THE HISTORY OF AN UNFORTUNATE WOMAN.
"My name is Lydia Hutchinson. My father was the curate of a small
village near Guildford; and fortune had frowned upon him with such
continuous rancour from the moment he left the University where he
graduated, that it was somewhat late in life ere he ventured to think of
matrimony. After filling several different curacies, from which he was
invariably removed at the deaths of the old incumbents and the arrival
of the new ones, he seemed at length to settle down in the little
village to which I have alluded. There he fell in love with the daughter
of a half-pay officer as poor as himself; and, with only eighty pounds a
year to depend upon, he embarked in the voyage of matrimony. A year
after this union, a son was born, and christened by the name of Edgar:
an interval of eighteen months elapsed, and I was ushered into the
world. But my mother died in giving birth to me.
"To say that my brother and myself were the only consolation which my
poor father now possessed, were merely to tell the common tale of
parental love in the widowed breast. We were indeed his only
consolation! Often and often has he told us this, when we were old
enough to comprehend his meaning, and appreciate the full value of his
kindness. He was an excellent man. In order to let his children be
respectably dressed and maintain a decent appearance—especially at
church on Sundays—he stinted himself of almost the common necessaries of
life. He undertook my brother's education himself; and from his lips I
also learnt the rudiments of the knowledge which I possess. There was
resident in the village, a widow lady of great accomplishments, but
reduced circumstances; and out of his pittance my father even contrived
to spare something to procure her services in giving me lessons in
music, drawing, embroidery, and French. Under her tuition I progressed
rapidly in those branches; and, when I was sixteen, I was considered to
be better educated than if I had been brought up at a boarding-school.
"Since I have mentioned that age, I will not weary you with any farther
details concerning the earlier portion of my life. My brother Edgar had
already obtained a situation as an usher in a school at Guildford, and
my father, though loth to part with us both, was well aware of the
necessity of placing us in positions which would, he hoped, enable us to
earn our own bread. For of course his small income would cease at his
death; and it had been impossible for him to save a single penny. He,
however, anticipated that, when we were both provided for, he should be
able to lay aside a few pounds during the remaining years of his life,
so as not to leave his dearly-beloved children completely dependant on
themselves at his decease. Under such circumstances he gladly availed
himself of an opportunity of placing me as junior teacher in an
extensive ladies' boarding-school at Kensington.
"My father brought me up to London, and left me at Mrs. Lambkin's
establishment, which was called Belvidere House. He wept when he took
leave of me; but as Mrs. Lambkin (who was a widow, about forty years of
age) spoke very kindly, and promised to take great care of me, the
sorrow of parting was somewhat mitigated on both sides. I was to receive
no salary the first year; but if I suited, my remuneration was fixed at
six pounds for the second year, to be increased subsequently.
"When my father took his leave, Mrs. Lambkin said, 'My dear sir, do not
be grieved at parting from your daughter. She will find a mother in me.
I will be all to her that her own maternal parent would be, were she
alive. God bless her! she's a pretty, amiable looking girl; and I
already love her!'—Then Mrs. Lambkin put her handkerchief to her eyes;
and my poor father was deeply affected. Mrs. Lambkin proceeded to inform
him that she had scarcely ever known a moment's happiness since poor
dear Mr. Lambkin's death, which took place, she said, five years
previously, and in a most distressing manner. 'In fact, Mr. Hutchinson,'
she continued, 'Mr. Lambkin lost his valuable life when gallantly
attempting to rescue an ill-used and most virtuous young woman from a
brutal assault on the part of half-a-dozen intoxicated policemen.'—My
father expressed great sorrow at this information. Mrs. Lambkin had wine
and cake brought in; and at length my father took his leave, greatly
comforted to think that I should have obtained a situation in the
establishment of so kind-hearted and excellent a lady.
"Scarcely had my father left the door, when Mrs. Lambkin turned round
towards me, and in a tone which I considered somewhat inconsistent with
her former manner and language, exclaimed, 'Now, miss, dry those tears,
and go up to your room to make yourself decent for afternoon school. The
young ladies at Belvidere House all belong to the first families of
distinction, and are accustomed to see the teachers well dressed.' Then,
ringing the bell, she said to a smart servant who answered the summons,
'Jessica, show Miss Hutchinson to her room.' Jessica took a good long
stare at me, then turning sharply round, told me to follow her. We
proceeded up two handsome flights of stairs, beautifully, carpetted. On
the second floor, the doors of several bed-rooms stood open; and I could
not help admiring the comfort—nay, even the luxury, which their interior
revealed to the hasty glance that I threw into them. 'These are the
young ladies' rooms,' said Jessica abruptly: 'yours is higher up.' On
the third floor I also observed the doors of several chambers standing
open, and permitting glimpses of great neatness inside. 'These are _our_
rooms,' said Jessica—alluding, as I afterwards discovered, to the
servants' apartments. Up another flight we went; and now we reached the
attics. 'These are the junior teachers' rooms,' cried Jessica, 'and this
is yours,' she added, flinging open the door of a garret, wherein I
perceived nothing save a mean-looking bed, one chair, a table with a
wash-hand basin on it, a brown stone pitcher in a corner, and a glass as
large as the palm of my hand hanging to a pin stuck in the wood-work of
the window.
"I was about to offer some observation, thinking that Jessica had made a
mistake in showing me to this garret; but I checked myself—being
unwilling to commence my noviciate at Belvidere House with any thing in
the shape of a complaint. 'Will you have the kindness to bring me up my
trunk and bonnet-box?' said I, in as polite and meek a manner as
possible.—Miss Jessica burst out laughing in my face. 'Well! that is a
pretty thing, I don't think!' she exclaimed, tossing her head haughtily:
'an under teacher to ask an upper servant to bring up her trunk! Well—I
never!'—'I am very sorry if I have offended you,' I said.—'If you really
don't know better,' answered Jessica, looking at me attentively, 'I
don't mind forgiving you this time. And I'll do more, too, for I'll tell
the scullery girl to help you up with your things; but of course even
_she_ wouldn't do it alone.'—My heart rose into my mouth; and it was
only by means of a desperate effort that I restrained my tears.—'Do the
other teachers sleep on this floor?' I asked, more for the sake of
concealing my emotions, than gratifying my curiosity.—'Miss Muddle, the
head teacher,' replied Jessica, 'sleeps in the room of the first class
young ladies: Miss Spinks, the second teacher, sleeps with the second
class; Miss Pantile, the third teacher, with the third class; Miss
Rhodes, Miss Jessop, and you occupy this part of the house. But I'll go
and tell Betsy to help you up with your things.'
"Jessica walked away in the most stately manner, preceding me down
stairs, and evidently considering me her inferior. Betsy was summoned;
and with no small amount of grumbling, that dirty slattern condescended
to hold one end of my trunk, while I carried the other. Scarcely had I
dressed myself in my second best gown (I had but three)—when Jessica
came up to say that Mrs. Lambkin was excessively angry at the length of
time I took to make myself decent. Jessica herself was in a very bad
humour at being obliged to mount four flights to convey this message,
and told me in an insolent manner not to dawdle so again.
"Trembling, miserable, and unhappy, I went down to the school-room,
where Mrs. Lambkin scolded me, before the other teachers and the young
ladies, in no measured terms. Then, because I cried, she scolded me the
more. At length she set me to teach four little girls, of ages varying
from eight to ten. Miss Muddle, Miss Spinks, and Miss Pantile, all
surveyed me with the most sovereign contempt: Miss Rhodes and Miss
Jessop, who were not much older than myself (whereas the three senior
teachers were all past thirty) looked at me in a more friendly manner.
The ages of the boarders varied from eight to sixteen. They were all
beautifully dressed; and some of the elder ones were very pretty. There
were about forty young ladies altogether in the establishment.
"The four little girls whom I had to teach, were as stupid as they well
could be, and so pert that I scarcely knew how to manage them. They
laughed and giggled at every attempt which I made to instruct them.
Sometimes Mrs. Lambkin would exclaim, 'Hutchinson, there's too much
noise with your class;'—and when I spoke very low to my pupils, it was,
'Hutchinson, you're literally doing nothing there!' The three senior
teachers were alone addressed by Mrs. Lambkin as _Miss_: with the three
juniors it was plain _Rhodes_, _Jessop_, and _Hutchinson_.
"At tea-time, the three senior teachers sate near the mistress of the
establishment, and had tea and thin bread-and-butter: the three junior
teachers sate amongst the little girls, and had milk-and-water, and
thick bread-and-butter. The same arrangement existed at breakfast. At
dinner, the three junior teachers were expected to eat the cold meat;
though none of the little girls were made to partake of it, and, as I
once heard Jessica observe, 'such a thing as cold meat was never touched
in the kitchen.' I only mention these trifling details to give you an
idea of Mrs. Lambkin's fashionable academy. I may add that the junior
teachers had to make their own beds, and fetch up their own water in the
great stone pitchers.
"I soon found that Mrs. Lambkin was very far from being so amiable as
she had appeared in the presence of my father—except of an evening,
after about six or seven o'clock; and then she grew more cheerful—nay,
jovial, and was very familiar with us all. But she was constantly
leaving the room where we all sate, and remaining away for only a few
minutes each time; but the oftener she went out in this strange manner,
I noticed that the more good-humoured she grew.
"Thus some weeks passed away. One evening I had solicited permission to
go out for a few minutes to take a letter to the post for my father (for
the servants would do nothing to oblige the junior teachers), when one
of the eldest boarders in the establishment (the Honourable Miss Adeline
Enfield) accosted me in the passage, and, in a hasty whisper, said,
'Dear Miss Hutchinson, will you put this letter in the post for
me?'—'Certainly,' I replied.—'You need not say a word about it, you
know,' added Miss Enfield; and she glided away.—I did not think very
seriously of the matter, knowing that it was against the rules of the
establishment for the young ladies to write to their friends or parents
without allowing Mrs. Lambkin to inspect their letters; and as I
considered this to be a harsh regulation, I did not hesitate to oblige
Miss Enfield—especially as she had addressed me in so kind a tone. I
accordingly posted her letter, and thought no more of the subject. But
the next time I was going out, Miss Enfield repeated her request, and
again ran away ere I could reply. I noticed that this letter was
addressed to the same person as the former one—namely, '_Captain
Cholmondeley, Barracks, Knightsbridge_;'—but supposing that he might be
a relative, I did not hesitate to post the epistle.
"That same night, after I had retired to my garret, the door was opened
softly, and the Honourable Miss Enfield entered. She was in her night
clothes; and, placing her finger on her lip to enjoin caution, she said,
'My dear Miss Hutchinson, you can do me such a favour, if you will?'
'—Certainly I will, if I can,' was my answer.—'Oh! you can very easily,'
continued the young lady, who, by-the-by, was a sweet pretty girl, and
very interesting: 'a letter will come addressed to you, by the first
post to-morrow morning.'—'Indeed!' I said; 'and how do you know
that?'—'Because, though the envelope will be addressed to you, the
letter inside will be for me,' she answered, laughing.—'And what would
Mrs. Lambkin say if she knew it?' I asked.—'She cannot know it unless
you tell her; and I am sure you will not do that, dear Miss Hutchinson,'
returned the Honourable Miss Enfield.—'I will oblige you this time,' I
said, after some consideration; 'but pray do not let this take place
again.'—Then she kissed me so affectionately, I was really pleased to
have made a friend of her; for I was so forlorn and unhappy in my
situation—though I never let my father know how completely we had been
deceived in Mrs. Lambkin's disposition.
"On the following morning the letter came: and when I could find an
opportunity, I gave the contents (which was a small note carefully
sealed) to Miss Enfield. She thanked me with a sweet smile. Three or
four days afterwards, another letter came addressed to me, with another
enclosure for Miss Enfield. I was determined not to give it to her
during the day, because I could find no opportunity to speak to her
unobserved. Accordingly, as I anticipated, she came up to my room in the
evening, after we had all retired to rest. I then gave her the note, but
with a firm and decided assurance that I would not be the intermediate
of any further correspondence carried on in so secret a manner. She
cried very bitterly at my resolve, and by means of some tale which it is
not worth while to repeat, but which seemed to me satisfactory at the
time, induced me to convey a letter to the post for her next day, and
receive the answer in the usual manner. I foolishly allowed myself to be
over-persuaded, and fulfilled her wishes in both respects. I must
observe that her letter was addressed to the same person as the two
preceding ones.
