CHAPTER I. THE FRIENDLESS BEGGAR.
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It was Christmas eve, that happy period for the young
who have parents above the wants and miseries of griping
poverty, and notwithstanding a heavy snow was falling, the
streets of the goodly city of Philadelphia were thronged
with joyous citizens, many of them returning to their
cheerful firesides, loaded with toys, which were to greet
the eyes of the happy children, when they should awake on
the morrow, as the mysterious presents of fabled St. Nicholas.
It was a gala time to all but the homeless and destitute;
and, alas! there are too many such, who, with fevered
eyes, can only look upon the happiness of others through
that deep veil of hopeless gloom which shuts out every
cheerful ray. To such poor wretches it was a time of open
mockery; for they keenly felt that but one tithe of what
was now so freely spent for foolish toys, would have provided
them against the pangs of starvation and death.
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It is an awful thing for one to die of cold and hunger in
the midst of plenty; but such, we grieve to say, is too often
the case; while merchants on change count their profits by
thousands, and their wives and daughters roll in their carriages,
and flaunt their silks along our fashionable thoroughfares.
Must it always be so? is there no remedy? Great God,
forbid! We subscribe money to send missionaries to the
heathen, to convert them. Convert them to what? To
Christianity! Yet Christianity allows the heathen in her
own country, within the sound of the bells of her sacred
churches, to die of starvation. We talk of the slaves at
the South, and get up meetings of sympathy and condolence;
yet leave the slaves at the North—white and black—
freemen in name, but slaves to poverty and vice—to die
friendless and unpitied. Is this right? Have you, sir—
or you, madam—who step proudly within the portals of the
church, and sit luxuriously on cushioned seats, and offer up
musk-scented prayers to the Throne of the Omnipotent—
have you no feelings of humanity? have you no thought
for your poor brothers and sisters, who lie gasping in
wretchedness? If not, then do not longer insult Heaven
by uttering hypocritical prayers; for He who will sit in
judgment upon your acts, will say to you:
“The tree is known by its fruits. I was an hungered,
and ye gave me no meat; I was thirsty, and ye gave me
no drink; I was a stranger, and ye took me not in; naked,
and ye clothed me not; sick, and in prison, and ye visited
me not. Depart! I know ye not; for as ye did it not to
one of the least of these, (your poor brothers and sisters,)
ye did it not to me.”
Perhaps you will say, with a self-satisfied air:
“My conscience is easy, for I know of no poor that I
can relieve.”
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Very well, then, if such be the case, follow the tracings
of our pen, and we will show you objects worthy of charity—
human beings wallowing in wretchedness—who, by a little
judicious assistance and counsel, may yet be snatched
from the jaws of mortal death, and that second death which
is a thousand fold worse than the first.
We have said that the streets were thronged with happy
citizens, going to and fro, on that snowy Christmas eve
which opens our story. But there was one abroad, in one
of the main thoroughfares, who, like our Master of old,
knew not where to lay her head. This was a mere child—
a little girl, of perhaps ten years of age—who, thinly clad,
almost barefoot, was stealing along, with tearful eyes and
pitiful look, unconscious whither her steps were tending—
nor caring, so she might find some good Samaritan who
would shelter her for the night and give her food. More
than once was she rudely jostled and put aside by purse-proud,
anxious passengers; and more than once was her
thin dress brushed by rustling silks; yet not one paused to
give her a kind word, or direct one look of sympathy to her
sorrowful face. Poor child! May God protect you! for
mankind seem to have no bowels of compassion.
At last the poor little thing, weary and discouraged,
stopped under a lamp, and looked tremblingly around her.
On either side of her was a row of fine dwellings, and she
fancied there might be hearts in some of them that would
take pity upon her. At this moment a man passed, well
buttoned up in a warm overcoat; and catching his eye, and
fancying there was something benevolent in the expression,
the little girl impulsively made a step forward, and holding
out her thin hand and half-naked arm, said, falteringly:
“Please, sir, will you give me a trifle?”
Now this man had what is called a kind heart; and had
he known how painfully a little charity was needed, he
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would have stopped, doubtless, and bestowed upon her a
silver coin; but it was snowing; his thickly padded overcoat
was snugly buttoned; and so, making a feint to feel
in his pocket, he answered:
“I have no change, my little girl.”
As he passed on, two large, hot tears—for the tears were
hot if the child was cold—rolled down her pale, wan face;
and covering it with her hands, she drew back, and leaned
against the lamp-post for support.
While standing thus, the door of a house in front of her
was opened, and a gentleman came out upon the steps, and
deliberately spread an umbrella, while another appeared
just within, holding the door with one hand.
“It is snowing finely,” said the first; “and if it keeps
on this way through the night, we shall have fine sleighing
to-morrow. By-the-by, Deacon, if there should be a good
fall of snow, would you like a drive with me out to the
Wissahiccon?”
“Thank you,” answered the other, in a smooth, oily
tone; “I should like it very much in the afternoon. In
the morning, you know, I must attend Divine service, and
put in my mite to aid the poor—God help them!”
“Ah! true!” said the first; “we should not forget the
poor at this season of festivity; and as I may not get down
to hear the sermon, I will commission you to put in my mite
for me.”
As he spoke, he drew from his pocket two half-dollars,
which he handed to the Deacon, who thanked him in the
name of the poor, and promised to deposit them, on the day
following, in the charity box of the church in which he
worshipped.
“Well,” continued the one with the umbrella, “should
the day be fine, and good sleighing, I will call for you at
three o'clock.”
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“Very well—that will suit—and thank you too.”
“Good night, Deacon Pinchbeck.”
“Good night, friend Parker—good night.”
The gentleman with the umbrella walked hastily away,
and Deacon Pinchbeck backed in and closed the door.
The little girl, whom neither of these persons had noticed,
and who had heard every word of the conversation
reported, thought, simple soul, that the house of such a
pious man would be the place to solicit charity; and so,
after some tremblings and misgivings, she summoned the
resolution which attends despair, ventured up the marble
steps, and gave a slight ring. The Deacon, who was still
in the entry, exchanging some words with his wife, who was
up stairs, did not wait for the servant, but answered the
bell himself.
“Well,” he said, harshly, as his eye fell upon the miserable
object who stood trembling before him, partly with
cold and partly with fear—for she was not a beggar by
profession, and felt very timid: “well, what do you want?”
His voice was no longer soft and oily, but more like a
file going across the teeth of a saw.
“Ple-a-a-se, sir,” chattered the little girl, “I'm very
hungry.”
“Hungry, are you?” returned the pious Deacon, with
holy horror: “why don't you go home, then, and not be
out at this time of night, ringing gentlemen's door-bells?
Have you not been told never to put your feet on these
steps, you miserable creature? Eh! come, speak! have you
never been told to keep away from here?”
“N-n-no, sir,” stammered the girl, bursting into tears—
“I never was here before.”
“Then you are a new one, eh? one of the new beggarly
impostors, are you? Well, come in here, till I teach you
a lesson.”
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The child, much frightened, drew back, and would have
darted down the steps, but the Deacon caught hold of her,
and said:
“Not so fast, my little thief—not so fast; you don't
escape me this way.” Then seeing some one approaching
along the street, he added, in a milder tone, but one that
could be heard at a greater distance: “Come in, my poor
child! come in, and I will see what I can do for you.”
Reassured by the change of his voice, and seeing no alternative,
the little girl entered the house, and the Deacon
closed the door. He then bade her follow him into the
back-parlor, which was handsomely furnished, and lighted
with gas, with a cheerful coal fire burning in the grate and
sending out a pleasant heat. A fat little boy, with rather
coarse, impudent features, sat on a cricket, near the fire,
with his hands locked over his knees, and a sleek, tabby
cat purring in his lap. A large stuffed rocking-chair stood
in the centre of the apartment; and throwing himself into
this, the Deacon, in an authoritative tone, bade his trembling
captive advance to his side, where she underwent a
very rigid and contemptuous scrutiny.
She was one of those unfortunate beings whom we can
only liken to a frost-nipped flower—beautiful by nature,
but withered and faded by the chilling air of adversity.
She was, as we have before remarked, about ten years of
age—but small and slender—and now, alas! thin and
wasted, for want of the necessaries of life. Her face was
not clean—neither were her hands; but she only needed
washing, feeding, and dressing, with kind words and gentle
smiles, to have made her a beauty of which the most fastidious
could have been proud. Her features were pretty,
but soiled and haggard. She had a straight nose, a prim
little mouth, with even, pearly teeth, and gentle, expressive
blue eyes. A ragged hood partially covered her head, the
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hair of which was light, and fell down the sides of her face
and neck in disorder, being uncombed and matted. A thin,
ragged gown, one sleeve of which was gone above the elbow,
with a draggling under garment, old slip shod shoes,
both too large and unmated, and a black, faded, moth-eaten
shawl, of small dimensions and coarse stuff, completed her
attire. This apology for a shawl she drew close around
her person, and endeavored to keep her naked arm concealed
under it. She was indeed an object of striking interest
to the true philanthropist.
Marked was the contrast between this poor child of sorrow,
and the rich, fat, pious Deacon Pinchbeck, and his
hopeful son and heir. The Deacon was a man on the shady
side of forty, very plump, like one who lives well, but
neither tall nor graceful. His face had an oily look; but
the expression could be harsh and cold enough when he
wished. The eyes were a light gray, shrewd, and rather
small; the nose short, angular, and turned up at the end;
the mouth large and sensual, and the cheeks plump and
fresh. He had scarcely any eyebrows, and his forehead
was what some would term intellectual; but it was not so
in reality; for the Deacon knew very little beyond certain
long prayers, certain stereotyped pious sayings, and how to
get money and keep it. The forehead, it is true, looked
well to one who had no idea of the noble science of phrenology.
It looked high, because the Deacon was a little
bald; and it looked oily, because the Deacon fed well;
but from the base to the crown, it had a very unintellectual
slope; and the place where the organs of veneration
and benevolence should have been, was so flat, that the
good man might have set a pail of water there and carried
it with very little difficulty. Of course the Deacon dressed
well, in dark broadcloth; and to look more sanctified, if
not ministerial, he wore round his neck a white cravat,
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without collar. He was fawning and sycophantic to the
rich, full of cant to the pious, but a regular tyrant to those
whom he could oppress with impunity.
