THE ITALIAN VALET.
Ellen retired to her private dressing-room, and hastily threw aside her
theatrical garb.
She assumed her usual attire, and then stole away from the
establishment, without waiting to say farewell either to the manager or
any of her acquaintances belonging to the company.
As she left the private door of the theatre, she saw several persons
loitering about--probably in hopes of catching a glimpse of the author
who had been so signally disgraced that evening, and whose previous
departure from the house was unperceived.
She drew her veil closely over her countenance; but not before one
fellow, more impudent than the rest, and whose cadaverous countenance,
shaggy eye-brows, and sinister expression, struck a momentary terror
into her soul, had peered beneath her bonnet.
Fortunately, as Ellen considered it, a cab was close by; and the driver
was standing on the pavement with his hand grasping the door-latch, as
if he were expecting some one.
"Cab, ma'am?" said he, as Ellen approached.
Ellen answered in the affirmative, mentioned her address, and stepped
into the vehicle.
The driver banged the door, and mounted his box.
The man with the cadaverous countenance watched Ellen into the vehicle,
and exchanged a sign of intelligence with the driver.
The cab then drove rapidly away.
Another cab was standing at a little distance; and into this the man
with the cadaverous countenance stepped. There was already an individual
in it, who, when the former opened the door, said, "All right?"
"All right," was the reply.
This second cab, containing these two individuals, then followed rapidly
in the traces of the first.
Meantime Ellen had thrown herself back in the vehicle, and had given way
to her reflections.
The events of that memorable evening occupied her attention. A
coincidence, of a nature fitted only for the pages of a romance, had
revealed to Markham and herself the history of each other's pursuits.
While she had been following the occupation of a figurante, he was
devoting his time to dramatic composition. He had retained his
employment a secret: she had dissembled hers. He had accidentally
applied for the patronage of the same manager who had taken her by the
hand. He had assumed a false name: so had she. Chance led her to take a
part in his drama;--her talent had materially contributed to its
success. A triumph was achieved by each;--and then came the
overwhelming, crushing denunciation which turned his joy to
mourning--his honour to disgrace--his glory to shame. She felt as if she
were identified with his fate in this one respect:--he was her
benefactor; she esteemed him: and she seemed to partake in his most
painful emotions as she pondered upon the incidents of that evening.
And then she retrospected over the recent events which had chequered her
own life. The cast of her countenance embellished statues;--her likeness
lent its attraction to pictures;--her bust was preserved in marble;--her
entire form feasted the eyes of many a libertine in the private room of
the photographic department of a gallery of science;--her virtue had
become the prey of one who gave her a few pieces of paltry gold in
exchange for the inestimable jewel of her purity;--her dreams had been
sold to a mesmerist;--her dancing had captivated thousands;--her tragic
talent had crowned the success of a drama. What remained for her now to
sell? what talent did she possess which could now be turned to
advantage? Alas! she knew not!
Her meditations were painful; and some time elapsed ere she awoke from
her reverie.
At length she glanced towards the window: the night was beautifully
clear, though piercing cold--for it was now the month of December; and
the year 1839 was drawing to a close.
The vehicle was proceeding along a road skirted only by a few leafless
trees, and wearing an aspect strange and new to her.
The country beyond, on either side, seemed to present to her view
different outlines from those which frequent passage along the road
leading to Markham Place had rendered familiar to her eyes. Again she
gazed wistfully forth:--she lowered the window, and surveyed the
adjacent scenery with redoubled interest.
And now she felt really alarmed; for she was convinced that the driver
had mistaken the road.
She called to him, and expressed her fears.
"No--no, ma'am," he exclaimed, without relaxing the speed at which the
vehicle was proceeding; "there's more ways than one of reaching the
place where you live. Don't be afraid, ma'am--it's all right."
Ellen's fears were hushed for a short time; but as she leant partially
out of the window to survey the country through which she was passing,
the sounds of another vehicle behind her own fell upon her ears.
At any other time this circumstance would not have produced a second
thought; but on this occasion Ellen felt a presentiment of evil. Whether
the mournful catastrophe of the evening, or her recent sad
reflections,--or both united, had produced this morbid feeling, we
cannot say. Sufficient is it for us to know that such was the state of
her mind; and then she remembered the warning contained in the letter so
mysteriously sent to her a short time previously at the theatre.
Again she addressed the cabman; but this time he made no answer; and in
a few minutes he drove up to the door of a small house which stood alone
by the side of that dreary road.
Scarcely had he alighted from his box, when the second cab came up and
stopped also.
"Where am I?" demanded Ellen, now seriously alarmed.
