THE VOICES IN THE RUINS.
It would be impossible to conceive the existence of a more wretched
woman than Adeline Ravensworth.
Though wealth and title were hers,—though every luxury and every
pleasure were within her reach,—though with jewels of inestimable value
she might deck herself at will, and thus enhance her natural
charms,—still, still was she the prey to a constant agony of mind which
rendered life intolerable.
For it is not all the wealth of India,—nor all the luxuries and
pleasures of oriental palaces,—nor all the diamonds that ever sparkled
over the brow of beauty,—it is not these that can impart tranquillity to
the soul, nor give peace to the conscience.
Such was the bitter truth that Adeline was now compelled to acknowledge!
Shortly after the departure of Colonel Cholmondeley, which occurred at
about four o'clock in the afternoon, Lady Ravensworth felt so deeply the
want of undisturbed solitude for her meditations and of fresh air to
relieve the stifling sensation which oppressed her, that she determined
to take a long walk through the quiet fields.
Hastily slipping on a plain straw bonnet and a thick warm shawl, she
left the house unperceived by her torturess—Lydia Hutchinson.
Passing through the spacious gardens at the back of the mansion, she
gained the open fields, where the cold fresh breeze somewhat revived her
drooping spirits.
"Heaven grant that the babe which now agitates in my bosom may prove a
son!" she thought, as she cast a hasty but proud glance around: "or else
the broad lands which I now behold, and the soil on which my feet now
tread, will stand but a poor chance of remaining long beneath my
control. Yes—they would pass away to one whom I have never seen—whom I
have never known save by name—and who could not possibly be supposed to
entertain any sympathy for me! But if my babe should prove a boy—if he
should live, too—then adieu to all thy hopes and chances, Gilbert
Vernon."
These reflections led to a variety of others—all connected with
Adeline's interests or her sorrows.
So profoundly was she plunged in her painful reverie, and at the same
time so invigorated did she feel by the freshness of the air, that she
insensibly prolonged her walk until the shades of evening gathered
around her.
She had now reached the ruined remains of a gamekeeper's lodge which
marked the boundary of the Ravensworth estate in that direction.
Feeling a sudden sensation of weariness come over her, she seated
herself on a bench which still existed near the dilapidated remnant of
the cottage-portico.
Scarcely had she taken that place, when a voice from the other side of
the ruined wall caused her to start with sudden affright: but the words
that met her ears conquered this first feeling of alarm, and inspired
one of curiosity.
She accordingly lingered where she was; and as the darkness was every
moment growing more intense, she knew there was but little danger of
being perceived.
"I tell you that I am a man capable of doing any thing for money," said
the voice, in an impatient tone. "If you think there is any
squeamishness about me, you are deucedly mistaken. What I have promised
you, I will perform, when the time comes, and if there should be a
necessity for such a step. I value a human life no more than I do that
of a dog. If any one came to me and said, '_There is my enemy, and here
is your price—now go and kill him_,' I should just count the money first
to see that it was all right, and the remainder of the job would soon be
done, I can assure you."
"Well—well, I believe you," said another voice, whose deep tones rolled
solemnly upon the silence of the dark evening. "To all that you have
proposed I must assent—I have gone too far to retreat. But we must now
separate."
"And when shall I see you again?" demanded the first speaker: "because
now that you have made me acquainted with the whereabouts, I shall
constantly be ascertaining how things go on, and I ought therefore to be
able to communicate very often with you. That is—I ought to see you
frequently; for I hate doing business by letter."
"Can you not give me your own private address?" asked the individual
with the deep-toned voice; "and then I might call upon you every other
evening."
"Well said," exclaimed the first speaker: then, after a pause, during
which Adeline distinctly heard the rustling sound of paper, he said,
"Have you got a pencil in your pocket? for I can _feel_ to write a few
words in the dark."
"Yes—here is a pencil," returned the deep-toned voice.
There was another short pause.
"All right!" cried the first speaker, at length. "That bit of paper
contains the name and address of the most daring fellow that London ever
produced," he added with a low chuckle. "Talk of your bravos of Spain or
Italy—why, they are nothing to me! And isn't it odd, too, that whenever
a rich or great person wants any thing queer done for him, it is sure to
be me that he gets hold of somehow or another?"