He was of vulgar extraction—id est—what the fashionable
term vulgar. His father was a drunkard, and his mother
took in washing. His mother was still living in
poverty, which speaks volumes for the baseness of his
heart. In his early life he had been a pedlar; and what
with cheating and stealing—for more than once, in buying
his wares, he had pilfered from an honest salesman—he
had scraped together a sum of money that had enabled him
to purchase a grocery. In this business, for ten years, he
was so prosperous, owing to false weights, over charges,
etcetera, that at last he sold out, at an enormous profit,
and turned usurer. His plan of doing business now was
very simple. For instance, he had the money, and you
wanted it: in fact you were so situated that you must have
it. Very well. Mr. Absalom Pinchbeck—he was not a
Deacon in those days—would not charge you any more interest
than the law allowed: Oh! no—not he. But you
could give him your note, with a good endorser, or good
real estate security, for a hundred dollars, with interest,
payable at six months, and Mr. Pinchbeck would count
you down seventy-five dollars. All fair, you see; and if
you wanted a larger sum, it could be done at the same
rate; sometimes, perhaps, if you were not too much distressed,
at a better rate. Well, suppose you gave him a
mortgage on your property, and by some misfortune could
not meet his demand at the proper time; why, Mr. Pinchbeck
could not find it convenient to renew your note; but
he would do something better—for himself. He would
kindly sell your property for you, secure his debt, and perhaps
bid it in for one-half its real value.
In this latter way Mr. Pinchbeck got to owning houses
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and lands, and then he thought it time to marry. He found
a widow who had managed to put two husbands under the
turf, and he paid his addresses to her. She was larger
than himself, and somewhat older; but she had some property,
and very winning ways, and so Mr. Pinchbeck proposed.
She knew him to be rich, and she accepted. In
private she turned out to be a perfect shrew; but as she
always had honeyed words for him in company, this could
be borne. Sometimes, in a pet, she boxed his ears, or
kicked him out of bed; but as Mr. Pinchbeck generally
succeeded in cheating somebody soon after, he put this
down to good luck—equivalent to throwing an old shoe
after him. He really feared her more than he did his
God; but he took care to keep this a secret, and always
spoke of her as his dear wife, dear angel, and so forth.
Being at last married and prosperous, and blessed with
a son, who inherited his mother's temper and his father's
meanness, Absalom Pinchbeck thought it would be for his
interest to join the church. His wife, who had some idea
of respectability and fashion, thought so too; and so they
both got religion together—or said they did, at least—and
were made members of a church which had a high steeple,
a good sounding bell, carpeted aisles, and cushioned seats.
Mr. Pinchbeck being very devoted and rich, and his wife
rather good-looking and fashionable, he was thought worthy
of the office, and was accordingly chosen a Deacon.
Now the Deacon never alluded to his past life and his poor
mother, and there were but few of his present acquaintances
who knew his history. There were, however, some
who did, and who, if made angry, would throw it up to
him; but the Deacon would piously roll up his eyes, and
exclaim, with a sigh, that the Lord had been very kind to
His poor, humble servant—which was doubtless true,
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seeing he was yet out of that nameless place which such deacons
deserve.
“Well,” said the Deacon, after a long and severe scrutiny
of his trembling prisoner, “so you pretend to be a
new impostor, do you?”
“Please, sir, let me go, and I'll never come here again,”
returned the frightened child, beginning to cry.
“Hum! you want to go, do you?” rejoined the Deacon;
“you are very anxious to get away, are you? that looks
suspicious. Nelson, (to the little boy,) attend! Mark
what now takes place! I intend, my son, that you shall
one day be a great lawyer; and great lawyers, my son,
have to cross-question witnesses. Now your father is going
to question, and cross-question, this little impostor;
and you will be able to learn something useful. We should
always endeavor to pick up knowledge wherever we can,
my son—at least such knowledge as will make us great in—
in—a—ah—the world.”
“Go ahead, dad,” answered the juvenile prodigy.
“So you came here to steal, did you?” continued the
Deacon to the little girl.
“Oh! no, sir!” was the frightened answer.
“Not exactly to steal yourself, perhaps, but to lay a
plan for others. You see I know all about such creatures
as you. What have you got in your hand, that you keep
it hid under that rag of a shawl?”
“Nothing, sir.”
“Let me see!”
The child showed her hand, and with it her naked arm.
“What have you done with the putty, or whatever you
use, for taking impressions of locks? Ha! you see I
know your tricks—so own up.”
“I haven't got any putty, sir.”
“But you had.”
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“No, sir, I never had any.”
“No stories now—you know you had.”
“No, sir, I never had any putty, and I don't know what
you mean.”
“You see what story-tellers these things are, Nelson—
they can't tell the truth.”
“If I's you, dad, I'd switch her—that 'ud fetch her.”
“Perhaps I shall before I'm done, if she don't answer
me better. Do you know, you creature, that I could put
you in prison, for coming here to steal?”
“But I didn't come here to steal—indeed, indeed, I
didn't!” cried the poor child.
“Why didn't you come in the day-time then? or why
did you come here at all?”
“I was so hungry, sir.”
“Hungry, were you? Indeed! Are you hungry now?”
“Yes, sir—some—not much.”
“Ha! I see you can't tell a straight story. Where do
you live?”
“I haven't any home, sir.”
“Come! that's likely! if you go on in this way, I shall
take Nelson's advice and switch you.”
“I guess if dad switches you once, you'll be glad to tell
the truth,” said the boy, putting down the cat, and getting
up. “Let's see your face;” and coming up close to her,
he pinched her arm.
The unfortunate child uttered a cry of pain, and drew
back.
“Stop!” said the father; “don't you attempt to correct
her, Nelson—you are too young. Come, you beggar—tell
me where you live, this minute!”
“I don't live any where, sir. I used to live with an old
woman, down by the river—but she beat me so, I had to
leave her.”
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“So! you're a runaway, eh?”
“I ran away from her, sir.”
“I ought to take you back there, I suppose—for it's the
duty of good citizens to return all the runaways they find.
What did she beat you for?”
“I don't know, sir—I always minded her.”
“You were a bad girl, I suppose. What is your name?”
“Ellen, sir.”
“Ellen what?”
“Ellen Norbury.”
“Ellen Norbury, eh? Hum! Have you got a father?”
“No, sir.”
“Never had one, may be;” and the witty Deacon laughed
at his coarse joke, and his hopeful son joined in—not because
he understood the inuendo, but because he thought
it proper to laugh when his father did. “Never had a
father, eh?” pursued the inquisitor.
“Yes, sir;” and the recollection caused little Ellen to
sob hysterically.
“What became of him?”
“He died, sir.”
“Hum! Well, have you got a mother?”
“No, sir—she's dead too.”
“What did your father do for a living?”
“He was an artist, sir.”
“Where did he live?”
“In Dublin, sir.”
“Did he never live in this country?”
“No, sir—he died on the voyage over.”
“Did your mother live here?”
“A little while, sir.”
“What did she do for a living?”
“After father died, she made shirts.”
“Where did she live?”
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“Down near the river, sir.”
“How long has your father been dead?”
“Over two years, sir.”
“How long has your mother been dead?”
“Most two years, sir.”
“Where have you been living since?”
“With the old woman who lived in the same house with
my mother.”
“What's her name?”
Ellen hesitated, and the Deacon repeated the question.
“I don't like to tell, sir.”
“Why?'
“Because you might take me back.”
“No, I shan't trouble myself so much about you: in fact,
I believe all you have told me is false. When did you run
away?”
“Day before yesterday, sir.”
“Where did you sleep last night?”
“I crawled into an old shed, and laid on some straw.”
“Where do you expect to sleep to-night?”
“I don't know, sir.”
“Hum! a pretty pack of lies, I'll be bound.”
At this moment the door opened, and the stately Mrs.
Pinchbeck sailed in, dressed in silk. She was a large woman,
and, in her younger days, had probably been good
looking; but her features now were coarse, and a near inspection
showed the crow's-feet around her small, keen
eyes, notwithstanding a pretty free use of cosmetics. Her
hair and teeth were false, her eyebrows pencilled, and her
large flabby cheeks painted. Still, by gas-light, she was as
passably comely as could be expected of a woman verging
on fifty, who had spent a good portion of her time in fashionable
dissipation.
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“What is it, my love? what is going on here?” she inquired,
addressing her now uneasy lord.
“Why, my angel,” answered the latter, with a look that
showed he had some fears of how the intelligence might be
received, “this is a little beggar wretch, who had the impudence
to ring our bell, my dear, and I brought her in here
to give her a lesson.”
“Indeed!” said the lady, her little eyes snapping with
anger: “how dare you bring such a creature into my parlor—
into my presence—with all her dirt and filth? I'll
teach you a lesson, Deacon Absalom Pinchbeck;” and advancing
to her trembling spouse, she bestowed upon his
organ of hearing a most unlady-like Christmas box—a box,
in fact, that caused him to leave his seat sideways, with
tears in his eyes.
She then sailed up to the corner of the fire-place, and
rung the kitchen bell.
“Catharine,” she said to the servant, with a disdainful
air, pointing to little Ellen, “show this bundle of rags into
the street.”
Poor little Ellen was only too glad to escape; and when
the cold pierced her thin garments, and the snow fell upon
her, and the door closed behind her, she drew a long sigh
of relief.
Poor child!
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CHAPTER II. NEW ADVENTURES.
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After the rude treatment she had received at the house
of Deacon Pinchbeck, little Ellen felt no disposition to
make further application for relief in that apparently inhospitable
quarter. Fearful of she scarcely knew what,
she hurried, like a guilty thing, to the street that crossed
the one that she was in, and, with a frightened look behind
her, turned the corner, and pursued her way with hasty
steps. Soon she turned into another street, not so respectable
in appearance, and poorly lighted. She knew not
where she was, or whither she was going; but believing she
was now safe from pursuit—for she thought it not unlikely
that the pious Deacon might get some one to follow her—
she slackened her pace, and gazed around her with a feeling
of despair. She was very weak and faint, for she had
not tasted food but once during the day; and then a kind-hearted
baker, to whom she had applied, had given her a
small roll and a cake. Still she dragged herself through the
snow, already some inches deep, and at length turned into
a darker and poorer street—a street, in fact, where beings
lived but little better off than herself. Had she asked for
charity here, doubtless she would have received it; for it
is a well established truth—and a crying shame it is, that
it is true—that the poor are kinder and more generous to
the distressed, than those who live in luxury.
Little Ellen, however, had resolved to make no further
application for assistance. She was completely
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discouraged, and thought she might as well die as live on in hopeless
misery. She did not dread death, otherwise than
through those instincts of nature which cause all animated
creatures to cling to life; and so coming to an old step,
which led up to the decaying door of an old, rickety house,
she stopped, and sat down beside it, believing this night
would be her last on earth. Closely drawing her shawl
around her, she offered up a simple prayer, imploring the
protection of the Deity who is omnipresent.
An hour passed away, and the constantly falling snow
had thrown a white mantle over our little adventurer, and
yet she sat motionless as a rock. At first she felt pain in
her body and limbs, from the cold; but a kind of numbness
gradually succeeded; and then a quiet, easy drowsiness,
each moment leading deeper into a state of unconsciousness,
as when one sinks gently into the arms of sleep.
During the time mentioned, not a soul passed her, and
nothing had occurred to rouse her mind from the deadening
influences of the wintry air; but now, half waking and
half sleeping, she became conscious of approaching footsteps;
and rousing herself a little, she descried the figure
of a man hurrying along the deserted street. She had no
intention of speaking to him, or of attracting his notice;
but the slight movement she made to get a view of him,
caused a sudden pang to shoot through her breast, and involuntarily
she uttered a sharp cry of pain. The man,
who was nearly abreast of her, started, stopped, looked
hurriedly around, and, getting a glimpse of her person,
said, somewhat gruffly:
“Who are you? and what are you doing here?”
