WOMAN AS SHE OUGHT TO BE.
A quarter of an hour after the interview between Lady Ravensworth and
the Resurrection Man, Eliza Sydney repaired to the little parlour before
mentioned, in compliance with a message which had been conveyed to her
from Quentin.
The moment she entered that room she was struck by the ghastly and
alarming appearance of the valet.
He was pacing the apartment with agitated steps; his face was as pale as
death—his eyes rolled wildly in their sockets—and his entire aspect was
that of a man who had just seen some terrible spectacle, or heard some
appalling revelation.
"In heaven's name, what is the cause of this excitement?" asked Eliza,
advancing towards the valet, after she had carefully closed the door.
"Oh! madam—oh! Mrs. Beaufort," exclaimed Quentin, clasping his hands
together through the intenseness of his mental anguish; "by playing the
part of your spy I have learnt a most dreadful secret! Merciful God!
this house has become the head-quarters of diabolical crime: its very
atmosphere is tainted with the foul breath of murderers;—destruction
lurks within its walls. Oh! accursed house, of which not one stone
should be left upon another!"
"Quentin, you alarm me!" cried Eliza. "Speak—explain yourself! What mean
these strange expressions?"
"Madam," said the valet, drawing close to her, and speaking in a low and
hollow tone, "have you heard of a certain Lydia Hutchinson, who
disappeared from this dwelling about two months ago?"
"Yes: the nurse was this morning telling me something about that event,"
answered Eliza; "but Lady Ravensworth hastened to change the
conversation."
"And no wonder, madam—no wonder!" observed Quentin. "Oh! that I should
still remain in the service of one who has perpetrated such a deed!"
"Will you explain yourself, Quentin?" cried Eliza, somewhat impatiently.
"I see that you have learnt a dreadful secret: but wherefore keep me
thus in suspense?"
"Pardon me, madam—forgive me," said Quentin, "I ought not to trifle with
you! But, ah! madam, what will you think—how will you act, when you
learn that she for whom you are so generously striving to combat the
wicked plots of Gilbert Vernon,—that Lady Ravensworth, in a word,
is—is——"
"Is what?" said Eliza, hastily.
"A murderess!" returned Quentin, shuddering from head to foot as he
uttered the appalling word.
"Just heaven! what do I hear?" exclaimed Eliza, the colour forsaking her
cheeks. "Oh! no—no: it cannot be! Recall that assertion, Quentin; for
you are labouring under some strange delusion!"
"Would that I were, madam," said the valet, in a mournful tone; "but,
alas! I heard too much—and that much too plainly—to entertain a doubt!
Yes, Mrs. Beaufort—that lady to whom you have devoted yourself, is the
murderess of poor Lydia Hutchinson!"
"Oh! this is indeed a house of crime, Quentin!" exclaimed Eliza Sydney,
now greatly excited. "But tell me how you made this fearful discovery!"
"I will endeavour to collect my thoughts sufficiently to explain it all,
madam," said the valet. "You must know, that about two hours ago, the
miscreant Tidkins brought me a note, written by his master, and to be
sent up to my lady. To this note a verbal message was returned that my
lady would see Mr. Vernon in an hour in the drawing-room."
"Yes—that interview took place with my entire concurrence," observed
Eliza.
"Obedient to your instructions, madam," continued Quentin, "I kept a
constant watch upon Tidkins; and when the hour for the meeting between
my lady and Mr. Vernon approached, I saw Tidkins accompany his master to
the drawing-room. This circumstance struck me to be so singular, that I
concealed myself in an ante-room, separated only by folding doors from
the saloon itself. It appears that Tidkins had placed himself behind the
screen; for, after a few words of little consequence had passed between
my lady and her brother-in-law, the latter left the apartment—and
Tidkins burst forth from his hiding-place! Oh! madam, never shall I
forget the scene which followed! By means of the key-hole I could
perceive, as well as hear, all that occurred in the drawing-room. With
the most insolent familiarity did Tidkins address my lady; and, though
for a time she steadily denied all participation in the murder of Lydia
Hutchinson, at length she acknowledged it—she admitted it!"
