"Will you place yourself in my hands?"
"I will—in every way."
"Then you will leave the establishment as usual at five this evening; and trust to me to manage every thing. I have my plan ready arranged; but you shall know nothing to-day:—to-morrow—to-morrow——"
The old man stopped short, and had recourse to his snuff-box.
"Be it as you say, Michael," cried Tomlinson, always bewildered by the terrors of his situation, and still half shrinking from the daring plot which Greenwood had opened to his view; "I know that you are my faithful friend—my best, my only friend:—it shall be as you desire!"
CHAPTER LXXVI.
COUNT ALTERONI'S FIFTEEN THOUSAND POUNDS.
ON the Saturday morning following the Thursday on which the above-mentioned conversation took place, the count and his family were seated at breakfast.
The morning paper was late; and his lordship was one of those persons who cannot enjoy their repast without the intellectual association of a journal.
At length the wished-for print arrived; and the count was soon buried in the preceding night's debate in the House of Commons—for he felt deeply interested in all political affairs, no matter to which country they referred.
"Really this Greenwood is a very clever man," he observed, after a long interval of silence. "He acquitted himself well last evening, notwithstanding the erroneous course he is pursuing in the political sphere. The Tories of this country have obtained a powerful auxiliary in him. It is a pity he is so unprincipled a villain—for, I repeat, he is really very clever."
"It is astonishing how men of his stamp contrive to push themselves forward in the world," said the countess, "while those of honest principles and upright minds are either misunderstood, or vilely persecuted."
"And yet vice only prospers for a time," observed Isabella; "and virtue becomes triumphant at last. Those who are misunderstood to-day will be comprehended and honoured to-morrow."
She thought of Markham as she uttered these words: indeed, the image of her lover was ever uppermost in the mind of the charming and affectionate girl.
"I am afraid," said the count, after a pause, "that the moral you have just advanced, Bella, is rather that of the stage and the romancist than of real life. And yet," he added fervently, "to entertain such an idea as mine is to question the goodness and the justice of Providence. Yes—I must believe in earthly rewards and punishments. You are right, my child—you are right: the wicked man will not ever triumph in his turpitude; nor may the virtuous one be oppressed until the end."
"No—or else were there small hope for us," said the countess solemnly. "The great men of Castelcicala must some day perceive who is their real friend."
"Alas!" exclaimed Isabella, "It is hard to be mistaken and suspected by those whose good opinions we would fain secure."
The count resumed the perusal of the newspaper; but his eyes had not dwelt many minutes upon the page ere he uttered a loud exclamation of mingled astonishment and alarm.
The ladies looked towards him in a state of the most painful suspense: and this feeling was not immediately removed, for the count, with an ashy pale face, continued to read the article that had caught his eyes, for some moments, ere he explained the cause of his emotion.
"Heavens!" exclaimed the countess, "are there any bad tidings from Italy?"
"No—the hand that strikes the blow which ruins us, is not so far distant," answered the nobleman, throwing the paper upon the table. "Ah! we were premature," he continued bitterly, "in founding our hopes upon the justice with which virtue is rewarded and vice punished!"
"The blow which ruins us?" said the countess, a prey to the most acute anxiety.
"Yes—Tomlinson has stopped payment," cried the Italian exile; "and—and we are ruined!"
"My dear father," said Isabella, hastening to fling her arms around the neck of her much-loved sire, "all may not be so bad as you imagine!"
"Ruined!" repeated the countess; and, taking up the newspaper, the following article instantly met her eyes:—
"ROBBERY AND STOPPAGE OF TOMLINSON'S BANK.
"The City was yesterday morning thrown into a state of the greatest fermentation by a rumour which prevailed at about eleven o'clock, that the above-mentioned old-established and well-known banking establishment had been plundered to an enormous amount, and had suspended its payments. Unfortunately the rumour was but too true; and our reporter, upon repairing to Lombard Street, found an immense crowd collected in front of the bank. The doors were closed; and the following notice was posted up;—'James Tomlinson is under the painful necessity of suspending the affairs of the bank, at least for the present. The flight of the cashier, with money and securities to an amount bordering upon a hundred thousand pounds, is the cause of this unfortunate step. Further particulars will be made known at speedily as possible.' It is impossible to describe the dismay which was depicted upon the countenances of those amongst the crowd who are sufferers by this calamity; and many very painful scenes took place. One widow lady who had placed her little all in the concern, and who arrived upon the spot, to draw her half yearly interest, only a few moments after the doors were closed, was taken away in a state of madness. We have since learnt that the unfortunate lady has entirely lost her reason.
"Our reporter upon prosecuting his inquiries, gleaned the following particulars of the occurrence which led to the stoppage of the bank; and we have every reason to believe that the narrative which they furnish may be relied upon.
