THE MYSTERIOUS LETTER.
And now commenced a gay and busy life for Ellen Monroe. To account for
her long absence each day from home, was an easy matter; for her father
was readily satisfied, so implicit was the confidence he placed in his
daughter's discretion; and Markham was always buried amongst his books
in his study, save during the intervals occupied by meals.
Ellen's salary was considerable; and to dispose of it in a manner that
was not calculated to excite the suspicion of her parent and benefactor,
required more duplicity. She took home with her a small amount weekly;
and the remainder she placed in the hands of a man of business,
recommended to her by the manager.
Numerous attempts were made by certain young noblemen and gentlemen, who
frequented the theatre, to ascertain where she resided. But this secret
was unknown to every one save the manager, and he kept it religiously.
Nevertheless, Ellen was persecuted by amatory letters, and by proposals
of a tender nature. A certain favoured few, of the youthful fashionables
above alluded to, were permitted to lounge behind the scenes during the
hours of performance; and with them Ellen was an object of powerful
attraction--indeed, _the_ object of undivided attention and interest.
They perceived that she was as beautiful when surveyed near as she
seemed when viewed from a distance. But, although she would lend a
willing ear to the nonsense and small talk of her wooers, she gave them
no direct encouragement; and, though somewhat free, her manners never
afforded a pretence even for the most daring to overstep the bounds of
decency towards her. The most brilliant offers were conveyed to her in
the most delicate terms; but they were invariably declined with
firmness, when oral--and left unanswered, when written.
A species of mystery appeared to hang around the charming _danseuse_,
and only served to render her the more interesting. No one knew who she
was, or whence she came. Her residence was a secret; and she was seen
only at the theatre. Then she was reported to be a very paragon of
virtue, and had refused the offers of titled and wealthy men. These
circumstances invested her with those artificial attractions which
please the public, and which, when united with her real qualifications,
raised her to a splendid degree of popularity.
Although her time was fully occupied, she now and then found leisure to
call at the house of Mr. Wentworth, the surgeon, and pass half an hour
in the company of her child. The little being throve apace; and Ellen
felt for it all a mother's tenderness--a love which was not impaired by
that callousness towards virtue for virtue's sake, which we have before
noticed, and which had been produced in her by the strange scenes
through which she had passed.
One evening, a short time before she was to appear in the ballet, the
manager informed her that a gentleman desired to speak with her alone in
the green-room.
To that apartment did Ellen immediately repair, and, to her surprise,
the found herself in the presence of Mr. Greenwood.
"Ah! I am not then mistaken," exclaimed that gentleman, with one of his
blandest smiles. "I saw you last night for the first time; and the
moment you appeared upon the stage I knew you--that is, I felt almost
convinced that it was you. But how happened this strange event in your
life?"
"My benefactor, _Richard Markham_," answered Ellen, with singular and
mysterious emphasis upon the name, "is not wealthy--_you_ best know why;
my father is irretrievably ruined--_you_ also know how:--and, with all
my faults, I could not endure the idea of eating the bread of dependence
and idleness."
"But why did you not apply to me?" demanded Greenwood. "I would have
placed you above want."
"No--I would not for worlds be dependent upon you," replied Ellen
warmly. "I appealed to you to support my child--_our_ child; and you did
so. There was only one way in which you could have manifested a real
generosity towards me--and you refused. The service I asked you once
upon my knees--with tears and prayers--you rejected:--I implored you to
give a father's honourable name to your child--I besought you to save
the reputation of her whose father was ruined through you, and who
herself became your victim by a strange combination of circumstances.
You refused! What _less_ could I accept at _your_ hands? Do you think
that I have not my little sentiments of pride as well as you? I could
not live idly:--I embraced the stage; and my exertions have been crowned
with success."
"And your father--and Richard--do they know of your present avocation?"
demanded Greenwood, somewhat abashed by the bitterness of the
under-current of reproach which had characterised the last speech of the
figurante.
"God forbid!" cried Ellen. "And yet," she added, after a moment's
thought, "I need not be ashamed of earning my bread by my own honourable
exertions."
"And now, Ellen--one more question," said Greenwood. "The child--is he
well! Is he taken care of?"
"He is well--and he is duly cared for," was Ellen's reply; and as she
delivered it, she felt an emotion--almost of tenderness--in favour of
the man who thus inquired, with embarrassment of manner, after the
welfare of _their_ child.
Greenwood's quick eye noticed the feeling that animated the young
mother's bosom. He took her hand, and drew her towards him. She was so
exquisitely beautiful--so inviting in the light gauze garb which she
wore, that Greenwood's passions were fired, and he longed to make her
his mistress.
Her hand lingered in his;--he pressed it gently. She did not seem to
notice the circumstance; her eyes were cast down--she was absorbed in
thought.
Greenwood imprinted a kiss upon her spotless forehead.
She started, hastily withdrew her hand, and cast upon him a look of
mingled curiosity and reproach.
