Rapid as thought, she darted towards the bell-rope: but Tidkins, who had divined her intention, intercepted her as before.
Placing his iron hand on the nape of her neck, he thrust her violently back upon the sofa: then, ere he withdrew his hold, he said in a low, hoarse, and ferocious tone, “This is the last time I will be trifled with. By Satan! young woman, I’ll strangle you, if this game continues—just as I strangled your Lydia Hutchinson!”
And pushing her with contemptuous rudeness from him, he released her from his grasp.
For a few moments Adeline’s breath came with so much difficulty, and her bosom heaved so convulsively, that the Resurrection Man feared he had gone too far, and had done her some grievous injury; but when he saw her recover from the semi-strangulation and the dreadful alarm which she had experienced in consequence of his treatment, his eyes glistened with ferocious satisfaction.
“Let us make a long business short,” he said, in a coarse and imperious tone. “If I told you just now that I had helped myself to a few of the things in this house, it was only to convince you that I am not likely to stick at trifles in respect to you or yours. You have money—and I want some. Give me my price—and you shall never see me again.”
“No—you may murder me if you will,” cried Adeline, hysterically: “but I will not submit to your tyranny any more. Oh! you are a terrible man—and I would sooner die than live in the constant terror of your persecution!”
“Foolish woman, give up this screeching—or, by hell! I’ll settle you, and then help myself to all I want,” cried Tidkins, ferociously.
And at the same moment Adeline, whose face was buried in her hands, felt his iron grasp again upon the nape of her neck.
She started up with a half-stifled scream, and endeavoured to reach the bell-rope a third time. But once more was she anticipated in her design; and the Resurrection Man now held her firmly round the waist by his left arm.
Then drawing forth the pistol with his right hand, he placed the muzzle against Adeline’s marble forehead.
“I must put an end to this nonsense at once,” he said, in a ferocious tone. “There is something now in the house, proud and obstinate woman as you are—that will make you fall on your knees and beseech me to remove it from your sight. But we will try that test: and remember, this pistol that touches your forehead is loaded. Attempt to raise an alarm—and I blow your brains out.”
“Release me—let me go—I implore you!” murmured Adeline, who experienced greater loathing at that contiguity with the Resurrection Man, than fear at the weapon which menaced her with instantaneous death.
“No—you shall come,” returned Tidkins, brutally: “I am sick of this reasoning, and must bring you to the point at once.”
“Let me go—and I swear to follow whither you may choose to lead,” said Adeline.
“Well—now I release you on that condition,” was the reply: and the horrible man withdrew his arm and the pistol simultaneously.
But still keeping the weapon levelled at the wretched lady, and taking a candle in his left hand, he made a sign for her to accompany him.
She was now reduced to that state of physical nervousness and mental bewilderment, that she obeyed mechanically, without attempting to remonstrate—without even remembering to ask whither they were going.
They left the room, and proceeded along the passage towards the southern extremity of the building,—Adeline walking on one side of the corridor, and Tidkins on the other—the latter still keeping the pistol levelled to over-awe the miserable woman.
But she saw it not: she went on, because she mechanically obeyed one in whose power she felt herself to be, and whose loathsome contiguity she trembled to dare again.
At length they stopped at a door: and then Adeline’s memory seemed to recover all its powers—her ideas instantly appeared to concentrate themselves in one focus.
“Oh! no—not here! not here!” she said, with a cold shudder, as she suddenly awoke as it were from a confused dream, and recognised the door of her boudoir—the boudoir!
“Then give me a thousand pounds—and I will leave the house this minute,” returned Mr. Tidkins.
“No—you shall kill me first!” ejaculated Adeline, again recovering courage and strength, as if by instinct she knew herself to be standing upon some fearful precipice. “I will resist you to the death: you have driven me to desperation!”
And, springing towards the Resurrection Man, she made a snatch at the pistol which he held in his hand.
But, eluding her attack, he thrust the weapon into his pocket: then, clasping her with iron vigour in his right arm, and still retaining the light in his left hand, he burst open the door of the boudoir with his foot.
Adeline uttered a faint scream, as he dragged her into the room, the door of which he closed violently behind him.
Then, holding the light in such a manner that its beams fell upon the floor, and withdrawing his arm from Adeline’s waist, he exclaimed in a tone of ferocious triumph, “Behold the remains of the murdered Lydia Hutchinson!”
Lady Ravensworth threw one horrified glance upon the putrid corpse; and uttering a terrific scream expressive of the most intense agony, she fell flat upon the floor—her face touching the feet of the dead body.
Tidkins raised her: but the blood gushed out of her mouth.
“Perdition! I have gone too far,” cried the Resurrection Man. “She is dead—and I have done as good as cut my own throat!”
It was indeed true: Adeline had burst a blood-vessel, and died upon the spot.
Tidkins let her fall heavily upon the floor, and throwing down the candle, fled from the mansion, reckless whether the light were extinguished or not.