"It appears that the cashier, whose name was Michael Martin, is a very old man, and had been for many years in the service of the present and late proprietors of the bank. His presumed integrity, his known experience, and his general conduct, had led to his elevation to the post of head cashier—a situation which he has filled for upwards of ten years, without exciting a suspicion relative to his proceedings. It is, however, supposed that he must have been pursuing a most nefarious course for a considerable length of time, for reasons which we shall state presently. On Thursday evening, Mr. Tomlinson, who, it appears, is the sole proprietor of the establishment, although the business has been all along carried on under its original denomination of Tomlinson & Co., quitted the bank at five o'clock, as usual, leaving the cashier to see all safe, and close the establishment for the day, according to custom. When Mr. Sanderson, one of the clerks, arrived at the bank at nine o'clock yesterday morning, he was surprised to find that the doors were not yet opened. The other clerks arrived shortly afterwards; and their surprise at length turned into alarm. Still the integrity of the cashier was not for a moment suspected; it was, however, imagined that something most have happened to him—an idea that was strengthened by the fact that the cashier occupied a room in the establishment, and there was consequently no reason to account for the doors remaining closed. The char-woman, who waited upon the cashier and swept out the bank, &c., came up to the door while the clerks were thus deliberating, and stated that she had not been able to obtain admission that morning as usual. It was now determined by Mr. Sanderson to obtain the assistance of a policeman, and force an entrance. This was done; and egress was obtained by breaking through the windows and shutters (which close inside) of the bank parlour. Mr. Sanderson and the constable immediately proceeded to the cashier's private room, which is on the ground-floor, and in which the iron safe was kept. The bed had not been slept in during the night. Attention was then directed to the safe, where it was found that it was open, and its contents had been abstracted. The front door of the bank was opened, and the clerks admitted. Mr. Tomlinson was then immediately sent for. That gentleman arrived by ten o'clock; and a farther investigation took place under his directions. The result of this search was a discovery that not only had the specie, notes, and securities disappeared, but even the cash-books, and all the papers that could throw any light upon the financial affairs of the establishment. It is this circumstance which induces a belief that the cashier must have carried on a system of plunder for a considerable length of time.
"We regret to state that the shock was so great that Mr. Tomlinson was conveyed to his residence in a state bordering upon distraction."
"Further Particulars.
"A reward of £3000 has been offered for the apprehension of the cashier; and a description of his person has been forwarded to all the principal seaports. [For Description see our advertising columns.] Our reporter learnt last evening that Mr. Tomlinson was more composed, and had even exerted himself to consult with some friends upon the best course to pursue. It, however, appears that so entirely did he confide in his cashier, that he is only able to give a vague and meagre account of the nature of the securities abstracted. They were, however, the bills and bonds of several great foreign and colonial mercantile houses. We regret to hear that Mr. G. M. Greenwood, M.P., had paid a considerable sum of money into the bank, on Thursday morning. It appears that upwards of fifty thousand pounds in specie and notes (the numbers of which are now unknown, they having been entered in one of the books taken away) and forty-four thousand in securities have disappeared.
"There is every reason to suppose that the delinquent will be speedily captured, as it is impossible for him to travel with a large amount of specie without exciting suspicion."
"Latest Particulars.
"In order to institute the fullest and most complete investigation into the affairs of the bank, it was resolved, at a late hour last evening, at a meeting of the principal creditors, Mr. Greenwood in the chair, that a docket should be struck against Mr. Tomlinson. At the same time, it is our duty to observe that this is done with no ill feeling towards that gentleman, who is deserving only of universal sympathy, and, in no way, of blame."
"The name of that man Greenwood, in connexion with this affair," said the count, "impresses me with the idea that all is not right. Moreover, how could the cashier have removed a large quantity of specie without attracting attention in a thoroughfare so frequented at all hours as Lombard Street? There is something wrong at the foundation of this history of the robbery."
"Alas! little does it matter now to us, whether Mr. Tomlinson be a false or an unfortunate man," said the countess; "there is one thing certain—we are ruined!"
"Yes—my dearest wife, my beloved daughter," exclaimed the count, "we are in a pitiable situation—in a foreign land! It is true that I have friends: the Earl of Warrington—Lord Tremordyn, both of whom know our secret, and have faithfully kept it—would gladly assist me; but I would not—could not apply to them—even though it be to settle the few debts which I owe!"
"Still there remains one course," said the countess, hesitating, and regarding her husband with anxious timidity.
"One course!" ejaculated the count. "Ah! I know full well to what you allude; but never, never will I sell my rights for gold! No, my dear wife—my beloved daughter—we must prepare ourselves to meet our misfortunes in a becoming manner."
"Dear father," murmured Isabella, "your goodness has conferred upon me an excellent education: surely I might turn to advantage some of those accomplishments—"
"You, my sweetest girl!" cried the nobleman, surveying with feelings of ineffable pride the angelic countenance of the lovely being that was leaning upon his shoulder: "you—my own darling girl—a lady of your high rank become a governess! no—never, never!
"Isabella, you are worthy of your noble sire," said the countess enthusiastically.
And, even in the hour of their misfortune, that exiled—ruined family found inexpressible solace in the sweet balm of each other's love!
CHAPTER LXXVII.
A WOMAN'S SECRET.
IT was now seven months since Ellen Monroe became the victim of George Greenwood.
