At length she retired to her chamber to meditate in secret upon the incident of the morning.
"What can I do," she mused aloud, "to convince Richard Markham that he is nursing a delusion? I tremble lest some enemy should meditate treachery against him. Perhaps even his life may be threatened? Oh! the plots—the perfidies—the villanies which are engendered in this London! But how warn him? how prove to him that he is deceived? Alas! that is impossible; unless, indeed—"
But she shook her head impatiently, as if to renounce as impracticable the idea which had for a moment occupied her mind.
"No," she continued, "that were madness indeed! And yet what can be done? He must not be allowed to rush headlong and blindly into danger—for that danger awaits him, I feel convinced. Perhaps that terrible man, from whose power he once escaped, and who denounced him at the theatre, may be the instigator of all this? And, if such be the fact, then who knows where the atrocity of that miscreant may stop? Murder—cold-blooded, ruthless murder may be the result of this mysterious appointment. And the murder of whom?" said Ellen, a shudder passing, like a cold chill, over her entire frame: "the murder of my benefactor—of the noble-minded, the generous hearted young man who gave us an asylum when all the world forsook us! Oh! no—no—it must not be! I dare not tell him all I know; but I can do somewhat to protect him!"
She smiled, in spite of the unpleasant nature of the emotions that agitated her bosom—she smiled, because a wild and romantic idea had entered her imagination.
Without further hesitation—and acting under the sudden impulse of that idea—she sate down and wrote a short note.
When she had sealed and addressed it, she rang the bell.
In a few moments Marian answered the summons.
"My faithful friend," said Ellen, "I am about to put your goodness to another test. But before I explain what I require of you, I beseech that you will not now endeavour to penetrate my motives. You shall know all the day after to-morrow."
"Speak, Miss; I am always ready to do any thing I can for you," said Marian.
"In the evening," continued Ellen, "you must find a pretence to go out for two or three hours. In the first instance you must call at Mr. Greenwood's house—"
"Mr. Greenwood's?" ejaculated Marian.
"Yes—but your business is not this time with him. On the contrary, he must not know the real motive of your visit, which is to deliver this note into the hands of his Italian valet Filippo. You have never seen Filippo—for he entered the service of Mr. Greenwood since you called there some months ago. You cannot, however, mistake him. He is a tall, dark man, with long black curling hair. Moreover, he speaks English with a strong foreign accent."
"The description is sufficient, Miss," said Marian; "I shall not be mistaken."
"This note is to be delivered into his hand—and his only," continued Ellen. "Should you meet Mr. Greenwood by accident, you may say, 'I come from Miss Monroe to inform you that your child is well and thriving.' This will be an excuse; I must leave the rest to you; but I implore you to do all you can to obtain an interview with Filippo."
"I will follow your wishes, Miss, to the utmost of my power," returned Marian.
"And when you know the motives of my present proceeding," said Ellen, "you will be satisfied with the part you have taken in it."
"I do not doubt you, Miss," observed Marian. "Have you seen the dear little baby lately?"
"I saw him yesterday," answered Ellen. "I called at Mr. Wentworth's: the excellent man's wife was nursing my little Richard. I took him in my arms and fondled him; but, alas! he cried bitterly. Of course he does not know me: he will learn to look up to a stranger as his mother! Oh! Marian, that idea pierced like a dagger to my very heart!"
"Cheer up, Miss!" exclaimed Marian, in a kind tone; "better days will come."
"But never the day, Marian," added Ellen, solemnly, "when I can proclaim myself the mother of that child, nor blush to mention its father's name!"
CHAPTER CIV.
FEMALE COURAGE.
HOLYWELL Street was once noted only as a mart for second-hand clothing, and booksellers' shops dealing in indecent prints and volumes. The reputation it thus acquired was not a very creditable one.
Time has, however, included Holywell Street in the clauses of its Reform Bill. Several highly respectable booksellers and publishers have located themselves in the place that once deserved no better denomination than "Rag Fair." The unprincipled venders of demoralizing books and pictures have, with few exceptions, migrated into Wych Street or Drury Lane; and even the two or three that pertinaciously cling to their old temples of infamy in Holywell Street, seem to be aware of the incursions of respectability into that once notorious thoroughfare, and cease to outrage decency by the display of vile obscenities in their windows.
The reputation of Holywell Street has now ceased to be a by-word: it is respectable; and, as a mart for the sale of literary wares, threatens to rival Paternoster Row.
It is curious to observe that, while butchers, tailors, linen-drapers, tallow-manufacturers, and toy-venders, are gradually dislodging the booksellers of Paternoster Row, and thus changing the once exclusive nature of this famous street into one of general features, the booksellers, on the other hand, are gradually ousting the old-clothes dealers of Holywell Street.
As the progress of the American colonist towards the far-west drives before it the aboriginal inhabitants, so do the inroads of the bibliopoles menace the Israelites of Holywell Street with total extinction.
Paternoster Row and Holywell Street are both losing their primitive features: the former is becoming a mart of miscellaneous trades; the latter is rising into a bazaar of booksellers.
Already has Holywell Street progressed far towards this consummation. On the southern side of the thoroughfare scarcely a clothes shop remains; and those on the opposite side wear a dirty and miserably dilapidated appearance. The huge masks, which denote the warehouse where masquerading and fancy-attire may be procured on sale or hire, seem to "grin horribly a ghastly smile," as if they knew that their occupation was all but gone. The red-haired ladies who stand at their doors beneath a canopy of grey trousers with black seats, and blue coats with brown elbows—a distant imitation of Joseph's garment of many colours—seem dispirited and care-worn, and no longer watch, with the delighted eyes of maternal affection, their promising offspring playing in the gutters. Their glances are turned towards the east—a sure sign that they meditate an early migration to the pleasant regions which touch upon the Minories.
Holywell Street is now a thoroughfare which no one can decry on the score of reputation: it is, however, impossible to deny that, were the southern range of houses pulled down, the Strand would reap an immense advantage, and a fine road would be opened from the New Church to Saint Clement Danes.
It was about half-past seven in the evening that Ellen Monroe, dressed in the most simple manner, and enveloped in a large cloak, entered Holywell Street.
Her countenance was pale; but its expression was one of resolution and firmness.
She walked slowly along from the west end of the street towards the eastern extremity, glancing anxiously upon the countenances of those traders who stood in front of the second-hand clothes shops.
At length she beheld a female—one of the identical ladies with red hair above alluded to—standing on the threshold of one of those warehouses.
Ellen looked upwards, and perceived all kinds of articles of male attire suspended over the head of this female, and swinging backwards and forwards, like so many men hanging, upon the shop-front.
Ellen