THE PATRICIAN LADY AND THE UNFORTUNATE
WOMAN.
Lady Ravensworth retired to her boudoir; and, throwing herself upon a
voluptuous ottoman, she burst into a flood of tears.
The wife of one of England's wealthiest nobles,—mistress of a splendid
mansion and numerous household,—young, beautiful, and admired,—with a
coronet upon her brow, and all the luxuries and pleasures of the world
at her command,—this haughty and high-born lady now trembled at the
idea—now shrunk from the thought—of meeting an obscure young woman who
was forced to accept a menial place in order to earn her daily bread!
It was a strange coincidence that thus brought Lydia Hutchinson beneath
the roof of Lady Ravensworth, whom the young woman was very far from
suspecting to be that same Adeline Enfield who had been her
companion—nay, her tutoress—in the initiative of wantonness and
dishonour.
Mrs. Chichester had manifested a sisterly kindness towards the
unfortunate Lydia; and, instead of shrinking in disgust, as so many
others would have done, from the young woman who had been urged by stern
necessity to ply a loathsome trade, she had endeavoured, by the most
delicate attentions, to reclaim the mind of society's outcast from the
dark ocean of despair in which it was so profoundly plunged.
The reader has doubtless seen that Lydia Hutchinson had never courted
vice for vice's sake. She was not naturally of a depraved nor lascivious
disposition. Circumstances—amongst which must be reckoned the treachery
exercised by Lord Dunstable to accomplish her seduction, and the
accident which threw the poor creature upon the tender mercies of Mrs.
Harpy,—had conspired,—fearfully conspired, to brand her with infamy, and
to drag her through the filth and mire of the various phases which
characterise the downward path of a career of prostitution. Necessity
had made her what she was!
Mrs. Chichester comprehended all this; and she was not one of those who
believe that there is no sincere penitence—no reformation for the lost
one. She longed to afford Lydia an opportunity of entering on a course
of virtue and propriety. She would have willingly afforded the poor
creature a permanent asylum, as a matter of charity, and even to insure
a companion to cheer her own species of semi-widowed loneliness; but she
was well aware that eleemosynary aid of such a kind, by retaining its
object in a condition of idleness and of dependence, was of a most
demoralising nature. She wished to give Lydia an opportunity of
retrieving her character in her own estimation, and of regaining a
proper confidence in herself; and she resolved that no excess of
indulgence, nor extreme of charity, on her part, should permit the young
woman to live in an indolence that might unfit her for any occupation in
case of ultimate necessity, and that would thus fling her back upon the
last and only resource—a recurrence to the walks of ignominy and crime.
To reclaim and reinstate, as it were the unfortunate Lydia Hutchinson,
was Viola Chichester's aim; and the object of this humane solicitude was
deeply anxious to second, by her own conduct, the intentions of her
generous benefactress.
As time wore on, Lydia improved greatly in mental condition and personal
appearance: her thoughts became settled and composed, and her form
resumed much of the freshness which had characterised her youth. She
speedily began to express a desire to exert herself in some honest
employment to gain her livelihood;—she also felt that indolence and
dependence, even in the presence of the best moral examples, produce a
vitiated frame of mind;—and she revolted from the mere idea of a relapse
into the horrible path from which a friendly hand had redeemed her, as
the most appalling catastrophe that her imagination could conceive.
Mrs. Chichester felt so persuaded of Lydia's firmness of purpose in
pursuing a career of rectitude, that she resolved to take a step which
only the extreme urgency of the case and a settled conviction of the
young woman's inclination to do well, could justify. This was to obtain
her a situation in some family. Lydia was overjoyed at the proposal. An
advertisement was accordingly inserted in a newspaper; and a few days
brought many written answers. Miss Villiers—now Lady Bounce—called
personally, and was so pleased with Lydia's manner that she put no
special questions to Mrs. Chichester.
Viola, however, addressed Miss Villiers thus:—"The young woman who now
stands before you has been unfortunate—very unfortunate; and hers has
been the fate of the unfortunate. She is most anxious to eat the bread
of industry and honesty. I am persuaded that a kind hand stretched out
to aid her in this desire, will raise her to happiness, and ensure her
lasting gratitude."