"I have no doubt that you enjoy a most extensive patronage," said the
deep-toned voice, rather impatiently—and even haughtily. "But we must
now separate. The day after to-morrow—in the evening—I shall call upon
you."
"Good: I shall expect you," returned the other.
The two individuals then separated—each taking a different way; but one
came round the angle of the ruined wall, and passed so close to Adeline
that she shrank back in a dreadful state of alarm lest her presence
there should be discovered;—for, mysterious as was the conversation
which she had just overheard, there was one fact which it too
intelligibly revealed—and this was the desperate nature of those two
men's characters.
But the individual who passed so closely, did not observe her—for the
evening was very dark, and she moreover was sitting in the still deeper
obscurity of the ruined portico.
Neither was she enabled to obtain a glimpse of his countenance: the
outline of a tall and somewhat stout figure, as he hurried by her, was
the extent of the view which she caught of him.
In a few moments all was again silent: the sounds of the retreating
footsteps no longer met her ears.
She did not immediately leave the ruins: she paused to reflect upon the
strange conversation which she had overheard. But all its details were
dark and mysterious—save that one man was a wretch who gloried in his
readiness to perform any crime for a commensurate reward, and that the
other was either his accomplice or his employer in some fearful plot
that was in progress.
There was one expression that had fallen from the lips of the former
miscreant, and on which Lady Ravensworth principally dwelt:—"_Now that
you have made me acquainted with the whereabouts, I shall be constantly
ascertaining how things go on_."
Could the _whereabouts_, or locality, alluded to, have any connexion
with that neighbourhood? And, if so, did the observation refer to the
Ravensworth estate? Or were the two men merely discussing, in those
ruins, matters which regarded some other and totally distinct spot?
"The latter supposition must be the right one," said Adeline to herself,
after a long meditation upon the subject. "The only person in the world
who could have any interest in learning '_how things were going on_' in
this neighbourhood, is Gilbert Vernon; and he is in Turkey.
Moreover—even were he in England—he would have no need to spy about in
the dark: he is on friendly terms with his brother, and might present
himself boldly at the Hall."
Thus reasoning against the vague and temporary fears which had arisen in
her mind, Adeline rose from the bench and was about to retrace her steps
homewards, when the moon suddenly appeared from behind a cloud, and its
rays fell upon a small white object that lay at the lady's feet.
She mechanically picked it up:—it was a piece of paper on which she
could perceive, by the moonlight, that a few words were written; but she
could not decypher them.
Nevertheless, the mode in which the short lines were arranged struck her
with the idea that this paper contained an address; and a natural
association of facts immediately encouraged the belief that she held in
her hand the one which the self-vaunted bravo had given ere now to his
companion, and which the latter might probably have dropped by accident.
Hastily concealing it in her bosom, Adeline retraced her steps to
Ravensworth Hall.
On her arrival she hurried to her boudoir, lighted the wax tapers, and
examined the paper ere she even laid aside her bonnet and shawl.
Yes—it contained an address; and the words were scrawled as they would
be if written in the dark.
There could, then, be no doubt that this was the address which one of
the men had given to his companion in the ruins of the gamekeeper's
lodge.
"It is useful to know that such a villain as this can be hired for
money!" muttered Adeline to herself, as she concealed the paper in one
of her jewel-caskets. "What did he say? That if any one went to him and
whispered, '_There is my enemy, and here is your price—now go and kill
him_,' he would take the bribe and do the deed. And did he not boast
that he was employed by the rich and the powerful? In what manner could
such persons require his aid? Assuredly in no good cause! Ah!
Lydia—Lydia," continued Adeline, her brows contracting and a dark cloud
passing over her countenance as she spoke, "be not too confident! You
are now in _my_ power!"
But scarcely was the fearful thought thus implied, when Adeline seemed
to recoil from it with horror: for, covering her face with her hands,
she almost shrieked out, "No—no! I could not do it!"