"Miserable woman that she is!" exclaimed Eliza. "Oh! this accounts for
her sleepless nights—her constant nervousness—her strange looks!"
"And it is the corpse of Lydia Hutchinson, madam," added Quentin, "which
was last night dragged from the pond by that fiend who was hired by my
lady to murder her!"
The valet then detailed at length all the conversation which had taken
place between the Resurrection Man and Lady Ravensworth, and which
explained wherefore Tidkins had fished up the body of the murdered
woman.
"It is therefore clear," said Eliza, horror-struck at all she heard,
"that it is the lost casket which Tidkins buried at the foot of the
tree."
"Doubtless, madam. But it now remains for _you_ to decide what course
you will pursue," continued Quentin: "as for _me_, my mind is made up—I
shall depart within an hour from this abode of crime!"
"Such will not be my conduct," said Eliza, firmly. "Dreadful as is the
guilt of Lady Ravensworth, I cannot find it in my heart to abandon her
to her enemies. She must have received some fearful provocation to have
been driven thus to rid herself of a servant whom, under ordinary
circumstances, she might have abruptly discharged."
"I think that I can penetrate into the mystery of this crime, madam,"
observed Quentin. "Her ladyship admitted a certain Colonel Cholmondeley
to her chamber; and this intrigue was known to Lydia Hutchinson."
"Oh! crime upon crime!" ejaculated Eliza Sydney, with a shudder. "Yet
will I not abandon this very guilty and very miserable woman! No:—for
the sake of her babe will I still aid her in defeating her enemies! And
this duty becomes the more imperious, inasmuch as if Gilbert Vernon
should be made acquainted with her enormities—if the miscreant Tidkins
should betray her to his master—he would obtain a hold upon her that
must further all his vile schemes."
"And will you remain, madam, in the midst of these murderers?" asked
Quentin, profoundly surprised at the resolution of Eliza Sydney:—"will
you remain in the same house with Vernon, the murderer of his
brother,—with Tidkins, who lives by murder,—and with Lady Ravensworth
the murderess of Lydia Hutchinson? Can you continue to dwell in such
horrible society?"
"As a matter of duty—yes," answered Eliza. "Were the infant heir of
Ravensworth abandoned to the designs of those dreadful men, his life
would not be worth a month's purchase; and his mother would not dare to
publish the foul deed, even were he murdered before her face!"
"The protection of that child is indeed a duty," said Quentin, in a
musing manner; "and my lord was always a good and kind master to me! I
have eaten his bread for many years—I have amassed in his service enough
to keep me in my old age! Madam," added the valet, turning abruptly
round towards Eliza, "your noble example shall not be lost upon me! I
will remain here—I will obey your instructions—for you are a lady of
whose confidence a humble individual like myself should feel proud!"
How powerful is the moral influence of a virtuous woman, performing
painful but solemn, though self-imposed duties! And, oh! had that man,
who now felt and acknowledged this influence,—had he known that he stood
in the presence of one whose brow had been adorned with a diadem, and
who still possessed a ducal title, although she used it not,—had he
known all this, he would have fallen at her feet, in homage to one so
great and good!
"Your resolution, Quentin, to remain here as the protector of your
lamented master's heir, does you honour," exclaimed Eliza. "And, as you
are indeed deserving of my confidence, I will acquaint you with the
course which I shall adopt towards Lady Ravensworth. For the sake of her
family—for the sake of the memory of her deceased husband—for the sake
of her child, I will spare her that exposure, and those fearful
consequences of such exposure, which justice seems to demand in
expiation of a crime so foul as hers. Never—never could I consent to be
the means of sending one of my own sex to a scaffold! No: I will gently
break to her my knowledge of her guilt; I will enjoin her to pray
often—long—and fervently to that Almighty Power which can show mercy to
those who truly repent, be they never so deeply stained with crime; and
I will endeavour to conduct her mind to that state which shall atone for
the great sin which lies so heavy on her soul!"
"Ah! madam," exclaimed Quentin, in unfeigned admiration of this
excellent lady; "were there more like you in this world, there would be
far less need for prisons, criminal judges, and public executioners!"
"Reformation is better than punishment, Quentin," said Eliza,
impressively. "But let us now separate. I need not enjoin you to the
strictest silence in respect to the awful discovery of this morning."