* * *
Half an hour afterwards Quentin was on his return to the Hall, in a hackney-coach containing, besides the baggage which he had cleared at the Custom-House, several hampers filled with the purchases he had been making in the City.
As he was thus proceeding through the park, he suddenly observed a strong and flickering light appearing through the windows at the southern extremity of the building; and in a few moments the whole of that part of the Hall was enveloped in flames.
Leaping from the coach, which, being heavily laden, dragged slowly along, the valet rushed to the mansion, where the presence of the fire had already alarmed the gardener and his wife, and the French servant.
But of what avail were their poor exertions against the fury of the raging and devouring element?
A search was immediately instituted for Lady Ravensworth: but she was not to be found in either of the drawing-rooms. Nor was she in any of the chambers in the northern part of the building; and it was impossible to enter the southern wing, which seemed to be one vast body of flame.
The domestics, finding their search to be useless, were compelled to form the dreadful conclusion that their mistress had perished in the conflagration.
For six hours did the fire rage with appalling fury; and though the inhabitants of the adjacent village and the immediate neighbourhood flocked to the scene of desolation and rendered all the assistance in their power, the splendid mansion was very speedily reduced to a heap of charred and blackened ruins.
CHAPTER CCL.
EGERTON’S LAST DINNER PARTY.
We have already stated that Egerton was deeply affected by the result of the imposture which he had practised upon his relations. During the drive back to London, his four friends—Dunstable, Cholmondeley, Harborough, and Chichester—vainly endeavoured to rally him: he was silent and thoughtful, and replied only in monosyllables.
On their arrival at Stratton Street, Egerton took leave of his friends at the door without inviting them to enter; but they were not so easily disposed of. They urged him to accompany them to some place of amusement: he remained inaccessible t
o their solicitations, and firmly declared his intention of passing the remainder of the evening alone.
They were at length compelled to leave him—consoling themselves with the hope that he would “sleep off his melancholy humour,” and rise in the morning as pliant and ductile in their hands as ever.
The four gentlemen had not long departed, when Major Anderson called at the house; and having represented to the servant that his object was an affair of some importance, he was admitted into the drawing-room where Egerton was lying upon the sofa.
“At length I find you alone, Mr. Egerton,” said the Major. “I have called every evening for the last few days, and have never until now been fortunate enough to learn that you were at home.”
“To what am I to attribute the honour of this visit?”’ asked the young man, whom it struck that he had seen the Major before—but when or where he could not remember.
“Pardon me if, ere I reply to that question, I pause to observe that you survey me with some attention,” said Anderson; “and I can divine what is passing in your mind. You think that my features are not altogether unknown to you? I believe this to be the case—for you have seen me before. Indeed I should have begun by thanking you—most gratefully thanking you for that generous intention on your part which was interrupted at the door of the St. James’s Club-House——”
“Ah! I recollect now!” cried Egerton, starting up from his reclining position. “But——”
“Again I can read what is passing in your mind,” observed the Major, with a smile; “and I can appreciate the delicacy which made you thus stop short. You notice the change that has taken place in my appearance? Yes—my circumstances are indeed altered; and from a wandering mendicant, I have become a gentleman once more. But that change has been effected by the very individual whose interposition on that night to which I have just now alluded, prevented you from exercising your intended benevolence towards me.”
“And that individual was the Prince of Montoni,” said Egerton.
“Oh! then you know him by sight——”
“I knew him not, otherwise than by name, until that evening,” interrupted Egerton; “and it was from Sir Rupert Harborough and Mr. Chichester that I learnt who the stranger was.”
“Ah! his Highness has good cause to remember them also!” cried Anderson, to whom the Prince had related his entire history a day or two previously.
“Indeed,” exclaimed Egerton, “I now recollect that they seemed alarmed at his presence, and mentioned his name with trepidation.”
“Well might they do so!” said the Major, indignantly. “But the Prince himself will explain to you those particulars to which I allude.”
“The Prince—explain to me!” cried Egerton.
“Yes; my object in calling upon you is to request that you will either visit the Prince as soon as convenient, or appoint a day and an hour when his Highness may visit you.”
“Oh! I should be indeed joyful to form the acquaintance of that illustrious hero of whom every Englishman must feel proud!” exclaimed Egerton, with the enthusiasm that was natural to him. “Valour, integrity, and the most unbounded humanity are associated with the name of Richard Markham. But upon what business can the Prince be desirous to honour me with his acquaintance?”
“That his Highness will himself explain,” was the reply. “What hour will you appoint for to-morrow to wait upon the Prince at his own residence?”
“I will be there punctually at mid-day,” answered Egerton.
“And in the meantime,” said Major Anderson, after a moment’s hesitation, “it will be as well if you do not mention to those persons with whom you are intimate, the appointment which you have made.”
“I understand you, sir,” rejoined Egerton: “it shall be as you suggest.”
The Major then took his leave; and Egerton—who entertained a faint suspicion of the object which the Prince had in view—received consolation from the idea that his illustrious fellow countryman experienced some degree of interest in his behalf.