To this little Ellen made no reply, hoping he would pass
on and leave her to her fate; but instead, he came close
up to her, and repeated his question.
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“I was tired, sir,” answered Ellen, in a trembling voice,
“and sat down here to rest.”
“But you'll freeze to death here, child—better git up
and go home.”
“I have no home to go to,” continued Ellen, beginning
to cry.
“No home?” said the man, in a tone of surprise;
“that's not a very likely story. You've got some place to
go to—you don't live in the streets, do you?”
“I don't want to go back to the old woman I lived with,
sir,” replied little Ellen, “because she would beat me—
may be kill me.”
“Well, then, may be you'd like to come with me. I
haven't got much of a home, but it's better than sleeping
in the streets.”
“I am afraid I should be a trouble to you,” hesitated
Ellen.
“Oh, come along, my little gal—we'll talk about that
there arterwards.”
There was something kind in his tone; and as he spoke,
he stooped down and lifted Ellen upon her feet. But she
was so weak, from want of food, and so benumbed with the
cold, that it was only with great difficulty she could stand.
Perceiving this, the man muttered something that Ellen
did not hear; and throwing an arm around her slender
waist, he lifted her easily from the ground, and set forward.
He continued down this dark, narrow street till he
came to one which crossed it at right angles; and turning
up the latter, about twenty yards, he stopped beside an old
house, from which issued boisterous sounds of many voices,
mingled with the squeaking of a fiddle, and the shuffling
of feet as of persons engaged in a dance.
“They're having a high time in there,” said the man;
“but we'll not jine 'em. Think you can walk a little
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now?” he inquired, again placing little Ellen on her
feet.
“Oh, yes, sir—thank you!” answered the child, who
felt her heart swelling with gratitude at the kindness the
other displayed.
“Well, then, give us your hand, and don't be afeard,”
was the rejoinder of the man, as he turned into a dark,
narrow passage, between two old houses—so dark that
nothing could be seen, and so narrow that two persons
could not go abreast.
From this passage, which was closed overhead by the
two old houses joining, little Ellen, following her guide,
emerged into a sort of court, whence she could once more
look up to the heavens. Just before her she could barely
perceive another old building, with here and there a ray of
light streaming through a crevice, showing that it was inhabited.
Under this, on one side, was another narrow
passage, similar to the one she had just passed through;
and this, like the other, emerged into a small opening,
with another old building just beyond. Turning short
round the building, Ellen's strange guide now descended a
flight of old steps, and rapped on the door of an underground
apartment.
“Is that you, Jim?” inquired a female voice from
within.
“Yes, Mag, it's me; come, hurry and open the door.”
There was a sound of shoving bolts; and the door,
swinging gratingly back, admitted the man and Ellen into
a small, square, damp apartment. The room, however, to
the eyes of little Ellen, who gazed curiously around, had
some appearance of comfort. It was small; but in one
corner stood a bed, occupying about one-third of the space,
and a rush mat covered a portion of the ground, and served
for a floor. There were two or three chairs, and a small
-- 041 --
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deal table; and against the wall, near the door, stood a
large chest, which served both for a seat and cupboard for
holding dishes and victuals. In the large fire-place was
an old tin kettle, set up on some bricks, and used in lieu of a
stove. Some scraps of iron, laid across near the top, supported
the coals; while some holes in the side, near the bottom,
admitted the air underneath for draught. A good coal
fire was burning in this, with a frying pan on top, containing
three good-sized slices of ham, the savory odor of which
made the appetite of little Ellen feel very keen. On the
deal table, without cloth, were a few dishes, some salt in a
broken bottle, and a loaf of bread. Besides the fire, a
lighted tallow candle, stuck in the nose of a bottle, stood
on the mantle-piece; and by the light of this, after glancing
at what we have described, Ellen surveyed the features
and persons of the two beings in whose company she had
been thrown by a singular freak of fortune.
The man was about thirty-five years of age, of stout
build, with a face not very prepossessing. His complexion
was light, but weather-beaten, and he had reddish hair and
sandy whiskers. His eyes were of a pale, faded hue, of a
rather sinister expression, and rested upon every object
with a kind of suspicious glance, which seemed to be as
much the result of habit as nature. He was evidently one
not at peace with the world, whose conscience was not exactly
at ease, and who regarded the generality of mankind
as his enemies. He was coarsely but warmly dressed, and
on the whole had rather a rough appearance.
The woman might have been a few years his junior, and
had the look of a faded beauty. Her appearance was that
of one, who, early in life, had commenced a fatal career of
dissipation, and whose constitution was already broken and
fast sinking under the effects of bad liquor and a loathsome
vice. Her eyes, once dark, bright and expressive, were
-- 042 --
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now somewhat dull and swollen, and her face was both
pock-marked and bloated. Still she seemed to have some
pride, for her dress of faded silk was tidy, her hair was
kept in order, and there was a look of cleanliness about
her person.
“Well,” said the man, throwing himself upon a seat,
“I'm glad to see you've got supper under way, Mag, for
I'm as hungry as I'm tired. Anybody been here?”
“Jake Allen was here about an hour ago, and wanted to
see you—he said he'd be in again in the course of the
evening. But who've you brought home with you, Jim?”
continued the woman, taking a keen survey of little Ellen,
who seemed to shrink under her observation.
“Well, that's more'n I know,” answered the other;
“but she's somebody the world haint used very well, I
reckon; for I found her planted down by an old door
step, as if she'd concluded to make a die on't.”
“She's got pretty features,” said Margaret, “and these
may make a fortune for her one of these days. Come
here, my little girl,” she continued, in a kindly tone, “and
don't be afraid—nobody 'll hurt you here.”
“Thank you, ma'am,” returned the unfortunate child;
and as she spoke, the tears, which she strove to restrain,
gushed out of her eyes.
“What's your name?” questioned the woman.
“Ellen Norbury, ma'am,” replied the child, advancing to
the other, who was holding out her hand.
“And a very pretty name it is,” was the kind rejoinder.
“Where do you live?”
“I don't live anywhere now, ma'am; I used to live with
an old woman down by the river; but she beat me so every
day, that I couldn't stay, and so I ran away.”
“Hav'nt you got any father or mother?”
“No, ma'am—they're both dead.”
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“Poor child!” said the other, in a tone of so much real
compassion, that little Ellen again burst into tears.
The woman looked at her steadily and sorrowfully for a
few moments, and involuntarily sighed—that sigh was
given to the memory of happy days, and showed that the
germ of something good was still in her heart, though
buried deep, perhaps, under long years of vice and crime.
“Well,” she resumed, “if you've no home, you shall
live with me for the present—that is, if you think you'd
like to.”
“Oh, yes, ma'am, and thank you too,” responded Ellen,
with a gleam of joy; “and I'll work hard for you, and do
everything you ask me to.”
“Well, take off your hood and shawl, and warm yourself,
for you must be cold. Are you hungry?”
“Yes, ma'am, very hungry.”
“Poor child!” sighed Margaret again; “you shall soon
have some supper;” and she turned away to attend to the
meat.
In a few minutes it was placed smoking hot on the table,
and little Ellen was kindly invited to sit up to the humble
board. It is needless to say that she did ample justice to
what was before her; as also did the man who had conducted
her hither; but the woman ate sparingly, and
seemed unusually thoughtful and abstracted. From the
time of entering the house—if the mean apartment thus
inhabited could be dignified with such an appellation—till
he had satisfied his appetite, the man made no other remarks
than those we have recorded. When he had finished
his meal, he drew back from the table, and turned to the
fire, at which he gazed with a thoughtful air for some
minutes. At length, without looking round to Margaret,
he said:
“So, nobody but Jake's been here since I went out?”
-- 044 --
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“Nobody else,” was the answer.
“Did he mention about Bill?”
“He said nothing but that he'd be back again soon.”
“I hope Bill 'll come with him.”
“Anything up for to-night?” asked Margaret.
Mulwrack—for such was the man's rightful surname,
though he had more than one alias—looked quickly round
to little Ellen, and perceiving she was not observing him,
placed his finger on his lips and nodded. Soon after he
got up, and beckoned Margaret aside, and the two held
a conversation together in a low tone. He then resumed
his seat by the fire, and the woman immediately said to
Ellen:
“You look tired, child—don't you want to go to bed?”
“I am tired, ma'am,” was the reply; “but if I can do
anything to help you, let me do it first.”
“Not to-night, Ellen,” was the kind reply. “You may
crawl into the bed there, and to-morrow I'll talk with you.
But first,” she continued, “you may give yourself a good
washing;” and fixing up a temporary screen near the bed,
she handed Ellen a wash-basin, a bit of soap, and a towel,
and then from a trunk under the bed, she took out a clean,
white, night-garment, which she gave her to put on when
she should have performed a thorough ablution.
In less than half an hour, Ellen had donned a clean
night robe, and crept into a bed which had a straw mattress
under cotton sheets—a luxury which the poor child
had not enjoyed for many a weary night. She now, comparatively
speaking, felt happy; day seemed dawning upon
night; and the world seemed opening before her a scene
that was not all misery and hopeless gloom. Alas! how
great must have been the sufferings of one so young, to
make her present wretched abode seem a paradise!
Praying, with a heart full of thanks and gratitude, that
-- 045 -- p465-046
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God would protect her and bless her benefactors, she laid
her weary head upon the pillow, and almost immediately
sunk into a sound and peaceful slumber.
CHAPTER III. SUSPECTED QUARTERS.
When Ellen awoke on the following day, she perceived a
dull, leaden light coming in through the only window which
the apartment contained, and which barely served to make
the gloom of the place visible. At first she had to tax her
recollection to comprehend where she was, and how she
came to be there, and then she looked eagerly around for
the occupants of the night previous. To her surprise and
alarm, she discovered that she was alone. The door was
shut, the fire was out, and the room had a deserted,
cold, and dismal appearance. Crawling from the bed, she
hurried to the door, and found it locked on the outside;
this increased her alarm, and caused a shudder of undefined
terror to pass through her thin frame; and not knowing
better what to do, she hastened back to the bed, and covered
herself from the cold air.
While lying there, trembling, and wondering what could
be the meaning of this strange desertion of her benefactors,
she heard a noise at the door outside; and immediately
after, it was thrown open, and the woman Margaret entered,
stamping the snow from her feet. Ellen recognized
her with an exclamation of joy.
“Have you been alarmed?” asked Margaret, kindly.
-- 046 --
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“Oh! very much!” answered little Ellen. “I woke up,
and finding everybody gone, I didn't know what to make
of it.”
“I have been to the grocery,” said the other, by way of
explanation, as she closed the door, and placed a small basket,
containing some articles, on the table. “Did you sleep
well last night?” she continued, approaching the bed.
“Oh! yes, ma'am—thank you—I never slept better in
my life.”