"Oh! madam, tell me how to act, and I would not for worlds deviate from
your instructions," cried the valet.
"Thank you for this assurance," said Eliza. "Before we separate, let me
ask if you will assist in the performance of a painful but solemn duty
which circumstances impose upon us?"
"Speak, madam," returned Quentin: "I almost think that I can anticipate
your explanation."
"The corpse of the murdered woman must not be allowed to remain in that
pond," said Eliza, in a low, but emphatic tone.
"I had divined your thoughts, madam," observed the valet. "To-night I
will bury it—painful, horrible though that duty be."
"And I will assist you in the sad task," returned Eliza. "Nay—offer no
objection: I am determined. To-night, at eleven o'clock, I will meet you
in the garden near the wicket leading into the fields. You must be
provided with the necessary implements for the purpose. In respect to
the casket of jewels, leave it where it is—leave it to that dreadful man
who will not long remain at large to dishonour human nature with his
atrocities; for he and his present master will fall together—and the
same knell shall ring for them both!"
"I understand you, madam," said Quentin. "That casket could never return
to the possession of Lady Ravensworth, with safety to herself."
The valet then retired; and Eliza hurried back to Adeline's apartments.
There a most painful—a most distressing scene took place.
The nurse was dismissed with the child into a remote chamber of the same
suite; and when Eliza was alone with Adeline, she broke to the miserable
lady her knowledge of the fearful crime which had put an end to the
existence of Lydia Hutchinson.
And, oh! how gently—how delicately—and in what a purely Christian spirit
of charity, did Eliza perform this most difficult—this most melancholy
duty!
It was not as an avenger, menacing the thunders of the law, that Eliza
spoke: it was not as one prepared to deliver up the criminal to justice,
that she addressed herself to Lady Ravensworth. No:—it was as a true
disciple of Him with whom is vengeance as well as mercy, that she
communed with Adeline: and this wretched woman found, to her
astonishment, that she possessed a friend who would pray with her,
solace her, and conceal her guilt, instead of a being prepared to
expose, to disgrace, and to abandon her upon the plea of performing a
duty which every one owes to society!
Then, when Lady Ravensworth was sufficiently composed—when the first
terrific shock was over,—she related, truly and minutely, her entire
history: she revealed to Eliza all those particulars of her connexion
with Lydia Hutchinson, which are known to the reader; she concealed
nothing—for the unparalleled generosity of Eliza's mind and conduct
aroused in Adeline's heart all the better feelings of her sex and
nature.
Though the crime of murder is so horrible that there exists for it
scarcely the shadow of extenuation,—still when the case of Lady
Ravensworth was calmly considered,—when it was remembered how she had
been goaded to madness and desperation by the conduct of Lydia
Hutchinson,—when all the circumstances that united at the time to cause
her reason to totter upon its seat, were dispassionately viewed,—even
the well-ordered mind of Eliza Sydney was induced to admit that, if ever
such shadow of extenuation did exist, it was in this most lamentable
episode in the history of the human race.
And, oh! with what feelings of profound—ineffable gratitude did Adeline
throw herself at the feet of that angel who seemed to have been sent
from above to teach her that there was hope for even the greatest
criminal, and that "_there is more joy in heaven over the repentance of
one sinner than over ninety-nine just persons who need no repentance!_"
"You ask me not to leave you—not to abandon you," said Eliza: "such an
idea never entered my mind. Where the plague rages, there should the
physician be; and if the physician fly away through fear of infection,
he is unworthy to exercise an honourable calling. For it is not the
healthy who require his services. And if the rich man offer alms to
those who are as wealthy as himself, his charity becomes a mere mockery,
because it is only offered where he knows it will be refused. No—it is
the abodes of misery which he should visit; and it is amongst those who
need his assistance that he should dispense his bounty. I fear not,
Adeline, that I shall be endangered by the infection which has so
unhappily seized upon you: on the contrary, I hope to eradicate from
your heart the seeds of the pestilence of sin! And it is also you who
require the alms of sympathy and solace; for you must be very—very
wretched! Do not think, then, that I will desert you: oh! no—the more
guilty, the more miserable you are, the stronger shall be the bond that
unites me to your interests!"
