THE FATHER AND DAUGHTER.
It was nine o'clock in the morning.
Ellen was lying, pale and tearful, in her bed, by the side of which sate
her father.
The past night had worked a fearful change in the old man: his
countenance was haggard, his look desolate and forlorn.
At one moment his lips quivered as if with concentrated rage: at another
he wiped tears from his eyes.
Ellen watched him with the deepest interest.
"And you persist in refusing to acquaint me with the name of him who
has dishonoured you?" said the old man, in slow and measured terms.
"Oh! my dear father, why will you persist in torturing me?" exclaimed
Ellen. "Do you think that I have not suffered enough?"
"Oh! I can well believe that you have suffered, Ellen--suffered
profoundly," returned Monroe; "for you were reared in the ways of
virtue; and you could not have fallen into those of crime without a
remorse. Suffered! but how have I not suffered during the last few
hours! When I read that fearful secret, I became a madman. I had but two
ideas: my daughter was a mother, and her child's name was _Richard_!
What could I think? I went straight to the room where our benefactor was
sitting: I closed the door; I approached him, with the rage of a demon
in my breast, and I said, '_Villain! is my daughter's honour the price
of the hospitality which you have shown towards us?_' He was
thunderstruck; and I showed him the letter. He burst into tears,
exclaiming, '_Could you believe me capable of such infernal atrocity?_'
Then we reasoned together; we conversed upon the subject; and his noble
frankness of manner convinced me that I had erred--grossly erred! He
implored me to allow the night to pass ere I revealed to you the
appalling discovery which I had made: he dreaded the effects of my
excited state of mind; he thought that rest would calm me. But there was
no rest for me! I retired to my room; and there--when alone--I felt that
I could not endure meditation. I came to your chamber; and then--O God!
the doubt to which I had yet so fondly clung was dissipated."
"My dear father, if you knew all," said Ellen, weeping, "you would pity
me--oh! you would pity me! Do not think that I surrendered myself to him
who is the father of my child, in a moment of passion: do not imagine
that the weakness was preceded by affection on my part for him who led
me astray!"
"Unhappy girl, what mean you?" ejaculated Mr. Monroe. "Would you rob
yourself of the only plea of extenuation which woman in such a case can
offer? Speak, Ellen!"
"I will tell you all--that is, all I know," added Ellen, with a blush.
"You remember that when we returned to live in that horrible court in
Golden Lane, the second time we were reduced to poverty,--you remember
what fearful privations we endured! At length our misery reached a point
when it became intolerable; and one morning you set out with the
determination of seeking relief from the bounty of Richard Markham."
"I well remember it," said Monroe. "Proceed."
"You can then call to mind the circumstance of my absence when you
returned home to our miserable abode----"
"I do--I do: hours passed--I had gold--and you were absent!" ejaculated
the old man, with feverish impatience.
"And when I returned home--late--" continued Ellen, her voice scarcely
rising above a whisper, and her face, neck, and bosom suffused with
burning blushes, "did I not bring you gold also?"
"Merciful heavens!" cried Monroe, starting from his seat; "say no more,
Ellen--say no more--or I shall go mad! Oh, God! I comprehend it all! You
went and sold yourself to some libertine for gold!"
The old man threw himself into his daughter's arms, and wept bitterly.
"Father--dear father, calm yourself," said Ellen.
"I could not see you want--I had no faith in the success of your appeal
to him who has since been our benefactor--I thought that there was but
_one resource_ left;--but," she added, her eyes kindling with the fire
of pride, while her father sank back into his seat, "I call my God to
witness that I acted not thus for myself. Oh, no! death sooner should
have been my fate. But you, my dear father, you wanted bread; you were
starving; and that was more than I could bear! I sinned but once--_but
once_; and never, never have I ceased to repent of that fatal step--for
my one crime bore its fruit!"
Monroe was convulsed with grief. The tears trickled through the wrinkled
hands with which he covered his venerable countenance; his voice was
lost in agonising sobs, and all he could utter were the words: "Ellen,
my daughter, it is for me to ask pardon of you!"
"No, say not so, dear father--say not so!" ejaculated Miss Monroe,
throwing her arms around him, and kissing his forehead and his hands.
"No, my dear father, it was not your fault, if misery drove me to
despair. But now you perceive," she added, solemnly, "that I was more to
be pitied than to be blamed; and--and," she murmured, the falsehood at
such a moment almost suffocating her, "you understand why I cannot tell
you who was the father of my child!"