"She was very grateful to me for my kindness, and treated me with marked
attention. Being the daughter of a noble house, her conduct towards me
produced a pleasant effect in respect to the three senior teachers, who,
seeing that Miss Enfield courted my society, began to treat me more as
their equal than they had hitherto done. Mrs. Lambkin also grew less
harsh towards me; and my position acquired some degree of comfort.
"One evening, after I had retired to my garret, Miss Enfield paid me
another visit. She had another favour to ask me. 'The day after
to-morrow,' she said, 'I shall have leave to go out for a little
shopping. Will you accompany me?'—I replied that I should do so with
much pleasure.—'Very well,' she said; 'leave me to manage it. I will ask
Mrs. Lambkin to-morrow night, when she has been out of the room three or
four times——.'—'I do not understand why you should choose that moment,'
I said.—'Oh!' was the answer, 'when she has had her third or fourth
glass, she can refuse me nothing; and she is sure to ask whom I will
have of the teachers to accompany me.'—'Her third or fourth glass!' I
exclaimed.—'Yes, to be sure,' returned Miss Enfield. 'What! I thought
every one knew that she drinks like a fish; although she does do it on
the sly. Her husband was a dreadful drunkard.'—'Indeed! I am sorry to
hear this,' I observed. 'Moreover, I thought that her husband was a most
respectable person.'—'Oh! I dare say Mrs. Lambkin has been telling you
that nonsense about her husband's death,' said Miss Enfield, laughing.
'The truth is, he was coming home one night most terribly the worse for
liquor, when he became involved in a dispute with a bad woman; and when
the police interfered, he made a desperate assault upon them, and was
killed by an unlucky blow with one of their bludgeons.'—'She told quite
a different tale to my father,' I observed.—'Yes, because your father is
a clergyman, and may recommend some boarders to her house,' returned
Miss Enfield. 'Did she not also seem mighty civil and polite before
him?'—I confessed that she did.—'And the moment his back was turned, did
she not turn also?'—This I likewise admitted.—'She cannot keep her
temper long, you see. But I must go now, for fear Miss Muddle should
awake, and happen to find out that I have left my bed. Good night, dear
Miss Hutchinson. The day after to-morrow we will go out shopping
together.'
"Then the Honourable Miss Enfield withdrew, leaving me greatly
astonished at what I had heard. I lay awake the greater part of the
night, reflecting on all that she had told me; and when I thought of
this young lady's rank, youth, beauty, and brilliant prospects, I felt
sad at the idea that the purity of her soul had been in the least degree
interfered with by tales of drunken men, bad women, and police-riots, as
well as by the example of an intemperate school-mistress. Miss Enfield's
communication had shed a new light upon my mind. The term '_bad woman_'
set me thinking what it could mean; and at last I comprehended its
signification. Oh! how I shuddered when that first consciousness of the
real extent to which female frailty can reach, grew more and more
defined in my imagination, until I understood its deep shade of guilt.
The first step towards teaching the youthful mind to become infidel, is
to suffer it to know that there live men, in Christian countries, who
deny the truth of revealed religion:—the first step towards inducing a
young girl to harbour impure thoughts, is to show her that female
depravity has, in its worst sense, an indubitable existence!
"The Honourable Miss Enfield was as good as her word. She obtained
permission to go out shopping, and also for me to accompany her. It was
three o'clock, on a beautiful spring afternoon, when Miss Enfield and
myself sallied forth together. 'The best shops lie in this direction,' I
observed, pointing towards the left.—'Oh! no, my dear Miss Hutchinson,'
she said, with a merry laugh: 'the spot that will suit me is in _this_
direction;'—and she took the road to London. I made no objection; my
duty was to accompany her for the sake of appearances—not precisely to
take care of her, because, although eight months younger than I, she was
as tall and as matured in form as myself. Indeed she was very
precocious, but, as I have before said, very pretty.
"We passed by several linen-drapers' shops; but the Honourable Miss
Enfield entered none of them. At length we reached Hyde Park. 'Do let us
take a walk here, my dear Miss Hutchinson,' she exclaimed: 'see how
beautiful the trees already seem; and what a freshness there is in the
air!'—I assented; and we entered the Park. Presently Miss Enfield burst
out into a joyous laugh. I inquired the reason; but she only looked
archly at me, and renewed her merriment. Scarcely had I time to question
her a second time concerning her joyousness, when she pressed my arm
significantly; and I beheld two tall, fine-looking military men
approaching. I cast my eyes downwards, for I perceived that they were
looking attentively at us; but in a few moments I heard one of the
officers exclaim, 'It _is_ my dearest Adeline! I felt convinced that she
would not disappoint me.'—'Not for worlds, Cholmondeley,' she
replied;—and, in another moment, she had left me and was hanging on the
officer's arm.—'Now, Dunstable, you do the amiable with Miss
Hutchinson,' said Captain Cholmondeley to his companion; and before I
could recover from the stupefaction into which these proceedings threw
me, I found myself arm-in-arm with a handsome young officer, whom I soon
afterwards ascertained to be Lord Dunstable.
"For some time I walked on in profound silence, conscious that I was
doing wrong, but unable to muster up the courage sufficient to withdraw
from the false position in which Miss Enfield's intrigue had placed me.
At length the gentle tones of a kind but manly voice penetrated through
the chaos of ideas which agitated in my brain. 'Wherefore so silent,
Miss Hutchinson?' said the young officer: 'does my boldness in
constituting myself your companion offend you? If so, I will instantly
release you from the unpleasant contact of my society.'—I made no
answer, but burst into tears.—'By heaven! you are a sweet girl,' he
continued; 'and I feel that I can love you sincerely. But dry those
lovely eyes: there are persons about who may observe us.'—He was right:
I wiped away the tears; and, after hazarding a few brief replies to his
remarks, I insensibly fell into conversation with him. By degrees I lost
the restraint and embarrassment which had at first possessed me; and ere
I had been half an hour in his society, I laughed heartily at his lively
sallies and sprightly observations. In the mean time Adeline was walking
at a considerable distance in front, with the Honourable Captain
Cholmondeley.
"Nearly two hours passed away in this manner; and then I insisted upon
returning to Belvidere House. We accordingly overtook Miss Enfield and
the Captain; and I signified my desire, observing that Mrs Lambkin would
be angry did we remain absent much longer. 'We will not part with you,
ladies,' said the Captain, 'unless you promise to lighten our darkness
again with your presence ere we are all a week older.'—'This day week we
could manage it again,' immediately observed Miss Enfield.—I murmured an
objection.—'If you do not come, my dearest Miss Hutchinson,' whispered
Lord Dunstable to me, 'I shall either hang or drown myself.'—I smiled;
and Adeline, who was watching my countenance, cried, 'Oh! Lydia is such
a dear good-natured creature, and we are such friends, I am sure she
will not refuse.'—Again I smiled; and this was taken for an assent on my
part. Then the two gentlemen looked round, and, perceiving no strangers
near at the present, they bade us farewell in a most tender manner:—I
mean that Captain Cholmondeley pressed Adeline in his arms, while Lord
Dunstable literally glued his lips to mine. And I——Oh! my resistance was
but feeble!
"Miss Enfield and myself then retraced our steps towards Belvidere
House; but to save appearances, she purchased some articles at the first
linen-draper's shop that we came to. 'Ah! Miss Adeline,' I said, as we
proceeded homewards, 'what have we both been doing?'—'Enjoying ourselves
very much, dear Lydia,' answered the young lady, laughing heartily. 'I
am sure you ought not to complain, for you have made the conquest of a
lord, handsome, and wealthy.'—'But what will he think of me?' I
exclaimed.—'That you are a very pretty, amiable, delightful girl,'
rejoined the Honourable Miss Enfield.—'And all this was planned on your
part, Miss Adeline?' I said.—'Call me _Adeline_ in future,' answered
Miss Enfield; 'for now you and I are sworn friends. Yes; the whole
matter was pre-arranged so far as my meeting with Cholmondeley was
concerned; and as I told him in my last note that _you_ would accompany
me, he was too gallant not to engage a friend to take charge of you
while he and I were conversing together.'—'Are you going to be, married
to Captain Cholmondeley?' I inquired.—'He has promised to demand my hand
of my parents the moment I leave school,' replied Adeline: then after a
pause, she added, 'And if you play your cards well, you may become Lady
Dunstable.'—This assurance electrified me: it filled me with new hopes,
new visions, new aspirations. In a few moments I saw myself (in
imagination) the wife of a Lord, my father a Bishop, through my
husband's influence, and my brother a rich gentleman to whose addresses
no heiress would turn a deaf ear!
"I could not sleep all that night! I considered my fortune already
assured; and I declare most solemnly that I felt more delight, in the
visions of prosperity and bliss which I conjured up, on account of my
father and brother, than for the sake of myself. The week passed away: I
did not oppose Miss Enfield's intimation to me that we should keep our
appointment with the two officers; and, permission having been obtained
as before, we sallied forth. Hyde Park was soon gained; and we were not
kept waiting a moment by our _beaux_—for they were already at the place
of meeting. They received us with evident delight; and as Lord Dunstable
pressed my hand tenderly, my eyes met his—a deep blush suffused my
countenance—and I felt that I already loved him.
"Adeline walked apart with the Captain: and I remained with Lord
Dunstable. He spoke to me more freely, but not less respectfully, than
on the former occasion. He assured me that he had thought of nothing,
since we last met, save the prospect of seeing me again; and he forced
from me an avowal that I too had not altogether forgotten him! We had
been thus together for half an hour, when it began to rain. The
Honourable Captain Cholmondeley and Adeline then turned and joined us.
'This rain is a great nuisance,' said the Captain: 'it is impossible to
keep the ladies out in it; and it is equally impossible to part with
them so soon.'—'What is to be done?' asked Lord Dunstable.—'My private
residence is close by,' said the Captain; 'and if the ladies would take
shelter there, until the rain is over, they shall be treated with as
much respect as if they were at home.'—'Well, on that condition,'
exclaimed Miss Enfield, 'we will assent.'—I was about to offer some
remonstrance, when Lord Dunstable whispered a few tender words in my
ear; and the objection died upon my lips.
"The Honourable Captain Cholmondeley's private dwelling was in the
immediate vicinity of Sloane Street; and thither we repaired. A servant
in livery opened the door: we were conducted into an elegantly furnished
dining-room, and a cold collation was speedily served up. Champagne was
poured out; and, not aware of its strength, I drank two glasses without
much hesitation. The Captain told the servant to leave the room; and I
remember that we laughed, and chatted, and ate, and drank as happily as
if Adeline and myself were in no way tied to time. But presently my
senses became obscured; my head swam round; and I was ready to fall from
my seat. I have a faint idea of beholding Adeline sitting on the
Captain's knee; and then I recollected no more, until I awoke in the
morning!
"But, my God! to what did I awake? Oh! even now I shudder as I recall to
mind my sentiments on that occasion! I was in bed—in a strange bed; and
by my side was Lord Dunstable. Then I comprehended that my dishonour had
been effected! I uttered a scream—a wild, terrific, appalling scream!
Lord Dunstable caught me in his arms, and said all he could to soothe
me. He pleaded the extent of his love, called heaven to witness that he
looked upon me as his wife, and swore by all he held sacred to make me
so in the eyes of the law as soon as he could complete certain
arrangements necessary to such a change in his condition. He spoke with
so much apparent sincerity, used so many arguments to convince me of his
love, and expatiated so eloquently upon the happiness which we should
enjoy when united, that my grief was absorbed in a wild delirium of
bliss!