“Did you hear any noise in the night?”
“No, ma'am—none at all.”
As Ellen spoke, she noticed, for the first time, that Margaret
had a black eye, and she was about to make a remark
concerning it; but thinking it might give offence, she
checked the words as they rose to her lips. Margaret,
catching the expression, and divining her thoughts, said:
“You see I hurt myself last night. I accidentally
stumbled over a stool, and struck my head against the
corner of the chest yonder.”
“Oh! ma'am, I'm so sorry!”
“I don't care for the hurt,” continued the woman;
“only some people might think I'd been fighting.”
“Nobody would think that of one so good and kind as
you are, I'm sure,” returned Ellen.”
“Alas!” sighed the other—“I'm not so good and kind
as you think—I sometimes wish I were. But, come! you
must get up and put on these clothes, which are better than
yours, and which I altered for you last night from some
old ones of my own.”
Ellen, acting from the impulse of pure gratitude, seized
and kissed the hand of her benefactress, and, with tears in
her eyes, exclaimed:
“Oh! ma'am, you are good and kind—don't say you
are not! How shall I ever repay you?”
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Margaret turned away her face, to hide her own emotion;
and going to the basket, she returned with a pair of stockings
and second-hand shoes, adding:
“And these, which I purchased this morning, will keep
the frost from your little feet; take all as a Christmas present,
from one who has little in this world to love, and
may you live to see many more and happier ones than I
have!”
The poor, friendless little orphan could not find words to
express the swelling gratitude of her heart; and so she
threw her arms around Margaret, and burst into tears; and
the latter, in spite of herself, wept too; and, for a short
time, felt a happiness which she had not known for many a
long year. Degraded in vice, criminal in the eyes of the
law, a very wretch and outcast whom the world despised,
Margaret now felt that she was clasped by innocent hands,
and that from one innocent heart, a grateful and perhaps
acceptable prayer was ascending for her to the Throne of
Grace, and that moment became a green oasis in the desert
of misery. A light, as if from Heaven, for a moment shone
on her darkened path, and in guileless little Ellen she felt
the presence of an angel. By that one good deed, simple
in itself, she felt that a weight of sin was lifted from her
guilty soul, virtue seemed to stand before her in a new
light, and she wept to think it had so long been a stranger
to her heart. Had there been a Mentor by, to seize upon
that moment of repentance, and pour words of holy consolation
into her vice-bound soul, she might have been
snatched, as a “brand from the burning,” and been reclaimed;
but, alas! left to herself and guilty associations,
she looked upon escape from the course she was pursuing
as a something impossible, and regarded herself as a being
doomed beyond the mercy of God and man.
While Ellen put on her new garments, Margaret made a
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fire, and soon prepared a frugal repast. To this they sat
down by themselves—Margaret merely observing, that Mr.
Mulwrack had been called away on business, which might
detain him for a day or two.
Scarcely was the meal over, when there was heard the
sound of feet descending the steps outside, and immediately
there followed a heavy knocking on the door. Margaret
started, and turned somewhat pale—but said, in a low
tone:
“Go, Ellen, and see who's there?”
As Ellen opened the door, two rough-looking men, well
bundled up in overcoats, entered rather unceremoniously,
and looked eagerly around.
“I believe,” said one, in a gruff tone, addressing Margaret,
“this here's the crib of Jim Mulwrack—alias Red
Head Jim—alias Peter Dodge—alias what you—please!”
“What do you want?” demanded Margaret, in a severe
tone, with a look of indignant scorn.
“We wants him—you know well enough what we wants,”
replied the man, coarsely. “I say, Spike, (to his companion,)
tumble round that there bed, and don't leave a
hole unwestigated as you can stick your finger in—for
Peter Dodge, you know, is a prince of a dodger;” and he
ended with a broad laugh at his own joke.
“You can search as much as you like,” rejoined Margaret,
sullenly; “but you'll find nobody here but us.”
“Thank you—we'll take the liberty of looking round,
since you gin us leave,” returned the spokesman, with a
grin, throwing himself in a careless attitude upon the chest
near. As he did so, his eye encountered little Ellen, who,
very pale, and evidently alarmed, was standing in the middle
of the apartment, looking alternately at the new-comers
and Margaret. “Who are you? where did you turn up?”
continued the spokesman, eyeing her sharply.
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“My name is Ellen Norbury, sir,” replied the child,
timidly.
“Oh! 'tis, hey! Well, what is you doing here?—taking
lessons in stealing, I 'spect.”
“I don't know what you mean, sir, by saying that,” replied
Ellen. “I hadn't any home, and this kind lady says
I can live with her.”
“Oh! wery innocent you is—ha! ha! ha!” was the
coarse rejoinder. “I say, Spike—here's a innocent as
don't know what stealing is.”
“Well, she don't, o' course,” replied the other, with a
coarse chuckle. “Hadn't we better take and larn her,
Grubbins?”
“No doubt you could,” sneered Margaret; “for you
look as if you might be masters of the trade.”
“Come! none o' your imperdence!” said Grubbins,
savagely; “or we'll just fetch you over the coals, for interfering
with ossifers as is doing their dooties.”
“Brave men! to come here to insult an unprotected
female!” rejoined Margaret, nothing daunted, her black
eyes flashing defiance.
“I'd just like to know how to go to work for to insult
the likes of you, anyhow,” chuckled Grubbins. “Eh!
Spike! what say you?”
“Well, I would, Grub—I would. But the—scamp
ain't here, that's sartain,” he added, advancing to his companion.
“May be there's some of the spile here,” was the answer;
“let's sarch for that. I'll begin with this here chest, and
you take that there bed; and look sharp—that's the
word.”
The two constables—for such they were by virtue of
election, though more fit for dog-catchers than catchers of
human beings—now began a vigilant search of the
-- 050 --
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apartment, for stolen property—peering into every nook and
cranny, overhauling every thing they could find, and strewing
the clothing over the damp ground, as if they really
took a delight in making themselves as disagreeable as possible.
When they had completed this part of their business,
which gave them no reward for their trouble, Grubbins
took Margaret, and Spike Ellen, and handled them roughly,
under pretence of searching their persons.
“Well, Spike,” said Grubbins, when he had finished,
“we'll make nothing here.”
“Not a—thing,” returned Spike.
“Then I'll tell you what you can make,” said Margaret,
scornfully.
“What, my beauty?”
“Why, make yourselves scarce.”
“Take that for your imperdence!” said this worthy
specimen of an officer; and with the back of his hand, he
struck Margaret across the mouth.
Margaret uttered a cry of rage, and looked eagerly
around for some weapon with which to revenge the blow;
but seeing nothing that she thought would serve her purpose—
for she meditated killing the man on the spot—she
threw herself upon a seat, and, covering her eyes with her
hands, burst into tears.
“Let that larn ye better than to insult us perlice!”
muttered Grubbins; and with his companion he deliberately
walked out, ascended the steps, and disappeared.
As soon as they were gone, Ellen ran to Margaret, threw
her arms around her neck, and tried, by gentle and loving
words, to calm her irritated and revengeful spirit.
“You're an angel!” said Margaret, at length, returning
the child's embrace; “but for one angel there seem to be
a thousand devils.” And then she muttered to herself:
-- 051 --
[figure description] Page 051.[end figure description]
“If I wanted to be good, I couldn't, so what's the use of
trying?”
She got up, and going to the chest, took out a black
bottle, put it to her lips, and poured down a large quantity
of the fiery poison that was killing her. She then sat down
and gazed sullenly at the fire, taking no further notice of
Ellen, who, for fear of being thought intrusive, did nothing
to break her reverie. A few minutes passed away thus,
and then Margaret had recourse to the bottle again. The
third time she drained it; and then the effect of the liquor
began to be apparent to the eyes of little Ellen, who looked
on in sorrow, not unmingled with alarm.
“Here!” said Margaret, harshly, glaring round at her
protege, and holding out the bottle with an unsteady hand;
“take this, and get it filled with brandy!”
“Where shall I get it, ma'am?” inquired Ellen, timidly.
“I don't care where, so you get it,” replied Margaret,
crossly; “and be quick about it—for I'm bound to get
drunk, to get out of my misery.”
“Oh! ma'am, let me advise you,” began Ellen—but the
other interrupted:
“Keep your advice for whoever wants it. Come! be off,
I say, and get the brandy!”
“Will any body trust me, ma'am?”
“Trust you?” sneered Margaret; “are you a fool? Do
tigers trust their prey to other tigers?”
“But I have no money.”
“Well, you little dunce, I have;” and Margaret drew out
her purse, and from it took a coin of the value of twelve
and a half cents. “There,” she continued, tossing it to
Ellen, “get a pint of the best brandy: mind, now, the best!”
Ellen, without reply, hurried on her hood and shawl, and,
with the bottle in one hand and the money in the other,
went out, with a sorrowful heart.
-- 052 -- p465-053
CHAPTER IV. THE INFECTED DISTRICT.
[figure description] Page 052.[end figure description]
That portion of Philadelphia lying between South and
Fitzwater, Fifth and Seventh streets, is mainly composed
of low, miserable, dilapidated hovels—for they scarcely
deserve the name of dwellings—which are filled to repletion
with the poorest, lowest, and most degraded class of human
beings—beings, many of them, so far down in the scale of
society, (if we may use that term in this connection,) that
the very heathen of foreign lands would rise in the comparison.
It is the very hot-bed of vice, the most hideous in
all its many forms—the very sink of pollution and misery,
the most loathsome in all their aspects. None live here
who can live elsewhere; and many there are here who cannot
be said to live at all—but rather who drag on a woeful
existence, and die as it were by inches. White and black,
male and female, young and old, are here, in some instances,
crowded into a cold, damp, slimy, underground apartment,
a dozen in a place not large enough to lodge one decently,
and really not fit to be used as a dog-kennel. Murderers,
robbers, house-breakers, thieves of every description, and
convicts just released from our penitentiaries, here congregate,
with others scarce less vile and depraved. Here
flourish gambling hells of the lowest order; policy offices,
which, with a show of fairness, rob many a poor wretch of
the pittance which might have procured bread to save him
and his family from immediate starvation; and last, though
not least, the most abominable of groggeries, where the
-- 053 --
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victims of the vice of drinking are lured to destruction
by the maddening poison dealt out at a cent a glass.
And such is the passion for strong drinks among this
class of our population—who either seek to raise a false
courage for some desperate deed, or become oblivious to the
cares and troubles which oppress them—that the masterfiends
who deal out the poison, flourish and wax fat upon
the miseries of their fellows, even as rank weeds shoot up
from noxious, slimy beds and the foulest excrements.
These groggeries are frequented by both sexes, by all
shades of colour, and by all ages—for the young are ever
ready to follow any example of vice set them by their
seniors—and here the work of degradation and depravity
is carried forward to its most frightful extent. As the
maddening poison enters the lips, oaths the most blasphemous,
and obscenity the most vile, issue from them; and
then, in a close, foul apartment, reeking with fetid breaths
and rank tobacco smoke, begins a scene of debauchery,
which not unfrequently ends in a frightful tragedy, the
details of which would make the blood curdle.