Miss Villiers was a young lady of an excellent heart: she did not
completely understand all that Mrs. Chichester meant; but she
comprehended enough to render her willing to assist a fellow-creature
who sought to earn her livelihood honourably, and who seemed to possess
the necessary qualifications for the employment desired. Thus the
bargain was hastily concluded; and when Miss Villiers desired Lydia to
join her on a certain day at Ravensworth Hall, the young woman
entertained not the least idea that her school friend Adeline Enfield
was Lady Ravensworth, the mistress of that lordly habitation.
We will now return to Adeline, whom we left weeping in her boudoir.
The presence of Lydia in that house was indeed enough to alarm and
embarrass her. Not that she precisely feared exposure at Lydia's hands
in respect to the past—especially as it would be so easy to deny any
derogatory statement of the kind. But Adeline felt that she should now
possess a dependant before whom her dignity and self-confidence would
ever be overwhelmed by the weight of that dread secret of which Lydia's
bosom was the depository. Such a prospect was most galling—most
humiliating—most degrading to the mind of the haughty peeress.
"But of what avail are tears?" said Adeline, suddenly. "The danger is
here—the evil is before me. We must meet:—it were better that I should
see her at once! Doubtless she is unaware in whose abode she is now a
menial!"
Adeline wiped her eyes, rang the bell, and reseating herself, assumed as
composed a manner as possible under the circumstances.
In a few moments she heard footsteps approaching.
"This is my lady's apartment," said the housekeeper in the passage.
"Thank you," replied another voice.
Oh! how Adeline's heart beat,—the well-remembered tones of Lydia
Hutchinson had just met her ears.
Then she heard the retreating sounds of the housekeeper's footsteps; and
there was a gentle knock at the door of their boudoir.
"Come in," said Adeline, in a half-stifling voice.
The door opened, and Lydia Hutchinson entered the room.
Lady Ravensworth's countenance was averted towards the fire; and it was
not until she heard the door close that she turned towards Lydia, who
was in a state of trembling anxiety, mingled with curiosity, as to what
might be the disposition of her mistress.
But no pen can describe the astonishment of the young woman, when by
that pale but beautiful countenance, which was now suddenly turned
towards her, she recognised her whom she had so much reason never to
forget.
Staggering towards the mantel for support, and with her eyes fixed
almost wildly upon her mistress, she exclaimed, "Miss Enfield! Is it
indeed you?"
"I am Lady Ravensworth," was the somewhat haughty answer.
"Oh! now I understand it all!" cried Lydia, an expression of sincere
gratitude animating her countenance, while she clasped her hands
fervently together: "you have taken compassion on me at length,—you
discovered where I was residing,—you sent some friend to engage me as if
for herself,—and you were determined to surprise me by this proof of
your goodness—this token of your kind remembrance of me!"
"No," returned Adeline: "accident alone has brought you into my service:
and you must well understand that I am not over well pleased with the
coincidence. In a word, name the sum that will satisfy you for the loss
of a good place—and take your departure. You can leave to me the
invention of some proper excuse——"
"Is it possible?" ejaculated Lydia; "this cold—heartless—ungrateful
reception——"
"Do you recollect to whom you are speaking?" demanded Adeline, the
colour mounting to her cheeks.
"Oh! yes,—I know that full well—too well," said Lydia, again clasping
her hands, and casting her eyes upwards, as if in appeal to heaven
against the ingratitude of the world. "I stand in the presence of one to
save whose good fame I sacrificed my own—to shield whom from the finger
of scorn and reproach, I allowed myself to be made a victim! Yes, proud
lady of Ravensworth—so many years have not elapsed since, in my cold and
cheerless garret, in the depth of a winter night, you gave birth——"
"Silence, Lydia!" ejaculated Adeline, her lips quivering, and the colour
coming and going on her cheeks with rapid alternations. "Let us not
refer to the past. The present——"
"No," interrupted Lydia, in a solemn tone: "you _can_ not—you _shall_
not deter me from talking of the past. For you, lady, are so highly
exalted above myself, that it is almost impossible for you to shape the
least—the faintest—the most remote idea of the depth of misery into
which I have been plunged. And yet I pant—I long—I feel a burning desire
to make you comprehend all I have suffered;—because to my acquaintance
with you—to my fatal connexion with you at the seminary—may be traced
all the sorrows—the profound, ineffable woes—the degradations—the
terrible afflictions that have since marked my career!"