"Then came the sudden thought, '_What was to become of me in the
meantime?_'—'You can return to Belvidere House,' answered Lord
Dunstable: 'Miss Enfield will make it all right for you.'—'Return to
Belvidere House!' I exclaimed: 'impossible!'—'Nay, it is very possible,'
rejoined my lover: 'Adeline, who is an uncommonly sharp girl, arranged
it all last evening before she left. She said that she should let
herself into Belvidere House by the back way, and that she should
proceed straight into the parlour, where she should assure Mrs. Lambkin
that you, Lydia, had come home with such a dreadful headach, you were
obliged to go straight up to bed.'—'That excuse will do for last night,'
I said, wringing my hands in despair: 'but this morning?'—'All is
arranged equally well,' answered my noble lover. 'It is only now six
o'clock: you are to be in the neighbourhood of the school by half-past
seven; Adeline will steal out and join you: then you can both walk
boldly up to the door, enter, and say that you have been out together
for a little stroll, in accordance with a permission to that effect
which Adeline declared she would obtain from Mrs. Lambkin last night,
when that respectable lady was in her cups.'—These stratagems produced a
great relief to my mind, because I saw that they were entirely
practicable. But, even in that moment of my agitated soul, I could not
help reflecting upon the deep artifice which lurked in the bosom of so
young a creature as the Honourable Miss Enfield.
"I rose and hastily dressed myself. Then I took leave of Lord Dunstable.
He renewed all his protestations of sincerity, unalterable love, and
honourable intentions; and we arranged a plan of correspondence and
future meetings. I stole from the house, unperceived by any of the
inmates, and proceeded at a rapid pace towards the school. But how
changed was my soul—how altered were all my thoughts! I fancied that
every one whom I met, read the history of my shame in my countenance!
Then I consoled myself with Lord Dunstable's assurance that I was his
wife in the sight of heaven, and soon should receive that hallowed name
in the eyes of man.
"At a short distance from the school, I met Miss Enfield. I cast down my
eyes, and blushed deeply. She laughed merrily. 'Oh! Adeline,' I
exclaimed, 'to what has all this intriguing brought me?'—'My dear
Lydia,' she returned, 'our positions in that respect are equal; and, as
our lovers will keep their words and marry us, where is the harm?'—I
stared at the young lady with the most profound astonishment. How were
our positions equal in reference to our lovers? She speedily cleared up
my doubts. 'If you continue to blush and turn pale alternately, twenty
times in a minute, as you are now doing,' she said, 'we shall both be
suspected. We must exercise the greatest caution; for if it were
discovered that we surrendered ourselves to our lovers——.'—'_We!_' I
repeated, contemplating her with increasing astonishment.—'My dear
Lydia,' she continued, 'do you suppose that I was more virtuous than
you, or the captain less tender than the nobleman? I certainly would not
have accepted the invitation to visit Cholmondeley's private abode, if I
had foreseen the consequences. But what is done cannot be undone; and we
must make the best of it.'—I offered no reply: I saw that we were both
completely at the mercy of those who had taken advantage of us,—that our
positions were indeed equal in this one respect; and I fervently hoped
that we might not live to rue the adventures of the last twelve hours!
"The Honourable Miss Enfield had so well arranged matters, that we
entered the house without having excited the least suspicion of my
absence throughout the night. And now commenced a new species of
existence for me. My whole life suddenly appeared to be wrapped up in
the promise which Lord Dunstable had given me to make me his wife. We
corresponded often; and his letters to me invariably contained a note
from the Honourable Captain Cholmondeley to Miss Enfield. A fortnight
after the meeting which was so fatal to my honour, Adeline obtained
permission for us to go out again; and we proceeded to Hyde Park, where
our lovers joined us. An invitation to the Captain's private residence
was again given; the weather was, however, fine—we could walk in the
Park—and I positively refused. But Adeline and Cholmondeley disappeared
for more than an hour! Dunstable was as kind and tender to me as I could
wish: still he did not volunteer a single observation concerning our
marriage; and, when I gently alluded to it, he declared that he was
hastening his arrangements. Then he changed the conversation. At length
the Captain and Adeline returned; and we parted with our lovers,
promising to meet them again in a fortnight.
"The two weeks passed away: we met again; and on this occasion the
invitation to Cholmondeley's house was renewed—insisted upon—and, alas!
accepted. I will not dwell upon this portion of my narrative. Suffice it
to say that Cholmondeley's residence was converted into the scene of
unlawful pleasure and voluptuousness,—that Adeline with her lover in one
room, and myself with Dunstable in another, entered upon a career of
wantonness, which grew more insatiable as it progressed!
"Seven months had passed since the first meeting in Hyde Park; and Lord
Dunstable never spoke of marriage—never started the subject of his own
accord. I often questioned him on the point; and he invariably replied
that his arrangements were not yet complete. At length the dream of hope
and pleasure in which Adeline and myself had existed for half-a-year,
was suddenly dissolved. Hastily-written letters were one morning
received by us from our lovers, stating that they were about to proceed
on a continental tour; that they had not leisure to meet us for the sake
of taking leave; but that, on their return at the expiration of a few
months, they should be delighted to renew the intimacy. Not a word of
marriage in either letter!
"That night, at eleven o'clock, Adeline came to my garret. I was reduced
to despair; and could offer her no consolation, although she needed it
even more—oh! far more than I. The moment she found herself alone with
me, she gave way to a paroxysm of grief—a convulsion of anguish, which
alarmed me. I implored her to restrain her emotions, or we should be
overheard. She sank upon my bed; and I soon perceived that she was
enduring great bodily pain in addition to deep mental affliction. An
idea of the terrible truth flashed through my brain: she was in the
agony of premature labour!
"I had not even suspected her condition until that moment. I was
bewildered—I knew not what to do. At length I thought it advisable, at
all hazards, to alarm the house, and procure medical attendance. But as
I was rushing towards the door for that purpose, Adeline caught me by
the hand; and, turning towards me her countenance—her ghastly pale
countenance, with an expression of indescribable anguish and alarm, she
said, 'For God's sake, remain with me! If another be made acquainted
with my shame, I will not survive this disgrace.' I locked the door
cautiously, and returned to the bed-side. And there—in a miserable
garret, and in the depth of a cold winter's night,—with a nipping frost
upon the window, and the bright moon high in the heavens,—there,
attended only by myself, did the delicately-nurtured Adeline Enfield
give birth to a male child. But the little infant's eyes never opened
even for a moment upon this world: it was born dead!
"An hour afterwards Adeline dragged herself back to the room in which
she slept. That was a fearful night for us both: it was for _me_—it must
have been for _her_! I never closed my eyes: this terrible event weighed
upon my soul like a crime. I felt as if I had been the accomplice in
some awful deed of darkness. The cold and placid moon seemed to reproach
me—as if its bright orb were heaven's own all-seeing eye!
"I could not endure that calm—unvarying—steadfast light, which appeared
to be a glance immoveably fixed upon _me_. It drove me mad—it pierced my
brain. That cloudless moon seemed to shine on none of earth's denizens,
save myself. Methought that from its empyrean height it surveyed every
nook, every crevice of my lonely garret; and at length so icy became its
gaze, that I shuddered from head to foot—my teeth chattered—my limbs
grew rigid. There was a deep conviction in my soul that the eye of God
was upon me!
"I knelt down at last, and tried to pray. I called upon heaven—I called
upon my father—I called upon my brother, to pardon me! Then once more I
turned my eyes towards the moon; and its reproachful, chilling glance
seemed to penetrate to the depths of my secret soul,—singling me, _me_
out for its maddening scrutiny,—marking _me_ alone, of all the human
race, for its calm, but bitter contemplation.
"At length the orb of night was no longer visible from my window,
although its silver flood still inundated the dwellings and the country
of which my garret commanded a view. Then I grew more tranquil:—but I
could not sleep!
"Never was morning more welcome to the guilty imagination haunted by the
fearful apparitions of the night, than it was to me. I composed myself
as well as I could; but when I surveyed my countenance in the glass, I
was dismayed by its awful pallor—its haggardness—its care-worn look. I
did not dare plead illness, as an excuse for keeping my chamber; because
I was too anxious to ascertain what course Miss Enfield would pursue to
escape those inquiries that her appearance, I felt convinced, must
elicit. Besides, there was _something_ in my box which—but of that no
matter at present.
"I accordingly descended to the breakfast-room. The moment I entered, I
cast a hurried glance around, and beheld Adeline seated in her usual
place, chatting gaily with Miss Muddle, the senior teacher. We exchanged
rapid and significant looks; and I moved in silence to my own chair. But
I fully comprehended the indescribable efforts which Adeline was forced
to make in order to prevent herself from sinking with exhaustion. Others
noticed her extreme pallor, and spoke of the slight indisposition which
she declared she experienced: but _I_ saw how ill—how very ill, weak,
and languid she really was. And I was pale and suffering too; and no one
inquired what ailed me. This result of indifference on the part of all
save Adeline,—and of prudence on _her_ side,—was actually a great source
of comfort to me; for had I been questioned, I know not how I should
have replied. My confusion was extreme as it was; and yet I had much
less to tremble for than Adeline.
"The breakfast was over; and we all repaired to the school-room. As we
were proceeding thither, Miss Enfield drew me aside for a moment, and
said in a hurried whisper, 'For heaven's sake, keep my secret, dearest
Lydia: the honour of a noble family depends upon your prudence!'—I
pressed her hand in acquiescence.—'I will ever be your friend, dearest
Lydia,' she repeated.—Then we separated to take our respective places in
the school.
"The usual routine was progressing in its monotonous and wearisome
manner, when Jessica, the upper servant-maid, suddenly burst into the
room, and, addressing Mrs. Lambkin, said, 'Ma'am, there's three silver
tea-spoons missing; and as we've been quarrelling about it down stairs,
I beg that all our boxes may be searched. Of course I don't mean the
young ladies; or yet the _senior_ teachers, ma'am.'—The loss of three
silver spoons was sufficient to rouse Mrs. Lambkin's ire; and she vowed
that Jessica's suggestion should be immediately acted upon. The boxes
must be searched. I felt as if struck by a thunderbolt.
"Mrs. Lambkin summoned Miss Rhodes, Miss Jessop, and myself to accompany
her. Then Adeline rose, and exclaimed, 'Surely, Mrs. Lambkin, you will
not subject these three young ladies to the indignity of examining their
trunks?'—'Yes, but I will though,' cried Mrs. Lambkin, her anger getting
the better of her respect for the scion of aristocracy.—Adeline sank
back in her seat: and never—never shall I forget the imploring,
despairing, heart-rending glance which she darted upon me, as I followed
the school-mistress from the room.
[Illustration]
"The servants' boxes were all searched, one after the other; and no
spoons were discovered. Then Miss Rhodes was subjected to the same
degradation. When the scrutiny in respect to her trunk was
concluded,—and, of course, without any success in respect to the lost
articles,—she said, 'Madam, I beg to give you one month's warning that I
intend to leave your establishment.'—'Oh! very well: just as you like,'
returned Mrs. Lambkin.—Miss Jessop's room then passed through the
ordeal. No spoons. 'Madam,' said Miss Jessop, 'I beg to give you one
month's notice, according to the terms of our agreement. I know that my
parents will not blame me, after this insult.'—'Very well, miss,' cried
Mrs. Lambkin; 'you'll repent of leaving a good situation before you're
six months older.' Then, turning towards me, she said, 'This won't
prevent me from searching your boxes, miss; and I shall not die of grief
if you give me notice also.'—'Such is not my intention, madam,' I
replied, hoping that my submissiveness would plead in my favour, and
prevent her from visiting my room.—'No; I should think not,' she
retorted; and she walked straight away to the garret which I occupied.
"Miss Rhodes and Miss Jessop had gone down stairs; Jessica, Mrs.