Remember, that the stuffs sold here, under the names of
brandy, gin, et cetera, cannot, from their price, contain
one tithe of pure liquor; but are almost entirely composed
of such drugs as will give out a sharp, fiery taste; and are
really a compound of poisons so deadly, that the smallest
quantity of one taken separately would produce instant
death. And this mixture is poured down the callous
throats of the poor wretches, till their stomachs warm and
burn with the corroding draughts, their blood becomes
heated and feverish, their brains begin to reel with delirium,
and their worst passions, excited and set in motion, without
reason to regulate, run wild with the most fiendish desires.
A few more glasses, perhaps, by stupefying all the senses,
put them beyond the power of doing harm; but the wretch
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whose inclination or money stops short of absolute drunkenness,
is now let loose upon the street, a howling maniac,
and wo to him or her who crosses his reeling path and mad
desires!
Go where you will through this locality, and the very
dregs of wo start up and stare you in the face. On the
streets you behold faces pale and haggard from want, with
eyes wild and hollow; or faces red and bloated from liquor,
with eyes swollen, bleared, and bloodshot; forms thin, attenuated,
and skeleton-like; or forms rotund and barrelshaped,
which seem to be walking masses of living corruption;
and in all cases, matted hair, filthy skins, and dirty,
ragged coverings.
Within the noisome hovels, so far from being better, it
is even fearfully worse. Here, in winter especially, are
wretches without food—without fire—without rags, even, in
some cases, to cover their nakedness—actually starving and
freezing to death. Here infants are born into the world,
and forced out of it for want of the most common necessaries
of life. Here drunken husbands beat their wives,
drunken mothers beat their children, while depraved and
drunken children sometimes return the blows and beat one
another. Here cracked voices, hoarse from untimely exposure
and the unhealthy damps in which they live, give
forth no words but those of obscenity and blasphemy.
Here murders are committed which never see the light, and
deeds are done which the chaste pen cannot record. Here
disease takes hold of its victims, and runs riot, and leaves
its most disgusting aspects in its train.
Appropriately has this locality been named the “Infected
District;” and those who wish to conquer the contagious
diseases of the city, should begin by planting their
sanitary and medical batteries so as to rake this loathsome
spot.
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What enjoyment has life in these awful dens to compensate
for the pains and miseries which attend it? And yet
most of these beings cling to it as tenaciously as if there
were no other and better state of existence. Another and
better state of existence, do we say? Alas! they know of
no other—they scarcely hope for another. They have no
hope beyond the present. They know nothing of the consolations
of the true Christian. They do not know that
such a being as God exists. His holy name is only used as
a by-word for emphatic affirmation or frightful malediction.
They may have their superstitions of a something after
death; but they are vague, undefined, irrational, the offspring
of ignorance and fear. They have no books—they
could not read if they had—and if they have any time unemployed,
they drink themselves drunk to get rid of it.
We think we hear some honest individual exclaim:
“This is all very shocking, but not true—it really exists
only in the imagination of the writer. What! Philadelphia—
the City of Brotherly Love—with her broad, clean, rectangular
streets—her splendid mansions—her stately edifices—
her lofty churches—and her sober, moral, philanthropic
population—to contain within her limits such a plague spot
as this? Impossible!”
Nay, sir, we tell you that what we have stated is true—
but must at the same time tell you, that not a hundredth
part of the truth has been stated—nor will it be, even when
this work shall have passed from our hands.
We do not ask you to believe us, if you will only take
the trouble to ascertain the truth for yourselves. We have
named the locality, and we invite you to visit it, and prove
our assertions right or wrong. Doubtless good would result
from your visit; for if you have a heavy purse and a
feeling heart—if you are one who desires to see your fellows
happy rather than miserable—if, in short, you are a
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[figure description] Page 056.[end figure description]
Christian, after the order of Christ, you will do something to aid
the few philanthropic hearts, who have, God bless them!
already begun the work of reformation in this vile quarter.
It was in the very centre of the abominable locality we
have been describing, that little Ellen found herself when
she gained the street for the purpose recorded at the close
of the preceding chapter. It was Christmas day—a day of
general rejoicing to thousands—but there was little of real
joy to be found in a quarter where poverty, drunkenness
and crime reigned almost absolutely. A few ragged children
were playing in the deep snow that had fallen, and a
few miserable beings, of larger growth, with thin, tattered
garments, and dark, dirty, bloated faces, were crawling
along, here and there, shivering with the cold.
Little Ellen, a stranger in this place, looked shudderingly
around her, with the bottle in her hand, not knowing
whither to go to obey the command of her new mistress.
While standing thus, undecided, a hunchback boy, a few
years her senior, crossed over the street, and thus accosted
her, with a smile:
“A merry Christmas to you, my charming little lady!
what can I do for you?”
Ellen looked at him, and timidly shrunk back. His stature,
owing to his deformity, was about the same as her
own; but his person was large for his height, and he appeared
to be healthy and very strong for his age. His features
were regular, bright and animated, particularly his
black eyes, which sparkled with an intellect of no common
order. His smile too was winning, though by it he displayed
uneven, dirty teeth. Neither his face nor hands
were clean; and his garments, which appeared to have
been picked up at different places, were torn and soiled, as
if he had been in the habit of sleeping in them in damp,
filthy lodgings. An old moth-eaten cap, with the front
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piece torn off, surmounted a head of shaggy, matted, brown
hair. A kind of sack-coat, buttoned across the breast, but
not so as to entirely conceal the bosom of a dirty shirt, came
down to his very heels; and a pair of trousers, a world too
large, with the legs rolled up to a suitable length, were fastened
around and above his waist with strings. A large
old boot on one foot, and a shoe on the other, completed
his attire; though in picturing to yourself his personal appearance,
you must not forget the hump on his back,
which, with his short neck and bent head, rose almost to
the level of his cap, and made him a very unsightly object.
But as if repenting of her first design, or to compensate
him for the hideousness of his form, nature had endowed
him with an intellect beyond his years, and given him a
smooth, musical voice; by which, with his comely, expressive
features, he could, if he chose, render himself
very agreeable. Shrewd, cunning, and an apt scholar,
though without book education, he had, in his intercourse
with the better classes—for he sometimes peddled small
articles about the different hotels, carried trunks, and ran
of errands for the wealthy—picked up a language, which,
for its purity and grammatical construction, was so much
superior to the low, obscene, and profane slang of his associates
in this vile region, that they, in sportive derision,
had affixed to him the sobriquet of Nabob Hunchy, which
had been subsequently shortened to Nob Hunchy, and
finally to plain Nob.
Now the peculiarities of this poor youth—his deformity,
his comely features, his intellectuality, his soft, musical
voice, and his superior language—had made him an object
of deep interest to many a kind, sympathetic heart; and
many a silver coin had been given him in pity, and more
than one had attempted to reform him and permanently
better his condition. But without being a decided villain,
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he was a sad rascal after all. Money on him was literally
thrown away; for he had a passion for strong drink, which
consumed nearly every coin that came into his possession.
To get drunk was the chief aim of his existence; and no
moral persuasion, no judicious correction, no self-resolution,
could effect a reform. Drunkenness was in his nature, a
fixed fact—a part, as it were, of his very being—probably
inherited with the life principle. As surely as the sun set
upon him with money in his pocket, so surely it rose upon
him in a state of filthy intoxication. Twenty times already
had he been sent to the County Prison for inebriety—but
he only got out to get back again for the same offence.
In view of all these things, it is not unreasonable to suppose
that the bottle carried by Ellen, with the hope of
getting a taste of his favorite poison, had caught his attention
and attracted him to her side.
Perceiving that Ellen, in shrinking back, regarded him
with compassion, mingled with aversion, he said, in a soft,
gentle tone, with another winning smile:
“Come, my little lady, you are as pretty as I am ugly—
but God made us both, and probably we both have kind
hearts—you have, at least.”
Ellen was touched by his language, his kind manner,
and gentle voice; and she answered somewhat mechanically,
with her eyes fixed upon his black, sparkling orbs:
“What do you want with me?”
“Why, you seem to be a stranger here—at least I never
saw you before—and perhaps I can be of service to you.
You are going somewhere with that bottle.”
“Oh, yes—I want to get a pint of the best brandy, for
my mistress,” replied Ellen, quickly—“but I don't know
where to go.”
On hearing this, the eyes of the Hunchback sparkled
with pleasure.
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“Come with me,” he said, “and I will show you a first-rate
place, where you can get liquor good enough for the
President.”
Ellen hesitated a little at first; but not knowing better
what to do, she finally set off under the guidance of her
strange companion.
“Hello!” shouted a boy, from a group of three or four
on the opposite side of the street—“there goes Nob for a
new drunk, by —!”
“I say, little gal,” called out another, “don't let him
git a swig at that ther' bottle, or he'll see the bottom!”
“He'd spile a barrel, that ther' Nob!” cried another,
rounding off with an oath.
A shout of laughter, and a shower of snow-balls, one of
which struck Ellen on the back, followed this last remark.
“See here!” said the Hunchback, turning round and
shaking his first at the juvenile party; “the next one of
you that throws a snow-ball this way, will have to settle
the matter with me—and you know I don't forget.”
He was answered by a shout of derision; but no one
had the temerity to disregard this warning—for Nabob
Hunchy was strong, muscular, active, and courageous, and,
when his blood was up, a perfect tiger. Besides, as he
said, he never forgot an offence, as many a boy, bigger
than himself, could testify, who had been severely punished,
days, and even weeks, after the provocation.
“Don't mind those boys,” he said to little Ellen, in a
kindly tone, as they picked their way along through the
snow; “they are bad boys, never had good bringing up, and
don't know any better; but they shall not harm you while
I'm about.”
To hear him speak, one might have thought him a pattern
of morality, invested with a legal power of protection.
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Entering Sixth street, they walked on a short distance,
and then turned down Small—a street more vile and
wretched in its appearance than any Ellen had yet seen.
Here were a few drunken men and women, and several
groups of noisy boys, the most of the latter engaged in
snow-balling each other. Ellen began to grow alarmed—
the more so, that she perceived her companion and herself
were objects of general notice, and that their appearance
together excited universal derision and ridicule.
“There goes drunken Nob!” cried one.
“A regular rum cove!” cried another.
“What's he got in tow?” queried a third.
“It's an angel, by Jiminy!” said a fourth.
“Old Nick's son towing an angel!” yelled a fifth.
“Let's cool Old Nick's son with snow-balls!” vociferated
a sixth.
At this there was a shout of approval, mingled with loud
laughter, and followed by a shower of the frozen missiles,
several of which struck Ellen and her companion, but without
doing either any injury. Ellen's alarm, however, was
increased at this fresh display of general dislike for her
unfortunate guide, and she exclaimed, hurriedly:
“Oh! let us go back! I'm so afraid.”