She bore in her bosom the fruit of that amour; and until the present time she had managed to conceal her situation from those around her.
She now began to perceive the utter impossibility of veiling her disgrace much longer. Her health was failing; and her father and Markham were constantly urging upon her the necessity of receiving medical advice. This recommendation she invariably combated to the utmost of her power; and in order to give a colour to her assurance that she suffered only from some trivial physical ailment, she was compelled to affect a flow of good spirits which she was far—very far from experiencing.
Markham had frequently questioned her with the most earnest and friendly solicitude relative to the causes of those intervals of deep depression which it was impossible for her to conceal;—he had implored her to open her mind to him, as a sister might to a brother;—he had suggested to her change of scene, diversion, and other means of restoring her lost spirits;—but to all he advanced she returned evasive replies.
Richard and the aged father of the young lady frequently convened together upon the subject, and lost themselves in conjectures relative to the cause of that decaying health and increasing unhappiness for which the sufferer herself would assign no feasible motive. At times Mr. Monroe was inclined to believe that the privations and vicissitudes which his daughter had experienced during the two years previous to their reception at the hospitable dwelling of Richard Markham, had engendered a profound melancholy in a mind that had been so painfully harassed, and had implanted the germs of a subtle malady in a system never constitutionally strong. This belief appeared the more reasonable when the old man called to mind the hours of toil—the wearisome vigils—and the exposure to want, cold, and inclement weather, which had been endured by the poor girl in the court in Golden Lane; and Markham sometimes yielded to the same impression relative to the causes of a mental and physical decline which every day became more apparent.
Then, again, Richard thought that the fresh air of the healthy locality where she now dwelt, and the absence of all care in respect to the wherewithal to sustain life, would have produced a beneficial effect. He enjoined her father to question her whether she cherished some secret affection—some love that had experienced disappointment; but to this demand she returned a positive negative: and her father assured his young friend that Ellen had had no opportunity of obtaining the affection of another, or of bestowing her own upon any being who now slighted it. Of course her true position was never suspected for a moment; and thus the cause of Ellen's unhappiness remained an object of varied and conflicting conjectures.
Seven months had now passed since that fatal day when the accursed old hag, whose name we have not allowed to defile these pages, handed her over to the arms of a ruthless libertine;—seven months of mental anguish and physical suffering had nearly flown;—the close of July was at hand;—and as yet Ellen had decided upon no plan to direct her future proceedings. She sometimes thought of returning to Greenwood, and endeavouring to touch his heart;—but then she remembered the way in which they had parted on the occasion of her visit to his house in Spring-Gardens;—she recalled to mind all she knew of the character of the man;—and she was compelled to abandon this idea. She felt that she would sooner die than accept his succour in the capacity of a mistress;—and there were, moreover, moments when she entertained sentiments of profound hatred, and experienced a longing for revenge, against the man who refused to do her justice. Then, again, she recollected that he was the father of the child which she bore in her bosom; and all her rancorous feelings dissolved in tears.
At other times she thought of throwing herself at her father's feet, and confessing all. But what woman does not shudder at such a step? Moreover, frail mortals invariably place reliance in the chapter of accidents, and entertain hopes, even in situations where it is impossible for those hopes to be realised.
To Richard Markham she would not—dared not breathe a syllable that might lead him to infer her shame;—and yet, where was she to find a friend save in the persons of her father and her benefactor?
Most pitiable was the situation of this poor girl. And yet she already felt a mother's feeling of love and solicitude for her unborn babe. Often—often, in the still hour of night, when others slept, did she sit up and weep in her chamber:—often—often, while others forgot their cares in the arms of slumber, was she a prey to an agony of mind which seemed to admit of no solace. And then, in those hours of intense wretchedness, would the idea of suicide steal into her mind—that idea which suggests a last resource and a sore relief as a term for misery grown too heavy for mortal endurance. But, oh! she trembled—she trembled in the presence of that dread thought, which each night assumed a shape more awfully palpable, more fearfully defined to her imagination. She struggled against the idea: she exclaimed, in the bitterness of her agony, "Get thee behind me, tempter;"—and yet there the tempter stood, more plainly seen, more positive in its allurement than ever! That poor, helpless girl balanced in her mind whether she should dare human scorn, or in one mad moment resign her soul to Satan!
There was a piece of water at the back of the house close by the main road; and thither would her footsteps lead her—almost unvoluntarily, for the tempter pushed her onward from behind;—thither would she repair at noon, to contemplate the sleeping waters of the lake within whose depths lurked one pearl more precious in the eyes of the unhappy than the brightest ornaments set in regal diadems,—the pearl of Oblivion! Thither did the lost one stray: upon the margin of that water did she hover like the ghost of one who had sought repose beneath that silver surface;—and, oh! how she longed to plunge into the shining water—and dared not.
At eve, too, when the sun had set, and every star on the dark vault above was reflected on the bosom of the lake, and the pure argent rays of the lovely moon seemed to fathom its mysterious depths,—then again did she seek the bank; and as she stood gazing upon the motionless pool, she prepared herself to take the one fatal leap that should terminate her sorrows—and dared not.