Lambkin, and myself were alone together. During the few minutes that
intervened between the search in my small boxes and the visit to my
large trunk, I revolved in my mind the only alternatives which a certain
discovery that I now saw to be inevitable, would leave me: namely, to
shield Miss Enfield by accusing myself; or to save myself by exposing
her. Then I thought whether I really should save my own honour by this
latter course; for, although my frailty had led to none such
consequences as those which were connected with Adeline, nevertheless
she might proclaim me to have been the paramour of Lord Dunstable.
Moreover, I remembered her appealing, despairing look;—I called to mind
all the promises of friendship and assistance which she had made me; I
knew that she belonged to a noble, wealthy, and influential family; and
I had such confidence in the generosity and grateful nature of her
disposition, that I felt fully persuaded she would never abandon me.
"But, oh! I did not thus reason so calmly nor so deliberately as I am
now speaking. My brain was a whirlwind—my soul was a chaos; and it was
only with considerable mental effort, that I could separate and classify
my ideas in the slightest degree. And now the school-mistress approached
my trunk: she raised the lid—I leant against the wall for support. My
clothes were tumbled out on the floor: at the bottom of the box was a
small bundle, wrapped round with linen articles. The school-mistress
drew it forth—a terrific scream escaped my lips—the corpse of the infant
rolled upon the floor!
"Jessica gave vent to an exclamation of horror and alarm, and was
rushing towards the door, when Mrs. Lambkin, recovering from the sudden
shock which this spectacle had occasioned, held her back, saying, 'In
the name of God be cautious; or my establishment will be ruined!' Then
turning towards me, her lips quivering and white with rage, she said, in
a low hollow tone, 'No wonder you are so pale and ill this morning! But
must I look upon you as the murderess——.'—'Oh! no, no, madam,' I
exclaimed, falling on my knees, and joining my hands together; 'that
child was born dead. Listen to me, and I will tell you all; I will
confess every thing!'—'There appears to be but little now to confess,'
returned Mrs. Lambkin; 'and I have no time for idle conversation. The
honour of my institution is seriously compromised: I will pay you the
amount due to you, and you can leave my service this minute. It will be
your fault if the real cause ever transpires.'—'Ah! madam,' I exclaimed,
'shall I not then be looked upon as the thief who stole your
spoons?'—'No,' answered the school-mistress. 'I will declare in the
presence of the entire establishment that my search has proved
ineffectual in all quarters; and I will even allow you the merit of
having left of your own accord, for the same reason which prompted Miss
Rhodes and Miss Jessop to give me notice.' Mrs. Lambkin then turned
towards Jessica, to whom she enjoined the strictest secrecy concerning
the discovery of the dead child.
"At one moment, when on my knees before Mrs. Lambkin, I was about to
confess the whole truth: but, now perceiving the turn which matters had
taken, and that she herself was most solicitous to hush up the affair
for the credit of her establishment, I saw that no exposure awaited me,
and that I might save Adeline from disgrace and ruin without farther
compromising myself. I accordingly intimated my readiness to leave on
condition that the real motive should never transpire. Then I thrust my
things back again into the trunk: but the corpse of the child, wrapped
in linen, I left lying on the floor. 'Put every thing into the
trunk—_that_, and all!' said Mrs. Lambkin.—'Not for worlds, madam,' I
exclaimed, 'would I remove my effects elsewhere, with _that_ amongst
them!'—"Wretch!' she cried, 'would you have me dispose of your bastard's
corpse for you?'—This insulting question brought the blood into my
cheeks. Oh! it was too much to be thus reviled for a disgrace which did
not really belong to me. Mrs. Lambkin saw how I was agitated, and,
dreading a scene, she said in a low tone, 'You can remain here till
to-morrow, Miss Hutchinson. If you choose to walk out this evening,
_when it is dark_, you have my permission. But, in the meantime, you
will have the kindness to keep your box carefully locked.'—I understood
the hint, and bowed acquiescence.
"We descended to the school-room once more. The moment I entered I
darted a glance towards Adeline which convinced her that _she_ was
saved. The one she gave in return was replete with gratitude. Oh! how
much had I sacrificed, and how deeply had I suffered for her!
"The day passed slowly away. Fortunately the missing spoons were found
in the evening: they had merely been mislaid by the cook or
scullery-girl. I retired to my chamber at an earlier hour than usual:
the presence of the school-mistress was irksome to me in the room below.
In a short time Adeline came to me. She had stolen away to have an
opportunity of conversing with me. Then I narrated to her all that had
occurred in the morning. She threw herself upon my neck, and thanked me
with tears in her eyes for having saved her from the depths of disgrace.
She called me her 'sister'—her 'friend'—her 'dearest, dearest friend;'
and vowed she would never forget the immense service which I had
rendered her. Then I felt glad that I had acted as I had done. She even
offered to go out, when the other inmates of the house had retired to
rest, and dispose of the corpse of the child—her own child; but I knew
that it would be death to one in her condition to venture abroad in the
night-air. I accordingly undertook to perform that task also. We next
conversed on my own prospects. I was averse to return home: I dreaded
the numerous questions which my father and brother were certain to put
to me. Adeline, who was an uncommonly worldly-minded girl for her age,
instantly suggested that I should take a respectable lodging in London,
and she would undertake to procure for me a situation as a
nursery-governess. The Christmas holidays were at hand: she would be
returning in the course of ten days to her parents' house in Belgrave
Square; and she assured me that she should then have an opportunity of
exercising her influence in my favour. To these proposals I assented;
and she withdrew.
"When the house was quiet, I put on my bonnet and cloak, concealing
beneath the latter the corpse of Miss Enfield's child. I then slipped
out by the back way, and striking into the bye-lanes leading towards
Brompton, at length reached a pond, into which a muddy ditch emptied
itself. The moon was bright, and thus enabled me to discover a spot
fitted for my purpose. I placed two or three large stones in the bundle
containing the body of the child: then I threw the whole into the pond.
The dark water splashed and gurgled; and in a few moments all was still
once more.
"I now breathed more easily; but it was not without some difficulty that
I found my way back to Belvidere House.
"On the following morning I took my leave of the inmates of that
establishment. I received the money that was due to me; and I requested
Mrs. Lambkin to allow me to leave my boxes until I should send for them
in the evening. To this she assented; and I repaired by the omnibus to
London. Miss Enfield had given me the necessary advice to guide me in
searching for a lodging; and I engaged a room in the house of a
respectable widow in Bury Street, St. James's. Her husband had been an
upper servant in the family of Lord and Lady Rossville (Miss Enfield's
parents); and, by using Adeline's name, I was immediately received with
civility by the widow.
"I sent a porter for my boxes; and then my first care was to write a
letter to my father. This I found to be no easy task. I recoiled from
the idea of sending a tissue of falsehoods to that dear, confiding
parent. Nevertheless, the duty was imperative. I accordingly concocted a
letter, in which I informed him 'that having been grievously insulted by
Mrs. Lambkin, I had left her service; but that I had met with a sincere
friend in the Honourable Miss Adeline Enfield, one of the young ladies
of the establishment, who had taken a great interest in me, and had not
only promised to procure me a situation as a nursery-governess in a
wealthy family, but had also recommended me, in the interval, to the
care of a most respectable widow.' By return of post I received my
father's answer. He regretted my precipitation in leaving Mrs. Lambkin
until I had written to consult him; but admitted that the provocation in
searching my boxes was grave. He expressed his entire confidence in my
discretion, and declared his delight at the friendship I had formed with
Miss Enfield. But he charged me to return home the moment I experienced
the least difficulty in obtaining another situation. He concluded by
stating that either he or Edgar would have repaired to London to see me;
but that the expense was an almost insuperable barrier to such a step,
their limited means being considered.
"Ten days elapsed; and then I knew that Miss Enfield must have returned
home for the Christmas holidays. I accordingly expected an early visit
from her. Nor was I mistaken. A magnificent equipage one afternoon drove
up to the door; and Adeline stepped out. In a few moments she was seated
in my little room. 'You see that I have not forgotten you, dear Lydia,'
she exclaimed. 'I have told my mother, Lady Rossville, such a fine story
about you,—how good and kind you always were to me, and how Mrs. Lambkin
persecuted you without any reason,—that she has permitted me to visit
you; and, more than _that_, she has recommended you to Lady Penfeather
as a nursery-governess. There is Lady Penfeather's address; and you may
call on her to-morrow afternoon. I have already said so much to her
ladyship concerning you, and assured her of the respectability of
yourself and family with such effect, that you will be received
immediately.'—I cordially thanked Adeline for this goodness on her part;
and she insisted so earnestly upon pressing on me a sum of money to
enable me to improve my wardrobe, that I could not refuse her offer. She
then embraced me, and took her leave.
"I will not dwell tediously on this portion of my narrative. On the
following day I called upon Lady Penfeather, and was received very
graciously. After some conversation, she engaged me at a salary of
twenty guineas a-year; and I was to remove to her house immediately. She
was an easy, affable, good-natured person—about thirty-six years of age,
and not very handsome. Her husband, Sir Wentworth Penfeather, was three
or four years older than herself, and was a fine, tall, good-looking
man. They had three children, whose ages were between six and ten: the
two eldest were girls, and the youngest a boy. These were to be my
pupils. I hastened back to my lodging, and wrote a letter to my father
informing him of my good luck. Then I settled with my kind landlady, and
removed to Sir Wentworth Penfeather's residence in Cavendish Square.
"I was very well treated in this family. The servants were all civil and
attentive to me; and the children were as ready to learn as children of
such an age could possibly be. Sir Wentworth was very frequently in the
apartment where I sate with them; and he was particularly kind in his
manners toward me. He even laughed and joked, and conversed with me in a
very friendly way. But in the presence of his wife, he was reserved, and
never addressed a word to me. At length his attentions, when unperceived
by Lady Penfeather, grew daily more significant; and he paid me many
compliments on my beauty. I discouraged his familiarity as much as
possible; but he soon grew more bold, and one day declared in plain
terms that he adored me. I rose and left the room.
"Three months had now passed; and I had never seen Adeline since she
called upon me at my lodging. I knew that she was not to return to Mrs.
Lambkin's establishment, her education being completed (completed
indeed!); and I felt hurt that she had not found a leisure moment either
to call or write to me. I accordingly wrote a note requesting to see
her. I was anxious to obtain another situation, and thus escape from Sir
Wentworth Penfeather's importunities. On the following day Adeline
called, and desired to see me alone. I was struck by her cold and
distant manner. 'Miss Hutchinson,' she said, 'you must not be astonished
at my conduct in not visiting you. You did me a great service: I have
returned the obligation by procuring you a good situation. There are now
no debts on either side. Our ways lie so totally different in the world,
that were I to maintain an intimacy with you, my behaviour would be
subject to the most annoying comments. We have both of us a deep
interest in keeping each other's secrets. Were you, in a moment of anger
against me, to state that it was my child that was discovered in _your_
trunk, who would believe you? whereas, if you proclaim our respective
amours with Captain Cholmondeley and Lord Dunstable, you publish your
own shame at the time you denounce me. I am sorry to be compelled to
speak thus to you; but I should have thought that your own good sense
would have taught you the immeasurable distance which lies between you
and me. Henceforth we are mere acquaintances, and nothing more.'
"With these words the honourable Adeline Enfield sailed out of the room,
leaving me lost in astonishment—absolutely bewildered—at her behaviour.