“Never you fear—I'll take care of you,” was the reply;
“and besides, we are almost to the place.”
As they hurried along, the boys hooted; and a group,
with a tall youth acting as leader, finally interrupted their
peaceful progress.
“I say, Nob,” began the tall lad, striding up to the
Hunchback, and speaking in a dictatorial tone, “what is
you going to do with this yere little gal?”
“That is my business—stand out of the way!” said the
deformed boy, a bright, sullen light gleaming from his
black eye.
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“Ho! ho! I'll hev to teach you manners to your betters!”
replied the other, seizing the collar of Nabob Hunchy.
As quick as lightning, the latter sprung back, and then
striking the tall youth with his head in the pit of the
stomach, stretched him at full length upon his back.
“A fight! a fight! hooray!” cried several voices, in
tones of delight.
But the Hunchback knew too well his advantage to let
the affair end in a fight; and so, gnashing his teeth with
fury, he leaped at once upon his fallen insulter, and
literally ground his face beneath his feet, thus putting an
end to the expected combat.
“Who next?” cried the deformed champion, glaring
furiously around upon the youthful bystanders, all of whom
shrunk back, with looks of dismay.
Taking advantage of the momentary awe which his unexpected
success had occasioned, the Hunchback instantly
seized the hand of the terrified Ellen, and darted forward.
Before she had time to recover from her surprise, alarm,
and confusion of ideas, she found herself pushed into a
dark, gloomy apartment, crowded with human beings, and
rank with the fumes of tobacco.
CHAPTER V. A NOTORIOUS DEN AND CHANGE OF SCENE.
The den into which little Ellen had been so unceremoniously
thrust by the Hunchback, was one of those vile resorts
of the most miserable and degraded of human beings.
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It was small, and dark, and damp, and the close air was
filled with the noxious smoke of rank tobacco and the steam
of drunken breaths. One side of the room was occupied
by the bar, as it was called, in which the intoxicating and
deadly poison was kept, and over which presided the masterfiend
of the place. At the end farthest from the street, a
flight of old crazy stairs led to the story above, and another
to the cellar beneath, and along the walls were benches devoted
to the comfort of the customers.
The proprietor of this establishment was a hideous dwarf,
known as Jimmy Quiglan, and was well fitted by nature to
be the presiding genius of so foul a place. He was upwards
of forty years of age, and something over four feet in
height. His large head was covered with black, coarse,
matted hair, and seemed to find a comfortable lodgment
between the shoulder blades, dispensing entirely with anything
resembling a neck. His body, of an ordinary size
and length, terminated on short duck-legs, with monstrous
feet. He had a low forehead, and a large, broad face,
deeply seamed, and apparently grown old before its time.
His eyes were large, dark, and cold; and while they gave
some evidence of intellect, they gave none of the better
feelings of humanity. His nose was long and hooked, and
his mouth large, with massive jaws, and teeth like fangs.
Altogether he looked the monster, and resembled in no
slight degree a large spider, surrounded by his web, and
watching for an opportunity to pounce upon some new
victim.
Now, Jimmy, as this hideous being was familiarly termed,
had a plan of doing business quite original. His den was a
lodging as well as drinking-house; and here a customer
could get drunk, at the rate of a cent a glass for the best
brandy, and be allowed to sleep up stairs, on the floor, for
three cents per night—or below, in the cellar, on the damp
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ground, for one; and in case of his getting drunk through
the day, the enterprising landlord would “run him” for
nothing—that is to say, he would chuck him through a
narrow hole in the wall, or side door, into a dirty yard, and
there leave him exposed to the weather, till such time as he
might sufficiently revive to imbibe afresh.
Although it was an early hour in the morning when little
Ellen entered this foul abode, it was, as we have before remarked,
filled with human beings, though hardly deserving
a term which places them in the scale of animal progression
so much above their superiors, the brutes. Male and female,
white and black—all filthy, ragged, and the greater
portion of them nearly drunk—were huddled together, to
the number of fifteen or twenty, in this small room; and
were drinking, smoking, cursing, and swearing, in a way
that must have given the most profound satisfaction to his
Satanic Majesty. In the bar, smiling as fiends might be
supposed to smile, and rubbing his hands with delight, at
intervals between supplying one customer and an order
from another, stood Jimmy Quiglan, alive to the profits of
that blithe Christmas morning.
And no one knew better what the profits of that day
would be, than Jimmy himself; for besides those already
mentioned as being in active trade, he knew exactly how
many lay intoxicated above and below stairs—how long it
would take them to get sober—and how many glasses to
make them drunk again—calculations being only made on
those having money—and Jimmy, by previous inspection,
could name to a cent the value of each lodger.
It may be a matter of curiosity to the reader to know
how such wretched beings obtained money at all; but it
will only be necessary to state that some were bone gatherers,
some rag-pickers, some professional beggars, and the
rest job-workers and thieves. Like the Lazaroni of Naples,
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this class of our population, which is more numerous than
many suppose, take no thought for the morrow—but, with
the small pittance they may have received for a day's hard
labor in their respective vocations, they pay for the poison
that for the time brings oblivion, and with returning consciousness
repeat the dose so long as their money holds
out. It is not an uncommon thing for one of these
wretches to go days without food—passing, meantime,
from one drunken fit to another, without drawing one sober
breath.
It was into this vile place, as we have said, that little
Ellen was thrust by the Hunchback, who quickly followed
and closed the door. As she looked hurriedly around her,
with an expression of terror on her pale features, the deformed
boy took her hand, and said, in a tone calculated
to reassure her:
“Don't be alarmed, my little lady—nobody shall hurt
you here.”
“Oh! let me go out! I'm so afraid!” she answered, in
a trembling whisper.
“Well, so you shall, as soon as I can get the brandy.
Give me the money and the bottle, and I will have it filled
at once.”
Ellen put both into his hands, and whispered:
“Oh! be quick! I'm so afraid.”
“A pint of your best brandy, Jimmy!” cried the Hunchback,
in a loud tone, and with an air of vast importance, as
he placed the bottle upon the counter, with a force that
made it ring again.
“Down with your dough, then, Nob,” replied Jimmy,
with a grin. “I doesn't read myself, Nob; but them as
does, says as how that ther bit of pasteboard, (pointing to a
card on the wall above his head, which contained the words,
-- 065 --
[figure description] Page 065.[end figure description]
`No Trust,') tells all the larned, that nobody can't come
the giraff over Jimmy Quiglan—ha! ha! ha!”
“Open your eyes then, Jimmy,” returned the Hunchback,
with a laugh; “for here is more white money than
you have seen among your ragged customers for many a
day;” and he placed the Spanish real, with a loud snap,
upon the counter.
Jimmy's eye fairly glistened as he seized the coin; and
after a close examination, to be certain it was genuine, he
said:
“Yes, that's good, Nob—the brandy's good, Nob—and
so, in course, a fair exchange ain't no robbery—ha!
ha! ha!”
While Jimmy was pouring out his pint of poison, the
Hunchback got upon a stool, leaned over the counter, and
whispered something in his ear. Jimmy grinned, winked,
and nodded; and springing down from his stool, the Hunchback,
much to Ellen's surprise, disappeared through the
crowd.
For half an hour, in that close, noisome hole, surrounded
and rudely jostled by filthy wretches in every degree of intoxication,
whose horrible blasphemy and vulgar obscenity
made her gentle and unpolluted spirit tremble and shrink
in its mortal casement, like the sensitive plant when rudely
touched, little Ellen most anxiously awaited the return of
her ungainly companion. Finding he came not, she at last,
in no little trepidation, applied to the landlord for information
concerning him.
He's doing well, Nob is—ha! ha! ha!” returned Jimmy.
“He told me if you axed arter him, to gin you his compliments,
and say he was just trying the brandy, to see if it
was good.”
“Well, tell him he musn't keep me waiting, as my mistress
will be very angry,” returned Ellen.
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“Oh!” said Jimmy, with a grin, that made little Ellen
shudder—“if you're going to wait till he comes, you'll
want lodgings.”
“Won't he come, sir?” timidly inquired Ellen.
“Not afore he gits sober, gal—ha! ha! ha! He's drunk
by this time, you may bet your head.”
“Then I must go without him,” returned the child—
not sorry, if truth must be told, to be rid of one whose
reappearance in the street, she believed, would be the
signal for fresh abuse. “Will you please give me my
brandy?”
“Your what?” grinned Jimmy.
“The brandy that the deformed boy bought for me.”
“Why, you little fool,” laughed Jimmy; “that's what
he's gitting drunk on; and there ain't a gill left now, you
can bet your head.”
“Oh! then what will become of me?” exclaimed Ellen,
bursting into tears. “When I get back, I shall be beat
and turned out of doors.”
“Well, don't go back, then!” said the Dwarf, with a
hideous grin. “Such a perty creater as you is, needn't
sarve no cross mistress. Jest you stay here till night, and
I'll take you round to the nicest place you ever seed.”
“No! no!” said Ellen, shuddering and shrinking back—
for there was something peculiar in the cold light of
the Dwarf's eye, which seemed to cast a wicked influence
upon her innocent spirit. “No! no! I must go right
home, and tell my mistress the truth, and take the consequences.”
Jimmy was about to say something more, when his
attention was arrested by a fight between two of his
drunken customers—a white man and a negro.
“Stop!” thundered the worthy landlord, seizing a billet
of wood and springing upon the counter; and the next
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moment, finding he was not heeded, he struck the nearest
over the head, and knocked him down.
Now some one thought this an improper interference of
the host, and immediately knocked him over behind the
bar among his kegs of poison. This opened the way to a
general fight; and in less than a minute, every one, not
too drunk to stand up, was battering away at his neighbor.
From this melee little Ellen managed to escape unharmed;
and the moment she gained the street, she hurried away,
intending to return at once to Margaret, and report truly
what had happened, although she trembled to think what
might be the result.
But it proved to be less easy to find her way back to her
last night's quarters than she had supposed; for she knew
not the name of the street in which she had first met the
Hunchback, and she had neglected to notice the turnings
made afterward. As a consequence of her haste to get
back, and ignorance of the locality, she lost her way, and
wandered through several dirty streets and alleys, looking
in vain for a spot she could recognize.
At length, by keeping on a certain course, she found herself
entering a better quarter of the city; and although she
knew she was now going in a direction that would not lead
to the abode of Margaret, she felt it such a relief to escape
from the disgusting scenes behind her, that she could not
prevail upon herself to turn back; but, quickening her pace,
walked on, determined to trust herself once more to the
guidance of Providence. She now passed habitations that
had an appearance of comfort, if not of wealth; while the
passengers on the street were warmly clothed, and had generally
a cheerful and happy look.
Still Ellen walked on, with something of that spirit of
adventure which takes one forward, one neither knows nor
cares whither, so that each passing moment is gratified by
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a change; and at length, by mere accident, she found herself
one of the crowd thronging the rich and fashionable
thoroughfare of the city.