No—she shrank from suicide; and yet the time had now come when she most nerve herself to adopt some decided plan; for a prolonged concealment of her condition was impossible.
Markham's household consisted of Whittingham, Holford, and a female domestic of the name of Marian. This woman was a widow, and had been in the service of our hero only since his release from incarceration. She was between forty and fifty; and her disposition was kind, easy, and compassionate.
One night—about an hour after the inmates of the Place had retired to their chambers—Ellen was sitting, as usual, mournfully in her room, pondering upon her unhappy condition, and dreading to seek a couch where her ideas assumed an aspect which made her brain reel as if with incipient madness,—when she heard a low knock at her door. She hastened to open it; and Marian instantly entered the room.
"Hush, my dear young lady," she said in a whisper: "do not be alarmed;"—and she carefully closed the door behind her.
"What is the matter, Marian?" exclaimed Ellen "has any thing happened? is my father ill?"
"No, Miss—do not frighten yourself, I say," replied the servant. "I have come to console you for I can't bear to see you pining away like this—dying by inches."
"What do you mean, Marian?" said Ellen much confused.
"I mean, my dear Miss," continued the servant, "that if you won't think me impertinent. I might befriend you. The eyes of a woman are sharp and penetrating, Miss; and while every body else in the house is wondering what can make you so pale, and low-spirited, I do not want to conjecture to discover the cause."
"My God, Marian!" ejaculated the young lady, sinking into a chair; "you—you really frighten me: you mistake—you—"
And Ellen burst into tears.
The servant took her hand kindly, and said "Miss, forgive my boldness; but I am a woman—and I cannot bear to see one of my own sex suffer as you do. Besides, you are so good and gentle—and when I was ill a few weeks ago, you behaved with so much kindness to me, that my heart bleeds for you—it does indeed. I was coming down to you last night—and the night before—and the night before that too; but I didn't like to intrude upon you. And to-day I saw how very much you was altered; and I could restrain myself no longer. So, Miss, if I have done wrong, forgive me; for I have come with a good intention—and I would go a hundred miles to serve you. In a word, Miss, you require a friend—a faithful friend; and if you will confide in me, Miss, I will give you the best advice, and help you in the best way I can."
"Marian, this is very kind of you—very kind," answered Ellen, to whose ear these words of female sympathy came ineffably sweet; "but I shall be better soon—I shall get well—"
"Ah! Miss," interrupted Marian, soothingly, "don't hesitate to confide in me. I know what ails you—I understand your situation; and I feel for you deeply—indeed, indeed I do."
"Marian—"
"Yes, Miss: you cannot conceal it from others much longer. For God's sake take some step before you kill yourself and your child at the same time."
"Marian—Marian, what do you say?" exclaimed Ellen, sobbing violently, as if her heart would break.
"Miss Monroe, you will shortly become a mother!"
"Ah! my God—kill me, kill me! Save me from this deep degradation—this last disgrace!"
"Calm yourself, Miss—calm yourself; and I will be your friend," said Marian. "I have been thinking of your condition for some time past—and I have already settled in my mind a plan to save you!"
"To save me—to save me!" exclaimed Ellen. "Oh! how can I ever repay you for this kindness?"
"I am but a poor ignorant woman. Miss," answered Marian; "but I hope that I do not possess a bad heart. At all events I can feel for you."
"A bad heart, Marian!" repeated Ellen. "Oh! no—you are goodness itself. But you said you had some plan to save me, Marian?"
"Yes, Miss. I have a sister, who is married and lives with her husband a few miles off. He is a market-gardener; and they have a nice little cottage. They will be delighted to do all they can for you."
"But how can I leave this house and remain absent for weeks without acquainting my benefactor Mr. Markham, and my poor old father? You forget, Marian—you forget that were I to steal away, and leave no trace behind me, it would break my father's heart."
"Then, Miss, you had better throw yourself at your father's feet, and tell him all."
"Never—never, Marian!" ejaculated Ellen, clasping her hands together, while her bosom heaved convulsively.
"Trust in Mr. Markham, Miss—let me break the truth to him?"
"Impossible, Marian! I should never dare to look him in the face again."
"And the person—the individual—the father of your child, Miss—" said the servant, hesitatingly.
"Mention not him—allude not to him," cried Ellen; then, after a pause, she added in a low and almost despairing tone, "No!—hope exists not there!"
"And yet, Miss," continued Marian, "you must make up your mind to something—and that soon. You cannot conceal your situation another fortnight without danger to yourself and the little unborn innocent. Besides, you have made no preparations, Miss; and if any sudden accident—"
"Ah! Marian, you remind me of my duty," interrupted Ellen. "I must not sacrifice the life of that being who has not asked me to give it existence—who is the innocent fruit of my shame,—I must not sacrifice its life to any selfish scruples of mine! Thank you, Marian—thank you! You have reminded me of my duty! come to me again to-morrow night, and I will tell you what step I have determined to take without delay!"
