THE TORTURES OF LADY RAVENSWORTH.
A week had now elapsed since Lydia Hutchinson entered the service of
Lady Ravensworth.
The service! Oh! what a service was that where the menial had become the
mistress, and the mistress had descended to the menial.
From the moment that Lydia had expressed her unalterable resolution to
remain at the Hall, Lord Ravensworth scarcely ever quitted his private
cabinet. He had a bed made up in an adjoining room, and secluded himself
completely from his wife. Vainly did Adeline seek him—go upon her knees
before him—and beseech him, with the bitterest tears and the most
fervent prayers, to return to an active life:—he contemplated her with
an apathetic listlessness—as if he were verging, when but little past
the prime of life, into second childhood. Or if he did manifest a
scintillation of his former spirit, it was merely to command his wife to
leave him to his own meditations.
And again did he have recourse to the pipe: in fact he was never easy
now save when he lulled his thoughts into complete stupefaction by means
of the oriental tobacco. Even when, in the midst of her earnest prayers,
his wife implored him to come forth again into the world—to _live_, in
fine, for the sake of his as yet unborn babe, the fire that kindled in
his eyes was so evanescent that an acute observer could alone perceive
the momentary—and only momentary—effect which the appeal produced.
The guests had all taken their departure the day after the bridal; and
the splendid mansion immediately became the scene of silence and of woe.
To all the entreaties of his wife—to all the representations of his
favourite page Quentin, that he would engage eminent medical assistance,
Lord Ravensworth turned a deaf ear, or else so far roused himself as to
utter a stern refusal, accompanied with a command that he might be left
alone.
Thus was he rapidly accomplishing his own destruction,—committing
involuntary suicide by slow, certain, and yet unsuspected means,—even as
his brother, the Honourable Gilbert Vernon, had declared to the
Resurrection Man.
Adeline had no inclination to seek the bustle and excitement of society.
Her love of display and ostentation was subdued—if not altogether
crushed. She was so overwhelmed with sorrow—so goaded by the tyranny of
Lydia Hutchinson—so desperate by the mere fact of having to submit to
that oppression, and by the consciousness that she dared not unbosom her
cares to a single sympathising heart,—that she at times felt as if she
were on the point of becoming raving mad, and at others as if she could
lay herself down and die!
We will afford the reader an idea of the mode of life which the once
proud and haughty Lady Ravensworth was now compelled to lead beneath the
crushing despotism of Lydia Hutchinson.
It was on the seventh morning after the arrival of the latter at
Ravensworth Hall.
The clock had struck nine, when Lydia repaired to the apartment of her
mistress——her mistress!
Until she reached the door, her manner was meek and subdued, because she
incurred a chance of meeting other domestics in the passages and
corridors.
But the moment she entered Adeline's apartment—the moment the door of
that chamber closed behind her—her manner suddenly changed. No longer
meek—no longer subdued—no longer wearing the stamp of servitude Lydia
assumed a stern expression of countenance—so terrible in a vengeful
woman—and in an instant clothed herself, as it were, with an appearance
of truly fiend-like malignity.
Adeline slept.
Approaching the bed, Lydia shook her rudely.
Lady Ravensworth awoke with a start, and then glanced hastily—almost
franticly—around.
"Ah! _you_ here again!" she murmured, shrinking from the look of bitter
hatred which Lydia cast upon her.
"Yes—I am here again," said the vindictive woman. "It is time for you to
rise."
"Oh! spare me, Lydia," exclaimed Adeline; "allow me to repose a little
longer. I have passed a wretched—a sleepless night: see—my pillow is
still moist with the tears of anguish which I have shed; and it was but
an hour ago that I fell into an uneasy slumber! I cannot live thus—I
would rather that you should take a dagger and plunge it into my heart
at once. Oh! leave me—leave me to rest for only another hour!"
"No:—it is time to rise, I say," cried Lydia. "It has been my destiny to
pass many long weary nights in the streets—in the depth of winter—and
with the icy wind penetrating through my scanty clothing till it seemed
to freeze the very marrow in my bones. I have been so wearied—so cold—so
broken down for want of sleep, that I would have given ten years of my
life for two hours' repose in a warm and comfortable bed:—but still have
I often, in those times, passed a whole week without so resting my
sinking frame. Think you, then, that I can now permit _you_ the luxury
of sleep when your body requires it—of repose when your mind needs it?
No, Adeline—no! I cannot turn you forth into the streets to become a
houseless wanderer, as I have been:—but I can at least arouse you from
the indolent enjoyment of that bed of down."
With these words Lydia seized Lady Ravensworth rudely by the wrist, and
compelled her to leave the couch.
Then the revengeful woman seated herself in a chair, and said in a harsh
tone, "Light the fire, Adeline—I am cold."
"No—no: I will not be _your_ servant!" exclaimed Lady Ravensworth. "You
are _mine_—and it is for you to do those menial offices."
"Provoke me not, Adeline," said Lydia Hutchinson, coolly; "or I will
repair straight to the servants' hall, and there proclaim the astounding
fact that Lord Ravensworth's relapse has been produced by the discovery
of his wife's frailty ere their marriage."