This was the holy and touching language with which Eliza Sydney sought
to move the heart of Lady Ravensworth to penitence.
Could such wholesome means fail of success?
No:—and Adeline felt rejoiced that her secret had become known to one
who availed herself of that knowledge for such excellent purposes!
The comprehensive mind of Eliza Sydney enabled her to embrace at a
glance all the new difficulties which the crime of Adeline had conjured
up. Eliza's aim, as before stated, was to take such effectual steps to
stop the guilty career of Vernon, that the heir of Ravensworth should be
entirely freed from any farther peril at the hands of his unnatural
uncle. But the very same moment that ruined Vernon and his atrocious
assistant, might bring destruction upon Adeline; for when the strong
grasp of the law once fixed itself on Tidkins, there was no guarantee
that he would not, in his rage, reveal the terrible mystery respecting
the fate of Lydia Hutchinson.
This chance was duly weighed by Eliza Sydney; but she conceived a plan
to save Adeline from the overwhelming consequences of such an exposure.
What this project was will be explained hereafter:—suffice it for the
present to say that it obviated the necessity of any change in the
policy already adopted to defeat and punish Gilbert Vernon and Tidkins;
and that Adeline gratefully assented to the conditions which it
involved.
A far more embarrassing subject for immediate consideration presented
itself to the mind of Eliza Sydney. This was how to advise Lady
Ravensworth to act in respect to the requisition made by Gilbert Vernon,
and so energetically backed by Anthony Tidkins, relative to her presence
in the drawing and dining rooms. But at length Eliza decided upon
recommending Adeline to yield in this instance.
"You will suffer too much in exposing yourself, by refusal, to the
menaces and constant persecutions of Anthony Tidkins," said Eliza; "and
moreover, we must remain faithful to our plan of not allowing Vernon to
suspect that his plots are being met by counter-schemes. I shall always
be with you when you are compelled to endure his presence; and therefore
it will be better thus to humour him."
"I shall be guided by you in all things," returned Adeline.
She accordingly presided at the dinner-table that very evening:—and thus
was the promise, made by the Resurrection Man to his employer, fulfilled
to the letter.
During the repast, Vernon endeavoured to ingratiate himself as much as
possible with the two ladies: but Adeline was too unhappy even to affect
any feeling beyond cold politeness; and Eliza Sydney was only distantly
courteous.
Coffee was served in the drawing-room; and afterwards the ladies
withdrew to their own apartments.
"One grand point is at least gained," said Vernon to himself, when he
was alone: "my amiable sister-in-law has been forced to leave her nest!
In a day or two I must ask to see the child. But with what spell Tidkins
effected this change in Adeline's conduct, I am at a loss to imagine!"
* * * * *
That night, at eleven o'clock, Eliza Sydney stole from the mansion,
Adeline and Quentin being alone cognisant of her proceeding.
In the garden she met the faithful valet, who was provided with a drag,
a mattock, a spade, and a sack.
They repaired together to the field in which was the pond where the
remains of Lydia Hutchinson were concealed.
Quentin, who had purposely reconnoitred the vicinity in the afternoon,
proceeded to dig a grave in a spot where there was no grass, and at a
distance of about twenty yards from the water.
This labour occupied an hour: and, when it was concluded, he proceeded
with Eliza to the pond.
The drag was used successfully; and the corpse was drawn to land. It was
then wrapped in a large sheet which Eliza had brought for the purpose,
and carried to the grave hollowed to receive it.
Eliza breathed a prayer for the soul of her whose remains were denied
Christian sepulture, while Quentin threw back the soil. The superfluous
earth was conveyed in the sack to the pond; and thus all traces of this
hurried burial disappeared.
Eliza and Quentin then returned to the mansion.
On the following morning, after breakfast, Eliza Sydney walked out
alone, and repaired to a grove at a short distance from the mansion.
A cab, containing two persons, drove up to the same spot a few moments
afterwards; and Filippo, having leapt out, assisted Malkhatoun to
alight.
Eliza immediately joined them; and they all three entered the grove
together.