The servant then retired; and Ellen remained alone—alone with the most desolating, heart-breaking reflections.
At length her ideas produced a mental agony which was beyond endurance. She rose from her chair, and advanced towards the window, against the cold glass of which she leant her brow—her burning brow, to cool it. The moon shone brightly, and edged the clouds of night with silver. The eyes of the wretched girl wandered over the landscape, the outlines of which were strongly marked beneath the lustre of the moon; and amongst other objects, she caught sight of the small lake at a little distance. It shone like a pool of quicksilver, and seemed to woo her to its bosom.
Upon that lake her eyes rested long and wistfully; and again the tempter stood behind her, and urged her to seek repose beneath that shining surface.
She asked herself for what she had to live? She did not seek to combat the arguments of the secret tempter; but she collected into one focus all her sorrows; and at length the contemplation of that mass of misery strengthened the deep anxiety which she felt to escape from this world for ever.
And all the while she kept her eyes fixed upon the lake that seemed sleeping beneath the moonlight which kissed its bosom.
But her poor father! and the babe that she bore in her breast! Oh! no—she dared not die! Her suicide would not comprise one death only;—but it would be the death of a second, and the death of a third,—the death of her father, and the death of her still unborn child!
She turned away from the window, and hastened to seek her couch. But slumber did not visit her eyes. She lay pondering on the best course for her to pursue; but the more she reflected upon her condition, the farther off did she seem to wander from any settled point. At length she sank into an uneasy sleep; and her grief pursued her in her dreams.
She rose late; and when she descended to the breakfast-room she learnt that Richard Markham was about to depart immediately for the Continent. Whittingham was busily occupied in packing his master's baggage in the hall; and Holford had been despatched into town to order a post-chaise.
Markham explained this sudden movement on his part by placing a letter in Ellen's hand, saying at the same time, "This is from a man who has been a friend to me: I cannot hesitate a moment to obey his summons."
Ellen cast her eyes over the letter and read as follows:—
"Boulogne-sur-Mer, France,
"July 24, 1839.
"My dear young Friend,
"If you can possibly dispose of your time for a few days, come to me at once. A severe accident—which may prove fatal—renders it prudent that I should attend to my worldly affairs; and to this end I require the assistance of a friend. Such I know you to be.
"THOMAS ARMSTRONG."
"The accident which my friend has met with must have been a serious one," said Markham, "or his letter would be more explicit. I feel deeply anxious to know the whole truth; for it was he who gave me courage to face the world, and taught me how to raise my head again, after my release from imprisonment;—he also introduced me to one——"
Markham ceased: and for some moments his thought were bent wholly on Isabella.
At length the post-chaise arrived, and Richard departed on his journey, after bidding adieu to Mr. Monroe and Ellen, and having received a special request from the faithful Whittingham "to mind and not be conglomerated by any such fellers as Kidderminster and them wulgar chaps which called butlers tulips."
CHAPTER LXXVIII.
MARIAN.
IN the evening Ellen retired early to her apartment, for she felt very unwell; and certain sensations which she had experienced during the day had alarmed her.
A short time after she had withdrawn to the seclusion of her own chamber, the faithful and kind-hearted Marian made her appearance.
"This is very good of you, Marian," said Ellen. "I never felt the want of some one to talk to and console me, so much as I do to-night."
"You look very pale and ill, Miss," observed the servant: "had you not better retire to rest?"
"Yes," said Ellen. "I wish to struggle against a sense of weariness and oppression which comes over me; and I cannot."
"Heavens, Miss!—if any thing was to happen to you to-night—"
"It cannot be that, Marian; but I feel very, very ill."
Marian aided Miss Monroe to divest herself of her garments; and the young lady retired to her couch.
"How do you feel now, Miss?"
"Alas! I am not better, good Marian. I feel—I feel—"
"My God, Miss! you are about to become a mother this very night. Oh! what is to be done? what is to be done?"
"Save me, save me, Marian—do not suffer me to be exposed!" cried Ellen wildly.
"Why did I not speak to you before last night? We might have made some arrangement—invented some plan: but now—now, it is impossible!"
"Do not say it is impossible, Marian—do not take away every remaining hope—for I am wretched, very wretched."
"Poor young lady!" said Marian, advancing towards the bed, and taking Ellen's hand.
"It is not for myself that I care so much," continued the unhappy girl; "it is for my poor father. It would break his heart—oh! it would, break his heart!"
"And he is a good, kind old gentleman," observed Marian.
"And he has tasted already so deeply of the bitter cup of adversity," said Ellen, "that a blow like this would send him to his grave. I know him so well—he would never survive my dishonour. He has loved me so tenderly—he has taken such pride in me, it would kill him! Do you hear, Marian?—it would kill him. Ah! you weep—you weep for me, kind Marian!"
