Mrs. Bantom was now all the other way. She was only too delighted to catch at the very smallest assurance of Lotte’s innocence, and she over and over again expressed her readiness and desire to be of service to her, and, in truth, she afforded her assistance she could not have dispensed with, inasmuch as the good lady had recently presented her husband with a tenth blessing, and she was, therefore, able to take the child of Helen Grahame, and nourish it as her own.
At the expiration of a fortnight, Lotte had sufficiently recovered, by care and self-attention, her strength, and, by the aid and help of Bantom, to instal herself once more in an apartment of her own—in a house, which, by the way, she satisfied herself was strongly built, and not likely to tumble down as soon as she took possession. She had, also, so far recovered her position, that the persons by whom (through the instrumentality of Flora Wilton) she had been formerly employed gave her again, upon application, so much work that she was enabled to employ an assistant, who could undertake the part of wet nurse as well, for Lotte would not part with the custody of Helen’s child under any advice, suggestion, or proposal.
She had heard nothing of Helen. She was wholly at a loss to conjecture what had become of her, and she meditated one evening a visit to her house in the Park, with a hope that she might gain some tidings of her.
With her brother as yet she had not communicated, but she had contrived, through Bantom—who, in his homely way, would perform any meed of service for her with the greatest cheerfulness, though he was not altogether a safe agent to employ on secret service—to ascertain that he was well, though perplexed and grieved at her mysterious absence.
All this time, had she thought of Mark Wilton?
Ah, yes! Not with any notion of a love-passage ever occurring between them during the vicissitudes and trials of her patiently endured life of toil, because, whenever such vision presented itself before her, she chased it away, as a mockery, a delusion, and a snare. No; she thought not of him as a lover in anticipation. She did not even think, in her heart, that he looked upon her in any other way than in a spirit of kindness—with perhaps more earnestness than men commonly look upon a pleasant female face. But she thought of him as one whom she would, of all men in the world, have soonest chosen to be her life-companion. Their stations being widely apart, she knew, or thought she knew, that an event so instinct with happiness could never, never come to pass.
She would sometimes squeeze her hands together, and sigh very deeply—some would say bitterly—as she ejaculated—
“How happy I am to think we do not meet! How very happy I ought to be that I do not see him often—I should so love him. And she who wins him, how beneficent will Heaven be to her.”
One evening, alone with the child, as she sat bending over it caressingly, and thinking thus, Mark Wilton stood before her.
She uttered a faint cry and rose to her feet. She knew not whether to welcome him frankly, or to wait until he spoke.