[Illustration]
"I will not hear more;—I cannot permit you thus to insult—to upbraid
me," faltered Lady Ravensworth, her bosom agitated with the most cruel
emotions.
"Oh! I have longed for this opportunity to meet you face to face, and
tell you all I have suffered, and all I now feel!" exclaimed Lydia; "and
it is not likely that I will abandon so favourable an occasion. No—you
have triumphed over me long enough: you have used me as a tool when it
suited your convenience—and you spurned me when I had ceased to be
useful. Though maintaining your own outward respectability, honour, and
good name upon the wreck of mine, you dare to treat me with the blackest
ingratitude! Lady Ravensworth, I said that all I have endured was
traceable to you! When I first met you at the Kensington seminary, I was
pure, artless, innocent:—you were already initiated in the secrets of
intrigue—you were even then, at that tender age, a wanton in your
heart."
"Lydia—Miss Hutchinson! Oh! my God!" exclaimed Adeline, covering her
face with her hands.
"Yes—you were already trembling on the verge of dishonour—you were
courting seduction and all its consequences!" continued the unfortunate
woman, upbraiding that proud peeress with a remorselessness, a
bitterness, and a feeling of delighted vengeance that made her language
the more terrible and its effect more overwhelming. "I even remember
still—oh! how well I remember—that you were the first who opened my eyes
to the existence of female frailty. Yes—I, who went to that school as a
teacher, was taught by a pupil! And merciful heavens! what did you teach
me? You led me on step by step in the path of duplicity and dishonour:
you made me the companion of your own amours; and we became victims to
our seducers on the same day!"
"Oh! spare me—spare me!" moaned Adeline. "My God! if we were overheard!
I should be lost—ruined—undone!"
"Rest tranquil on that head:—it does not suit my present purposes to
betray you—and I will explain my reason shortly. In the meantime,"
continued Lydia Hutchinson, "I must recall to your recollection all
those circumstances which led me to sacrifice myself to save you."
"No—no: I remember everything. Say no more, Lydia," cried Lady
Ravensworth. "Tell me what you require—what I can do for you! Will you
have money? or——"
"Peace!—silence!" said Lydia, eyeing the patrician lady with a glance of
ineffable scorn. "Oh!" she added, almost wildly, "I _have_ sold myself
for gold;—but never—never may that occur again; either bodily or
morally! Your ladyship declares you remember all that has ever passed
between us? Then does your ingratitude become infinitely the more vile
and contemptible. For when you lay writhing in the agonies of maternity,
I was there,—there in that cold and cheerless garret,—to minister unto
you! And when the lifeless form of your babe was discovered concealed
amongst my clothes—in my room—and in my box,—I did not turn to the
school-mistress and say, '_It is not mine: it is Miss Adeline
Enfield's!_'—When, too, I saw that you were so weak, so feeble, and so
suffering that the cold night air would kill you, I took your child,
and, like a thief, I stole away from the house to sink the corpse in a
distant pool. For you had said to me, '_Keep my secret, dearest Lydia:
the honour of a noble family depends upon your prudence!_'—My prudence!
Oh! no:—the honour of your family depended on the sacrifice of _mine_!
And I _did_ sacrifice my family to save you;—for to all that I did for
you may be traced the broken heart of my poor father and the
assassination of my brother by the hand of the duellist!"
"Oh! spare me—spare me!" again exclaimed Lady Ravensworth. "I have been
very ungrateful—very unkind; but now, Lydia, I will endeavour to
compensate you for all that has passed."
