"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