When they had proceeded so far as to be beyond the range of the
cab-driver's hearing, Eliza stopped, and, addressing herself to
Malkhatoun, said, "I hope that you understand enough of the English
tongue to be able to converse with me for a few minutes upon a most
important subject?"
"I am well acquainted with your language, lady," was the reply, spoken
with singular accuracy for an oriental foreigner.
"Now listen to me attentively," continued Eliza: "I have read in some
book of eastern travel that the inhabitants of Asia Minor, Georgia, and
Circassia, possess the art of steeping the tobacco-leaf in a poison of
such a nature that it undermines the constitution of him who uses the
plant so treated."
"It is perfectly correct, lady," answered Malkhatoun; "and the operation
of steeping the plant in the opiatic poison is chiefly performed by the
female slaves."
"Have you ever seen the process?" inquired Eliza.
"Frequently," was the reply. "My father was a Georgian chief,"—and as
she spoke, tears started into her eyes:—"he had many slaves, and they
prepared the tobacco which he purposely left in his tents, when the
Persian invaders drove him from them. To poison your enemies thus, is
not deemed a dishonourable mode of warfare in Georgia."
"Should you recognise tobacco so prepared, were you to see it?" asked
Eliza.
"Instantaneously, lady, on the application of fire," replied Malkhatoun;
"for the poison used is of so peculiar a nature that its qualities are
only put into action by means of fire. The most skilful chemist cannot
discover its presence in tobacco, unless he light the weed and inhale
the perfume of the vapour."
"The idea of such a circumstance struck me also," observed Eliza.
As she spoke, she produced from her reticule a small galley-pot
containing some of the late Lord Ravensworth's tobacco: then she drew
forth a box of lucifer-matches.
Malkhatoun held the galley-pot, while Eliza procured a light; and the
flame was then applied to the tobacco.
The beautiful Georgian immediately inhaled the vapour, and said, "Lady,
this tobacco is so strongly impregnated with the poison, that were the
strongest man to indulge freely in its use for a few months, he would
sink into the tomb."
"It is as I suspected," murmured Eliza.
"Tobacco thus poisoned," continued Malkhatoun, "possesses properties of
so fascinating a nature, that he who smokes it becomes irresistibly
attached to it; and I have heard it said in Georgia, that men labouring
under incurable maladies, or those whose life is burthensome to them,
have voluntarily whiled away their existence by the use of the poisoned
weed."
"I thank you sincerely for this explanation," said Eliza. "And now,
pardon me if I speak a few words concerning yourself—for it is with a
good motive. When you mentioned the name of your father, tears started
into your eyes."
"My poor father was slain in the battle which made me and several other
Georgian females the prisoners of the Persian conquerors, against whom
my sire rose in rebellion," answered Malkhatoun. "I was sent to Teflis,
and sold as a slave to a Turkish merchant, who carried me to
Constantinople, where I was purchased for an English nobleman. I wept
ere now, lady, because I have a mother, and brothers, and sisters living
in my native land; and my heart yearns towards them."
"And would you be pleased, my poor girl, to return to Georgia?" asked
Eliza, the tears trickling down her cheeks—for Malkhatoun's voice was
soft and plaintive as she told her artless tale.
"I would give half the years that remain to me to embrace my dear mother
and brothers and sisters once more," replied Malkhatoun.
"You shall return to them—oh! you shall return to them with as little
delay as possible," exclaimed Eliza. "In the course of this day I will
transmit by post to you, Filippo, a draft upon my banker to supply the
means for this poor girl to go back to her native land."
"And it shall be my duty, madam, to see her safely on board the first
ship that sails for the Levant," said Filippo.
Malkhatoun could scarcely believe her ears; but when she saw that Eliza
was really in earnest, she threw herself at the feet of her
benefactress, whose hand she covered with her kisses and her tears.
Eliza hastened to raise her from that posture; and when the now happy
Georgian became composed, they all three retraced their steps to the
cab.
Malkhatoun and Filippo returned to London; and Eliza retraced her way to
Ravensworth Hall.
Nor did she forget her promise to Malkhatoun; and two days afterwards
the fair Georgian embarked at Gravesend on board a ship bound for the
Levant.