“Poor Master Richard,” said Whittingham, surveying the young man with affectionate admiration.
“I said that I left him for one hour,” continued Markham: “that was the evening before his death. Five days after my arrival, he called me to his bed-side, and said, ‘Richard, I feel that my hours are numbered. You heard what my physician observed ere now; and I am not the man to delude myself with vain and futile hope. I repeat—my moments are now numbered. Leave me alone, Richard, for one hour; that I may commune with myself.’ This desire was sacred; and I immediately obeyed it. But I remained away only just one hour, and then hastened back to him. He was very faint and languid; and I saw, with much surprise, that he had been writing. I sate down by his bed-side, and took his emaciated hand. He pressed mine, and said in a slow and calm tone,—‘Richard, I need not recall to your mind under what circumstances we first met. I heard your tale; I knew that you were innocent. I could read your heart. In an hour I understood all your good qualities. I formed a friendship for you; and in the name of that friendship, listen to the last words of a dying man.’ He paused for a few moments, and then continued thus:—‘When I am no more, you will take possession of the few effects that I have with me here. In my desk you will find a sum sufficient to pay all the expenses incurred by my illness and to meet the cost of my interment. I desire to be buried in the Protestant cemetery in the neighbourhood of Boulogne: you and the physician will attend me to my grave. The funeral must be of the most humble description. Do not neglect this desire on my part. I have been all my life opposed to pomp and ostentation, and shall scarcely wish any display to mark my death.’ He paused again; and I gave him some refreshing beverage. He then proceeded:—‘Beneath my pillow, Richard, there is a paper in a sealed envelope. After my death you will open that envelope and read what is written within it. And now I must exact from you a solemn promise—a promise made to a dying man—a promise which I am not ashamed to ask, and which you need not fear to give, especially as it relates eventually to yourself. I require you to pledge yourself most sacredly that you will obey to the very letter the directions which are written within that envelope, and which relate to the papers that the envelope contains.’ I readily gave the promise required. He then directed me to take the sealed packet from beneath his pillow, and retain it safely about my person. He shortly after sank into a deep slumber—from which he never awoke. His spirit glided imperceptibly away!”
“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 ala
rms!”
“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 of some tea, the kind-hearted servant left her, in order to attend to her own domestic duties down stairs.
Ellen then fell into a mournful reverie, during which she reviewed all the events of the last two years and a half of her life. She pondered upon the hideous poverty in which she and her father had been plunged in the court leading out of Golden Lane; she retrospected upon the strange services she had rendered the statuary, the artist, the sculptor, and the photographer; she thought of the old hag who had induced her to enter upon that career;—and then she fixed her thoughts upon Greenwood and her child.
She was thus mentally occupied when she heard footsteps ascending the staircase; and immediately afterwards some one knocked at her door.
In a faint voice she said, “Come in.”
The door opened, and Richard Markham entered the apartment; but, as he crossed the threshold, he turned and said to some one who remained upon the landing, “Have the kindness to wait here one moment.”
He then advanced towards the bed, and took the young lady’s thin white hand.
“Ellen,” he exclaimed, “you have been very ill.”
“Yes—very ill, Richard,” returned the invalid, casting down her eyes; “but I am better—oh! much, very much better now; and, in a day or two, shall be quite well.”
“And yet you are very pale, and sadly altered,” said Markham.
“I can assure you that I am recovering fast. Indeed, I should have risen to-day; but Marian persuaded me to keep my bed a short time longer.”
“And you have had no medical advice, Ellen. I told your father that he had done wrong—”
“Oh! no, Richard,” interrupted Ellen eagerly; “he was anxious to call in the aid of a physician; but I was not so ill as he thought.”
“Not ill!” ejaculated Markham. “You must have been very—very ill.”
“But Marian was so kind to me.”
“No doubt! Nevertheless I have no confidence in the nostrums and prescriptions of old servants and nurses; and human existence is too serious a thing to be tampered with.”
“I assure you, Richard, that Marian has treated me most judiciously; and I am now very nearly quite well.”