"Yes, Miss: I would do any thing I could to serve you. But now—it is too late—"
"Say not that it is too late!" ejaculated Ellen, distractedly: "say not that all chance of avoiding exposure has fled! take compassion on me, Marian; take compassion on my poor old father! Ah! these pains—"
"Tell me how I can serve you, Miss—"
"Alas! I cannot concentrate my ideas, Marian; I am bewildered—I am reduced to despair! Oh! if men only knew what bitter, bitter anguish they entail upon poor woman, when they sacrifice her to their desires—"
"Do not make yourself miserable, dear young lady," interrupted Marian, whose eyes were dimmed with tears. "Something must be done! How do you feel now?"
"I cannot explain my sensations. My mental pangs are so great that they almost absorb my bodily sufferings; and yet, it seems as if the latter were increasing every moment."
"There can be no doubt of it, Miss," said Marian. "Do you know that when I heard this morning of Mr. Markham's intended departure for France, it struck me at the moment that Providence interfered in your behalf. I do not know why such an idea should have come across me; for I could not foresee that you would be so soon overtaken with—"
"I feel that I am getting worse, Marian; can nothing be done? must my poor father know all? Oh! think of his grey hairs—his wrinkles! Think how he loves me—his only child! Alas! can nothing be done to save me from disgrace? How shall I ever be able to meet Mr. Markham again? Ah! Marian, you would not desert me in such a moment as this?"
"No, dear young lady—not for worlds!"
"Thank you, Marian! And yet forgive me if I say again, do not desert me—do not expose me! Oh! let me die rather than have my shame made known. Think, Marian—do you not know of any means of screening me?"
"I am bewildered," exclaimed the poor woman. "How do you feel now?"
"My fears augment, that—"
"Ah! it is premature, you see, Miss! What is to be done? what shall we do?"
"Marian, I beseech you—I implore you not to expose me!" said Ellen in a tone of such intense agony, that the good-hearted woman was touched to the very soul.
A sudden idea seemed to strike her.
"I know a young surgeon in the village—who is just married, and has only set up in business a few weeks—he is very poor—and he does not know where I am now in service."
"Do any thing you choose, Marian—follow the dictates of your own mind—but do not expose me! Oh! my God! what misery—what misery is this!"
"Yes," continued Marian, musing, "there is no other resource. But, Miss," she added, turning towards the suffering girl, "if I can save you from exposure, you must part with your child, should it be born alive!"
"I am in your hands: save me from exposure—for my poor old father's sake! That is all I ask."
"This, then," said Marian, "is the only alternative; there is nothing else to be done! And perhaps even he will not consent—"
"To whom do you allude?" demanded Ellen impatiently.
"To the young surgeon of whom I spoke. But I must try: at all events his assistance must be had. Miss, my plan is too long to tell you now: do you think it is safe to leave you alone for three quarters of an hour?"
"Oh! yes—if it be for my benefit, kind—good Marian," said Ellen. "But I must not be exposed—even to the surgeon!"
"The room must then be quite dark," observed Marian. "Do you mind that?"
Ellen shook her head.
"Then, take courage, Miss—and I think I can promise—but we shall see."
The servant then hastily extinguished the lights and left the room.
She hurried up to her own chamber, took from her box a purse containing forty sovereigns—all her little savings, put on her bonnet and shawl, concealed her face with a thick black veil, and then stole carefully down stairs.
All was quiet; and she left the house by the back door.
* * * * *
* * * * *
* * * * *
In three quarters of an hour two persons advanced together up the garden at the back of the house.
One was a woman; and she led a man, whose eyes were blindfolded with a black handkerchief.
"Your hand trembles," said Marian—for she was the female alluded to.
"No," answered the surgeon. "But one word—ere I proceed farther."
"Speak—do not delay."
"You gave me forty pounds for this night's work. What guarantee do you offer me that the child—should it survive—will not be left on my hands, altogether unprovided for?"
"Trust to paternal affection, sir," answered Marian. "I can promise you that the child will not even remain long with you."
"Well, I will venture it," said the surgeon. "Your money will save me from being compelled to shut up my establishment after an unsuccessful struggle of only a few weeks; and I ought not to ask too many questions."
"And you remember your solemn promise, sir, not to attempt to obtain any clue to the place to which I am conducting you."
"On my honour as a man—on my solemn word as a gentleman."
"Enough, sir. Let us proceed."
Marian let the surgeon onward, and admitted him into the house by the back door.
All was still quiet.
We have said on a previous occasion that the mansion was a spacious one. Ellen's apartment was far removed from that in which her father slept; and the rooms occupied by Whittingham and Holford were on the uppermost storey. There consequently existed little chance of disturbing any one.
Marian led the surgeon very cautiously up the staircase to Ellen's chamber, which they entered as noiselessly as possible.
Upon advancing into the room, which was quite dark, the surgeon struck against a chest of drawers, and uttered a slight ejaculation of pain; but not loud enough to reach the ears of those from whom it was necessary to conceal this nocturnal proceeding.
Ellen was in the pangs of maternity when Marian and the surgeon came to her assistance; and in a few moments after their arrival, she was the mother of a boy.
Oh! who can express her feelings when the gentle cry of the child fell upon her ears—that child from whom she was to part in a few minutes, perhaps for ever?
