ELIZA SYDNEY AND ELLEN.—THE HOSPITAL.
Eliza Sydney had just sate down to breakfast, when a cab drove hastily
up to the door of the villa, and Ellen alighted from the vehicle.
The moment she entered the parlour, Eliza advanced to meet her, saying,
"My dearest friend, I can divine the cause of this early visit;—and,
indeed, had you not come to me, it was my intention to have called upon
you without delay."
Ellen heard these remarks with unfeigned surprise.
"Sit down, and compose yourself," continued Eliza, "while I explain to
you certain matters which it is now proper that you should know."
"Heaven grant that you have no evil tidings to communicate!" exclaimed
Ellen, taking a chair near her friend, upon whose countenance she turned
a look of mingled curiosity and suspense.
"Be not alarmed, dear Ellen," answered Eliza: "my object is to serve and
befriend you—for I know that at this moment you require a friend!"
"Oh! indeed I do," cried Ellen, bursting into tears. "But is it possible
that you are acquainted with——"
"With all your history, my dear friend," interrupted Eliza.
"_All_ my history!" ejaculated Ellen.
"Yes—all. But let me not keep you in suspense. In a few words let me
assure you that there is no important event of your life unknown to me."
"Then, my dearest friend," cried Ellen, throwing herself into Eliza's
arms, "you are aware that my husband is lying in a common hospital—and
that it breaks my heart to think of the depth into which he has fallen
from a position once elevated and proud!"
"Yes," answered Eliza, returning the embrace of friendship; "I learnt
that sad event last evening—a few hours after it occurred; and hence my
intention to visit you this morning. But I am better pleased that you
should have come hither—because we can converse at our ease. You must
know, my dear friend, that a few years ago I received some wrong at the
hands of him who has now every claim upon the sympathy of the charitable
heart."
"You speak of my husband, Eliza?" cried Ellen. "Were _you_ also wronged
by him? Oh! how many, alas! can tell the same tale!"
"He attempted to wrong me, Ellen—but did not succeed," answered Eliza,
emphatically: "twice he sought to ruin me—and twice Providence
interposed to save me. Pardon me, if I mention these facts; but they are
necessary to justify my subsequent conduct in respect to him."
"Oh! ask me not to pardon aught that you may do or may have done!"
ejaculated Ellen: "for your goodness of heart is an unquestionable
guarantee for the propriety of your actions."
"You flatter me, my dear friend," said Eliza; "and yet God knows how
pure have been my intentions through life! Let us not, however, waste
time by unnecessary comment: listen rather while I state a few facts
which need be concealed from you no longer. Aware, then, that he who has
so long passed by the name of George Montague Greenwood——"
"Ah!" cried Ellen, with a start: "you know _that_ also?"
"Have patience—and you shall soon learn the extent of my information
upon this subject," said Eliza. "I was about to inform you that a
knowledge of the character of him whom we must still call George
Greenwood, gave me the idea of adopting some means to check, if not
altogether to counteract, those schemes by which he sought alike to
enrich himself dishonourably and to gratify his thirst after illicit
pleasure. During the first year of my residence in Castelcicala I sent
over a faithful agent to enter, if possible, the service of Mr.
Greenwood. He succeeded, and——"
"Filippo Dorsenni!" exclaimed Ellen, a light breaking in upon her mind:
"Oh now I comprehend it all!"
"And are you angry with me for having thus placed a spy upon the actions
of your husband?" inquired Eliza, in a sweet tone of conciliation.
"Oh! no—no," cried Ellen: "on the contrary, I rejoice! For doubtless you
have saved him from the commission of many misdeeds!"
"I have indeed, Ellen," was the reply; "and amongst them may be reckoned
your escape from his snares, when he had you carried away to his house
in the country."
"Yes—that escape was effected by the aid of Filippo," said Ellen; "and
the same generous man also assisted me to save the life of Richard on
that terrible night when his enemies sought to murder him near Globe
Town."