An individual, who had alighted from the second cab, hastened to open
the door of the first, and assist Ellen to alight.
"You must get down here, Miss," he said, in a dialect and tone which
denoted him to be a foreigner.
Ellen saw at a glance that he was a tall elderly man, with a dark olive
complexion, piercing black eyes, but by no means an unpleasant
expression of countenance. He was dressed in black, and wore a large
cloak hanging loosely over his shoulders.
"Get down here!" repeated Ellen. "And why? where am I? who are you?
Speak."
"No harm will happen to you, Miss," replied the tall stranger. "A
gentleman is waiting in this house to see you."
"A gentleman!" cried Ellen. "Ah! can it be Mr. Greenwood?"
"It is, Miss: you need fear nothing."
Ellen was naturally of a courageous disposition; and the circumstances
of her life had tended to strengthen her mind. It instantly struck her
that she was in the power of her persecutor's myrmidons, and that
resistance against them was calculated to produce effects much less
beneficial for her than those which remonstrance and firmness might lead
to with their employer.
She accordingly accompanied the tall stranger into the house.
But what was the astonishment of the poor creature when she encountered
in the hall the very old hag whom she had known in the court in
Goldenlane, and who had originally introduced her to the embraces of
Mr. Greenwood!
The horrible wrinkled wretch grinned significantly, at she conducted
Ellen into a parlour very neatly furnished, and where a cheerful fire
was burning in the grate.
Meantime the tall stranger issued forth again, and ordered the driver of
the cab in which Ellen had arrived to await further instructions. He
then accosted the cadaverous looking man who had accompanied him in the
second cab, and who was now loitering about in front of the house.
"Tidkins," said he, "we do not require your services any further. The
young lady made no resistance, and consequently there has been no need
for the exercise of your strong arm. Here is your reward. You can return
to London in the same cab that brought you hither."
"Thank you, my friend," exclaimed the Resurrection Man. "Your master
knows my address, the next time he requires my services. Good night."
"Good night," said the tall man: and when he had seen the second cab
depart, he re-entered the house.
In the hall he met Mr. Greenwood.
"Well, Filippo--all right, eh?" said this gentleman, in a whisper.
"All right, sir. We managed it without violence; and the lady is in your
power."
"Ah! I thought you would do the business genteelly for me. Lafleur is a
faithful fellow, and would do any thing to serve me; but he is clumsy
and awkward in an intrigue of this kind. No one can manage these little
matters so well as a foreigner. A Frenchman is clever--but an Italian
incomparable."
"Thank you, sir, for the compliment," said Filippo, with a low bow.
"Oh! it is no compliment," returned Greenwood. "Three or four little
things that I have entrusted to you since you have been in my service,
were all admirably managed so far as you were concerned; and though they
every one failed afterwards, yet it was no fault of yours. I am well
aware of that."
The Italian bowed.
"And now I must present myself to this haughty beauty," said Greenwood.
"Am I to dismiss the vehicle which brought her hither, sir?" demanded
Filippo.
"Yes: you will stay here to-night."
The Italian valet bowed once more, and returned to the driver of the
vehicle that brought Ellen thither.
"My good fellow," said Filippo, in a hurried tone, "here is your money
for the service rendered up to this moment. Are you now disposed to earn
five guineas in addition?"
"Certainly, sir," replied the man.
"Then drive to the bend in the road yonder," continued Filippo. "There
you will find a large barn, belonging to my master's property here. You
can house your horse and cab comfortably there. But do not unharness the
animal. There is a pond close by; and you will find a bucket in the
barn. There is also hay for your horse. Wait there patiently till I come
to you."
The cabman signified acquiescence; and Filippo returned to the house.
Meantime the old hag, as before stated, had conducted Ellen to a
parlour, where the young lady threw herself upon a sofa, her mind and
body being alike fatigued with the events and anxieties of the evening.
"We meet again, Miss," said the old woman, lingering near the table, on
which refreshments of several luxurious kinds were placed. "You came no
more to visit me in the court; and yet I watched from a distance the
brilliancy of your career. Ah! what fine things--what fine things I have
introduced you to, since first I knew you."
"If you wish to serve me," said Ellen, "help me away from this place,
and I will recompense you largely."
"For every guinea that you would give me to let you go, I shall receive
two for keeping you in safe custody," returned the hag.
"Name the price that you are to have from your employer," cried Ellen;
"and I will double it."
"That you cannot do. Miss. Besides, have I not your interests to
consider? Do I not know what is good for you? I tell you that you may
become a great lady--ride in a magnificent carriage--have fine clothes
and sparkling jewels--and never know again what toil is. I should not be
so squeamish if I were you."