"Are you astonished that I should bestow a mark of kind feeling upon the
mother of my child?" asked Greenwood, assuming a soft and tender tone of
voice.
"That mother," answered Ellen, "whom you abandoned to shame and
dishonour!"
"Do not reproach me for what is past," said Greenwood.
"Would you not act in the same manner over again?" inquired Ellen,
darting a searching glance at the member of Parliament.
"Why this question, Ellen?" exclaimed Greenwood. "Will you not believe
me if I tell you that I am attached to you? Will you not give me credit
for sincerity, when I declare that I would gladly exert all the means in
my power to make you happy? Why do you look so coldly upon me? Listen
for a moment, Ellen, to what I am about to say. A few miles from London
there is a delicious spot--a perfect Paradise upon earth, a villa
surrounded by charming grounds, and commanding views of the most lovely
scenery. That property is for sale: say but the word--I will purchase
it--it shall be yours; and all the time that I can spare from my
numerous avocations shall be devoted to Ellen and to love."
"The way to that charming villa, so far as you and I are concerned,"
said Ellen, "must lead through the church. Is it thus that you
understand it?"
"Why destroy the dream of love and happiness which I had formed, by
allusion to the formal ceremonies of this cold world?" exclaimed
Greenwood.
"That is the language of every libertine, sir," replied Ellen, with
bitter irony. "Do not deceive yourself--you cannot deceive me. I would
accept the title of your wife, for the sake of our child;--but to be
your mistress--no, never--never."
With these words Ellen left the green-room; and in a few minutes she
appeared upon the stage--gay, animated, radiant with beauty and with
smiles--the very personification of the voluptuous dance in which she
shone with such unrivalled splendour.
Five or six evenings after the one on which she had this interview with
Greenwood, Ellen received a note by the post. It was addressed to her at
the theatre, by the name which she had assumed; and its contents ran as
follows:--
"A certain person who is enamoured of you, and who is not
accustomed to allow trivial obstacles to stand in the way of his
designs, has determined upon carrying you forcibly off to a
secluded spot in the country. He knows where you reside, and has
ascertained that you return every evening from the theatre in a
hackney cab to within a short distance of your abode. His plan is
to way-lay you during your walk from the place where you descend
from the vehicle, to your residence. If your suspicions fall upon
any person of your acquaintance, after a perusal of this note,
beware how you tax him with the vile intent;--beware how you
communicate this warning, for by any imprudence on your part, you
may deprive the writer of the means of counteracting in future the
infamous designs which the individual above alluded to may form
against yourself or others."
This note was written in a neat but curious hand, which seemed to be
that of a foreigner. The reader can well imagine the painful surprise
which its contents produced upon the young figurante. She however had no
difficulty in fixing upon Greenwood as the person who contemplated the
atrocity revealed in that note.
He alone (save the manager, who was an honourable and discreet man) knew
where she lived; unless, indeed, some other amatory swain had followed
her homeward. This idea perplexed her--it was possible; and yet she
could not help thinking that Greenwood was the person against whom she
was thus warned.
But who had sent her that friendly notice? Who was the mysterious
individual that had thus generously placed her upon her guard?
Conjecture was useless. She must think only of how she ought to act!
Her mind was speedily made up. She resolved to ride in the vehicle of an
evening up to the very door of Markham's house, and trust to her
ingenuity for an excuse to satisfy her father relative to this apparent
extravagance on her part. Both Richard and Mr. Monroe put implicit
confidence in her word;--she had already satisfactorily accounted for
the late hours which her attendance at the theatre compelled her to
keep, by stating that she was engaged to attend private concerts and
musical conversaziones at the West End--sometimes, even, at Blackheath,
Kensington, and Clapham--where she presided at the piano, in which she
was a proficient. Then, when she was compelled to be present at
rehearsals at the theatre, she stated that she had morning concerts to
attend; and as she was not absent from home every day (her engagement
with the manager being merely to appear three nights a-week) this system
of deception on her part readily obtained credit with both Markham and
her father, neither of whom could seriously object to what they were
induced to believe was the legitimate exercise of her accomplishments.
Accordingly, when, on the morning after the receipt of the mysterious
letter, she casually mentioned that she should no longer return home of
an evening by the omnibus, as she disliked the lonely walk from the
main-road, where it set her down, to the Place, and that her emoluments
would now permit her to enjoy the comfort and safety of a cab, both
Richard and her father earnestly commended her resolution.
And why did she not tell the truth at once? wherefore did she not
acknowledge the career which she was pursuing, and reveal the triumph
which she had achieved?
Because she knew that both her father and Markham would oppose
themselves to the idea of her exercising the profession of a
dancer;--because she had commenced a system of duplicity, and was almost
necessitated to persevere in it;--and because she really loved--ardently
loved--the course upon which she had entered. The applause of crowded
audiences--the smiles of the manager--the adulation of the young nobles
and gentlemen who, behind the scenes, complimented her upon her success,
her talents, and her beauty,--these were delights which she would not
very readily abandon.