"One being alone can so compensate me, lady," said Miss Hutchinson in a
solemn tone; "and that being is God! No human power can give me back my
poor father or my much-loved brother: no human agency can obliterate
from my mind those infamies and degradations to which I have been
subject. What amount of gold can reward me for days of starvation and
nights of painful wanderings amidst the creatures of crime, without a
place to repose my aching, shivering limbs? And sometimes, amidst the
overwhelming crowd of sorrows that so often drove me to the river's
bank, or made me pause on the threshold of the chemist's-shop where
poison was to be procured,—I saw, from time to time, your name mentioned
in the newspapers. Oh! what memories did those occasions recall! On the
very day that you were presented at Court, I had not a crust to eat! And
twice on that day did I seek the river's brink, whence I turned away
again—afraid of changing even the horrible certainties of this life's
sufferings for the more appalling uncertainties of another world."
"Lydia—Lydia, you are killing me!" exclaimed Lady Ravensworth. "Pity
me—if not for myself, for the sake of the innocent child which I bear in
my bosom. Tell me what I can do for you—what you require——"
"My views are soon explained," interrupted Lydia. "I demand permission
to remain in the service of your ladyship."
"Oh! no—no: impossible!" said Adeline, in an imploring tone.
"It must be as I say," observed Lydia, coolly.
"Insolent menial!" ejaculated Lady Ravensworth, losing all command over
herself. "Leave me—quit this house—go——"
"Do you dare me?" said Miss Hutchinson. "I assured your ladyship ere now
that it did not suit my present plans to expose you; because I seek to
remain in your service. But, if you essay again to triumph over me—to
spurn me from your presence—I will, remorselessly and fearlessly,
proclaim the past."
"And who will believe you?" cried Adeline, trembling with mingled alarm
and rage: "who will believe you? The whole world will denounce you as an
impostress. Nay—more: I will punish you—yes, I will punish you for your
insolence! I will declare that you have attempted to extort money from
me by means of the most diabolical threats——"
"Think not that I am to be intimidated by your ladyship's miserable
subterfuges," interrupted Lydia, who grew if possible more cold and
contemptuous in her manner in proportion as the proud patrician became
excited and indignant. "Are there no witnesses to speak to collateral
faces? Could Cholmondeley and Dunstable prove nothing against you?"
"They would not raise their voices against a noble lady's fame," said
Adeline, impatiently.
"They would speak the truth when placed on their oaths in a court of
justice," exclaimed Lydia, confidently; "for it is to a court of justice
that your ladyship threatens to drag me. And now, proud peeress, I dare
you to the public investigation! Throw open the door—summon your
domestics—send me to a gaol!—but the day of fair and searching scrutiny
must come—and I should await in confidence the reply that a British
judge and a British jury would give to the vile calumny of even a lady
so highly exalted as yourself!"
"Enough!" cried Adeline, now almost purple with rage, and every vein on
her forehead swollen almost to bursting. "I accept your challenge—for I
well know that I can rely upon the honour of Lord Dunstable and Colonel
Cholmondeley. Yes—yes: they would sooner perjure themselves than attaint
the honour of a peeress!"
"There is one other consideration, then," said Lydia, still completely
unruffled: "and perhaps the ingenuity of your ladyship will devise a
means of frustrating that test also."
"To what do you allude?" demanded Adeline.
"I mean that when you summon your domestics to drag me to a gaol on a
charge of extortion," replied Lydia, contemptuously, "that moment do I
proclaim the history of the past! Then will medical experience speedily
prove whether Lady Ravensworth now bears _her first child_ in her
bosom!"
Adeline uttered a faint shriek, and fell back upon the sofa, overwhelmed
by this dread menace.
That shriek was accompanied by a low moan that seemed to come from the
passage outside.
Lydia hastened towards the door; but ere she had half crossed the room,
it was thrown violently open, and Lord Ravensworth entered the boudoir.
"My husband!" screamed Adeline, in a frantic tone: then, flinging
herself on her knees before him, she cried, "Mercy! mercy!"