"Well, then, my dear friend," observed Eliza, "you see that the presence
of Filippo in England effected much good. I may also mention to you the
fact that when Richard accompanied General Grachia's expeditionary force
to Castelcicala, I was forewarned of the intended invasion by means of a
letter from Filippo: and that letter enjoined me to save the life of him
who has since obtained so distinguished a renown. Filippo had heard you
speak in such glowing colours of Richard's generous nature and noble
disposition, that he was induced to implore me to adopt measures so that
not a hair of his head might be injured. And, oh! when I consider all
that has occurred, I cannot for one moment regret that intervention on
my part which saved our friend in order to fulfil such glorious
destinies!"
"But how was it, my dearest Eliza," asked Ellen, "that you discovered
those secrets which so especially regard _me_?"
"In one word," replied the royal widow, "Filippo overheard that scene
which occurred between yourself and Greenwood when you restored him the
pocket-book that you had found; and on that occasion you called him by a
name which was not _George_!"
"Ah! I remember—yes, I remember!" cried Ellen, recalling to mind the
details of that memorable meeting to which Eliza Sydney alluded.
"Thus Filippo learnt a great secret," continued the royal widow; "and in
due time it was communicated to me, by whom it has been retained
inviolate until now. Nor should I have ever touched upon the topic with
you, had not this accident which has occurred to your husband rendered
it necessary for me to show you that while I am prepared to assist you
in aught that may concern his welfare, I am only aiding the virtuous
intentions of a wife towards him whom she has sworn at the altar to love
and reverence."
Ellen again threw herself into the arms of the generous-hearted widow,
upon whose bosom she poured forth tears of the most profound gratitude.
"And now," said Eliza, "can you tell me in which manner I can serve
you—or rather your husband?"
"My first and most anxious wish," returned Ellen, "is that he should be
removed, as soon as possible, to some place where tranquillity and ease
may await him. Sincerely—sincerely do I hope that his heart may have
been touched by recent misfortunes——"
"Yes—and by the contemplation, even from a distance, of that excellent
example which the character of Richard affords," added Eliza,
emphatically.
"And yet," continued Ellen, mournfully, "I know his proud disposition so
well, that he will not permit his secret to be revealed one minute
before the appointed time: he will not allow himself to be conveyed to
that place where he would be received with so much heart-felt joy!"
"This is your conviction?" said Eliza, interrogatively.
"My firm conviction," answered Ellen.
"Then listen to my proposal," exclaimed the widow, after a brief pause.
"Filippo shall be instructed to hire some neatly furnished house in the
neighbourhood of Islington; and thither may your husband be removed so
soon as the medical attendants at the hospital will permit. It is not
necessary for him to know that any living soul save yourself, Ellen, has
interfered to procure him those comforts which he shall enjoy, and to
furnish which my purse shall supply you with ample means."
"Dearest friend," exclaimed Ellen, "it was your kind counsel that I came
to solicit—and you have afforded me the advice most suitable to my own
wishes. But, thanks to the generosity of Richard towards my father and
myself, I possess sufficient resources to ensure every comfort to my
husband. And, oh! if he will but consent to this project, I can see him
often—yes, daily—and under my care he will speedily recover!"
"Then delay not in repairing to the hospital to visit and console him,"
said Eliza, "and Filippo, whom I expect to call presently, shall this
very day seek a comfortable abode to receive your husband when his
removal may be effected with safety."
Ellen expressed the deepest gratitude to her friend for the kind
interest thus manifested in behalf of herself and her husband; and,
having taken an affectionate leave of the royal widow, she repaired to
Saint Bartholomew's Hospital.
The clock of the establishment was striking eleven when Ellen alighted
from the cab at the entrance in Duke Street; and, having inquired her
way to the Casualty Ward, she crossed the courtyard towards the
department of the building where her husband lay.
Ascending a wide staircase, she reached a landing, where she accosted a
nurse who was passing from one room to another at the moment.
Ellen intimated her request to see the gentleman who was brought in with
a broken leg on the preceding afternoon.
"Well, ma'am," answered the nurse, "you couldn't possibly have applied
to a better person; for I'm at the head of that ward, and I shall be
most happy to obleege you. But surely a charming young lady like you
will be afeard to go into a place where there's a many male inwalids all
in bed?"
"The gentleman to whom the accident has happened, is very dear to me,"
said Ellen, in a low tone, and with tears trickling down her cheeks.
"Ah! poor dear thing—his sister, may be?" observed Mrs. Jubkins.
"Yes—I am his sister," replied Ellen, eagerly catching at the hint with
which the curiosity of the woman furnished her.