"What can you not do, dearest?" said a low voice close by her ear; and
almost at the same instant she was clasped in the arms of Colonel
Cholmondeley.
"Release me—release me!" exclaimed Adeline, struggling to free herself
from his embrace.
"Not till I have imprinted another kiss upon, those sweet lips,"
returned the Colonel: "not till I have made my peace with you, dearest
Adeline, in respect to the past:—else wherefore should I have come
hither?"
And as he uttered these words, he glued his lips to hers, although she
still continued to resist his insolence to the utmost of her power.
"Oh! my God!" she murmured in a faint tone "am I to submit to this new
indignity?"
Cholmondeley supported her to the sofa; then, throwing himself at her
feet, he took her hands in his, and said in a fervent tone,
"Adeline—dearest Adeline, wherefore do you receive me thus coldly? Is it
possible that you can have altogether forgotten those feelings which
animated our hearts with a reciprocal affection some years ago? But
perhaps my conduct—my ungrateful, my ungenerous conduct—has completely
effaced all those emotions, and excited hatred and disgust instead? Oh!
I admit—I acknowledge that my conduct _was_ ungrateful—_was_ ungenerous!
I abandoned you at a moment when you most required my counsel—my
assistance! But was my fault so grave that it is beyond the possibility
of pardon? When I found myself this morning brought by an imperious
necessity—or rather by a strange chance—to this mansion, I thought
within my breast, '_I shall now see Adeline once again: but we must be
strangers unto each other. Cold ceremony must separate hearts that once
beat in the reciprocities of love._'—And you know, Adeline, with what
formal respect I sought to treat you. But when I beheld you so
beautiful, and yet so unhappy,—when I saw that the lovely girl had grown
into the charming woman,—oh! I was every moment about to dash aside that
chilling ceremony and snatch you to my breast. And now, Adeline, will
you forgive me?—will you say that you do not quite detest me—even if you
cannot call me your lover—your friend?"
With her head drooping upon her bosom,—with tears trembling upon her
long dark lashes,—and with her hands still retained in those of Colonel
Cholmondeley, did Adeline listen to this specious appeal.
The words "_your friend_" touched a chord which vibrated to her heart's
core.
"Oh! yes—I do require a friend—a friend to advise and console me," she
exclaimed; "for I am very—very miserable!"
Cholmondeley was man of the world enough to perceive that his appeal was
successful—that his victory was complete; and, seating himself by
Adeline's side, he drew her towards him, saying, "I will be your friend,
dearest—I will advise you—I will console you. You shall pour forth all
your sorrows to me, as if I were your brother: and I swear most
solemnly, beloved Adeline, that if it be your wish, I will never seek
henceforth to be more to you than a brother!"
"Oh! if that were true—if I could rely upon your word!" cried Adeline,
joyfully.
"By every sacred obligation with which man can bind himself, do I vow
the sincerity of that promise," returned Cholmondeley.
Then withdrawing his arm from her waist, as a tacit proof of his
honourable intentions, but still retaining one of her hands in his own,
he looked anxiously in her countenance to read the impression which his
words and manner had created.
"Again I say that if I could believe you, I should think myself
happy—nay, blest in your friendship," returned Adeline; "for I am so
miserable—so very, very wretched—that I feel the burden of such an
existence too heavy to bear. All that has passed between us constitutes
a reason to induce me to accept you as my friend, rather than any
other;—for I have lately seen so much of the fiend-like disposition of
_one_ woman, that I am inclined to abhor the whole sex—yes, even though
it be my own! And to you, moreover, I can speak frankly of those causes
which have rendered me so very wretched."
"Speak, dear Adeline—unburden your mind to me," said Cholmondeley, in a
low, but tender tone. "I must, however, inform you that I am already
acquainted with many of the incidents regarding the connexion between
Lydia Hutchinson and yourself, from the moment when Lord Dunstable and I
so dishonourably wrote to you both to state that we were going abroad.
Yes—Adeline, I have learnt how you were extricated from the
embarrassments of that situation in which I shamefully left you,—how, in
a word, the offspring of our love was born dead and disposed of, and how
your reputation was saved through the means of Lydia."