* * * * *
* * * * *
Half an hour afterwards Marian and the surgeon were again threading the garden;—but this time their steps led them away from the house.
Beneath her thick shawl, carefully wrapped up, the servant carried Ellen's child.
She conducted the surgeon to within a short distance of his own abode, placed the child in his arms, and hurried rapidly away.
She returned to the Place, and ascended to Ellen's chamber without disturbing the other inmates.
"Ah! Marian," said Ellen, "how can I ever sufficiently thank you for your kindness of this night?"
"Silence, my dear young lady. Do not mention it! You must keep yourself very tranquil and quiet; and in the morning I must say that you are too unwell to rise."
"And that surgeon—"
"I know what you would ask, Miss," interrupted Marian. "All is safe and secret—the bandage was never raised from the surgeon's eyes from the moment he left his own house until he was far away from here again; nor did he once catch a glimpse of my face, for when I first went to explain the business to him and engage his assistance, he came down from his bed-chamber and spoke to me in the passage where it was quite dark. Moreover, I had taken my thick black veil with me by way of precaution. Therefore, he can never know me again."
"But the means of securing his assistance? how did you contrive that, Marian?"
"Well, Miss, if you must know," said the servant, after some hesitation, "I had saved up forty pounds—"
"And you gave him all!" exclaimed Ellen. "Oh! this was truly noble! However—I shall know how to repay you fourfold."
"We will speak of that another time, Miss," answered Marian. "You must now endeavour to obtain some sleep;—and I shall sit with you all night."
"Tell me one thing, Marian," said Ellen, with tears in her eyes;—"the child—"
"Will be well taken care of, Miss. Do not alarm yourself about that. And now you must try and obtain some repose."
In a few moments the young mother was overtaken by a profound sleep—the first she had enjoyed for many, many weeks. But even this slumber was not attended by dreams of unmixed pleasure: the thoughts of her child—her new-born child, entrusted to the care of strangers, and severed from the maternal bosom—followed her in her visions.
She awoke, considerably refreshed, at about seven o'clock in the morning.
The faithful Marian was still watching by her side, and had prepared her some refreshment, of which Ellen partook.
The young mother then asked for writing materials; and, in spite of the remonstrances of Marian, sate up in her bed, and wrote a letter.
When she had sealed and addressed it, she spoke in the following manner:
"Marian, I have now one favour to ask you. You have already given me such proofs of friendship and fidelity, that I need not implore you to observe the strictest secrecy with respect to the request that I am about to make. At the same time, I shall feel more happy if you will promise me, that under any circumstances—whether my shame remain concealed, or not—you will never disclose, without my consent, the name of the person to whom this letter is addressed, and to whom you must carry it as speedily as possible."
"You know, Miss, that I will do any thing I can to make you happy. Your secret is safe in my keeping."
"Thank you, Marian! My father would curse me—Mr. Markham would scorn me, did they know that I held communication with this man;"—and she showed the address upon the letter to Marian.
"Mr. Greenwood!" exclaimed the servant. "Ah! now I recollect—Whittingham has told me that he is the person who ruined your poor father, and robbed Mr. Markham of nearly all his property."
"And yet, Marian," said Ellen, "that man—that same Mr. Greenwood, who reduced my poor father to beggary, and plundered Mr. Markham—that very same individual is the father of my child!"
"Ah! Miss, now I understand how impossible it was for you to reveal your condition to your father, or to Mr. Markham. The blow would have been too severe upon both!"
"Yes, Marian—Mr. Greenwood is the father of my child; and more than that—he is—but no matter," said Ellen, suddenly checking herself. "You now know my secret, Marian; and you will never reveal it?"
"Never, Miss, I promise you most solemnly."
"And you will take this letter to him to-day—and you will wait for his reply."
"I will go this afternoon, Miss; and I will obey your wishes in every way."
"And now, Marian, hasten to tell my father that I am unwell; and resist any desire on his part to obtain medical assistance."
"Leave that to me, Miss. You already appear so much better that the old gentleman will easily be induced to suppose that a little rest is all you require."
"Ah! Marian—how can I ever reward you for all your goodness towards me?"
CHAPTER LXXIX.
THE BILL.—A FATHER.
NOTHING could be more business-like than the study of Mr. Greenwood. The sofa was heaped up with papers tied round with red tape, and endorsed, some "Corn-Laws," others "New Poor Law," a third batch "Rottenborough Union," a fourth "Select Committee on Bribery at Elections;" and so on.
Piles of letters lay upon one table; piles of newspapers upon another; and a number of Reports of various Committees of the House of Commons, easily recognised by their unwieldy shapes and blue covers, was heaped up on the cheffonier between the windows.
The writing-table was also arranged, with a view to effect, in the manner described upon a former occasion; and in his arm-chair lounged Mr. Greenwood, pleasantly engaged in perusing the daily newspaper which contained the oration that he had delivered in the House on the preceding evening.
It was about three o'clock in the afternoon. Mr. Greenwood had risen late, for the House had not separated until half-past two in the morning, and the member for Rottenborough was a man of too decidedly business-habits to leave his post in the middle of a debate.