"Then I'm sure, my pretty dear," said the nurse, "there's no harm in
seeing your brother. But stay—just step into this room for a
moment—there's only one old woman in it,—while I go into the male
Casualty and see that every thing's proper and decent to receive such a
sweet creatur' as you are."
Thus speaking, Mrs. Jubkins threw open the door of a small room, into
which she showed Ellen, who availed herself of that opportunity to slip
a guinea into her hand.
Mrs. Jubkins expressed her thanks by a nod, and hurried away with the
assurance that she should not be many minutes absent.
When the door had closed behind the nurse, Ellen surveyed, with a rapid
glance, the room in which she now found herself.
It was small, but exquisitely clean and well ventilated. There were four
beds in the place, only one of which was occupied.
Obeying a mechanical impulse, rather than any sentiment of curiosity,
Ellen glanced towards that couch which was tenanted by an invalid; but
she started with mingled surprise and horror as her own bright eyes
encountered the glassy ones that stared at her from the pillow.
For a moment she averted her head as if from some loathsome spectacle;
but again she looked towards the bed, to satisfy herself whether the
suspicion which had struck her were correct or not.
Yes—that idea was indeed well-founded; for there—in a dying state, with
her hideous countenance rendered ghastly by disease—lay the old hag of
Golden Lane!
A faint attempt at a smile relaxed the rigid expression of the
harridan's death-like face, as she recognised Ellen; and her toothless
jaws moved for a moment as if she were endeavouring to speak:—but she
evidently had not strength to utter a word.
All on a sudden the boundless aversion which the young lady entertained
towards the wretch, became changed into a sentiment of deep
commiseration; and Ellen exclaimed involuntarily, "Oh! it is terrible to
die thus—in a hospital—and without a friend!"
The bed shook as if with a convulsive shudder on the part of the hag,
whose countenance, upturned towards Ellen, wore an expression
which—intelligible amidst all the ghastly ugliness of that face—seemed
to say, "Is it possible that _you_ can feel pity for _me_?"
Ellen understood what was passing in the old woman's mind at the moment;
and, advancing nearer to the couch, she said in a tone tremulous with
emotions, "If you seek forgiveness at my hands for any injury which your
pernicious counsels and your fatal aid ever did me, I accord it—Oh! God
knows how willingly I accord it! For, though after my fall I long
remained callous to a sense of virtue, and acknowledged only the fear of
shame as the motive for avoiding farther frailty, yet since I became a
wife—for I _am_ a wife," she added proudly,—"holier and better thoughts
have taken up their abode in my soul; and good examples have restored my
mind to its former purity! Thus, then, I can forgive thee with
sincerity—for the injuries and wrongs I have endured through thy
counsels, are past and gone!"
At that moment the door opened, and Mrs. Jubkins returned to the room.
Ellen cast another glance of forgiveness upon the hag and hurried into
the passage.
"What ails that old woman?" she asked, in a low tone, when the door had
closed behind herself and the nurse.
"It seems, by all I can hear, Miss," replied the hospital nurse, "that
the old woman had saved up a little money; and as she lived in a low
neighbourhood, I 'spose it got wind amongst the thieves and
housebreakers. At all events a burglar broke into her place one night,
about a week ago; and because she resisted, he beat her in such a cruel
way that all her ribs was broke and one of her thighs fractured—so I
'spose he must have thrown her down and jumped on her. The rascal got
clean off with all the money she had; and a policeman going his rounds,
saw that the house where she lived had been broken open. He went in, and
found the old creatur' nearly dead. She was brought here; and when she
had recovered a little, she mumbled a few words, telling just what I've
now told you. Oh! yes," added the nurse, recollecting herself, "and she
also said who the thief was; for when questioned about that point, she
was just able to whisper a dreadful name—so dreadful that it haunts me
in my dreams."
"What was that name which sounded so terrible?" asked Ellen, with some
degree of curiosity.
"_The Resurrection Man_," replied the nurse, shuddering visibly. "And no
sooner had the old woman said those shocking words, than she lost her
voice altogether, and has never had the use of it since. We put her into
that room to keep her quiet; but she can't live out the week—and her
sufferings at times are quite horrible."