That suspicion was engendered by the known philanthropy and anxiety to do good which characterised Markham; by the allusion made by Anderson to certain explanations which the Prince intended to give relative to Harborough and Chichester; and also by the injunction of secrecy in respect to the appointment that had been made.
Well knowing that his four friends would not fail to visit him early next day,—and determined that they should not interfere with his visit to one whose acquaintance he so ardently desired to form,—Egerton repaired to an hotel, where he passed the night.
On the following morning he was greatly surprised, and to some extent shocked, to read in the newspaper the tidings of the fearful conflagration which had not only destroyed Ravensworth Hall, but in which the lady who owned the mansion had herself perished.
“And there likewise is entombed the mystery of the dead body!” said Egerton, as he laid aside the paper.
His toilette was performed with great care; and, punctual to the moment, the young man knocked at the door of Markham Place.
He was conducted into an elegantly furnished apartment, where the Prince advanced to receive him in a most kind and affable manner.
“You will perhaps imagine that I have taken a very great liberty with you, Mr. Egerton,” said Richard, “in requesting you to call upon me in this manner; but when you are made acquainted with my motives in seeking the present interview, you will give me credit for the most sincere disinterestedness. In a word, I consider it to be my duty to warn you against at least two of those persons who call themselves your friends.”
“My lord, I was not unprepared for such an announcement,” said Egerton, in a deferential manner.
“Then is my task the more easy,” exclaimed Richard. “I allude to Sir Rupert Harborough and Mr. Chichester, the latter of whom assumes the distinction of Honourable.”
“And is he not of noble birth, my lord?” inquired Egerton.
“He is the son of a tradesman,” answered Markham. “But that is no disgrace in my estimation: far from it! The industrious classes are the pillars of England’s greatness; and I for one would rather walk arm-in-arm along the most fashionable thoroughfare with the honest mechanic or upright shopkeeper, than boast of intimacy even with a King who is unworthy of esteem and respect.”
Egerton surveyed with unfeigned admiration the individual from whose lips these noble sentiments emanated—sentiments the more noble, inasmuch as they were expressed by one whose rank was so exalted, and who stood so high above his fellow-men.
“Yes,” continued Markham, “your friend Mr. Chichester is one of those impostors who assume title and distinction as well to aid their nefarious courses as to gratify their own grovelling pride. I do not speak with malignity of that man—although I once suffered so much through him: for were he to seek my forgiveness, heaven knows how readily it would be accorded. Neither is it to gratify any mean sentiment of revenge that I now warn you against these two individuals. My present conduct is dictated by a sense of duty, and by an ardent desire to save a young and confiding young man, as I believe you to be, from the snares of unprincipled adventurers.”
“Oh! now a light breaks in upon me,” exclaimed Egerton; “and I recognise in the actions of those, whom I lately deemed my friends, all the designing intrigues to which your Highness alludes! Fool that I was to be thus deceived!”
“Rather thank heaven that the means of redemption have arrived ere it be too late,” said the Prince, impressively; “for I can scarcely believe, from all I have heard concerning you, that your affairs are in a state of ruin which admits of no hope.”
“Your Highness argues truly,” exclaimed Egerton: “I have yet sufficient resources remaining to furnish me with the means of an honourable livelihood.”
“Then you need scarcely regret the am
ount you have paid for the purchase of experience,” said the Prince. “But allow me to place in your hands proofs of the iniquity of Sir Rupert Harborough and his friend. Behold these two documents! They contain the narrative of as foul a scheme of turpitude as ever called the misdirected vengeance of the law upon an innocent victim. The first of these papers is the confession of an engraver whom Harborough and Chichester made the instrument of that project which at one time covered my name with so dark a cloud. You seem astonished at what I say? Oh! then you are ignorant of that episode in my chequered life.”
“Never have I heard rumour busy with your Lordship’s name, save to its honour and glory,” observed Egerton, in a tone of convincing sincerity.
“Peruse these papers—they will not occupy you many minutes,” returned our hero, after a temporary pause. “The second document, which I now hand you, only came into my possession this morning: it was signed yesterday afternoon, by Sir Rupert Harborough and Mr. Chichester——”
“Yesterday afternoon, my lord!” cried Egerton. “Those gentlemen were in my company—at a short distance from London——”
“At Ravensworth Park,” said Richard, with a smile. “You see that I know all. It was indeed at that very mansion—which, as you are doubtless aware, was reduced to ashes during the night—that this confession was drawn up and signed by your two friends. The engraver, whose name is appended to the first of those papers, was led by accident to Ravensworth Hall; and there he encountered the two adventurers who had once made him their instrument—their vile tool! He compelled them to draw up and sign that second paper, which you hold in your hands, and which, through gratitude for some trifling act of kindness that I was once enabled to show him, he obtained by working on their fears. Scarcely an hour has elapsed since I experienced the satisfaction of receiving that document from him; and my delight was enhanced by the conviction that he is now an honest—a worthy—and a prosperous member of society.”
The Mysteries of London, Vol. II [Unabridged & Illustrated] (Valancourt Classics) Page 126