There was something so terrible in the idea that a young, virtuous, and
lovely girl had prostituted herself to the first unknown libertine who
had bid a price for her charms,--something so appalling to a father in
the thought that his only child had been urged by excess of misery and
profound affection for him, to such a dismal fate, that Monroe seemed to
sink under the blow!
For some time did his daughter vainly endeavour to solace him; and it
was only when she herself began to rave and beat her bosom with anguish
and in despair, that the old man was recalled to a sense of the
necessity of calming his almost invincible emotions.
The father and daughter were at length restored to partial tranquillity
by each other's endeavours at reciprocal consolation, and were
commingling their tears together, when the door opened.
Markham, followed by Marian, entered the room.
But what was the surprise of Mr. Monroe--what was the joy of Ellen, when
Marian advanced towards the bed, and presented the child to her mother!
"A parent must not be separated from her offspring," said Richard;
"henceforth, Ellen, that infant must be nurtured by thee."
"Oh! good, generous friend, my more than brother!" exclaimed Ellen, with
an ebullition of feeling that might almost be termed a wild paroxysm of
joy; and she pressed the infant to her bosom.
"Richard," said Mr. Monroe, "you possess the noblest soul that ever yet
blessed or adorned a human being."
Marian stooped over the bed, apparently to caress the sleeping infant,
but in reality to whisper these words in Ellen's ears:--"Fear nothing: I
was sent to fetch the child; and Mr. Wentworth will keep your secret
inviolably."
Ellen cast a look of profound gratitude upon Marian; for this welcome
announcement assured her that the surgeon would never admit the fact of
possessing any clue, direct or indirect, to the father of the babe which
she held in her arms.
In a few minutes, when she had recovered herself from the horrible alarm
that had filled her mind lest Markham had himself been to see Mr.
Wentworth, and had learnt that the father of the child was so far known
that he had engaged to furnish the means for its support,--in a few
minutes, we say, she turned to her father, and said: "Our benefactor's
goodness deserves every explanation from us; tell him the extent of my
misfortune--reveal to him the origin and cause of my shame--let nothing
be concealed."
"Ellen," said Richard, "I know all! Forgive me, but I reached the door
of your room when you were telling your sad tale to your father; and I
paused--because I considered that it was improper to interrupt you at
such a moment. And, if I overheard that affecting narrative, it was not
a mean curiosity which made me stop to listen--it was the deep interest
which I now more than ever feel in your behalf."
"And you do not despise me?" said Ellen, hanging down her head.
"Despise you!" ejaculated Richard, "I deeply sympathise with you! Oh,
no! you are not criminal; you are unfortunate. Your soul is pure and
spotless."
"But the world--what will the world think," said Ellen, "when I am seen
with this babe in my arms?"
"The world has not treated you so well, Ellen," returned Markham, "that
its smiles should be deeply valued. Let the world say what it will, it
would be unnatural--inhuman--to separate a mother from her child;
unless, indeed," he added, "it is your desire that that innocent should
be nursed among strangers."
"Oh, no--no!" exclaimed Ellen. "But my unhappy situation shall not
menace your tranquillity; nor shall the tongue of scandal gather food
from the fact of the residence of an unwedded mother beneath your roof.
I will retire, with my father, to some secluded spot----"
"Ellen," interrupted Markham, "were I to permit that arrangement, it
would seem as if I were not sincere in the interest and commiseration,
instead of the blame, which I ere now expressed concerning you. No:
unless you and your father be wearied of the monotonous life which you
lead with me, here will you both continue to dwell; and let the world
indulge in its idle comments as it will."
"Your benevolence finds a reason for every good deed which you
practise," said Ellen. "Ah! Richard, you should have been born a prince,
with a princely fortune: how many thousands would then have been
benefited by your boundless philanthropy."
"My own misfortunes have taught me to feel for those of others,"
answered Richard; "and if the world were more anxious than it is to
substitute sympathy for vituperation, society would not be the compound
of selfishness, slander, envy, and malignity, that it now is."
"It is settled, then, Richard," murmured Ellen, "that my babe shall
henceforth experience a mother's care!"
And Ellen covered her child with kisses and with tears.
At that moment the infant awoke; and a smile played over its innocent
countenance.
Ellen pressed it more closely and more fondly to her bosom.