But before they separated, the two young people agreed with each other that the strictest silence should be preserved at the Place, not only with respect to the events of that evening, but also in regard to the nature of the avocations in which they had both lately been engaged.
Markham succeeded in escaping unobserved from the theatre;—and, humiliated, cast down, heart-broken,—bending beneath an insupportable burden of ignominy and shame,—with the fainting form of Isabella before his eyes, and the piercing shriek of Mary-Anne, whom he had also recognised, in his ears,—he pursued his precipitate retreat homewards.
But what a dread revelation had been made to him that evening! His mortal enemy—his inveterate foe had escaped from the death which, it was hitherto supposed, the miscreant had met in the den of infamy near Bird-Cage Walk some months previously:—his ominous voice still thundered in Markham’s ears;—and our unhappy hero once more saw all his prospects ruined by the unmitigated hatred of the Resurrection Man.
CHAPTER XCII.
THE ITALIAN VALET.
ELLEN retired to her private dressing-room, and hastily threw aside her theatrical garb.
She assumed her usual attire, and then stole away from the establishment, without waiting to say farewell either to the manager or any of her acquaintances belonging to the company.
As she left the private door of the theatre, she saw several persons loitering about—probably in hopes of catching a glimpse of the author who had been so signally disgraced that evening, and whose previous departure from the house was unperceived.
She drew her veil closely over her countenance; but not before one fellow, more impudent than the rest, and whose cadaverous countenance, shaggy eye-brows, and sinister expression, struck a momentary terror into her soul, had peered beneath her bonnet.
Fortunately, as Ellen considered it, a cab was close by; and the driver was standing on the pavement with his hand grasping the door-latch, as if he were expecting some one.
“Cab, ma’am?” said he, as Ellen approached.
Ellen answered in the affirmative, mentioned her address, and stepped into the vehicle.
The driver banged the door, and mounted his box.
The man with the cadaverous countenance watched Ellen into the vehicle, and exchanged a sign of intelligence with the driver.
The cab then drove rapidly away.
Another cab was standing at a little distance; and into this the man with the cadaverous countenance stepped. There was already an individual in it, who, when the former opened the door, said, “All right?”
“All right,” was the reply.
This second cab, containing these two individuals, then followed rapidly in the traces of the first.
Meantime Ellen had thrown herself back in the vehicle, and had given way to her reflections.
The events of that memorable evening occupied her attention. A coincidence, of a nature fitted only for the pages of a romance, had revealed to Markham and herself the history of each other’s pursuits. While she had been following the occupation of a figurante, he was devoting his time to dramatic composition. He had retained his employment a secret: she had dissembled hers. He had accidentally applied for the patronage of the same manager who had taken her by the hand. He had assumed a false name: so had she. Chance led her to take a part in his drama;—her talent had materially contributed to its success. A triumph was achieved by each;—and then came the overwhelming, crushing denunciation which turned his joy to mourning—his honour to disgrace—his glory to shame. She felt as if she were identified with his fate in this one respect:—he was her benefactor; she esteemed him: and she seemed to partake in his most painful emotions as she pondered upon the incidents of that evening.
And then she retrospected over the recent events which had chequered her own life. The cast of her countenance embellished statues;—her likeness lent its attraction to pictures;—her bust was preserved in marble;—her entire form feasted the eyes of many a libertine in the private room of the photographic department of a gallery of science;—her virtue had become the prey of one who gave her a few pieces of paltry gold in exchange for the inestimable jewel of her purity;—her dreams had been sold to a mesmerist;—her dancing had captivated thousands;—her tragic talent had crowned the success of a drama. What remained for her now to sell? what talent did she possess which could now be turned to advantage? Alas! she knew not!
Her meditations were painful; and some time elapsed ere she awoke from her reverie.
At length she glanced towards the window: the night was beautifully clear, though piercing cold—for it was now the month of December; and the year 1839 was drawing to a close.
The vehicle was proceeding along a road skirted only by a few leafless trees, and wearing an aspect strange and new to her.
The country beyond, on either side, seemed to present to her view different outlines from those which frequent passage along the road leading to Markham Place had rendered familiar to her eyes. Again she gazed wistfully forth:—she lowered the window, and surveyed the adjacent scenery with redoubled interest.
And now she felt really alarmed; for she was convinced that the driver had mistaken the road.
She called to him, and expressed her fears.
“No—no, ma’am,” he exclaimed, without relaxing the speed at which the vehicle was proceeding; “there’s more ways than one of reaching the place where you live. Don’t be afraid, ma’am—it’s all right.”
Ellen’s fears were hushed for a short time; but as she leant partially out of the window to survey the country through which she was passing, the sounds of another vehicle behind her own fell upon her ears.
At any other time this circumstance would not have produced a second thought; but on this occasion Ellen felt a presentiment of evil. Whether the mournful catastrophe of the evening, or her recent sad reflections,—or both united, had produced this morbid feeling, we cannot say. Sufficient is it for us to know that such was the state of her mind; and then she remembered the warning contained in the letter so mysteriously sent to her a short time previously at the theatre.