Then I felt for the first time the bitter ingratitude of the world, and
I wept. Oh! I wept abundantly. My head had fallen forward on the table
near which I was sitting; and I was giving way to my sorrow, when I
heard Lady Penfeather's voice in the passage. She was saying, 'This way,
my lord: I am sure you will be delighted to see the dear children. They
are all so fond of your lordship! Really it is quite an age since we
have seen you!'—'I have been on the continent with my friend
Cholmondeley,' was the answer: but the voice in which it was delivered
touched the tenderest chord in my heart. In another moment the door
opened, and Lady Penfeather entered, followed by Lord Dunstable. 'This
is the little school-room, you see, my lord,' she said; 'and this is my
governess, Miss Hutchinson. But where are the children?'—'Miss
Hutchinson!' exclaimed Lord Dunstable; 'Oh! we are old acquaintances: I
have had the honour of meeting Miss Hutchinson before. I used to visit
at her father's house, at—at—;' and he hesitated.—'At the Parsonage,
near Guilford, my lord,' I instantly added, my courage reviving when I
felt my hand tenderly pressed in his.—'Ah! to be sure,' he exclaimed;
'and how is my respectable friend, your father?' he continued, casting a
significant look upon me.—I answered the query; and Lady Penfeather was
quite satisfied with the manner in which Lord Dunstable's knowledge of
me was accounted for. His lordship went on talking to me about Guilford,
(which, I really believe, he had never seen in his life); and Lady
Penfeather went herself into the next room to fetch the children.
"The moment her back was turned, Lord Dunstable said to me in a hurried
whisper, 'Dearest Lydia, you look more beautiful than ever! I have never
ceased to think of you since we last met. I have much to say to you:
will you meet me to-morrow afternoon, somewhere? Say in the Pantheon,
(it is not very far from hence) at three o'clock precisely?'—I murmured
an affirmative; and at that moment Lady Penfeather returned, accompanied
by the children. Lord Dunstable affected to admire them very highly; and
the mother was quite charmed with his amiability. I could not help
noticing how much his continental tour had improved him; indeed, I had
never seen him looking so handsome before: my heart was once more filled
with the fondest hopes;—for I really loved that man.
"When his lordship retired, he shook hands with me again, and we
exchanged significant glances. The pleasure I experienced at this
unexpected meeting, and the interest he manifested in my behalf,
banished from my mind the disagreeable impression created by Adeline's
unfeeling conduct towards me. Oh! how slowly passed the hours until the
time of our appointment drew nigh! I was so completely my own mistress
in Lady Penfeather's family, that I could go out when I chose; and thus
I had no difficulty in repairing to the _rendez-vous_. Lord Dunstable
was there; and he advanced to meet me with pleasure depicted on his
countenance. I took his arm, and we retired to the picture-gallery,
where there happened to be but few loungers at the moment.
"He began by saying 'What must you have thought of my conduct in leaving
England so abruptly?'—'It gave me very great pain,' I answered; 'and,
after all your promises to me, I considered that I had reason to be both
dissatisfied and unhappy.'—'Let me speak candidly to you,' he continued.
'I am so circumstanced, in consequence of being entirely dependent on my
father, that marriage is for the present impossible. But I love you very
sincerely, and absence has augmented my attachment. Are you happy where
you are?'—I then candidly acquainted him with Sir Wentworth Penfeather's
conduct towards me, and stated my determination to leave my present
situation as soon as I could obtain another.—'Sir Wentworth,' continued
Lord Dunstable, 'is the greatest scoundrel in respect to women, in
London. If you do not yield to his wishes, he will slander you to his
wife in private: and you will be turned away some fine morning without
knowing why, and without a character.'—'Can he be so base?' I exclaimed,
alarmed at this information.—'He is indeed,' replied Dunstable.
"Then, in a language so plausible—so earnest—so seductive, that I am
unable to give you an idea of its speciousness, he proposed that I
should at once place myself under his protection. At first I scorned the
offer: he implored me to listen to him; he declared that he loved me to
distraction, and that the moment his father was dead he would marry me.
I wavered—he redoubled his entreaties, prayers; and at length he wrung
from me a consent to his proposition! It was agreed that I should invent
some excuse to quit Lady Penfeather in the course of the week; and
Dunstable promised in the meantime to provide suitable apartments for
me. Then we separated.
"But do not imagine that I did all this without a pang, when I thought
of my poor father and my brother! Oh! no—I wept bitter, burning tears at
my weakness, after I quitted my lover; and I resolved to recall my
promise to accept his protection. In this better frame of mind I
returned to Cavendish Square. The moment I entered, the servant who
opened the door informed me that Lady Penfeather desired to speak to me.
I proceeded to the drawing-room, where her ladyship was sitting. Sir
Wentworth was also there. I immediately suspected that there was
something wrong. Lady Penfeather said, in a cold and freezing tone,
'Miss Hutchinson, I have no farther need of your services. Here is the
amount due to you, together with a quarter's salary in addition, as I
have not given you a quarter's notice.'—'This is somewhat peremptory,
madam,' I observed, when I could recover from this sudden and unexpected
announcement.—'I should be even justified in turning you out of the
house, without the quarter's salary, Miss,' retorted the lady: 'but I do
not wish to behave too harshly to you; I would not, however, advise you
to apply to me for a character.'—'My God!' I exclaimed; 'what have I
done?'—'The levity of your conduct has been noticed by Sir Wentworth,'
returned Lady Penfeather.—'Sir Wentworth!' I repeated, unable to believe
my own ears; and then, in a moment, Lord Dunstable's words flashed to my
memory.—'Yes, Miss Hutchinson,' continued Lady Penfeather; 'and as I
recalled to mind the significant glances which you exchanged with Lord
Dunstable yesterday, I deemed it my duty to have you watched this
afternoon. Do you desire to know any more?'—'It is perfectly true that I
have been with Lord Dunstable ere now,' I exclaimed, my blood boiling
with indignation: 'but it is because I would not listen to the infamous
proposals of your husband, madam, that I have been maligned, and am
treated thus.'—Sir Wentworth started from his seat, livid with rage; and
her ladyship ordered me to quit the room. I perceived that all attempts
at explanation in respect to her husband's conduct were vain; and I
accordingly obeyed this mandate.
"I now resolved to return straight home to my father. I accordingly
repaired, with my baggage, in a hackney-coach to the _White Horse
Cellar_, for the purpose of taking the first conveyance to Guilford. But
my evil star interfered to prevent this prudential arrangement; for it
happened that as I alighted at the coach-office in Piccadilly, Lord
Dunstable was passing at the moment. I shrank back to avoid him; but he
saw me, and was immediately by my side. I then told him all that had
occurred at the Penfeathers', and acquainted him with my firm resolution
to return home. Need I say how he implored me to abandon this
determination? need I describe the earnestness with which he besought me
not to make him miserable for life? His language was eloquent—he was
handsome—I loved him—I was weak—and I consented to pass a few days with
him ere I returned to my father.
"Alas! those few days were prolonged into a few weeks. I did not dare to
write home: I fondly hoped that my father imagined me still to be in
Lady Penfeather's establishment; and I felt convinced there was no
chance of his coming to London so long as he entertained this
impression. Lord Dunstable continued very kind to me. He had hired
magnificent apartments for me in Jermyn Street, and allowed me a
carriage, besides a handsome weekly allowance. He passed with me all the
time he could spare from his regimental duties; but he never went abroad
with me—except to a private box at the theatre on two or three
occasions; and then he was so afraid of being seen by his relations,
that I was quite miserable.
"Several times I made up mind to leave him and return home; for the
remembrance of my beloved father and brother cut me to the quick. But
how could I seek their presence,—I who was now polluted not merely
through the treachery of my lover, but also through my own weakness!
Nevertheless, day after day I resolved to abandon my present mode of
life—retrace my steps to the home of my childhood—throw myself at my
father's feet—confess all my errors—implore his blessing—and devote the
remainder of my existence to penitence and virtue. Then my lover would
make his appearance; and all my prudent designs would flit away as if
they had never been.
"But one morning I was aroused from this dream of
irresolution—vacillation—weakness—and crime. I was seated alone at
breakfast, whiling away an hour with the newspaper. Suddenly my eyes
fell upon an advertisement at the head of the second column of the first
page. Oh! never shall I forget the agony of my feelings—the deep, deep
anguish of my soul, as I read these words:—'_L. H., your father is at
the point of death. Your afflicted brother implores you to return home.
For God's sake, delay not; or it will be too late! All shall be forgiven
and forgotten._'—And in the corner was the name of my father's village!
"For an instant I felt as if I should go raving mad. My brain seemed
actually to whirl. Oh! what a wretch did I conceive myself to be!
Another moment, and I became all activity—hurrying the small
preparations which were necessary for my departure. The terrible words,
'_Delay not, or it will be too late!_' seemed fraught with an electric
impulse. A post-chaise and four were immediately ordered: I took with me
but a small parcel containing necessaries;—all the trinkets, all the
jewels, all the valuables which Dunstable had given to me, I sealed up
and left behind me. I moreover penned a hasty note to bid him farewell
for ever!
"I lavished gold upon the postillions to induce them to spare not their
horses. The chaise rushed along like the wind. God knows what were my
feelings during the few hours which that terrible journey lasted. I
cannot attempt to describe them. Oh! if indiscretion and crime have
their enjoyments, they are also doomed to experience bitter—bitter
penalties. And my punishment was now at hand. It was not so long since I
had journeyed along that road with my father—when he first conducted me
up to London. Then we had travelled by the coach, and not so rapidly as
I was now retracing the same path. Then, too, I had marked many of the
most prominent features on the road and in the adjacent country,—here a
church—there a picturesque farm—a cottage—a mill—or a hamlet! As I was
hurried along in the post-chaise, I looked ever and anon from the
window; oh! there were the same objects I had before observed;—there
they were, apparently unchanged;—but I—my God—was I the same?
"But it was as I drew nearer and nearer to the little village where I
was born, that my eyes encountered a thousand objects which aroused
feelings of the most acute anguish within me. There was a beautiful hill
to the summit of which I had often climbed in my youthful days,
accompanied by my brother. There was the stream which turned the huge
wheel of the water-mill in the valley, and the path along whose banks
was a favourite walk of my father's. The wheel was turning still: my eye
could trace the path on the river's margin;—but the days of innocence,
in which I had rambled there—a fond, loving, and confiding girl, hanging
on my father's arm, or skipping playfully away from him to pluck the
wild-flowers in the fields—those days of innocence, where were they? The
chaise rolled on; and now the spire of the village church, peeping above
the mighty yew-trees which surrounded the sacred temple, met my view.
But, ah! what was that sound? The bell was speaking with its iron
tongue: its well-known clang boomed over hill and valley. Merciful
heavens! it was a knell! 'Oh! no—no,' I exclaimed aloud, clasping my
hands together in bitter agony; 'it cannot be! God grant that it is not
so!'
"And now the chaise rolled through the village: the humble inhabitants
rushed to their doors—Ah! how many faces that I knew, were thrust forth
to gaze at the equipage. I can picture to myself that when the condemned
malefactor, on the morning of his death, is advancing towards the
scaffold, he closes his eyes just at the moment when he feels that he
has reached that point whence his glances might embrace all its hideous
reality. Urged by a similar impulse, I covered my face with my hands the
instant the chaise swept from the main-road towards the home of my
childhood. I dared not glance in that direction!
"But in a few moments the vehicle stopped. The knell from the
church-tower was still ringing in my ears: by an almost superhuman
effort I withdrew my hands from my countenance, and cast a shuddering
look towards the house. My terrible apprehensions were confirmed: the
shutters were all closed; and I saw in a moment _that there was death in
that abode_!
"From that instant all consciousness abandoned me for several hours.
Indeed, it was not until the next morning that I awoke as it were from a
hideous dream,—and yet awoke to find it all a fearful reality. I was in
bed: my poor brother—pale and care-worn—was leaning over me. In a short
time I learnt all. My father was indeed no more. He had breathed his
last while I was yet on my way to implore his dying blessing. And he
_had_ left me his blessing—he did not curse me, although I had been the
cause of his death! Nor did my brother reproach me: on the contrary, he
whispered to me words of consolation, and even of hope! Poor
father—beloved brother!
"But I cannot dwell upon this portion of my narrative: it rends my
heart—lost, guilty, wretched as I am,—it rends my heart to recall those
terrible events to mind! Suffice it to say that Lady Penfeather had
written to my father, to state that she had been compelled to discharge
me at a moment's notice '_in consequence of the levity of my
behaviour_;' and she had added that, '_in spite of the excellent
admonitions and example of herself and Sir Wentworth_,' she was afraid I
had formed evil acquaintances. This letter was enough to induce a parent
even less loving than my poor father, to hasten immediately to London,
where he commenced a vigilant search after me. He traced me to the
_White Horse Cellar_; and there, by dint of inquiry, he discovered that
I had met a gentleman with whom I had gone away. He proceeded to Mrs.