"Silence, wretch!" cried Ellen, exasperated more at the cool language of
calculation in which the old woman spoke, than with the prospects she
held out and the arguments she used.
"Ah! Miss," resumed the hag, nothing discomfited, "I am not annoyed with
you, for the harsh way in which you speak to me. I have seen too much of
your stubborn beauties in my life to be abashed with a word. Lack-a-day!
they all yield in time--they all yield in time!"
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.
But, hark! what sound is that which suddenly falls upon her ear?
She starts--looks round--and listens.
Again!--that sound is repeated.
This time she comprehends its source: some one is tapping gently at the
side window of the room.
Ellen hastily put on her gown once more, and advanced to the casement.
She raised the blind, and beheld the dark form of a man mounted upon a
ladder, at the window. A second glance convinced her that he was the
tall Italian whom she had before seen.
She approached as closely as possible, and said, in a low tone, "What do
you require? what this strange proceeding?"
[Illustration]
"I am come to save you," answered Filippo, in a voice so low, that his
words were scarcely intelligible. "Do not be afraid--I am he who wrote
the warning letter, which----"
Without a moment's farther hesitation, Ellen gently raised the window.
"I am he who wrote the warning letter which you received at the
theatre," repeated Filippo. "Although ostensibly compelled to serve my
master, yet privately I counteract all his vile schemes to the utmost of
my power."
"I believe you--I trust you," said Ellen, overjoyed at the arrival of
this unlooked-for succour. "What would you have me do?"
"Tie the sheets of the bed together--fasten one end to the bed-post, and
throw the other outside," returned Filippo, speaking in a rapid whisper.
In less than a minute this was done; and Ellen once more assumed her
bonnet and shawl.
By the directions of Filippo she then stepped upon the window-sill: he
received her in his arms, and bore her in safety to the ground.
Then, taking the ladder on his shoulders, he desired her to follow him
without speaking a word.
They passed behind the house, and stopped for a moment at a stable where
Filippo deposited the ladder. He then led the way across a field
adjoining the garden that belonged to the house.
"Lady," said the Italian, when they were at some distance from the
dwelling, "if you consider that you owe me any gratitude for the service
I am now rendering you, all the recompense I require is strict silence
on your part with respect to the real mode of your escape."
"Rest well assured that I shall never betray you," answered Ellen. "But
how is it that so bad a man as your master can possess so honest and
generous a follower as you?"
"That, lady, is a mystery which it is by no means difficult to explain,"
replied Filippo. "Chosen by a noble-hearted lady, who by this time
doubtless enjoys a sovereign rank in another clime, to counteract the
villanies of Greenwood, I came to England; and fortunately I learnt that
he required a foreign valet. I applied for the situation and obtained
it. He believes me faithful, because I appear to enter heart and soul
into all his schemes; but I generally succeed eventually in defeating or
mitigating their evil effects upon others. This is the simple truth,
lady; and you must consider my confidence in you as implicitly sacred.
Any revelation--the slightest hint, on your part, would frustrate the
generous purposes of my mistress. And think not, lady, that I am merely
acting the part of a base spy:--I mean Mr. Greenwood no harm--I shall do
him none: all I aim at is the prevention of harm springing from his
machinations in regard to others. But we are now at the spot where a
vehicle waits to convey you back to London."
Filippo opened the door of a barn, which they had just reached; and the
cabman responded to his summons.
In a few minutes the vehicle was ready to depart. Ellen offered the
Italian a recompense for his goodness towards her; but he drew himself
up haughtily, and said, "Keep your gold, lady: I require no other reward
than _silence_ on your part."
He then handed Miss Monroe into the vehicle; and ordered the driver to
conduct the lady whithersoever she commanded him.
Ellen desired to be taken home to Markham Place; the Italian raised his
hat respectfully; and the cab drove rapidly away towards London.
Miss Monroe now began to reflect profoundly upon the nature of the
excuse which she should offer to her father and Richard Markham, to
account for her prolonged absence. We have before said that she had
ceased to shrink from a falsehood; and she had certain cogent reasons
for never associating her own name with that of Greenwood;--much less
would she acquaint her father or Richard with an outrage which would
only induce them to adopt means to punish its perpetrator, and thus
bring them in collision with him.
At length she resolved upon stating that she had been taken ill at a
concert where she had been engaged for the evening: this course would be
comprehended by Markham, who would only have to substitute the word
"theatre" for "concert" in his own imagination; and it would also
satisfy her father.
We need merely add to this episode in our eventful history, that Ellen
reached home safely at four o'clock in the morning, and that the excuse
was satisfactory to both Markham and her father, who were anxiously
awaiting her return.