The Mysteries of London Volume 1

by Reynolds, George W. M.

  “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 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 eye 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 thoughts 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 to 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 sh
e had withdrawn to the security 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, 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 led 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 El
len’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—”