The Mysteries of London (Vol. 1-4). George W. M. Reynolds
words, he seated himself upon the sofa by the side of the young lady, and took her hand. We cannot say that her tears had moved him—for his was a heart that was moved by nothing regarding another: but she had looked pretty as she wept, and as her eyes glanced through their tears towards him; and the apparent kindness of his manner was the mechanical impulse of the libertine.
"Oh! if you would only smile thus upon me—now and then—" murmured Ellen, gazing tenderly upon him—"how much of the sorrow of this life would disappear from before my eyes."
"How can one gifted with such charms as you be unhappy?" exclaimed Greenwood.
"What! do you imagine that beauty constitutes felicity?" cried Ellen, in an impassioned tone. "Are not the loveliest flowers exposed to the nipping frosts, as well as the rank and poisonous weeds? Do not clouds obscure the brightest stars, as well as those of a pale and sickly lustre? You ask me if I can be unhappy? Alas! it is now long—long since I knew what perfect happiness was! I need not tell you—you—how my father's fortune was swept away;—but I may detail to you the miseries which the loss of it raised up around him and me—and chiefly me!"
"But why dwell upon so sad a theme, Ellen? Did you come hither to divert me with a narrative of sorrows which must now be past, since—according to what I have heard—your father and yourself have found an asylum—"
"At Markham Place!" added Miss Monroe, emphatically. "Yes—we have found an asylum there—there, in the house of the individual whom my father's speculations and your agency—"
"Speak not of that—speak not of that, I conjure you!" hastily exclaimed Greenwood. "Tell me Ellen—tell me, you have not breathed a word to your father, nor to that young man—"
"No—not for worlds!" cried Ellen, with a shudder: then, after a pause, during which she appeared to reflect deeply, she said, "But you ask me why I wish to narrate to you the history of all the miseries I have endured for two long years, and upwards: you demand of me why I would dwell upon so sad a theme. I will tell you presently. You shall hear me first. But pray, be not impatient: I shall not detain you long;—and, surely—surely, you can spare an hour to one who is so very—very miserable."
"Speak, Ellen—speak!"
"The loss of our fortune plunged us into the most frightful poverty. We were not let down gradually from affluence to penury;—but we fell—as one falls from a height—abruptly, suddenly, and precipitately into the depths of want and starvation. The tree of our happiness lost not its foliage leaf by leaf: it was blighted in an hour. This made the sting so much more sharp—the heavy weight of misfortune so much less tolerable. Nevertheless, I worked, and worked with my needle until my energies were wasted, my eyes grew dim, and my health was sinking fast. Oh! my God, I only asked for work;—and yet, at length, I lost even that resource! Then commenced a strange kind of life for me."
"A strange kind of life, Ellen—what mean you?" exclaimed Greenwood, now interested in the recital.
"I sold myself in detail," answered Ellen, in a tone of the deepest and most touching melancholy.
"I cannot understand you," cried Greenwood. "Surely—surely your mind is not wandering!"
"No: all I tell you is unhappily too true," returned the poor girl, shaking her head; then, as if suddenly recollecting herself, she started from her thoughtful mood, and said, "You have a plaster of Paris image as large as life, in the window of your staircase?"
"Yes—it is a Diana, and holds a lamp which is lighted at night," observed Greenwood. "But what means that strange question—so irrelevant to the subject of our discourse?"
"More—more than you can imagine," answered Ellen, bitterly. "That statue explains one phase in my chequered life;"—then, sinking her tone almost to a whisper, grasping Greenwood's hand convulsively, and regarding him fixedly in the countenance, while her own eyes were suddenly lighted up with a strange wildness of expression, she added, "The face of your beautiful Diana is my own!"
Greenwood gazed upon her in speechless astonishment: he fancied that her reason was unhinged; and—he knew not why—he was afraid!
Ellen glanced around, and her eyes rested upon a magnificent picture that hung against the wall. The subject of this painting, which had no doubt struck her upon first entering that room, was a mythological scene.
Taking Greenwood by the hand, Ellen led him towards the picture.
"Do you see any thing that strikes you strangely there?" she said, pointing towards the work of art.
"The scene is Venus rising from the ocean, surrounded by nereids and nymphs," answered Greenwood.
"And you admire your picture much?"
"Yes—much; or else I should not have purchased it."
"Then have you unwittingly admired me," exclaimed Ellen; "for the face of your Venus is my own!"
Greenwood gazed earnestly upon the picture for a few moments; then, turning towards Ellen, he cried, "True—it is true! There are your eyes—your mouth—your smile—your forehead—your very hair! How strange that I never noticed this before. But—no—it is a dream: it is a mere coincidence! Tell me—how could this have taken place;—speak—is it not a mere delusion—an accidental resemblance which you noticed on entering this room?"
"Come with me," said Ellen in a soft and melancholy tone.
Still retaining him by the hand, she led him into the landing place communicating with the drawing-room and leading to the stairs.
A magnificent marble statue of a female, as large as life, stood in one corner. The model was naked down to the waist, one hand gracefully sustaining the drapery which enveloped the lower part of the form.
"Whence did you obtain that statue!" demanded Ellen, pointing towards the object of her inquiry.
"The ruin of a family long reputed rich, caused the sale of all their effects," answered Greenwood; "and I purchased that statue, amongst other objects of value which were sold, for a mere trifle."
"The lady has paid dearly for her vanity!" cried Ellen: "her fate—or rather the fate of her statue is a just reward for the contempt, the scorn—the withering scorn with which she treated me, when I implored her to take me into her service."
"What do you mean, Ellen?"
"I mean that the bust of your marble statue is my own," answered the young lady, casting down her eyes, and blushing deeply.
"Another enigma!" cried Greenwood.
They returned to the drawing-room, and returned their seats upon the sofa.
A long pause ensued.
"Will you tell me, Ellen," at length exclaimed Greenwood, deeply struck by all he had heard and seen within the last half hour—"will you tell me, Ellen, whether you have lost your reason, or I am dreaming?"
"Lost my reason!" repeated Ellen, with fearful bitterness of tone; "no—that were perhaps a blessing; and naught save misery awaits me!"
"But the image—the picture—and the statue?" exclaimed Greenwood impatiently.
"They are emblems of phases in my life," answered Ellen. "I told you ere now that my father and myself were reduced to the very lowest depths of poverty. And yet we could not die;—at least I could not see that poor, white-haired, tottering old man perish by inches—die the death of starvation. Oh! no—that was too horrible. I cried for bread—bread—bread! And there was one—an old hag—you know her—"
"Go on—go on."
"Who offered me bread—bread for myself, bread for my father—upon strange and wild conditions. In a word I sold myself in detail."
"Again that strange phrase!" ejaculated Greenwood.