Lambkin, with the feeble hope that she might know something about me;
and that lady told him sufficient (without, however, mentioning a word
about the discovery of the dead infant in my box) to confirm his worst
fears that I was indeed a lost and ruined creature! After passing
several weeks in London in a vain and ineffectual search after his still
dearly-beloved daughter, the poor old man had returned home,
heart-broken—to die!
"And I gazed upon his cold clay—and I followed him to the grave which
was hollowed for him near the walls of that church wherein for twenty
years he had preached the ways of virtue—those ways which he himself had
so steadily pursued. Oh! when the minister came to those solemn words
'_Earth to earth, and ashes to ashes_,'—and when the cold clay rattled
down upon the coffin-lid,—what feelings were mine! You may probably
divine them; but the world has no language that can express them!
"Scarcely was my father consigned to his last home, when my brother
demanded of me a full account of my late proceedings. He could not
believe that one who had been reared with such care, and in whose soul
such sublime moral lessons had been inculcated, could have erred
willingly. He expressed his conviction that some infernal treachery had
been practised towards me. I threw myself upon his breast: I wept—and I
told him all,—all, as I have now related these particulars to you. On
the following morning he had left home when I descended to the
breakfast-table. His absence alarmed me sorely; I was full of vague and
undefined apprehensions. Alas! how speedily were they confirmed! Four
days afterwards I received a letter from a surgeon in London, breaking
to me the fearful news '_that my brother had died of a wound received in
a duel with a certain Lord Dunstable_.'—A certain Lord Dunstable;—as if
I did not know him too well!
"Was I, then, the murderess of my poor father and my noble-hearted
brother? If my hand had not struck a dagger into their hearts, my
conduct had nevertheless hurried them to the grave. I hated—I abhorred
myself. But the bitterness of my reflections was in some degree
mitigated by the hasty preparations which I was compelled to make for an
immediate return to London. I had not money enough to enable me to take
a post-chaise; and I was therefore obliged to wait for the Portsmouth
coach, which passed through the village on its way to the metropolis. I
had already made up my mind what course to adopt. Now that my father and
brother were no more, I could not bear the idea of remaining in the
place where we had all been once so happy together: I moreover knew that
the parsonage-house would soon be required by the new curate who had
been appointed as my late father's successor. I accordingly sent for the
village lawyer, and gave him instructions to realize in ready money all
the little property which had become my sad inheritance. I told him that
in a few days I would let him know my address in London; and that he was
to forward me the proceeds of the sale. But I retained a few relics to
remind me of my departed relatives; and as I wept bitterly over them, I
took a solemn vow that my future conduct should prove the sincerity of
my repentance for the past!
"The coach made its appearance soon after mid-day: there was not a
single person inside; and thus I was enabled to pour forth, without
restraint, that grief—that acute anguish which I experienced at being
compelled, by my own misconduct, to quit for ever the place of my birth.
Oh! then I felt how hard, how bitter it was to arrive at the conviction
that I had no longer _a home_! I was now wretched in the extreme: I had
lost those who were nearest and dearest to me! Not to me was it given to
close the eyes of the author of my being: not to me was it allowed to
receive the parting sigh of that brother who had met his death in the
cause of his sister's outraged honour! Wretch that I was;—I had no
longer a friend—and no longer a home!
"The coach, on its arrival in London, stopped at the _White Horse
Cellar_. I took a cab, and immediately proceeded to the house of the
surgeon who had written to me. There it was that my brother had breathed
his last! The duel had taken place in the neighbourhood of Bayswater: my
brother received his adversary's ball in the breast; and although he
lived for some hours afterwards, he never spoke again. Lord Dunstable
conjured the surgeon to show the unfortunate young man every attention,
and then took his immediate departure for the continent. But, from
motives of delicacy, neither poor Edgar nor his lordship had
communicated to the medical man the cause of the duel. It was only by
means of papers found about my brother's person that the surgeon
discovered that he had a sister, and ascertained where that sister
lived. In the hurry, alarm, and confusion which followed the duel, the
surgeon had forgotten to demand, and Lord Dunstable was too bewildered
to communicate, any particulars relative to the family or friends of the
young man who had fallen in the hostile encounter. Thus, had it not been
for certain memoranda which were discovered in my poor brother's
pocket-book, the surgeon would not have known to whom to write, and I
might have remained for months—or even years—in ignorance of that dear
relative's untimely fate. Full well did I comprehend the delicacy of his
own conduct: he had not left a written trace which might expose my shame
by revealing the motives that had led to the duel!
"There was a coroner's inquest; but, as it was stated that I was not in
London at the time when the hostile encounter took place, I was not
examined. Thus were my feelings spared a most painful ordeal! The
funeral took place;—and the earth closed over the remains of him who was
cut off in the flower of his youth—a victim to my misdeeds! The kindness
of the surgeon's family had hitherto made me their guest; but on the day
after the mournful obsequies, I perceived the necessity of adopting some
decided course, so as to intrude no longer on that generous hospitality.
But the worthy surgeon questioned me closely; and finding that I had
only recently been left an orphan, and was totally friendless, he
insisted that I should pass a few weeks longer with his family, until he
could obtain for me a situation as governess. I wrote to the lawyer of
my native village; and by return of post he forwarded me an order on a
London banker for thirty-seven pounds—the poor proceeds of the sale of
the furniture in the parsonage house.
"Six months passed away: during that period I was treated with the
utmost kindness by the surgeon and his family. But misfortune suddenly
overtook that excellent man. The villany of a false friend plunged him
from affluence into comparative poverty. This abrupt change preyed so
deeply on his mind, that he put a period to his existence. His brother—a
man of morose disposition and selfish character—undertook to provide for
the widow and her children; and I was then compelled once more to shift
for myself. I took an affectionate farewell of those who had behaved so
well towards me, and removed to a humble lodging, where I soon
experienced all the wretchedness of my lonely and unfriended position. I
inserted advertisements in the newspapers, for the purpose of obtaining
a situation as teacher in a school or governess in a respectable family;
and although I received many replies, I failed to give a satisfactory
account of myself. I could not refer to Mrs. Lambkin, nor to Lady
Penfeather; and I found that my orphan condition excited but little
sympathy in my favour. Thus a year—an entire year—passed; and at the
end, I found myself without hope, and without resources. I knew not what
would become of me. At length I mustered up all my courage, and
proceeded to Rossville House. I inquired for Miss Adeline Enfield. The
servant demanded my name, and left me standing in the hall for nearly
ten minutes until his return. I was then shown into a small but
magnificently furnished parlour; and almost immediately afterwards
Adeline made her appearance. She advanced towards me with the most
chilling hauteur of manner, and desired to know '_my business_.'—'Oh!
Miss Adeline,' I exclaimed, 'have I no claims upon your
friendship?'—'You must remember what took place between us the last time
we met,' she answered. 'If you require pecuniary assistance, I will
succour you _for the last time_; but circumstances compel me to decline
seeing you, or even _knowing_ you in future.'—'And is this the way you
treat me after all I suffered on your account?' I said, bursting into
tears. 'Do you not reflect that your reputation is in my hands?'—'If you
menace me, Miss Hutchinson,' she said, 'I shall know how to treat you.
In a word, who would believe your story were you to proclaim it? You
would only draw down upon yourself the vengeance of my family by
endeavouring to shift your own disgrace on to my shoulders. The whole
world would denounce you as a common impostress.'—An instant's
reflection showed me that these assurances were strictly true. But my
pride was hurt, and my feelings were poignantly wrung by the blackness
of Adeline's ingratitude. Pushing aside her hand which tendered me a
purse of gold, I exclaimed, 'From this moment, Miss Enfield, I consider
myself absolved from all motives of secrecy on your account;'—and,
before she could utter a word of reply, I left the room.
"I hurried back to the house where I lodged. The landlady met me upon
the threshold of the door. 'Come, young woman,' she said, 'can you pay
the fortnight's rent you owe me?'—'I have been disappointed,' was my
reply: 'but in a few days——.'—'People are always being disappointed when
they owe money,' she exclaimed. 'I shall keep your things till you
settle your rent; and I shall let the room to those who can and will
pay.' And she banged the door in my face. This cruel calamity reduced me
to despair. I turned away from that inhospitable abode,—not with tears,
for there is a grief too profound to find a vent by the eyes—but with an
utter hopelessness that was distraction!
"I had eaten nothing since the morning: I was hungry, and I had not a
farthing in my pocket. It was moreover cold; and I knew not where to
sleep that night. Oh! then how bitterly did I regret the ebullition of
pride and feeling which had prevented me from accepting the purse which
Adeline had proffered me! It was now too late to conciliate her: I had
used menaces; and I felt convinced that it would be impossible to make
my peace with that proud and determined spirit. I wandered about the
streets in a state of mind which every moment suggested suicide. Then
did all the happiness of home and of the days of innocence recur to my
memory with a force that nearly crushed me! I thought of my dear
departed father and my noble-hearted brother—both hurried to the grave
by my wickedness! Evening came—and I was still a wanderer in the
streets, without a hope—without a feasible project! Hour after hour
passed: midnight was proclaimed by the iron tongues of the thousand
towers of this mighty city;—and I sank exhausted on the step of a door
in Gerrard Street, Soho. I then became insensible.
"When I awoke, I was in a comfortable bed; and the day-light streamed
through the windows of a nicely-furnished room. I started up, and
glanced around me. On a small table by the side of the bed stood a
decanter with some port wine, and a bowl half-filled with broth. I
immediately judged by those appearances, and by my own sensations, that
the kind hand of charity had administered sustenance to me, as well as
providing me with an asylum. From those objects on the table my eyes
wandered round the room; and I was surprised and shocked to observe that
the pictures on the walls were of a somewhat indecent description. The
unpleasant reflections which this circumstance occasioned were
interrupted by the entrance of an elderly woman,—very stout, with small
grey eyes, and a red nose. She seemed to have literally flung on the
cotton-gown which she wore; and a dirty night-cap was perched on the top
of her head. She advanced with a good-natured smile towards the bed,
and, surveying me with great apparent satisfaction, exclaimed, 'How do
you feel, my poor child? I am delighted to see you looking so much
better! Dear me, what a state you were in when I found you, in the
middle of the night, on the step of my door.'—'Ah! madam,' I said,
extending my hand towards her, 'how can I ever repay you for this
goodness?'—She pressed my hand warmly, and declared that she was charmed
at being able to serve so sweet a young creature. Then she asked me a
great many questions; and I gave her to understand that I was the orphan
daughter of a clergyman; that I had failed to obtain the renewal of my
engagements as a nursery-governess: that I had been turned into the
streets by my landlady, who had detained my boxes; and that I should
have perished had it not been for the kindness and benevolence of my
present benefactress. When I had concluded this statement of as much of
my past life as I chose to reveal, the elderly lady exclaimed, 'And so
you are a clergyman's orphan, my dear? How very singular! Poor curates'
daughters are always falling into difficulties. But cheer up, my dear: I
will be a friend to you. And first tell me the address of your
hard-hearted landlady: I will send at once and redeem your things for
you.'—I gave her the information which she asked, and once more
expressed my profound gratitude for her goodness towards me. She patted
my cheek, and then left the room, observing that she would send me up
breakfast. In a few minutes a good-looking and smartly-dressed servant
entered the chamber, bearing a tray containing coffee, hot rolls, eggs,
and the usual concomitants of a good meal. 'What is the name of your
excellent mistress?' I inquired.—'Mrs. Harpy,' was the reply, given with
a smile the nature of which struck me as being somewhat strange.—'What
is she?' I asked.—'She keeps a very respectable boarding-house,'
answered the servant.—I did not like to put any farther questions; and
the girl withdrew.