"You know all those fearful particulars?" exclaimed Lady Ravensworth,
profoundly surprised at what she heard.
"Yes, dearest: for Lydia, some time after she left the school, became
the mistress of my friend Dunstable; and she told him all. He related
those incidents to me: it was natural that he should do—seeing that we
were mutually acquainted with each-other's loves. And, oh! my dearest
Adeline," continued the Colonel, "I can well understand how completely
that odious woman is enabled to tyrannise over you."
"And you can also comprehend how much I stand in need of a friend?" said
Lady Ravensworth; "for it is hard to be compelled to nurse one's
griefs—to conceal one's sorrows—without being able to unburden to a
single living soul a heart surcharged with woe."
"I will be that friend, Adeline," replied Cholmondeley.
"But, oh! what dangers do I incur by seeing you—by receiving you here!"
exclaimed Adeline. "And this thought reminds me that I am even yet
ignorant of the means by which you gained access to my chamber."
"Nay, Adeline," said Cholmondeley, in a tender tone, "do not attempt to
disavow the encouragement which you so kindly gave me—and to which you
now force me to allude."
"Encouragement!" repeated Lady Ravensworth, with a tone and manner
expressive of unfeigned surprise.
"Yes, dearest. That key which I found in the post-chaise—and the few
words written upon the paper which enveloped it——"
"My God! there is some fearful mistake in all this!" cried Adeline,
seriously alarmed. "But explain yourself—quickly—I conjure you!"
Cholmondeley was now astonished in his turn; and hastily taking a paper
from his pocket, he handed it to Lady Ravensworth, saying, "The key was
enclosed in this."
Adeline cast her eyes upon the paper, and read these words:—
"The key contained herein belongs to a door on the southern side of
Ravensworth Hall: and that door communicates with a private
staircase leading to the passage from which my own apartments open.
I wish to converse with you in secret—if only for a moment; and
though I have taken this imprudent—this unpardonable step, you will
surely spare my feelings, should you avail yourself of the
possession of the key, by forbearing in my presence from any
allusion to the means by which it fell into your hands."
"Merciful heavens!" ejaculated Adeline, when she had hurriedly glanced
over the paper: "I am ruined—I am undone! It must be that fiend Lydia,
who has thus paved the way for my utter destruction!"
There was the wildness of despair in the manner of Lady Ravensworth, as
she uttered these words; and Cholmondeley could not for another moment
imagine that her distress was feigned.
"What do you mean, Adeline?" he said: "did you not send me the key?—did
you not pen those lines? Surely—surely the handwriting is yours?"
"As God is my judge, Cholmondeley," she answered, emphatically, "I never
sent you the key—I never penned those lines! No—it is Lydia who has done
it: she knows my writing well—she has imitated it but too faithfully!
Go—fly—depart, Cholmondeley: ruin awaits me—perhaps both!"
The Colonel dared not delay another moment: the almost desperate
wildness of Adeline's manner convinced him that she spoke the truth—that
she had _not_ invited him thither.
"At least let me hope to see you soon again—or to hear from you," he
said, imprinting a hasty kiss upon her forehead.
"Yes—yes—any thing you will, so that you now leave me," she cried, in a
tone of agonising alarm.
Cholmondeley rushed to the door:—Adeline followed him into the passage,
bearing a candle in her hand.
The reader may conceive the relief which she experienced, when, upon
casting a rapid glance up and down, she found that her torturess was not
there either to expose her completely, or to triumph over her alarms.
"Farewell," whispered Cholmondeley; and he disappeared down the
staircase.
Adeline remained at the top, until she heard the private door at the
bottom carefully open and as gently close.
Then she breathed more freely, and re-entered her own chamber.
"What could Lydia mean by this perfidious plot?" she murmured to
herself, as she sank upon the sofa, exhausted both mentally and bodily.
"She was not there to enjoy my confusion; she did not come with the
servants to behold what might have been considered the evidence of
infidelity towards my husband:—what, then, _could_ she mean?"
Scarcely had these words passed Adeline's lips, when the door opened,
and her torturess entered the room.