It was a strange sight to the poor girl; and as she stared
around her at the high and splendid buildings, the glittering
shop-windows, the richly attired and jewel-bedecked
passers—upon all of which the bright sun of that Christmas
morning was shining as though it might never be
dimmed by a cloud—amid the hum of voices and the jingling
of the merry bells—she felt bewildered and confused
by the contrast to that loathsome and wretched quarter
she had so recently left, and like the novice transplanted
by the magic of Aladdin's lamp to a gorgeous scene in the
Orient. Was this the same city of which she had been an
inhabitant for more than two years? and was this mart
of fashion within a few minutes' walk of the filthy dens
where human beings famished and starved to death almost
daily? It seemed impossible; and yet it was either a
dream or a reality. Was it a dream? She rubbed her eyes
and stared again; and at the same moment, as if to set the
matter forever at rest in her wondering mind, some hasty
pedestrian ran against her, and nearly knocked her down;
and stumbling against the velvets and furs of a soi-disant
lady, she was put rudely aside, with the cold, sharp words:
“Stand out of the way, you beggar!”
Ay! stand out of the way, you beggars! what business
have you to be in the same street, or even in the same
world, with your purse-proud brothers and sisters? breathing
the same air, and enjoying the same sunlight, which
God has given them? Do ye not know that these things
were not made for you? that ye are the weeds among
flowers, the thorns among roses, the scum of the earth,
that must be removed? Back to your dens! back to your
holes in the earth! back to your damps and filth! and
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there pine, and starve, and die, and rot, and be damned
for your iniquities; while your rich and pious brothers and
sisters, clothed in broadcloths and silks, from golden-clasped
prayer-books, surrounded by the gorgeous trappings of a
splendid church, return thanks, that God, who made all
things, has made them better than you—and, from the
foundation of Creation, has elected them to monopolize all
the good things of this world and the next! By their
golden creeds you should learn, that it is necessary, for the
glory of God, that a certain portion of mankind should be
damned; and what portion is so well suited to eternal torments
as you who have never known luxury—never known
aught but misery in your weary pilgrimage through life?
Therefore repine not at this decree; but console yourselves
with the reflection, that, miserable as you may be here, it is
necessary, to secure the happiness of certain wealthy saints,
that you be more miserable hereafter! What if that
old-fashioned book, the Bible, does say that God is no respecter
of persons? Cannot the learned and aristocratic
Rev. Dr. Allgrace give such an explanation as shall prove
the contrary? What if that meek and lowly man, who
consorted with publicans and sinners—who was followed
and surrounded by such poor wretches as yourselves, collected
from the highways and byways—what if he, the
humble teacher, the founder of the Gospel, did give a parable
of the rich and poor man—Dives and Lazarus? Cannot
the Rev. Dr. Allgrace prove that the scribes, who
recorded the words of Christ, made a mistake? or, if not,
that Christ made a mistake himself? and that it was in
fact the rich man who went to Abraham's bosom, and the
poor man who lifted up his eyes in hell? Undoubtedly he
can, or else he would not be fit to preach an aristocratic
Gospel, and would be compelled to vacate his velvet-stuffed
pulpit.
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No! stand out of the way, ye beggars! groan on, ye
starving millions! the wealth that would save you from the
horrors of your doom, is locked up in churches devoted to
the worship of God. Ye should rather rejoice than repine
at this! that the God who made you has such aristocratic
worshippers! and that ye are fit to be damned for His
glory! Christians talk of a Millennium—of a “good time
coming;” but it has not come yet—and so, groan on!
The female—we were about to say lady, but the term
is inapplicable to one so devoid of Christian feeling and the
graces of humanity—the female who so rudely put aside
little Ellen, was a zealous member of the church over which
the Rev. Dr. Allgrace presided; and by her side walked
her daughter, about the same age as Ellen—no purer in
heart, no fairer in feature—but so differently clothed, so
differently housed, so differently circumstanced, that there
seemed a bottomless gulf between them, without even the
hair-bridge of connection which allows the faithful of Mohammed
to pass to the Houri's Paradise.
On they went—the rich Mrs. Markham and her daughter—
while little Ellen, forgetting the rude treatment she had
received, (it was too much a matter of course, poor child!)
gazed after the younger, with a sigh, that she had not, like
her, a mother, on whose breast she could recline and pour
forth the grief of her heavily burdened soul. With a sorrowful
heart, and a tear-dimmed eye, she turned away, with
the feeling that she was never more alone and friendless
than among that jostling crowd of richly attired persons
and happy-looking faces.
For half an hour she wandered up and down Chestnut
street, wondering at all she saw, and lost in a whirl of
thought both new and strange. At length, seeing numbers
crossing the street, she mechanically attempted to follow.
We say mechanically—for she was abstracted in thought,
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and had no settled purpose in view, and this caused a heedlessness
that came nigh being fatal. With that desire of
making the most of the fallen snow, which the citizens of
those cities have who see the ground covered but a few
days in the year, Chestnut street, on that bright Christmas
morning, might be described as a rushing, whirling stream
of horses, sleighs, and human beings; and scarcely had little
Ellen put her foot off the side pavement, ere she was struck
by the breast of a fiery beast going at great speed. In an
instant she was knocked down, trampled on, and lay senseless
and bleeding on the frozen snow; while the vehicle
which passed over her—containing a man in a fashionable
dress, and a female well muffled up in furs—dashed on at
a still more furious rate, as if the occupants were anxious
to escape the censure and penalty of fast and careless driving.
Besides, one glance at the dress of little Ellen, was
sufficient to tell them that she belonged to that despised
class of society who have no influential friends—and so,
what mattered it whether she were living or dead!
CHAPTER VI. SOMETHING OF MYSTERY.
It is with joy—sincere, heart-felt joy—that, like the
artist with his pencil, we are permitted to dip our pen in
the brightest colors, and give some pleasing relief to a
sombre picture. The great city—with its collected thousands,
of all grades, from the millionaire to the beggar—
has its bright as well as dark spots; and if the fallen
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wayfarer is passed by on one side by the Priest, and on the
other by the Levite, the good Samaritan is almost certain
to make his appearance, with oil for the wounded body and
consolation for the wounded heart. Let us, whatever may
be our affliction, ever keep this truth in view: that God,
who sees the sparrow fall, will not always permit us to
suffer; and that the promise of salvation is to him who
shall endure to the end.
When consciousness returned to little Ellen, she found
herself lying upon a soft bed, surrounded by silken curtains;
and her first feeling was one of extreme surprise
and wonder. Where was she? and how came she there?
She thought it must be a dream; and she attempted to
rouse herself to learn the truth. In doing this, she discovered
that she was as weak as an infant; and that the
slight movement she made, caused her much pain in her
limbs and several parts of her body. With this came a
dim recollection of a whirling crowd of human beings,
horses, and vehicles, all mixed up in wild confusion, with a
strange kind of noise, like the tinkling of many bells heard
amid the roar of a waterfall. This was all she could remember;
and this seemed rather to perplex and confuse,
than give her any clue to the unravelling of the mystery.
“Ah! where am I?” murmured Ellen, at length, beginning
to grow alarmed.
Scarcely had she spoken, when a small, white hand
gently parted the silken curtains, and a beautiful face—
which, to the excited mind of little Ellen, appeared to be
that of an angel—looked in upon her; and a voice, as
sweetly melodious and touchingly plaintive as the tones of
an Eolian harp, said:
“Did you speak, dear child?”
Poor little Ellen was more astonished than ever, and
more than ever convinced that what she saw was a vision
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and not a reality. What! such words of sweetness and
kindness, from a being so beautiful, to be addressed to her!
Impossible. And yet, if a delusion of the senses, it seemed
likely to be prolonged, with a wonderful semblance of the
real—for soft eyes were compassionately beaming upon
her; and the lips of that lovely face again parting, the
silver-toned words again came forth:
“Did you speak, dear child?”
“Where am I?” murmured Ellen, with her eyes fixed
upon the apparition; “and what beautiful being are you,
that seem to speak to me?”
“Ah! I was certain I heard your voice!” cried the
beautiful stranger; while a gleam of joy, like a ray of sunlight
upon a lily, rested upon her pale, lovely countenance.
“I have waited long, and prayed often, to have words of
conscious intelligence pass your lips—and at last my
prayer is answered.”
“Are you one of the angels my dear mother used to tell
me about?” inquired Ellen, simply—for as yet she knew
not whether to regard the being she saw as celestial or terrestrial.
“No, child,” answered the other, with a sweet but
melancholy smile, “I am no angel, but a poor mortal like
yourself.”
“Then tell me how I came here, and what it means!
for it all seems to me like a dream,” said Ellen, wonderingly.
“Have you no recollection of being in Chestnut street
on Christmas morning?” inquired the other.
“No, lady—since you say you'er not an angel—I don't
remember of ever having heard of Chestnut street before,”
answered the wounded child.
“Perhaps you never did hear the name; but have you
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no recollection of being in a gay street, crowded with people,
horses, and vehicles?”
“Oh, yes, lady—I do remember that, since you mention
it—and I was so astonished at all I saw! But wasn't that
a dream?”
“No, dear child, that was a reality—an almost fatal
reality to you, as it proved. You were knocked down, run
over, and picked up for dead. But you are alive now, you
see; and so you must offer up thanks to God for having
preserved your life.”
For a few moments Ellen did not reply, but looked very
serious and thoughtful. Then, to the surprise of her fair
friend, she said:
“Dear lady, for all your kindness to me, who haven't
any friends, I want you to think me very grateful; but
(and the tears came into her eyes) may be I should have
been better off if I had died. It is wrong, may be, for me
to say so, but I can't help my thoughts;” and as she concluded,
her tears flowed freely.
“Indeed it is wrong for you to say so, dear child,” replied
the other, tenderly; “for God sent you a preserver,
and He does all things for the best. Come! come! you
must not weep—brighter days are in store for you—and in
me you shall henceforth have one friend at least. I know
something of your history, I think—for at times, for several
days, you have been delirious; and from what has
fallen from your lips, I judge you are a friendless orphan,
whom mankind has treated all too roughly.”
“But where am I now, dear lady? how came I here?
and who are you?” inquired Ellen, much astonished and
perplexed.
“A few words will explain all, dear child. But perhaps
we had better defer our conversation till you have gained
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strength; you are weak now, and should rather sleep than
talk, or even think.”
“But, dear lady, unless you tell me all now, I shall not
be able to sleep for thinking.”
“I will let you judge your own case then. Do you think
it will injure you if we converse on the subject that most
interests you?”
“No, lady, I'm sure it will not.”
“Well, keep your mind calm, and let nothing excite
you. You must know, then, that on Christmas morning,
as I was passing along Chestnut street, in company with
a friend, I saw, among the crowd of human beings swaying
to and fro, a little face, so beautiful, and yet so thin,
pale, and sorrowful, that I found my gaze riveted there as
by some magic spell. A strange, unaccountable feeling
at the same time took possession of me; and I seemed to
know—though by what means, and for what purpose, I
cannot tell—that my destiny, and that of the sweet, lovely,
but seemingly heart-broken, little wayfarer, were intimately
connected.”