"I ate a very hearty breakfast, and then lay down again; for I was not
quite recovered from the fatigues of the preceding day. I fell into a
doze; and when I awoke, Mrs. Harpy was once more standing by the side of
the bed. 'Here are your things, my dear,' she said: 'I paid your
landlady fifteen shillings. That was for two weeks' rent owing, and a
week she claimed because you had left without giving notice. She gives
an excellent character of you, and proves all you have told me to be
quite true. I am really as fond of you as if you were my own daughter.
You are looking much better; and a nice little boiled fowl, with a glass
of Port, will set you to rights. What time do you like to dine,
dear?'—'My good lady,' I replied, 'you are heaping favours upon me, and
I have not the means of paying you for any one of them.'—'Don't talk of
that, my dear girl,' ejaculated Mrs. Harpy. 'I'm sure it is quite a
pleasure to do any thing for you. But, by-the-by,' she added, 'you may
just as well give me a memorandum for what I am paying for you; and as I
shall be able to procure some nice, easy, genteel avocation for you, you
can reimburse me at your convenience.'—Of course I was delighted at this
opportunity of testifying my honest intentions and good-will; and I
instantly affixed my signature to a slip of paper which she produced
from her pocket. Mrs. Harpy kissed me very affectionately; and then,
casually observing that she kept a very genteel boarding-house,
concluded by saying that she would ask some of the young ladies to come
up after dinner and keep me company for an hour or two.
"At four o'clock the pretty servant made her appearance with the boiled
fowl and a small decanter of wine; and when the things were cleared
away, the young ladies were duly ushered in. There were five of them.
Their ages varied from seventeen to twenty-three; and they were all
remarkably good-looking. It however struck me as somewhat singular that
they were every one dressed in extremely low-bodied gowns, so as to
exhibit a great deal more of the bust than was consistent with my
notions of decorum. But as they were very affable and kind in their
manners, and '_dear'd_' me with much apparent sincerity, I ceased to
think of that peculiarity. Presently Mrs. Harpy sent up a bottle of wine
and some fruit, with her kindest compliments; and then the young ladies
laughed and enjoyed themselves in the happiest manner possible. They
drank the wine with great freedom and relish; and by degrees their
conversation turned upon the topic of love. With this subject they were
quite familiar; and the more they drank, the more license they allowed
their tongues. They spoke of the kindness of Mrs. Harpy, of the gaiety
of the life which they led in her establishment, and of the high
acquaintance which they enjoyed. They seemed to know every young lord
and wealthy gentleman about town, and compared the various
qualifications of those personages. Their discourse became more and more
animated in proportion as their imaginations were warmed with the wine;
and at length they allowed such observations to escape them which made
me blush. I was surprised at their levity, and had already begun to
entertain strange suspicions of their virtue, when a bell suddenly rang
on the landing. They all started up, and rushed out of the room—leaving
me a prey to the reflections which their remarkable conduct had very
naturally excited.
"I kept my bed, by Mrs. Harpy's advice, all that day; but I did not feel
sleepy in the evening, after the young ladies had left me;—and even if
the contrary were the case, I should not have been able to indulge a
wish for repose, for after eleven o'clock the whole establishment seemed
to be in a constant bustle. People ran up and down stairs; doors were
banged; shouts of laughter awoke every echo in the place; glasses
rattled on trays that were carried to the different rooms; and the
boisterous mirth of men rose at intervals above the other sounds and
noises. This confusion, as it appeared to me, continued until about two
o'clock; and then the house became quiet. My suspicions were seriously
excited relative to the respectability of Mrs. Harpy's establishment;
but I endeavoured to quiet them by all the arguments I could conceive in
that lady's favour, and which were prompted by my gratitude towards her.
At length I fell asleep.
"In the morning the servant brought me up my breakfast. I asked her the
meaning of the bustle I had heard during the night. She answered
carelessly, 'Oh! Mrs. Harpy is very gay, Miss, and is fond of
company.'—After breakfast I got up, and had just dressed myself, when a
door was opened violently on the opposite side of the landing, and a
male voice exclaimed, 'Well, if the old woman won't give me credit for a
miserable bottle of champagne, after all the money I've spent in the
place, I'll never set foot in it again. So good bye, 'Tilda. Here's a
sovereign for you, my girl. It's the last time I shall ever sleep in
this house.'—Thereupon the individual, who had so expressed himself,
descended the stairs with a tremendous stamping of his feet, as if he
were very indignant at the treatment he had complained of; and Miss
Matilda—one of the _young ladies_ who had visited in my room on the
preceding evening—returned into her apartment, banging the door
violently behind her. This incident opened my eyes to the dread truth:—I
was in a brothel!
[Illustration]
"I threw myself on a chair and burst into a flood of tears. Merciful
heavens! for what fate was I reserved? Had I indeed fallen so low that
my only home was a loathsome den of iniquity like that? For some minutes
after the occurrence of the incident just related, I felt as if my
senses were leaving me. Suddenly the door opened, and Mrs. Harpy made
her appearance. She seemed astonished at the condition in which she
found me, and was about to make some remark, when I threw myself at her
feet, exclaiming, 'I conjure you, madam—if you have any pity for a poor
friendless orphan—let me leave your house this moment!'—'And where will
you go, my dear child?' she said.—'To the workhouse, ma'am: anywhere,
rather than remain here!' I answered.—'This is a pretty recompense for
my kindness towards you,' she observed. 'If it had not been for me, you
would have died in the streets.'—'Far better for me were it, had I so
perished!' I exclaimed.—'Now, Miss,' cried Mrs. Harpy, growing angry,
'what is the meaning of all this nonsense?'—'Can you ask me?' I
demanded. 'Oh! that the feelings which prompted you to assist me, should
have been any other save the disinterested benevolence for which I so
sincerely thanked you!'—'Then you know where you are, Miss, I suppose?'
she said, with a leer; and, before I had time to give any reply, she
added, 'I meant you to find it out in a day or two; and it's as well now
as a few hours later. Here you are, and here you will stay. You shall be
treated just in proportion as you behave; and this evening, I shall
introduce some fine nobleman or gentleman to you.'—'Never!' I cried:
then moving towards the door, I said, 'Detain me at your peril!'—'So I
shall,' answered Mrs. Harpy, coolly. 'I've got your I. O. U. for twenty
pounds; and if you go any where, it will be to Whitecross Street prison,
before you're many hours older. Remember, it's for _necessaries_; and so
no plea of minority or any other gammon of that kind, will avail you.'—I
remembered the slip of paper which I had signed; and my heart sank
within me, as I saw how completely I was in the power of that vile
woman.—'So now you understand how you are situated,' she continued,
softening in her tone and manner. 'This is what all young girls like you
must come to, sooner or later; and you'll be very happy here, I can
assure you. This evening a nobleman who patronizes my house, will call
upon you; and if you have any of your nonsense with him, I'll send you
straight to Whitecross Street to-morrow morning.'—With these words she
left the room, locking the door behind her.
"I cannot attempt to explain the nature of my feelings during the
remainder of that day. A good dinner was sent up to me; but I could not
eat a mouthful. The servant asked if I should like to see any of the
'young ladies;' and I answered in a manner which convinced her how I
recoiled from the detestable proposal. She smiled—as I thought,
significantly,—as much as to say, 'You will talk differently in a very
short time.'—At about nine o'clock Mrs. Harpy sent up word that I was to
dress myself in my best attire—a command with which I positively refused
to comply for I was determined that, happen what might, I would not
assist in the sacrifice of myself!
"At ten o'clock the servant brought up waxlights, and a tray containing
a bottle of champagne, glasses, and several plates of fruits and cakes.
I watched these preparations in a state of dumb despair, bordering on
stupefaction. Another half hour passed; and steps once more ascended the
stairs. My heart palpitated violently! The door was thrown open;—a man
elegantly dressed entered the room;—I cast one glance towards him, and,
uttering a faint cry, sank insensible on the carpet. It was Lord
Dunstable!
"When I awoke, I found that nobleman hanging over me, bathing my
temples. He compelled me to drink a glass of wine; and I soon recovered
full consciousness of the miseries of my condition. Starting from the
half-embrace in which Lord Dunstable had clasped me, I surveyed him with
horror. 'Do I frighten you, Lydia?' he exclaimed. 'I must confess that
our meeting is a strange one. The old woman sent to tell me that she had
a prize; but I little expected to find you here.'—'My presence in this
house of infamy, my lord,' I answered, 'is one of the links in that
chain of degradation of which you forged the first link. To you I owe
all the disgrace and all the sorrow that I have endured. Not contented
with my ruin, you deprived me of my brother.'—'Come, Lydia, this is
absurd,' he cried. 'In the first place, a young female who meets a
gentleman and walks with him in Parks or elsewhere, must not expect to
escape the usual consequences. Secondly, your brother challenged me,
like a rash and headstrong young fellow as he was: I sent him due
warning by my second that I was certain to shoot him; but he would not
take good advice, and I _did_ shoot him.'—'And had you no regard for me
at that moment?' I asked.—'Egad!' he replied, 'I only thought of myself.
I fancied that if I did not shoot him, he might perform that good office
for me; and so I was resolved not to give him a second chance.'—'Surely
you cannot be in your senses, my lord,' I exclaimed, 'to talk of so
serious a matter in such a flippant style?'—'Come, let us understand
each other, Lydia,' he said. 'I did not come to such a house as this to
receive a lesson in morals. Do you wish me to remain here with you until
to-morrow?'—'No: a thousand times _no_,' I replied. 'Your hand is red
with the blood of my poor brother.'—'Very well, Lydia,' he answered
coolly; 'then I will take myself off as quietly as I came. But for old
acquaintance' sake I must do the thing handsomely.'—I heard his
observation, the flippant tone of which made me avert my head from him
in disgust; and I did not therefore see why he lingered for a few
moments. At length he left the room, saying, 'Bye, bye, Liddy;' and when
the door closed behind him, he began to hum an opera-tune, as he
descended the stairs.
"Scarcely could he have had time to gain the street door, when Mrs.
Harpy bounded into my room, exclaiming, 'Well, my dear, you have behaved
very well, for his lordship went away in an excellent humour. What did
he give you?'—'Give me!' I repeated, surveying that horrible woman with
mingled indignation and terror.—'By Jove, he's a lord in name and nature
both!' ejaculated Mrs. Harpy, as her eyes caught sight of a bank-note
which lay upon the table. 'Twenty pounds, as I'm a living woman!' and
she clutched the object of her delighted avarice.—'Hold, madam!' I
exclaimed. 'Not one farthing of that money will I retain! The man who
gave it killed my brother!'—'I don't care who he's killed, or who he
means to kill,' answered the old woman, 'But here's his money; and that
I intend to keep.'—'_You_ keep it!' I cried.—'Yes; who else? What an
ungrateful hussy you must be, after I took you out of the street! This
room and your board will cost you a guinea a-day. Then your clothes,
washing, and other things are all extra. So I'll keep nineteen pound
fifteen shillings on account; and you shall have a crown for pocket
money. If that is not generous, I don't know what is; but I like to do
the thing what's right.'—With these words she threw five shillings on
the table, and walked off with the twenty pound note.
"This unexpected interview with Lord Dunstable and its result stamped my
degradation, and made me reckless. He had seen me in a brothel; and in
the excitement of our meeting, I had not explained to him how I became
an inmate of that house. Then he left behind him a sum of money; and, as
I was unable to restore it to him with an indignant refusal of any
succour at his hands, he would naturally conceive that I availed myself
of his bounty. My pride was wounded to such an irreparable degree, that
I felt, if you can understand me, a total unwillingness to endeavour to
maintain it any longer. I was spirit-crushed. I fancied that it was no
use to contend any more against my fate. I considered myself to be now
so lost and degraded in the estimation of that one man whom I had loved,
that I had nothing else in the world to induce me to study character,
reputation, or pride. I accordingly abandoned myself to what I firmly
believed to be my destiny; and, seating myself at the table, I poured
out a glass of champagne. For a moment I sighed as I remembered that it
was champagne that had led to my ruin in the first instance:—then I
laughed at what I called 'my folly,' and emptied the glass. The wine
cheered me, but, at the same time, confirmed me in that recklessness
which had succeeded the first feeling of utter and irredeemable
degradation. I drank another glass: the last spark of virtuous
aspiration was then extinguished in my bosom. The other _young ladies_
suddenly made their appearance: I received them with open arms;—we sate
down to drink and chat;—I was put to bed in a disgusting state of
intoxication; and on the following morning I awoke—reconciled to a life
of infamy!
