"Good old man!" exclaimed Whittingham, applying his snow-white handkerchief to his eyes.
"According to the French laws," continued Richard, "interments must take place within forty-eight hours after death. The funeral of Thomas Armstrong was humble and unostentatious as he desired. The physician and myself alone followed him to the tomb. I then inspected his papers; but found no will—no instructions how his property was to be disposed of; and yet I knew that he was possessed of ample means. Having liquidated his debts with a portion of the money I found in his desk, and which amounted to about a hundred pounds, I gave the remainder to an English charity at Boulogne. And now you are no doubt anxious to know the contents of that packet so mysteriously delivered to me. When I broke the seal of the envelope, I found a letter addressed thus:—'To my dear friend Richard Markham.' This letter was sealed. I then examined the envelope. You shall yourselves see what was written within it."
Markham took a paper from his pocket, and handed it to Monroe, who read its contents aloud as follows:—
"Richard, remember your solemn promise to a dying man; for when I write this, I know you will not refuse to give me that sacred pledge which I shall ask of you.
"When you are destitute of all resources—when adversity or a too generous heart shall have deprived you of all means of subsistence—and when your own exertions fail to supply your wants, open the enclosed letter.
"But should no circumstances of any kind deprive you of the little property which you now possess—and should you not be plunged into a state of need from which your own talents or exertions cannot relieve you—then shall you open this letter upon the morning of the 10th, of July, 1843, on which day you have told me that you are to meet your brother.
"These directions I charge you to observe faithfully and solemnly.
"THOMAS ARMSTRONG."
"How very extraordinary!" ejaculated Monroe. "Nevertheless, I have a presentiment that these mysterious instructions intend some eventual good to you, Richard."
"It's a fortin! a fortin! depend upon it," said the old butler.
"Upon that head it is useless to speculate," observed Richard. "I shall obey to the very letter the directions of my late friend, be their tendency what it may. And now that I have told you all that concerns myself, allow me to ask how fares it with you here. Does Ellen's health improve?"
"For the last ten days she has been confined to her bed," answered Monroe, tears starting to his eyes.
"Confined to her bed!" cried Markham. "I hope you have had proper medical advice?"
"I wished to call in the aid of a physician," said Monroe, "but Ellen would not permit me. She declared that she should soon be better; she assured me that her illness was produced only by the privations and mental tortures which she had undergone, poor creature! previous to our taking up our abode in your hospitable dwelling; and then Marian was so kind and attentive, and echoed every thing which Ellen advanced, so readily, that I suffered myself to be over-persuaded."
"You did wrong—you did wrong, Mr. Monroe," exclaimed Markham. "Your daughter should have had medical advice; and she shall have it to-morrow."
"She appears to be mending in health, though not in spirits," observed Monroe. "But my dear young friend, you shall have your own way; and I thank you sincerely for the interest you show in behalf of one who is dear—very dear to me."
Richard pressed the hand of the old man, and retired to his chamber, to seek that repose of which he stood so much in need after his journey. But ere he sought his couch, he sate down and wrote the following note to Count Alteroni, that it might be despatched to Richmond without delay in the morning:—
"Mr. Markham regrets to be the means of communicating news of an afflicting nature to Count Alteroni; nor should he intrude himself again upon Count Alteroni's notice, did he not feel himself urged by a solemn duty to do so in the present instance. Count Alteroni's old and esteemed friend, Thomas Armstrong, is no more. He departed this life four days ago, at Boulogne-sur-Mer. Mr. Markham had the melancholy honour of closing the eyes of a good man and true patriot, and of following his remains to the tomb."
CHAPTER LXXXII.
THE MEDICAL MAN.
IN the morning, when Ellen awoke at about eight o'clock, the first news she heard from Marian's lips was the return of Richard Markham.
The first sentiment which this announcement excited in the mind of the young lady, was one of extreme joy and thankfulness that her accouchement should have occurred so prematurely, and thus have happened during his absence; but this feeling was succeeded by one of vague alarm and undefined dread, lest by some means or other her secret should transpire.
This fear she expressed to Marian.
"No, Miss—that is impossible," said the faithful attendant. "The child is provided for; and the surgeon is totally ignorant of the house to which he was brought the night the poor infant was born. How could Mr. Markham discover your secret?"
"It is perhaps my conscience, Marian, that alarms me," returned Ellen; "but I confess that I tremble. Do you think that Mr. Wentworth is to be relied upon, even if he should suspect or should ever discover—"
"Mr. Greenwood has purchased his silence, Miss. Do not be down-hearted. I declare you are quite white in the face—and you seem to tremble so, the bed shakes. Pray—dear Miss—don't give way to these idle alarms!"
"I shall be more composed presently, Marian."
"And I will just step down stairs and get up your breakfast."
When Ellen was alone, she buried her face in the pillow and wept bitterly; and from time to time her voice, almost choked with sobs, gave utterance to the words—"My child! my child!"
Oh! how happy would she have been, could she have proclaimed herself a mother without shame, and have spoken of her child to her father and her friend without a blush.
In a few minutes Marian returned to the room; and Ellen hastened to assume an air of composure. She wiped away her tears, and sate up in the bed, supported by pillows—for she was yet very weak and sickly—to partake of some refreshment.
"Mr. Markham is up and has already gone out," said Marian, as she attended upon her lovely young patient. "He left word with Whittingham to tell me that he should come up, and see you on his return in half an hour."
"I would that this first interview were over, Marian," exclaimed Ellen.
"So you said, Miss, in the morning after your accouchement, when your father was coming up to see you; and yet all passed off well enough."
"Yes—but I felt that I blushed, and then grew deadly pale again, at least ten times in a minute," observed Ellen.
Marian said all she could to re-assure the young mother; and when the invalid had partaken