George W. M. Reynolds - The Mysteries of London

And the old hag shook her head seriously, as if she had arrived at some great moral conclusion.

Ellen paid no attention to her.

"Ah! Miss," continued the hag, "I was once young like you—and as beautiful too, wrinkled and tanned as I now appear. But I was not such a fool to my own interests as you. I lived luxuriously for many, many years—God knows how many—I can't count them now—I don't like to think of those happy times. I ought to have saved money—much money; but I frittered it all away as quick as I got it. Now, do you take my advice: accept Mr. Greenwood's offers;—he is a handsome man, and pays like a prince."

The argument of the old hag was cut short by the entrance of the individual of whom she was just speaking.

She left the room; and Ellen was now alone with Greenwood.

"Sir, are you the author of this cowardly outrage which has been perpetrated upon me?" demanded Ellen, rising from the sofa, and speaking in a firm but cold tone.

"Call it not an outrage, dearest Ellen—"

"It is nothing else, sir; and if you have one spark of honour left—one feeling of respect for the mother of your child," added Miss Monroe, sinking her voice, "you will allow me to depart without delay. On that condition I will forget all that has transpired this evening."

"My dear girl, you cannot think that I have taken all this trouble to be thwarted by a trifling obstacle at the end, or that I have merely had you brought hither to have the pleasure of letting you depart again after one minute's conversation. No, Ellen: listen to me! I have conceived a deep—profound—a fervent affection for you——"

"Cease this libertine's jargon, Mr. Greenwood," interrupted Ellen. "You must know that your sophistry cannot deceive me as it has done so many—many others."

"Then in plain terms, Ellen, you shall be mine—wholly and solely mine—and I will remain faithful to you until death."

"I will become your wife, for the sake of my child: on no other terms will I consort with you. As surely as you attempt to force me to compliance with your will, so certainly will I unmask you sooner or later. I will expose you—I will tell the world who you are—I will proclaim how you obtained your fortune by the plunder of your own—"

"Silence, Ellen!" thundered Greenwood, his face becoming purple with indignation. "Remember that the least word calculated to betray my secret, would lead to a revelation of yours; and the result would be the execrations of your father showered down upon your devoted head."

"I care not for that catastrophe—I care not for mine own past dishonour—I care not for the existence of that child of whom you are the father," exclaimed Ellen in a rapid and impassioned tone. "I will not be immolated to your desires—I will not succumb to your wishes, without revenge! Oh! full well do I comprehend you—full well do I know how you calculated when you resolved to perpetrate this outrage. You thought that I must suffer every thing at your hands, and not dare proclaim my wrongs:—you fancied that my lips are sealed against all and every thing connected with you ! Mark me, you have reckoned erroneously upon the extent of my dread of my father and my benefactor! There is one thing that will make me fall at their feet and reveal—all and that is the consummation on your part of this vile outrage upon me!"

"Be it so, Ellen," said Greenwood. "I am as determined as you. I will use no force against you; but I will keep you a prisoner here; and believe me—for I know the world well—your stern resolves will soon melt in the presence of solitude and monotony. You will then solicit me to come to you—if it be only to bear you company! Escape is impossible—my spies are around the house. Day and night will you be watched as if you were a criminal. And when you consent to become mine, in all save the vain ties which priestcraft has invented, and the shackles of which shall never curb my proud spirit—then will I surround you with every luxury, gratify your slightest wishes, study your pleasures unceasingly, and do all to make you cling to me more fervently than if I were your husband according to monkish ceremony. This is my resolve. In the mean time, if you choose to console your father for your absence, write a note telling him that you are happy, but that circumstances at present compel you to withhold from him the place of your residence; and that letter shall be delivered to-morrow morning at Markham Place. I now leave you. This is your sitting-room; your sleeping apartment is above. The servant—the old woman whom you know so well," added Greenwood, in a tone slightly ironical, "will attend upon you. The house contains every luxury that may gratify the appetite; all your wishes shall be complied with. But, again I say, think not of escape; that is impossible. And if you feel inclined to write the note of which I have spoken, do so, and give it to your attendant. It is now late—the clock has struck one: I leave you to yourself."

Ellen made no reply; and Greenwood left the room.

The moment she was alone, Ellen rose and hastened to the window. She drew aside the curtain, and was somewhat surprised to perceive that the casements were not barred; for she had expected to find every precaution against escape adopted after the confident manner in which Greenwood had spoken upon that head. But her heart sank within her; for she remembered his assurance that the house was surrounded by spies. She therefore made up her mind, after some reflection, to remain quiet until the next day, and then regulate her endeavours to escape by the aspect of the house and its locality when seen by day-light.

She felt exhausted and wearied, and partook of a light refreshment. She then took a candle from the table, and proceeded up-stairs to the bed-room prepared for her. Having carefully bolted the door, she sate down to reflect upon the propriety of writing to her father the note suggested by Greenwood. She felt most acutely on the old man's account; and she knew that she would not be permitted to communicate with him in terms more explicit than those mentioned by her persecutor. Such terms were too vague and equivocal to be satisfactory;—and she concluded in her own mind that silence was the better alternative of the two.

Having once more satisfied herself that the room was safe against all chances of intrusion, she thought of retiring to rest. She laid aside her bonnet and shawl, which she had hitherto kept on, and then took off her gown. She approached a long Psyche, or full-length mirror, that stood near the dressing-table (for the room was elegantly furnished), and for a moment contemplated herself with feelings of pride and pleasure—in spite of the vexatious position in which she found herself. But vanity was now an essential ingredient of her character. It had been engendered, nurtured, and matured by the mode of life she had been compelled to adopt.

And, assuredly, hers were charms of which she had full right to be proud. The mirror reflected to her eyes a countenance that had been deemed worthy to embellish a Venus on the canvass of a great painter. In that same faithful glass was also seen a form the beautiful undulations and rich contours of which were perfectly symmetrical, and yet voluptuously matured. The delicate white corset yielded with docile elasticity to the shape which no invention of art could improve. The form reduced that corset to suit its own proportions; and in no way did the corset shape the form. Those swelling globes of snow, each adorned as with a delicate rose-bud, needed no support to maintain them in their full and natural rotundity;—the curvatures which formed the waist, were not drawn nearer to each other by the compression of the stay;—the graceful swell of the hips required no art to improve or augment its copiousness. Ellen smiled—in spite of herself—smiled complacently—smiled almost proudly, as she surveyed her perfect form in that mirror.