"Pardon me, if I dwell for a few minutes upon the characteristics of
those houses of abomination, in one of which I was now located. Mrs.
Harpy was an admirable type of her profession. She was mean and griping
in the extreme when wringing an extra shilling, or even an extra penny,
from her _boarders_, as we were called; and yet she was profuse and
liberal in supplying us with costly wine. If we complained of having to
eat cold meat two days running, she would storm, and declare that we
lived too well as it was;—but she would think nothing of giving us a
bottle of champagne, which could not have cost her less than eight or
ten shillings, after dinner. She took from us every farthing that we
received, and invariably made us out her debtors, although she never
showed us any accounts. To give you an idea of her way of managing, I
will relate a little anecdote. One Saturday afternoon, Matilda (whom I
have before mentioned) asked her for a sovereign; adding, 'You know I
have given you altogether thirteen guineas this week.'—'Thirteen
guineas!' screamed the old woman: 'I'll take my Bible oath it was only
twelve.'—'Well, call it even twelve, if you like,' said the young
female: 'you can well spare me a sovereign.'—'Lord bless the girl!'
cried Mrs. Harpy. 'Why, there's seven guineas for your board and
lodging; two guineas for your washing; that's ten; a guinea for pocket
money; and a guinea for letters and needles and thread; that makes up
the twelve, or else I never went to school to learn compound
addition.'—'And multiplication too,' said Matilda. 'Why, I had but one
letter all the week, and that was paid.'—'Well, my dear,' answered Mrs.
Harpy, 'we will ask the postman. Come! I'll stand another bottle of
champagne now, and you shall have an extra sovereign for yourself next
Saturday, if you're lucky in the meantime.'
"We were complete slaves to this Mrs. Harpy. She had got a note-of-hand
for twenty pounds from each of us; and if any one even so much as hinted
at leaving her, she immediately threatened to wreak her vengeance by
means of the sheriffs' officer. She seldom allowed us to go out to take
any exercise, for fear we should decamp altogether; but every now and
then we would all go together to Gravesend or Richmond by the
steam-boats, or else to Copenhagen House, in the summer time, and to
some minor theatre in the winter. Oh! the misery of that existence! We
were slaves to an old wretch who was enriching herself at our expense,
whilst we had not an opportunity of hoarding a single guinea against any
sudden necessity or misfortune. Then, what atrocious proceedings were
frequently enacted in that house! Hard by lived three or four idle
fellows, who dressed flashily, spent a great deal of money, and yet had
no visible employment or resources. Those ruffians were the _blinks_, or
_bullies_, belonging to Mrs. Harpy's establishment. Their tricks were
manifold. For instance, they would pick up, at a tavern, coach-office,
the theatre, or other public place, some country gentleman, or even a
clergyman, whom they would ply with liquor, and then induce to accompany
them to '_their aunt's_,' where they would meet '_some delightful
girls_.' Of course this was Mrs. Harpy's establishment. The respectable
country gentleman, or clergyman, was plied with more liquor; and, if he
would not drink fast enough, his wine was drugged for him. When he awoke
in the morning, he would find himself in bed with one of the
'_delightful girls_.' Presently, one of the bullies would rush into the
room, declare that the gentleman had debauched '_his cousin_,' and
threaten an exposure. Then the poor victim was glad to compromise the
business by paying a considerable sum, in order to hush up the matter at
once.
"Sometimes, the bullies would attempt a similar scheme of extortion in
reference to individuals who came voluntarily to the house; and if the
latter resisted the exorbitant demands made upon them, they were not
unfrequently maltreated in a most shameful manner. It often happened
that a gentleman would become a regular visitor to the house, if he took
a fancy to one particular boarder: in such a case he probably adopted a
false name, and took every precaution to avoid discovery as to who he
was. The girl whom he visited, was then directed to pump him; and if she
failed to elicit the desired particulars, one of the bullies was
instructed to watch and dog him when he left the house. By these means,
his real name, residence, position, and circumstances, were speedily
ascertained. If he were moving in a very respectable sphere, was
married, or had any particular motives to induce him to keep his
intrigue secret, he was the very kind of person who suited Mrs. Harpy
and her bullies. The next time he visited the house, he would be
surrounded by those ruffians, menaced with exposure, and forced to pay a
considerable sum of money to purchase silence. But the evil did not
terminate there. From that time forth, the unfortunate gentleman would
be periodically beset by his persecutors; and fresh extortions would be
effected to renew the pledge of secrecy on their part. Married men,
moving in respectable spheres, have been _driven to suicide_ by this
atrocious system! Many a time have I read, in the newspapers, instances
of self-destruction on the part of gentlemen whose pecuniary, social, or
domestic circumstances afforded not the least appearance of any possible
motive for such a deed;—and then I have thought within myself that those
poor victims had been _hunted to death_ by extortioners of the class
which I have described! The man who has a _character_ to lose, or who
has the _peace_ of his family to consider, knows not how fearfully both
are compromised, both endangered, when he so far forgets himself as to
set foot in a house of infamy. He may imagine that his secret never can
transpire—that neither his family nor friends can, by any possible
means, ever discover that he has thus erred;—but, if he be an
individual, who, by his wealth and social position, appears worth the
trouble of looking after, he will most assuredly find himself a prey to
the vilest of extortioners. His happiness will be undermined and
destroyed; he will live in constant dread of exposure: and deeply—deeply
will he rue the day that he ever set foot in a brothel!
"The most bare-faced robberies are practised in even what are called
'_the respectable dress-houses_.' A gentleman, wearing a handsome watch
and chain, is pretty certain to have it stolen from him; and when he
remonstrates, he is perhaps met with a counter-accusation of having
given a bad sovereign in payment for champagne, on the preceding
evening. On one occasion, a young gentleman who was so plundered, and so
accused, carried the business to the Marlborough Street Police-Office.
Mrs. Harpy attended, denied the robbery in the most indignant manner,
and persisted in the accusation relative to the base sovereign. The
proceedings took such a turn that the young gentleman was searched; and
in his pockets were found _other counterfeit sovereigns_, exactly
resembling the _one_ produced by Mrs. Harpy. Then Mrs. Harpy sent for
her wine-merchant, her butcher, and her baker, who were all her near
neighbours: and those tradesmen declared that Mrs. Harpy kept a most
respectable boarding-house, and that she was a lady of good connexions
and undoubted integrity. The magistrate then appealed to the policeman
within whose beat Gerrard Street was included; and as he received five
guineas a year from Mrs. Harpy for shutting his eyes, it was not likely
that he would open them on that occasion. He fully corroborated the
evidence of the wine-merchant, butcher, and baker; and the young
gentleman was committed for trial for passing base money. Mrs. Harpy's
story was that he had presented himself on the preceding evening at her
house, and arranged to become a boarder in her establishment; that he
obtained from her the change for the bad sovereign; and that, when
accused of the act, he had turned round with a counter-charge relative
to his watch. The magistrate declared that there was no doubt of Mrs.
Harpy's perfect respectability, and commented severely on the '_infamous
behaviour of the prisoner, in trumping up so vile an accusation, as a
means of releasing himself from the odium of the charge laid against
him_.' This young man belonged to a highly respectable family; and he
had given a fictitious name in answer to the magistrate's question, _for
he had only been married six months_, and was naturally anxious to
conceal his visit to a brothel from the knowledge of his friends. But
when he was committed for trial, he was forced to send for them, confess
his indiscretion, and implore them to save him from the ignominy of
exposure in a court of justice. A compromise with Mrs. Harpy was
accordingly effected: she _paid_ fifty pounds in forfeit of her
recognizances to prosecute: and she _received_ two hundred to abstain
from farther proceedings! I need scarcely say that the young gentleman
really had been plundered of his watch, and that the entire business of
the counterfeit money had been arranged to ruin him. Again I declare
that no one knows the woeful risks he incurs when he sets foot in a
house of ill-fame. That one false step may embitter the remainder of his
days!
"Some weeks elapsed ere I was completely aware of the infamies which
were perpetrated in Mrs. Harpy's den; and then I resolved to leave the
place, whatever might subsequently become of me. At length an
opportunity served; and one evening, with only a small parcel of
necessaries under my arm, and a few shillings in my purse, I slipped out
of that scene of iniquities. I cannot enter into further details;
suffice it to say, from that moment commenced an existence of fearful
vicissitudes,—starvation one day, luxury the next,—the most abrupt
descents into the lowest abyss of destitution, and the most sudden
elevations to comfort, though still a career of infamy,—wanderings for
many, many nights together, without knowing where to lay my head, and
then a lodging and a good bed! Oh! it was horrible, that precariousness
of life to which I was doomed!
"How often did I reflect upon the times of my innocence! Now and then I
saw well-known names mentioned in the newspapers. The consecutive and
rapid promotions of Lord Dunstable and Cholmondeley were not unnoticed
by me. The presentation of the Honourable Adeline Enfield to court was
an incident which affected me deeply; for it naturally led me to compare
her elevated position with my degraded and wretched state. But one
event, which was recorded in the newspapers, gave me, I must confess,
some satisfaction: this was the bankruptcy of Mrs. Lambkin and her
committal to Newgate for having fraudulently disposed of her property. I
afterwards learnt that she died miserably in that gaol.
"But my own vicissitudes continued! Oh! let those who are prone to turn
away from _the unfortunate woman_ with disgust and abhorrence, rather
exercise a feeling of sympathy in her behalf. She does not drag her
weary frame nightly along the pavement, through _choice_, but from
_necessity_. In all weathers must she ply her miserable trade—or starve.
Then to what indignities is she subjected! Every drunken ruffian
considers himself justified in ill-using her: every brutal fellow
jostles against her, and addresses her in terms of insult. Do they think
that, because she is compelled to ply her hideous trade, she has no
feelings? But it is chiefly from the young men who rove about the
streets at night, smoking cigars, wearing pea-coats, and carrying
sticks, that the unfortunate woman is doomed to receive the deepest
indignity:—yes, from those who ought to have more chivalry in their
dispositions! There is one base extortion to which the unfortunate woman
is subjected, and which I must mention. I allude to the necessity of
feeing the policeman belonging to that beat where the unhappy creature
walks. The miserable wretch who deviated from this practice, either
through inability or unwillingness, would never have a moment's peace.
The moment she was accosted in the street by a gentleman, the officer
would come up and order her brutally to move on; and perhaps he would
add violence to harsh words. Then, on the slightest pretence—and often
without any at all—the miserable woman is dragged off to the
station-house, charged with creating a disturbance, and taken next
morning before the magistrate. In vain may she protest her innocence of
the offence charged against her: in vain may she denounce the vindictive
motives of the officer. The word of one policeman is deemed worth the
oaths of ten thousand degraded females; and the accused is sentenced to
Bridewell accordingly. No one can conceive the amount of the wrongs
inflicted by the police upon the most miserable class of women!
"I could enter into details respecting the lives of unfortunate females,
which would inspire you with horror—and yet with deep compassion. But I
have already dwelt too long on a subject which should never be mentioned
without caution to the pure-minded woman. In reference to myself, I need
only add that having passed through all the terrible phases of a career
of infamy,—each day beholding me more degraded, and sinking lower and
lower amongst the low,—I was reduced to a condition when beggary
appeared the only resource left From this appalling condition your
goodness has relieved me; and God alone must reward you—I never can!"