Greenwood was really alarmed at the violence of the poor girl's grief.
"Ellen, what can I do for you? what would you have with me?" he said, passing his arm around her waist.
She drew hastily away from his embrace, and turning upon him her tearful eyes, exclaimed, "If you touch me under the influence of the sentiment that made you purchase my only jewel, lay not a finger on me—defile me not—let my sorrows make my person sacred! But if you entertain one spark of feeling—one single idea of honour, do me justice—resign me not to despair!"
"Do you justice, Ellen?"
"Yes—do me justice; for I was pure and spotless till want and misery threw me into your arms," continued Ellen, in an impassioned tone; "and if I sinned—if I surrendered myself up to him who offered me a price—it was only that I might obtain bread—bread for my poor father!"
"Ellen, what would you have me do?"
"What would I have you do!" she repeated, bitterly: "oh! cannot you comprehend what I would have you do to save my honour? It is in your power to restore me to happiness;—it is you who this day—this hour—must decide my doom! You ask me what I would have you do? Here, upon my knees I answer you—here, at your feet I implore you, by all your hopes of prosperity in this world and salvation in the next—by all you bold dear, solemn, and sacred—I implore you to bestow a father's honourable name upon the child which I bear in my womb!"
She had thrown herself before him—she grasped his hands—she bedewed them with her tears—she pressed them against her bosom that was convulsed with anguish.
"Rise, Ellen—rise," exclaimed Greenwood: "some one may come—some one may—"
"Never will I rise from this position until your tongue pronounces my fate!"
"You do not—you cannot mean——"
"That you should marry me!" exclaimed Ellen. "Yes—that is the prayer which I now offer to you! Oh! if you will but restore me to the path of honour, I will be your slave. If my presence be an annoyance to you, I will never see you more from the moment when we quit the altar: but if you will admit me to your confidence—if you will make me the partner of your hopes and fears, your joys and sorrows, I will smile when you smile—I will console you when you weep. I will serve you—upon my knees will I serve you;—I will never weary of doing your bidding. But—O God! do not, do not refuse me the only prayer which I have now to offer to mortal man!"
"Ellen, this is impossible! My position—my interest—my plans render marriage—at present—a venture in which I cannot embark."
"You reject my supplication—you throw me back into disgrace and despair," cried Ellen: "Oh! reflect well upon what you are doing!"
"Listen to me," said Mr. Greenwood. "Ask me any thing that money can purchase, and you shall have it. Say the word, and you shall have a house—a home—furnished in all imaginable splendour; and measures shall be taken to conceal your situation from the world."
"No—this is not what I ask," returned Ellen. "The wealth of the universe cannot recompense me if I am to pass as Mr. Greenwood's pensioned mistress!"
"Then what, in the name of heaven, do you now require of me?" demanded the Member of Parliament impatiently.
"That you should do me justice," was the reply, while Ellen still remained upon her knees.
"Do you justice!" repeated Greenwood: "and how have I wronged you? If I deliberately set to work to seduce you—if, by art and treachery, I wiled you away from the paths of duty—if, by false promises, I allured you from a prosperous and happy sphere—then might you talk to me of justice. But no: I knew not whom I was about to meet when the old hag came to me that day, and said——"
"Enough! enough! I understand you," cried Ellen, rising from her suppliant position, and clasping her hands despairingly together. "You consider that you purchased me as you would have bought any poor girl who, through motives of vanity, gain, or lust, would have sold her person to the highest bidder! Oh—now I understand you! But, one word, Mr. Greenwood! If there were no such voluptuaries—such heartless libertines as you in this world, would there be so many poor unhappy creatures like me? In an access of despair—of folly—and of madness, I rushed upon a path which men like you alone open to women placed as I then was! Perhaps you consider that I am not worthy to become your wife? Fool that I was to seek redress—to hope for consolation at your hands! Your conduct to others—to my father—to—"
"Ellen! I command you to be silent! Remember our solemn compact on that day when we met in so strange and mysterious a manner;—remember that we pledged ourselves to mutual silence—silence with respect to all we know of each other! Do you wish to break that compact?"
"No—no," ejaculated Ellen, convulsively clasping her hands together: "I would not have you publish my disgrace! Happily I have yet friends who will—but no matter. Sir, I now leave you: I have your answer. You refuse to give a father's name to the child which I bear? You may live to repent your decision. For the present, farewell."
And having condensed all her agonising feelings into a moment of unnatural coolness—the awful calmness of despair—Ellen slowly left the room.
But Mr. Greenwood did not breathe freely until he heard the front door close behind her.
CHAPTER LXXI.
THE HOUSE OF COMMONS.
THE building in which the representatives of the nation assemble at Westminster, is about as insignificant, ill-contrived, and inconvenient a place as can be well conceived. It is true that the edifices appropriated to both Lords and Commons are both only temporary ones; nevertheless, it would have been easy to construct halls of assembly more suitable for their purposes than those that now exist.
The House of Commons is an oblong, with rows of plain wooden benches on each side, leaving a space in the middle which is occupied by the table, whereon petitions are laid. At one end of this table is the mace: at the other, sit the clerks who record all proceedings that require to be noted. Close behind the clerks, and at one extremity of the apartment, is the Speaker's chair: galleries surround this hall of assembly;—the one for the reporters is immediately over the Speaker's chair; that for strangers occupies the other extremity of the oblong; and the two side ones are for the use of the members. The ministers and their supporters occupy the benches on the right of the speaker: the opposition members are seated on those to the left of that functionary. There are also cross-benches under the strangers' gallery, where those members who fluctuate between ministerial and opposition opinions, occasionally supporting the one side or the other according to their pleasure or convictions, take their places.
At each extremity of the house there is a lobby—one behind the cross-benches, the other behind the Speaker's chair, between which and the door of this latter lobby there is a high screen surmounted by the arms of the united kingdom. When the House divides upon any question, those who vote for the motion or bill pass into one lobby, and those who vote against the point to question proceed to the other. Each party appoints its tellers, who station themselves at the respective doors of the two lobbies and count the members on either side as they return into the house.
The house is illuminated with bude-lights, and is ventilated by means of innumerable holes perforated through the floor, which is covered with thick hair matting.
According to the above-mentioned arrangements of benches, it is evident that the orator, in whatever part he may sit, almost invariably has a considerable number of members behind him, or, at all events, sitting in places extremely inconvenient for hearing. Then, the apartment itself is so miserably confined, that when there is a full attendance of members, a least a fourth cannot obtain seats.
It will scarcely be believed by those previously unaware of the