"Oh! my God—what will become of me?" murmured Adeline, wringing her
hands. "Are you a woman? or are you a fiend?"
"I am a woman—and one who, having suffered much, knows how to revenge
deeply," returned Lydia. "You shall obey me—or I will cover you with
shame!"
Adeline made no reply; but, with scalding tears trickling down her
cheeks, she proceeded—yes, she—the high-born peeress!—to arrange the
wood in the grate—to heap up the coals—and to light the fire.
And while she was kneeling in the performance of that menial task,—while
her delicate white hands were coming in contact with the black
grate,—and while she was shivering in her night gear, and her long
dishevelled hair streamed over her naked neck and bosom,—there, within a
few feet of her, sate the menial—the servant, comfortably placed in an
arm-chair, and calmly surveying the degrading occupation of her
mistress.
"I have often—oh! how often—longed for a stick of wood and a morsel of
coal to make myself a fire, if no larger than sufficient to warm the
palms of my almost frost-bitten hands," said Lydia, after a short pause;
"and when I have dragged my weary limbs past the houses of the rich, and
have caught sight of the cheerful flames blazing through the
area-windows of their kitchens, I have thought to myself, '_Oh! for one
hour to sit within the influence of that genial warmth!_' And yet
you—_you_, the proud daughter of the aristocracy—recoil in disgust from
a task which so many thousands of poor creatures would only be too glad
to have an opportunity of performing!"
Adeline sobbed bitterly, but made no reply.
The fire was now blazing in the grate: still the high-born peeress was
shivering with the cold—for ere she could put on a single article of
clothing, she was forced to wash the black dirt from her delicate
fingers.
Then that lady, who—until within a week—had never even done so much as
take, with her own hands, a change of linen from the cupboard or select
a gown from the wardrobe, was compelled to perform those duties for
herself;—and all the while her servant,—her hired servant, to whom she
had to pay high wages and afford food and lodging,—that servant was
seated in the arm-chair, warming herself by the now cheerful fire!
"Do not be ashamed of your occupation, madam," said Lydia. "It is
fortunate for you that there is a well-stocked cupboard to select from,
and a well-provided wardrobe to have recourse to. Your linen is of the
most delicate texture, and of the most refined work: your feet have
never worn any thing coarser than silk. For your gowns, you may choose
amongst fifty dresses. One would even think that your ladyship would be
bewildered by the variety of the assortment. And yet you are indignant
at being compelled to take the trouble to make your selections! For how
many long weeks and months together have I been forced, at times, to
wear the same thin, tattered gown—the same threadbare shawl—the same
well-darned stockings! And how many thousands are there, Adeline, who
dwell in rags from the moment of their birth to that of their death! Ah!
if we could only take the daughters of the working classes, and give
them good clothing,—enable them to smooth their hair with fragrant oil,
and to wash their flesh with perfumed soaps,—and provide them with all
those accessories which enhance so much the natural loveliness of woman,
think you not that they would be as attractive—as worthy of homage—as
yourself? And let me tell you, Adeline, that such black ingratitude as I
have encountered at your hands, is unknown in the humble cottage:—the
poor are not so selfish—so hollow-hearted as the rich!"
While Lydia Hutchinson was thus venting her bitter sarcasm and her
cutting reproach upon Lady Ravensworth, the latter was hurriedly
accomplishing the routine of the toilet.
She no longer took pride in her appearance:—she scarcely glanced in the
mirror as she combed out those tresses which it was Lydia's duty to have
arranged;—her sole thought was to escape as speedily as possible from
that room where insults and indignities were so profusely accumulated
upon her.
But her ordeal of torture was not yet at its end.
So soon as Lady Ravensworth was dressed, Lydia Hutchinson said in a cool
but authoritative tone, "Adeline, you will comb out my hair for me now."
"Provoke me not, vile woman—provoke me not beyond the powers of
endurance!" almost shrieked the unhappy lady; "or I shall be tempted—oh!
I shall be tempted to lay violent hands upon you. My God—my God! what
will become of me?"
"I am prepared to stand the risk of any ebullition of fury on your
part," said Lydia, in the same imperturbable manner in which she had
before spoken. "Lay but a finger upon me to do me an injury, and I will
attack you—I will assault you—I will disfigure your countenance with my
nails—I will tear out your hair by handfuls—I will beat your teeth from
your mouth;—for I am stronger than you—and you would gain nothing by an
attempt to hurt me."
"But I will not be your servant!" cried Adeline, fire flashing from her
eyes.
"I tended your ladyship when you lay upon the humble couch in my garret,
in the agonies of maternity," replied Lydia; "and your ladyship shall
now wait upon me."
"No—no! You would make me a slave—a low slave—the lowest of slaves!"
ejaculated Adeline, wildly. "You degrade me in my own estimation—you
render me contemptible in my own eyes——"
"And you have spurned and scorned me," interrupted Lydia; "you have made
me, too, the lowest of slaves, by using me as an instrument to save you
from shame;—and now it is time that I should teach you—the proud
peeress—that I—the humble and friendless woman—have _my_ feelings, which
may be wounded as well as _your own_."
