Ellen made no reply: but her countenance wore so singular an expression, that her father was alarmed.
"My dearest daughter," he exclaimed, "you have no longer any hope! I see by your looks that you despair! God knows that we have encountered enough to teach us to place but little reliance upon the smiles of fortune: nevertheless, let us not banish hope altogether from our bosoms! To-morrow we shall leave this dismal abode, and repair to the house of our young benefactor, Markham."
"Markham!" cried Ellen, the very name appearing to arouse agonizing emotions in her mind: "have you promised Mr. Richard Markham that we will reside with him?"
"Yes, dearest Ellen; and in so doing I had hoped to give thee pleasure. You have known each other from infancy. Methinks I see thee now, a little child, climbing up that hill in company with Richard and his brother——"
"His brother!" repeated Ellen, a cold shudder passing over her entire frame.
"My dearest girl, you are not well," said the old man; and, pouring some wine into a glass, he added, "drink this, Ellen; it will revive thee."
The young lady partook of the exhilarating beverage, and appeared refreshed. Her father and herself then seated themselves at the table, and partook of the meal.
Ellen ate but little. She was pensive and melancholy; and every now and then her countenance wore an expression of supreme horror, which denoted intense agony of feeling within her bosom. She, however, contrived to veil from her father's eyes much of the anguish which she thus experienced; and the old man's features were animated with a gleam of joy, as he sate by the cheerful fire and talked to his daughter of brighter prospects and happier days.
On the following morning they took leave of those rooms in which they had experienced so much misery, and repaired to the dwelling of Richard Markham.