As she uttered these words Mrs. Jubkins opened a door at the end of the
passage, and conducted Ellen into the room where her husband was lying.
For a moment the young lady recoiled from the appearance of that large
apartment, filled with beds in which there lay pillowed so many ghastly
faces; but this emotion was as evanescent as the most rapid flash of
lightning.
And now, firm in her purpose to console and solace him whom she had
taught herself to love, she followed the nurse towards the bed where the
patient lay,—looking neither to the right nor to the left as she
proceeded thither.
Greenwood's countenance was very pale; but the instant the lovely
features of his wife burst upon his view, his eyes were lighted up with
an expression of joy such as she had never seen them wear before, and
the glow of which appeared to penetrate with a sensation of ineffable
bliss into the very profundities of her soul.
"Ellen, this is very kind of you," said Greenwood, tears starting on his
long silken lashes, as he pressed her hand warmly in his own.
"Do not use the word _kind_, my dearest husband," whispered Ellen: "in
coming hither I not only perform a duty—but should also fulfil it
cheerfully, were it not for the sad occurrence which caused the visit."
"Be not alarmed, Ellen," murmured Greenwood: "there is no danger—a
temporary inconvenience only! And yet," he added, after a brief pause,
"to me it is particularly galling just at the very time when I was
struggling so hard—so very hard—to build up my fallen fortunes, and
prepare——"
"Oh! do not grieve on that head!" whispered Ellen: "abandon, I implore
you, those ambitious dreams—those lofty aspirations which have only led
you astray! Do you suppose that, were you to acquire an amount of wealth
far greater than that which blesses _him_, he would welcome you with one
single smile the more joyous—with one single emotion the more blissful?
Oh! no—far from it! And believe me when I assert my conviction that it
would be his pride to place you with his own hand, and by means of his
own resources, in a position to enable you to retrieve the past——"
"Ellen, speak not thus!" said Greenwood, impatiently.
"Well, my dearest husband, I will not urge the topic," answered the
beautiful young woman, smiling with a plaintive and melancholy sweetness
as she leant over his couch. "But you will permit me to implore that
when you are enabled to leave this place, you will suffer yourself to be
conveyed to a dwelling which I—your own wife—will provide for you, and
where I shall be enabled to visit you every day—as often, indeed, as
will give you pleasure? And then—oh! then we shall be happy together—and
you can prepare your mind to encounter that day which, I fear, you now
look upon to be one of trial, but which I must tutor you to anticipate
as one of joy and pleasure as yet unknown."
Greenwood made no answer; but he meditated profoundly upon those loving
words and touching assurances that his beauteous wife breathed in his
ear.
"Yes," continued Ellen, "you will not refuse my prayer! This very day
will I seek a comfortable abode—in the northern part of Islington, if
possible—so that I may soon be with you every day. For I am possessed of
ample resources to accomplish all that I propose; and you know, dearest
husband, that every thing which I can call my own is lawfully yours. You
smile—oh! now I thank you, because you listen to me with attention; and
I thank God also, because he has at length directed your heart towards
me, who am your wife, and who will ever, ever love you—dearly love you!"
"Ellen," murmured Greenwood, pressing her hand to his lips, "I should be
a monster were I to refuse you any thing which you now demand of me;
and, oh! believe me—I am not so bad as _that_!"
Sweet Ellen, thou hast conquered the obduracy of that heart which was so
long the abode of selfishness and pride;—thou hast subdued the stubborn
soul of that haughty and ambitious man:—thine amiability has triumphed
over his worldliness;—and thou hast thy crowning reward in the tears
which now moisten his pillow, and in the affectionate glances which are
upturned towards thee!
And Ellen departed from the hospital where her angelic influence had
wrought so marvellous a change,—departed with a bosom cherishing fond
hopes and delicious reveries of happiness to come.
In the course of that very day Filippo engaged a house in the northern
part of Islington; and Ellen superintended, with a joyful heart, the
preparations that were made during the ensuing week to render the
dwelling as comfortable as possible.
At length she had the pleasure,—nay, more than pleasure—the ineffable
satisfaction of welcoming her husband to that abode which, if not so
splendid nor so spacious as the mansion he had once occupied in Spring
Gardens, was at least a most grateful change after the cold and
cheerless aspect of a hospital.