Mr. Monroe had so far recovered from the malady into which the dread discovery of his daughter's dishonour had plunged him, as to be enabled to rise from his bed and sit by the fire in his chamber.
Ellen was constant in her attentions to the old man; and, with her child in her arms, did she keep him company.
By a strange idiosyncrasy of our nature, Mr. Monroe, instead of abhorring the sight of the infant which proclaimed his well-beloved daughter's shame, entertained the most ardent affection for the innocent cause of that disgrace; and he rapidly recovered health and spirits, as he sate contemplating that young unwedded mother nursing her sin-begotten babe.
Richard Markham pursued his studies, though rather for amusement than with any desire of gain, inasmuch as the money repaid him by Count Alteroni had once more restored him to a condition of comfort, although not of affluence.
His mind was far more easy and tranquil than it had wont to be; for he knew that he was beloved by Isabella; and, although she was a high-born princess of Europe, he felt convinced that no circumstances could alienate her affections from him.
One evening, when the year 1840 was about three weeks old, Whittingham introduced Mr. Gregory into our hero's library.
The countenance of that gentleman wore a melancholy expression;—his pace was sedate and solemn;—his voice was low and mournful. Markham was shocked when he beheld his altered appearance.
"Mr. Markham," said the visitor, as he seated himself at Richard's request, "you are, perhaps, surprised to see me here, especially after the manner in which we parted. I am come to demand a favour, and not to reproach you:—indeed, I have no right to use the word reproach towards you at all. You conducted yourself like an honourable man in respect to me: you taught my sons no lessons save those by which they have profited. If you erred in early life, you have no doubt repented;—and shall man dare to withhold that pardon which the Lord vouchsafes to all who implore it? I beheld your triumph at the theatre—would to God that nothing had sullied it! I beheld your fall—and I commisserated you. But before that there were reasons—cogent reasons which forbade me to continue the cultivation of your friendship; and as a man of honour and of good taste, you have not sought mine since we parted."
"Before you proceed farther," said Richard,—"for I see that you have some business of more or less importance to discuss with me,—allow me to inform you that I was not overpowered by guilt on that fatal night when I was so cruelly denounced at the theatre. The consciousness of crime did not strike me level with the dust. I fell beneath a reaction of feelings too powerful for human nature to struggle with. The proofs of my innocence——"