Lafleur entered, and announced Sir Rupert Harborough.
"I have called about that bill again," said the baronet. "When it came due at the end of March, we renewed it for four months. It will be due again to-morrow."
"I am aware of it," said Greenwood. "What do you propose to do?"
"I am in no condition to pay it," answered the baronet.
"You must provide a portion, and renew for the remainder," said Greenwood.
"It is impossible, my dear fellow!" exclaimed Sir Rupert. "I am completely at low water-mark again, upon my honour!"
"And yet I have heard that you and Chichester have not been altogether unsuccessful in the play-world during the last few months," observed Greenwood.
"Not so prosperous as you may fancy," returned the baronet. "Come, what shall we say about this bill?"
"I have told you. The bill was originally given for fifteen hundred pounds—"
"For which I only had a thousand."
"I don't recollect now. At all events, it fell due; and fortunately I had not passed it away."
"Of course not. You promised to retain it in your portfolio."
"I don't recollect. You could not pay it; and I agreed to renew it—"
"On condition of making it sixteen hundred," said the baronet.
"I don't recollect," observed Greenwood again. "Now you come to me, and tell me that you can do nothing towards it. Things cannot go on so."
"But you knew very well, Greenwood, when you took it, that the day of payment might be rather distant."
"I don't recollect. You must bring me the six hundred, and I will renew for the thousand—without interest. There!"
"And where the devil am I to find six hundred pounds on a sudden like this?" exclaimed Sir Rupert.
"I am sure I am not aware of your private resources, my good sir," answered Greenwood, coolly. "You must be well aware that I cannot afford to remain without my money in this manner; and since it would appear you do not wish Lord Tremordyn to know that you have not paid the acceptance which he so kindly lent you—"
"Lent me!" ejaculated Sir Rupert, now really alarmed.
"Of course. He could not possibly have owed you the amount."
"Greenwood, what do you mean by this?" cried the baronet. "Upon my honour, one would almost suppose that you had forgotten the real nature of the transaction."
"Possibly I may not recall to mind some of the minor details. One thing is, however, certain: I have in my possession a bill bearing your endorsement and accepted by Lord Tremordyn, for sixteen hundred pounds; and I offer you the most easy terms I can think of for its payment."
"Greenwood, you cannot have forgotten—"
"Forgotten what?"
"Forgotten that the acceptance—"
"Well?"
"Is not Lord Tremordyn's."
"The acceptance not Lord Tremordyn's!" cried Mr. Greenwood, affecting to be quite confounded by this statement.
"Certainly not," answered the baronet. "You yourself suggested to me—"
"I suggested!" cried Greenwood, now pretending indignation. "Sir Rupert Harborough, what are you aiming at? to what point would you arrive?"
"Oh! if I were not in the power of this man!" thought the baronet, actually grinding his teeth with rage; but suppressing his feelings, he said, "My dear Greenwood, pray renew this bill for four months more, and it shall be paid at maturity."
"No, Sir Rupert Harborough," replied the capitalist, who had not failed to notice the emotions of concentrated rage which filled the mind of the baronet. "I am decided: give me six hundred pounds, and I renew for the thousand; otherwise—"
"Otherwise," repeated Sir Rupert mechanically.
"I shall pay the bill into my banker's this afternoon, and it will be presented for payment at Lord Tremordyn's agent's to-morrow morning."
"You would not wish to ruin me, Greenwood!"
"Such a course will not ruin you: Lord Tremordyn will of course honour his acceptance."
"Greenwood, you drive me mad!"
"I am really very sorry to hear it; but if every one who could not meet his bills were driven mad by being asked for payment of them, every third house in the street would become a lunatic-asylum."
"You can spare your raillery, Mr. Greenwood," said the baronet. "Do you wish to have me transported?"
"Certainly not. I want a proper settlement in this respect."
"And how can I settle the bill? Where am I to procure six hundred pounds at a moment's warning?"
"A moment's warning! you have had four clear months."
"But I fancied—I hoped you would renew the bill from time to time until I could pay it. You said as much when you lent me the money upon it."
"I don't recollect."
"You did indeed; and upon the faith of that promise, I—"
"I don't recollect."
"My God! what am I to do?" cried Sir Rupert, despairingly. "I have no means of raising half the sum you require."
"Then why did you take my money seven months ago?"
"Why did I take the money? why did I take it? Because you yourself proposed the transaction. You said, 'Bring me the acceptance of Lord Tremordyn for fifteen hundred pounds, and I will lend you a thousand upon it immediately.'"
"I don't recollect."
"And you said emphatically and distinctly that you should not call upon Lord Tremordyn to inquire if it were his acceptance."
"Of course not. Amongst gentlemen such a proceeding would be unpardonable."
"Oh! Greenwood, you affect ignorance in all this! and yet it was you who put the infernal idea into my head—"
"Sir Rupert Harborough," said the capitalist, rising from his chair; "enough of this! I put no infernal ideas into any one's head. Settle the bill in the way I propose; or it shall take its course."