied an hour; and, when it was concluded, he proceeded with Eliza to the pond.
The drag was used successfully; and the corpse was drawn to land. It was then wrapped in a large sheet which Eliza had brought for the purpose, and carried to the grave hollowed to receive it.
Eliza breathed a prayer for the soul of her whose remains were denied Christian sepulture, while Quentin threw back the soil. The superfluous earth was conveyed in the sack to the pond; and thus all traces of this hurried burial disappeared.
Eliza and Quentin then returned to the mansion.
On the following morning, after breakfast, Eliza Sydney walked out alone, and repaired to a grove at a short distance from the mansion.
A cab, containing two persons, drove up to the same spot a few moments afterwards; and Filippo, having leapt out, assisted Malkhatoun to alight.
E
liza immediately joined them; and they all three entered the grove together.
When they had proceeded so far as to be beyond the range of the cab-driver’s hearing, Eliza stopped, and, addressing herself to Malkhatoun, said, “I hope that you understand enough of the English tongue to be able to converse with me for a few minutes upon a most important subject?”
“I am well acquainted with your language, lady,” was the reply, spoken with singular accuracy for an oriental foreigner.
“Now listen to me attentively,” continued Eliza: “I have read in some book of eastern travel that the inhabitants of Asia Minor, Georgia, and Circassia, possess the art of steeping the tobacco-leaf in a poison of such a nature that it undermines the constitution of him who uses the plant so treated.”
“It is perfectly correct, lady,” answered Malkhatoun; “and the operation of steeping the plant in the opiatic poison is chiefly performed by the female slaves.”
“Have you ever seen the process?” inquired Eliza.
“Frequently,” was the reply. “My father was a Georgian chief,”—and as she spoke, tears started into her eyes:—“he had many slaves, and they prepared the tobacco which he purposely left in his tents, when the Persian invaders drove him from them. To poison your enemies thus, is not deemed a dishonourable mode of warfare in Georgia.”
“Should you recognise tobacco so prepared, were you to see it?” asked Eliza.
“Instantaneously, lady, on the application of fire,” replied Malkhatoun; “for the poison used is of so peculiar a nature that its qualities are only put into action by means of fire. The most skilful chemist cannot discover its presence in tobacco, unless he light the weed and inhale the perfume of the vapour.”
“The idea of such a circumstance struck me also,” observed Eliza.
As she spoke, she produced from her reticule a small galley-pot containing some of the late Lord Ravensworth’s tobacco: then she drew forth a box of lucifer-matches.
Malkhatoun held the galley-pot, while Eliza procured a light; and the flame was then applied to the tobacco.
The beautiful Georgian immediately inhaled the vapour, and said, “Lady, this tobacco is so strongly impregnated with the poison, that were the strongest man to indulge freely in its use for a few months, he would sink into the tomb.”
“It is as I suspected,” murmured Eliza.
“Tobacco thus poisoned,” continued Malkhatoun, “possesses properties of so fascinating a nature, that he who smokes it becomes irresistibly attached to it; and I have heard it said in Georgia, that men labouring under incurable maladies, or those whose life is burthensome to them, have voluntarily whiled away their existence by the use of the poisoned weed.”
“I thank you sincerely for this explanation,” said Eliza. “And now, pardon me if I speak a few words concerning yourself—for it is with a good motive. When you mentioned the name of your father, tears started into your eyes.”
“My poor father was slain in the battle which made me and several other Georgian females the prisoners of the Persian conquerors, against whom my sire rose in rebellion,” answered Malkhatoun. “I was sent to Teflis, and sold as a slave to a Turkish merchant, who carried me to Constantinople, where I was purchased for an English nobleman. I wept ere now, lady, because I have a mother, and brothers, and sisters living in my native land; and my heart yearns towards them.”
“And would you be pleased, my poor girl, to return to Georgia?” asked Eliza, the tears trickling down her cheeks—for Malkhatoun’s voice was soft and plaintive as she told her artless tale.
“I would give half the years that remain to me to embrace my dear mother and brothers and sisters once more,” replied Malkhatoun.
“You shall return to them—oh! you shall return to them with as little delay as possible,” exclaimed Eliza. “In the course of this day I will transmit by post to you, Filippo, a draft upon my banker to supply the means for this poor girl to go back to her native land.”
“And it shall be my duty, madam, to see her safely on board the first ship that sails for the Levant,” said Filippo.
Malkhatoun could scarcely believe her ears; but when she saw that Eliza was really in earnest, she threw herself at the feet of her benefactress, whose hand she covered with her kisses and her tears.
Eliza hastened to raise her from that posture, and when the now happy Georgian became composed, they all three retraced their steps to the cab.