Again she addressed the cabman; but this time he made no answer; and in a few minutes he drove up to the door of a small house which stood alone by the side of that dreary road.
Scarcely had he alighted from his box, when the second cab came up and stopped also.
“Where am I?” demanded Ellen, now seriously alarmed.
An individual, who had alighted from the second cab, hastened to open the door of the first, and assist Ellen to alight.
“You must get down here, Miss,” he said, in a dialect and tone which denoted him to be a foreigner.
Ellen saw at a glance that he was a tall elderly man, with a dark olive complexion, piercing black eyes, but by no means an unpleasant expression of countenance. He was dressed in black, and wore a large cloak hanging loosely over his shoulders.
“Get down here!” repeated Ellen. “And why? where am I? who are you? Speak.”
“No harm will happen to you, Miss,” replied the tall stranger. “A gentleman is waiting in this house to see you.”
“A gentleman!” cried Ellen. “Ah! can it be Mr. Greenwood?”
“It is, Miss: you need fear nothing.”
Ellen was naturally of a courageous disposition; and the circumstances of her life had tended to strengthen her mind. It instantly struck her that she was in the power of her persecutor’s myrmidons, and that resistance against them was calculated to produce effects much less beneficial for her than those which remonstrance and firmness might lead to with their employer.
She accordingly accompanied the tall stranger into the house.
But what was the astonishment of the poor creature when she encountered in the hall the very old hag whom she had known in the court in Golden-la
ne, and who had originally introduced her to the embraces of Mr. Greenwood!
The horrible wrinkled wretch grinned significantly, as she conducted Ellen into a parlour very neatly furnished, and where a cheerful fire was burning in the grate.
Meantime the tall stranger issued forth again, and ordered the driver of the cab in which Ellen had arrived to await further instructions. He then accosted the cadaverous looking man who had accompanied him in the second cab, and who was now loitering about in front of the house.
“Tidkins,” said he, “we do not require your services any further. The young lady made no resistance, and consequently there has been no need for the exercise of your strong arm. Here is your reward. You can return to London in the same cab that brought you hither.”
“Thank you, my friend,” exclaimed the Resurrection Man. “Your master knows my address, the next time he requires my services. Good night.”
“Good night,” said the tall man: and when he had seen the second cab depart, he re-entered the house.
In the hall he met Mr. Greenwood.
“Well, Filippo—all right, eh?” said this gentleman, in a whisper.
“All right, sir. We managed it without violence; and the lady is in your power.”
“Ah! I thought you would do the business genteelly for me. Lafleur is a faithful fellow, and would do any thing to serve me; but he is clumsy and awkward in an intrigue of this kind. No one can manage these little matters so well as a foreigner. A Frenchman is clever—but an Italian incomparable.”
“Thank you, sir, for the compliment,” said Filippo, with a low bow.
“Oh! it is no compliment,” returned Greenwood. “Three or four little things that I have entrusted to you since you have been in my service, were all admirably managed so far as you were concerned; and though they every one failed afterwards, yet it was no fault of yours. I am well aware of that.”
The Italian bowed.
“And now I must present myself to this haughty beauty,” said Greenwood.
“Am I to dismiss the vehicle which brought her hither, sir?” demanded Filippo.
“Yes: you will stay here to-night.”
The Italian valet bowed once more, and returned to the driver of the vehicle that brought Ellen thither.
“My good fellow,” said Filippo, in a hurried tone, “here is your money for the service rendered up to this moment. Are you now disposed to earn five guineas in addition?”
“Certainly, sir,” replied the man.
“Then drive to the bend in the road yonder,” continued Filippo. “There you will find a large barn, belonging to my master’s property here. You can house your horse and cab comfortably there. But do not unharness the animal. There is a pond close by; and you will find a bucket in the barn. There is also hay for your horse. Wait there patiently till I come to you.”
The cabman signified acquiescence; and Filippo returned to the house.
Meantime the old hag, as before stated, had conducted Ellen to a parlour, where the young lady threw herself upon a sofa, her mind and body being alike fatigued with the events and anxieties of the evening.
“We meet again, Miss,” said the old woman, lingering near the table, on which refreshments of several luxurious kinds were placed. “You came no more to visit me in the court; and yet I watched from a distance the brilliancy of your career. Ah! what fine things—what fine things I have introduced you to, since first I knew you.”
“If you wish to serve me,” said Ellen, “help me away from this place, and I will recompense you largely.”
“For every guinea that you would give me to let you go, I shall receive two for keeping you in safe custody,” returned the hag.
“Name the price that you are to have from your employer,” cried Ellen; “and I will double it.”
“That you cannot do, Miss. Besides, have I not your interests to consider? Do I not know what is good for you? I tell you that you may become a great lady—ride in a magnificent carriage—have fine clothes and sparkling jewels—and never know again what toil is. I should not be so squeamish if I were you.”
“Silence, wretch!” cried Ellen, exasperated more at the cool language of calculation in which the old woman spoke, than with the prospects she held out and the arguments she used.
