"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