Malkhatoun and Filippo returned to London; and Eliza retraced her way to Ravensworth Hall.
Nor did she forget her promise to Malkhatoun; and two days afterwards the fair Georgian embarked at Gravesend on board a ship bound for the Levant.
CHAPTER CCXXXVII.
THE JUGGLERS.
Nearly five weeks had elapsed since the day when the noble-minded Eliza Sydney first took up her quarters at Ravensworth Hall.
Time was, therefore, now verging towards the close of May, 1841.
It was at about nine o’clock in the morning of a charming day, at this period, that the Resurrection Man sauntered leisurely from the servants’ offices, at Ravensworth Hall, with the air of a person about to indulge in a stroll after eating a good breakfast.
But when he was out of sight of the Hall, he quickened his pace, and proceeded somewhat rapidly towards the ruined lodge where he had once before met the Honourable Gilbert Vernon.
And it was to meet that very same individual that he now sought the place again.
But as Vernon had not yet arrived, Tidkins, after walking round the dilapidated cottage to convince himself that no stranger was near, took a seat upon a pile of bricks, and, producing a cigar-case, was speedily wrapped in the enjoyment of a mild havannah and his own delectable meditations.
With the nature of those thoughts we shall not trouble the reader: suffice it to say that they were all connected with the scheme which he and his master were carrying on at Ravensworth Hall, and the last dread act of which was now in immediate contemplation.
Tidkins had just lighted a second cigar, when he descried Vernon at a distance.
He, however, continued to smoke—for he was not the man to stand upon any ceremony with his employer, even were that employer a prince.
“Come at last?” said Tidkins, as Vernon entered the ruins. “Been doing the amiable to the ladies, I suppose?”
“I have succeeded in that task tolerably well lately,” answered Vernon, with difficulty concealing an expression of disgust at the odious familiarity of his agent; but he had already learnt that crime places the menial upon a footing with the master, and compels the haughty aristocrat to brook the insolence of the vulgar desperado.
“Well, now we are drawing to the end of the play at last,” continued Tidkins. “So much the better: for I was getting infernally sick of this moping kind of life. But what if this plan of ours should happen to fail?”
“Then I will try another—and even another, if necessary, until we succeed,” answered Vernon, emphatically. “Yes: I am now so bent upon the deed—so resolved to become the lord and owner of these broad lands and yon proud mansion—that I will even risk my neck to attain that end.”
“You speak in a plucky manner that I admire,” said Tidkins. “Besides, when once you are Lord Ravensworth, who will dare to utter a suspicion—even if there should seem any ground for it?”
“No one—certainly,” replied Vernon. “But have you looked about the ruins? Remember the last time we met here—there was an eaves-dropper then——”
“Don’t alarm yourself,” interrupted Tidkins: “I walked carefully round the place; and I’ll swear no one is near. Unless, indeed,” he added, with a jocular chuckle, “some very curious person has got into that great cistern up there; and I must confess I didn’t climb up to look into it.”
“Cease this humour,” said Vernon, so
mewhat sternly. “If you have been round the ruins, that is sufficient. Our business is too important to allow us to waste time in idle bantering. Do the jugglers understand that they are to come up this evening?”
“Fully so,” answered Tidkins, coolly inhaling the fragrant vapour of his cigar. “They are all at the Three Kings—that public-house which you see by the roadside yonder,—and most likely making merry with the couple of guineas that I gave them last night. It is not necessary that I should see them again before they come to the Hall.”
“You mentioned to them that there was a sick lady at the mansion who would be amused with their sports?” said Vernon.
“I have already told you what representations I made,” replied Tidkins, impatiently. “Where’s the use of asking the question over again?”
“For the same reason that one reads a letter twice,” rejoined Vernon,—“to see that nothing has been omitted which ought to be said or done. But are you sure that the fellows will understand how to use the detonating balls?”
“Nothing is easier,” answered Tidkins. “And as it was merely to try one that we agreed to meet here now, suppose I just make the trial directly?”
“Yes—I am anxious to be assured of the effect,” said Vernon. “We are far enough away from the Hall to do so in safety.”
“Certainly we are,” remarked Tidkins. “In the first place we’re down in this deep valley;—in the second place there’s the thick grove on the top of the hill;—and in this third place, even if there wasn’t the hill at all between us and the Hall, the back windows of the mansion don’t look this way. So the smoke can’t be seen.”
“True!” exclaimed Vernon. “And now for the test.”
The Resurrection Man drew from his pocket a ball covered with coarse blue paper, and nearly as large as a cricket-ball.
The Mysteries of London, Vol. II [Unabridged & Illustrated] (Valancourt Classics) Page 108