“Ah! Miss,” resumed the hag, nothing discomfited, “I am not annoyed with you, for the harsh way in which you speak to me. I have seen too much of your stubborn beauties in my life to be abashed with a word. Lack-a-day! they all yield in time—they all yield in time!”
And the old hag shook her head seriously, as if she had arrived at some great moral conclusion.
Ellen paid no attention to her.
“Ah! Miss,” continued the hag, “I was once young like you—and as beautiful too, wrinkled and tanned as I now appear. But I was not such a fool to my own interests as you. I lived luxuriously for many, many years—God knows how many—I can’t count them now—I don’t like to think of those happy times. I ought to have saved money—much money; but I frittered it all away as quick as I got it. Now, do you take my advice: accept Mr. Greenwood’s offers;—he is a handsome man, and pays like a prince.”
The argument of the old hag was cut short by the entrance of the individual of whom she was just speaking.
She left the room; and Ellen was now alone with Greenwood.
“Sir, are you the author of this cowardly outrage which has been perpetrated upon me?” demanded Ellen, rising from the sofa, and speaking in a firm but cold tone.
“Call it not an outrage, dearest Ellen——”
“It is nothing else, sir; and if you have one spark of honour left—one feeling of respect for the mother of your child,” added Miss Monroe, sinking her voice, “you will allow me to depart without delay. On that condition I will forget all that has transpired this evening.”
“My dear girl, you cannot think that I have taken all this trouble to be thwarted by a trifling obstacle at the end, or that I have merely had you brought hither to have the pleasure of letting you depart again after one minute’s conversation. No, Ellen: listen to me! I have conceived a deep—profound—a fervent affection for you——”
“Cease this libertine’s jargon, Mr. Greenwood,” interrupted Ellen. “You must know that your sophistry cannot deceive me as it has done so many—many others.”
“Then in plain terms, Ellen, you shall be mine—wholly and solely mine—and I will remain faithful to you until death.”
“I will become your wife, for the sake of my child: on no other terms will I consort with you. As surely as you attempt to force me to compliance with your will, so certainly will I unmask you sooner or later. I will expose you—I will tell the world who you are—I will proclaim how you obtained your fortune by the plunder of your own—”
“Silence, Ellen!” thundered Greenwood, his face becoming purple with indignation. “Remember that the least word calculated to betray my secret, would lead to a revelation of yours; and the result would be the execrations of your father showered down upon your devoted head.”
“I care not for that catastrophe—I care not for mine own past dishonour—I care not for the existence of that child of whom you are the father,” exclaimed Ellen in a rapid and impassioned tone. “I will not be immolated to your desires—I will not succumb to your wishes, without revenge! Oh! full well do I comprehend you—full well do I know how you calculated when you resolved to perpetrate this outrage. You thought that I must suffer every thing at your hands, and not dare proclaim my wrongs:—you fancied that my lips are sealed against all and every thing connected with you! Mark me, you have reckoned erroneously upon the extent of my dread of my father and my benefactor! There is one thing that will make me fall at their feet and reveal all—and that is the consummation on your part of this vile outrage upon me!”
“Be it so, Ellen,” said Greenwood. “I am as determined as you. I will use no force against you; but I will keep you a prisoner here; and believe me—for I know the world well—your stern resolves will soon melt in the presence of solitude and monotony. You will then solicit me to come to you—if it be only to bear you company! Escape is impossible—my spies are around the house. Day and night will you be watched as if you were a criminal. And when you consent to become mine, in all save the vain ties which priestcraft has invented, and the shackles of which shall never curb my proud spirit,—then will I surround you with every luxury, gratify your slightest wishes, study your pleasures unceasingly, and do all to make you cling to me more fervently than if I were your husband according to monkish ceremony. This is my resolve. In the mean time, if you choose to console your father for your absence, write a note telling him that you are happy, but that circumstances at present compel you to withhold from him the place of your residence; and that letter shall be delivered to-morrow morning at Markham Place. I now leave you. This is your sitting-room; your sleeping apartment is above. The servant—the old woman whom you know so well,” added Greenwood, in a tone slightly ironical, “will attend upon you. The house contains every luxury that may gratify the appetite; all your wishes shall be complied with. But, again I say, think not of escape; that is impossible. And if you feel inclined to write the note of which I have spoken, do so, and give it to your attendant. It is now late—the clock has struck one: I leave you to yourself.”
Ellen made no reply; and Greenwood left the room.
The moment she was alone, Ellen rose and hastened to the window. She drew aside the curtain, and was somewhat surprised to perceive that the casements were not barred; for she had expected to find every precaution against escape adopted after the confident manner in which Greenwood had spoken upon that head. But her heart sank within her; for she remembered his assurance that the house was surrounded by spies. She therefore made up her mind, after some reflection, to remain quiet until the next day, and then regulate her endeavours to escape by the aspect of the house and its locality when seen by day-light.
The Mysteries of London Volume 1 Page 94