"Lydia—I beg you—I implore you—on my knees I beseech you to have mercy
upon me!" cried Adeline, clasping her hands together in a paroxysm of
ineffable anguish, and falling at the feet of the stern and relentless
woman whom she had wronged.
"I can know no mercy for _you_!" said Lydia Hutchinson, now speaking in
a deep and almost hoarse tone, which denoted the powerful concentration
of her vengeful passions. "When I think of all that I have suffered—when
I trace my miseries to their source—and remember how happy I might have
been in the society of a fond father and a loving brother,—when I
reflect that it was you—_you_ who led me astray, and having blighted all
my prospects—demanding even the sacrifice of my good name to your
interests,—thrust me away from you with scorn,—when I ponder upon all
this, it is enough to drive me mad;—and yet you ask for mercy! No—never,
never! I cannot pity you—for I hate, I abhor you!"
"Do not talk so fearfully, Lydia—good Lydia!" cried Adeline, in a voice
of despair, while she endeavoured to take the hands of her servant, at
whose feet she still knelt.
"Think not to move me with a show of kindness," said Lydia, drawing back
her hands in a contemptuous manner: "_your overtures of good treatment
come too late!_"
"But I will make amends for the past—I will henceforth consider you as
my sister," exclaimed Adeline, raising her eyes in an imploring manner
towards the vengeful woman. "I will do all I can to repair my former
ingratitude—only be forbearing with me—if not for _my_ sake, at least
for the sake of my unborn babe!"
"Your maternal feelings have improved in quality of late," said Lydia,
with a scornful curl of the lip; "for—as you must well remember—your
_first babe_ was consigned to me to be concealed in a pond, or thrust
into some hole—you cared not how nor where, so long as it was hidden
from every eye."
"Of all the agonies which you make me endure, detestable woman,"
ejaculated Adeline, rising from her knees in a perfect fury of rage and
despair, "that perpetual recurrence to the past is the most intolerable
of all! Tell me—do you want to kill me by a slow and lingering death? or
do you wish to drive me mad—_mad_?" she repeated, her eyes rolling
wildly, and her delicate hands clenching as she screamed forth the word.
The scene was really an awful one—a scene to which no powers of
description can possibly do justice.
The stern, inflexible tyranny of Lydia Hutchinson forced Lady
Ravensworth to pass through all the terrible ordeal of the most tearing
and heart-breaking emotions.
Did the miserable peeress endeavour to screen herself within the
stronghold of a sullen silence, the words of Lydia Hutchinson would
gradually fall upon her, one after the other, with an irritating power
that at length goaded her to desperation. Did she meet accusation by
retort, and encounter reproach with upbraiding, the inveteracy of
Lydia's torturing language wound her feelings up to such a pitch that it
was no wonder she should ask, with an agonising scream, whether the
avenging woman sought to drive her mad? Or, again, did she endeavour to
move the heart of her hired servant by self-humiliation and passionate
appeal, the coldness, or the malignant triumph with which those
manifestations were received awoke within her that proud and haughty
spirit which was now so nearly subdued altogether.
"Do you wish to drive me mad?" Lady Ravensworth had said:—then, when the
accompanying paroxysm of feeling was past, she threw herself on a chair,
and burst into an agony of tears.
But Lydia was not softened!
She suffered Adeline to weep for a few minutes; and when the unhappy
lady was exhausted—subdued—spirit-broken—the unrelenting torturess
repeated her command—"You can now arrange my hair."
Oh! bad as Adeline was at heart—selfish as she was by nature and by
education,—it would have moved a savage to have seen the imploring,
beseeching look which, through her tears, she cast upon Lydia's
countenance.
"My hair!" said Lydia, imperatively.
Then Lady Ravensworth rose, and meekly and timidly began to perform that
menial office for her own menial.
"I never thought," observed Lydia, "while I was a wanderer and an
outcast in the streets,—as, for instance, on the occasion when I
accosted you, in the bitterness of my starving condition, in Saint
James's Street, and when your lacqueys thrust me back, your husband
declaring that _it was easy to see what I was_, and your carriage
dashing me upon the kerb-stone,—little did I think _then_ that the time
would ever be when a peeress of England should dress my hair—and least
of all that this peeress should be _you_! But when, in your pride, you
spurned the worm—you knew not that the day could ever possibly come for
that worm to raise its head and sting you! Think you that I value any
peculiar arrangement which you can bestow upon my hair? Think you that I
cannot even, were I still vain, adapt it more to my taste with my own
hands? Yes—certainly I could! But I compel you to attend upon me thus—I
constitute myself the mistress, and make you the menial, when we are
alone together—because it is the principal element of my vengeance. It
degrades you—it renders you little in your own eyes,—you who were once
so great—so haughty—and so proud!"
In this strain did Lydia Hutchinson continue to speak, while Lady
Ravensworth arranged her hair.
And each word that the vindictive woman uttered, fell like a drop of
molten lead upon the already lacerated heart of the unfortunate Adeline.
At length the ordeal—that same ordeal which had characterised each
morning since Lydia Hutchinson had become an inmate of Ravensworth
Hall—was over; and Adeline was released from that horrible tyranny—but
only for a short time.