Before the expiring of the month from the date of the deception
practiced upon me I had put into execution a plan I formed while
Maxwell was threatening me. To continue to live in England persecuted
by his malignant ingenuity would have been an act of folly; to
purchase intervals of peace at the cost of being reduced to beggary in
a year or two would have been no less. At all hazards I was determined
that some small sum should be secured to Ellen, to shield her and our
child from penury, and to this end I made over to her the balance of
my fortune, securely invested in Consols, the interest on which she
would receive monthly from my solicitor, the principal reverting to
her at my death. I take this opportunity of expressing my heartfelt
thanks to this gentleman for the faithful manner in which he has
carried out my instructions and executed the delicate business I
entrusted to him. For my own immediate necessities I took one hundred
pounds, which indeed was all that remained after the investment which
secured to Ellen one pound a week during my lifetime. It was my desire
at first, that she should accompany me to Australia, but my solicitor
argued against it; and his arguments were strengthened by a medical
opinion that neither the voyage nor the Australian climate would be
good for my dear Ellen's health.
In the winding up of this business and the preparations for my
departure, I exercised the greatest caution and secrecy, in order that
my enemies should have no suspicion of the locality in which it was
determined that Ellen should reside. We chose London as offering the
greatest security for her, and because she would be within hail of my
solicitor, to whom she was to apply for protection in the event of
molestation. The knowledge that I had baffled my pursuers was a
satisfaction to me, and more than once I put successfully into
practice the tactics I adopted when I first discovered I was being
watched and followed. With respect to our correspondence I arranged
that my letters to Ellen, and Ellen's to me, should be sent under
cover to my solicitor, who would forward them to their correct
address. It was probable that I should be shifting from place to place
in Australia, and Ellen might have occasion to remove. During the
month a number of communications from Maxwell reached me through my
solicitor. Some contained threats, some invited me to a meeting in
which a modification of his terms could be discussed. I did not
acknowledge one of these letters, and in the last I received Maxwell
wrote: "I have discovered that it is your intention to leave England
with Madame Virtue and your precious infant. If you think you will
escape me you are mistaken. Go where you will you will be shadowed and
not allowed to rest until you come to terms. Be wise in time, dear
John." This threat did not alarm me; the discovery he announced was
probably mere guesswork; even if it were not, my departure would
strengthen the chances of Ellen's safety. Before I left there was
still a neglected duty to perform--to inform Ellen that I had deceived
her as to my real name. She evinced no surprise, and did not reproach
me, nor did it shake her faith in me. From the hour we met my dear
Ellen has never uttered a word to cause me pain. Humbly do I ask
forgiveness for the sorrows I have brought upon her.
At length the day of our separation arrived. I had put off my
departure to the latest moment, and was to travel by the night train
to meet my ship.
We sat together in Ellen's humble room, her head on my shoulder, our
child in my arms. Though he could not yet speak an intelligible word
he had, thank God, learned to love me. What Ellen and I had to say was
but a repetition of the fond assurances we had exchanged that we would
be true to each other to the last hour of our lives. She was outwardly
more cheerful than I; such women as she have a strength of endurance
denied to man, whose courage often deserts him at the supreme moment
of a moral crisis.
Ellen rose to spread the cloth for our last meal together, and it
touched me to observe how she had consulted my tastes in what she had
placed upon the table. To please her I forced myself to eat, and
supper ended, she gave her babe the breast, her eyes shining with
tenderness and love.
"You must be brave, dear," she said. "You must never lose heart--never
for one single moment."
"And you, Ellen, you must also be brave."
"I am--I shall be; and cheerful, too. If I were to mope, dear, baby
would suffer--and that would never do, would it, darling?"
I see her now a picture of sweetest motherhood, as she sat crooning to
the little fellow, who was drawing life and goodness from nature's
fount. In the dark watches of my lonely life the picture rose before
me, and I saw the dear woman with her baby at her breast, her tender
eyes shining upon me. It taught me patience, and never failed to
comfort me. Across the seas a heart was throbbing with love for the
wanderer, a mother was whispering to her babe of the absent father; an
invisible link stretched from the quiet bush to the fevered city,
along which, in hours of unrest, sped the spiritual message: "I am
thinking of you. Dear love, dear love, do not lose heart; I am
thinking of you."
And so we parted. The last words were spoken, the last kiss given. I
turned and saw, through tears, Ellen standing at the door, a blessing
on her lips, her soul in her eyes. "Farewell, dear heart, farewell!"