“Ah! Ellen,” cried Markham, “I can read your heart!”
“You, Richard!” exclaimed the young lady, with a cold shudder that seemed to terminate in a death-chill at the heart.
“Yes,” continued Markham, his voice assuming a tone of melancholy interest; “I can well appreciate your motives in combating the desire of your father to procure medical aid. You were afraid of burdening me with an expense which you feared my restricted means would not permit me to afford;—Oh! I understand your good feeling! But this was wrong, Ellen; for I did not invite you to my house to deny to either yourself or father the common attentions which I would bestow upon a stranger who fell sick under my roof. No—thank God! I have yet enough left to meet casualties like these.”
“Ah! Richard, how kind—how generous you are,” said Ellen; “but I am now really much better;—and to-morrow—to-morrow I shall be quite well.”
“No—Ellen, you are very far from well,” returned Markham; “but you shall be well soon. I have been myself this morning to procure you proper advice.”
“Advice?” repeated Ellen, mechanically.
“Yes: there is a medical gentleman now waiting to see you.”
With these words Richard hastened to the door, and said, “Miss Monroe, sir, is now ready to receive you. I will leave you with her.”
The medical man then entered the chamber; and Markham immediately retired.
The votary of Æsculapius was a man of apparently five-and-twenty years of age—pale, but good-looking, with light hair, and a somewhat melancholy expression of countenance. He was attired in deep black. His manners were soft and pleasing; but his voice was mournful; and his utterance slow, precise, and solemn.
Approaching the couch, he took the hand of the invalid, and, placing his fingers upon the pulse, said, “How long have you been ill, Miss?”
“Oh! sir—I am not ill now—I am nearly well—I shall rise presently—the fresh air will do me good,” exclaimed Ellen, speaking with a rapidity, and almost an incoherence, which somewhat surprised the medical man.
“No, Miss,” he said calmly, after a pause, “you cannot leave your bed yet: you are in a state of fever. How long have you been confined to your couch?”
“How long? Oh! only a few days—but, I repeat, I am better now.”
“How many days, Miss?” asked the medical man.
“Ten or twelve, sir; and, therefore, you see that I have kept my bed long enough.”
“What do you feel?” demanded the surgeon, seating himself by the side of the invalid with the air of a man who is determined to obtain answers to his questions.
“I did feel unwell a few days ago, sir,” said Ellen; “but now—oh! now I am quite recovered.”
“Perhaps, miss, you will allow me to be the judge of that. You are very feverish—your pulse is rapid. Have you been taking any medicine?”
“No—that is, a little cooling medicine which the servant who attends upon me purchased. But why all these questions, since I shall soon be well?”
“Pardon me, Miss: you must have the kindness to answer all my queries. If, however, you would prefer another medical adviser, I will at once acquaint Mr. Markham with your desire, and will relieve you of my presence.”
“No, sir—as well you as another,” cried Ellen, scarcely knowing what she said, and shrinking beneath the glance of mingled curiosity and surprise which the surgeon cast upon her.
“During your illness were you at all delirious?” inquired the medical adviser.
“Oh! no—I have not been so ill as you are led to suppose. All I require is repose—rest—tranquillity——”
“And professional aid,” added the surgeon. “Now, I beg of you, Miss Monroe, to tell me without reserve what you feel. How did your illness commence?”
“Ah! sir, I scarcely know,” replied Ellen. “I have experienced great mental affliction; and that operated upon my constitution, I suppose.”
“And you say that you have been confined to your bed nearly a fortnight?”
“Oh! no—not so long as that,” said Ellen, fearful of confirming the surgeon’s impression that she had been very ill, and consequently stood greatly in need of professional assistance: “not so long as that! T
en days exactly.”
“Ten days!” repeated the medical man, as if struck by the coincidence of this statement with something which at that moment occurred to his memory; then glancing rapidly round the room, he started from his chair, and said, “Ten days ago, Miss Monroe! And at what hour were you taken ill?”
“At what hour?” repeated the unhappy young lady, who trembled for her secret.
The Mysteries of London Volume 1 Page 83