She paused a moment, apparently abstracted from her
narration by some curious reflections; and then, rather
thinking aloud than addressing her little companion, she
continued:
“It is certainly very strange that I should arrive at so
singular a conclusion, without the aid of a single reasoning
faculty—nay, with all the powers of reason arrayed
against it! By what wonderful process was that knowledge
of a something in the future conveyed to my soul with
the startling rapidity of a flash of lightning? Is it possible
that when two strange spirits meet, which are destined
to act materially on each other for good or evil, there is
an electric or magnetic emanation which telegraphs to one
or both the important truth? Or may it not rather be
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that we catch up a fancy of our own, and believing that a
certain event is foreordained, so govern our actions afterward,
that we of ourselves bring to pass that which we had
thought fated? Ah! who knows? Life is a mystery!”
Again addressing the wondering Ellen, she continued:
“Well, as I have said, my attention was arrested and
riveted by a sweet, sad face among the moving crowd; and
I felt a strong inclination to spring forward and clasp the
poor and friendless little creature in my arms—for that she
was poor and friendless, could be seen at a single glance. I
restrained my desire, however, and passed the little wayfarer,
so closely that my garments brushed hers. I turned
to look after her; but a crowd had already filled up the
space between us, and I barely caught a glimpse of her
thin form edging its way amid the throng. I walked on a
few steps further, when something seemed to tell me that I
must turn back; and with a half intention of doing so, I had
already halted, much to my friend's surprise, when I heard
cries of alarm, and saw numbers hurrying to a certain spot
at no great distance. Why was it then my heart assured
me that something awful had happened to the little being
in whom I had just taken so deep an interest? I cannot
tell; but so it was; and like a mother flying to the rescue
of her child, I hurried to the excited group, already gathered
around the bloody and senseless form of the little
stranger. Not to prolong my story, dear child, I had you
conveyed hither—”
“Me?” interrupted Ellen, with a look of astonishment.
“Yes, my child, you. Why, do you not know that it is
of you I have been all this time speaking?”
“No, lady—I thought you meant some other little girl.
I didn't know as there was anything about me to interest
anybody, and particularly such a kind and beautiful lady as
you are.”
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“God bless you, poor child!” exclaimed the other, fervently;
“you shall not always think so;” and bending
over, she kissed the little sufferer, with such affectionate
tenderness, that the latter was forced to give vent to her
feelings in a flood of tears. “Come! come!” she continued,
as if chiding herself—“I am acting a very imprudent part,
and against the orders of the Surgeon, who told me, if
your senses returned, I must be so careful not to agitate
you!”
“Don't go away yet!” said Ellen: “I want to talk
more: I know I'll not be any worse for it. How long have
I been here?”
“This is the ninth day.”
“The ninth day?” repeated Ellen, all amazement.
“Why, isn't this Christmas morning?”
“No, my dear, it is the eighth day from Christmas.”
“And have I been asleep all this time?”
“You have been all this time unconscious, or delirious.
But you must not think of it now; when you get better I
will tell you all about it.”
“Am I badly hurt?”
“So seriously, that we feared you would not recover.
There! I must stop talking with you; try and compose
yourself to sleep. How do you feel now?”
“I feel as if it wouldn't do me any harm to talk more—
but I'll do just as you say.”
“Yes, do—that is a good little girl. By-the-by, you may
tell me your name, if you please, so that I shall know what
to call you.”
“My name is Ellen Norbury.”
“How? Norbury?” exclaimed the other, starting and
changing color: “Norbury, did you say?”
“Yes, lady, that is my name—I hope it don't offend
you.”
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“And what was your father's Christian name?”
“William.”
“Was he an Englishman by birth?”
“Yes, lady, I think he was—but he lived in Dublin when
I was born.”
“Indeed! What was his occupation?”
“He was an artist.”
“It must be the same!” mused the other. “Strange!”
“Did you know him?” inquired Ellen, not a little surprised
at the impression which the name of her father
seemed to produce on the other.
“I never saw him, my child; but you must ask me no
questions now; when you get stronger I will tell you more.
Meantime, I must enjoin upon you, to let no one else in
this house—neither my father nor the servants—hear you
mention the name of Norbury! Should my father, who is
a strange kind of man, chance to inquire your name, you
must on no account let him know it is Norbury! From
what you said, while delirious, I judge that both your
parents are dead?”
“Yes!” sighed Ellen.
“Did they die in this country?”
“My mother did—but my father died on the passage
over,” sobbed the other. “Oh! lady, if you please, don't
ask me any more questions about them now—it makes me
so sad to talk about them.”
“Only one more, Ellen,” returned the other, with a kind
of eager earnestness. “Did you ever hear either of your
parents mention the name of Clendennan?”
Ellen shuddered as she replied:
“Yes—I heard my father—once.”
“What did he say?” and the fair questioner fairly held
her breath for the answer.
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“He said he hoped the curse of God would light upon
him!”
Instantly the features of the young lady grew deadly
pale; and stepping back, the curtains came together, shutting
her from the view of Ellen, who was thus left to ponder
upon a new mystery. After waiting some minutes, in
the vain expectation of being again addressed by her fair
protectress, she ventured to inquire if she were still present.
Immediately the curtains were gently parted again, and, to
the surprise of Ellen, another strange face appeared. It
was that of a woman turned the prime of life, who wore a
cap, and had a neat, tidy appearance, and whose countenance
had a sedate, though somewhat stern, expression.
“I am glad to find you rational, my child,” she said, in
a slow, dignified tone; “but it is not proper that you
should talk more at present. Is there any thing I can do
for you?”
“No, ma'am, I thank you,” answered Ellen. “I was
asking if the lady, who was just now with me, were still
here.”
“No, child, Miss Rosalind has just left the apartment,
and I have come to take her place.”
“It is very kind of you, ma'am,” said Ellen. “Are you
her mother?”
“No, child—her mother has been dead some years. I am
her Governess.”
“Will you please to tell me her last name?”
“It is Clendennan.”
“Indeed!” exclaimed little Ellen, in a tone of so much
surprise, that Mrs. Wyndham inquired if she were previously
acquainted with the name.
“I have heard it mentioned before,” said Ellen, with as
much indifference as she could assume—for the recollection
of her conversation with Miss Rosalind, caused her no little
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[figure description] Page 080.[end figure description]
agitation, which she effectually strove to conceal from the
Governess.
“Very likely,” was the rejoinder, “for it is a noble
name, and ranks among the proudest of the chivalrous sons
of Ireland.”
“Has Mr. Clendennan been long in this country?” inquired
Ellen.
“Some five years, my child,” answered Mrs. Wyndham.
“But you must ask no more questions now—it will do you
harm to talk. Here,” she continued, retiring for a minute,
and returning with some liquid in a tea-spoon—“here, take
this, and compose yourself to sleep.”
Ellen did as directed; and in a few minutes, notwithstanding
her recent nervous agitation, she felt a soothing,
drowsy influence begin to steal over her; and presently
her troubled spirit began to glide away from the cares of
mortality, and rejoice in the gorgeous scenes of the fairy
realm of dreams.
CHAPTER VII. THE MYSTERY SOLVED.
The injuries which little Ellen received on that eventful
Christmas morning, were of a very severe nature; and
even after it was rendered certain that she would recover,
there were serious apprehensions that she would be maimed
for life. But thanks to careful attendance, and a skilful
surgeon, she gradually recovered the use of all her limbs;
and, at the expiration of three long months, was restored
to health and her original soundness of body.
-- 081 --
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Yet were these months of close confinement—and, much
of the time, of physical suffering—the happiest the poor
child of sorrow had known for a long period. Rosalind
was her almost constant attendant; and had she indeed
been her mother, she could scarcely have been more tender
and devoted. She talked to her, read to her, and sung to
her; and, at intervals, made the variety greater and more
useful, by instructing her in the common English branches.
The education of Ellen had not been entirely neglected by
her parents; and though only eight years of age when her
father died, she was then able to read a little in the
Simple Lessons; but sorrow, poverty, and brutal treatment,
had subsequently made sad inroads upon the little
book-learning she had acquired—however much it might
have enlarged her knowledge of the baseness to be found
in human nature—so that it was necessary for her teacher
to begin with her in much the same manner as with one
who had never been taught.
Aside from all this, however, there were some explanations,
narrations, and occurrences, during the period of
Ellen's convalescence, which the plan of our story requires
us to give somewhat in detail, though not altogether in the
order in which the different matters were brought to the
knowledge of the different parties.
The fact of two daughters meeting in so singular a manner,
in a strange land, whose fathers, once friends, had
been many years estranged by an unfortunate occurrence
which had ruined the peace of both families, was certainly
very curious, not to say mysterious; and of this estrangement,
and the causes which led to it, we will now speak,
without recording the conversation which Rosalind and
Ellen held together on this subject.
Walter Clendennan was an only son of a wealthy Irish
Baronet, at whose death he came into possession of a title
-- 082 --
[figure description] Page 082.[end figure description]
and a large estate. Soon after this event, at the age of
twenty-five, he married a lovely and amiable lady, of good
family but small fortune, by the name of Lucy Norbury, a
cousin of William Norbury, the father of Ellen, who was
in consequence a second cousin of Rosalind. Like that of
Clendennan, the name of Norbury was ancient, and belonged
to a house of wealth and distinction; but some of the descendants,
among whom was the father of Ellen, had become
reduced to comparative poverty, though still retaining
the pride of descent, and being very tenacious of the
family honor.
At the death of Ellen's grandfather, he left two sons—
William and James, her father and uncle—with little or no
inheritance—the family means having been exhausted in
giving them a good education. William, having a natural
taste for painting, with some considerable talent as an
artist, adopted that profession; and on his marriage with a
Miss Montague, another poor descendant of a once wealthy
house, he removed to Dublin, where for a time he succeeded
in making a comfortable living. James, the younger—
having, like his brother for painting, a natural turn for
military tactics—was assisted by Sir Walter Clendennan;
who, hearing of his desire, generously purchased and presented
him with a Captain's commission in an Irish regiment
of infantry. Not to show partiality, Sir Walter at
the same time tendered a present of like amount to William;
but the latter declined to receive it, on the ground
that he was doing well, and did not, like his brother, stand
in need of assistance.
Between these two brothers, who loved each other as
brothers should love, and their wealthy and titled cousin, Sir
Walter, there was such a bond of friendship as is seldom
seen to exist between parties where the disparity of worldly
circumstances is so great; and though they seldom met,
-- 083 --
[figure description] Page 083.[end figure description]
yet a correspondence, begun and carried on on all sides,
expressed the warmth of attachment which each felt for
each other, and exhibited a rare triple congeniality of
soul.
The mariage of Sir Walter with the mother of Rosalind,
was for many years a happy one; and the Knight and his
good lady, in course of time, found themselves blessed with
a daughter and two sons—the daughter being the eldest,
and the one already presented in the person of Rosalind.
It was about this period, that Sir Walter and his family—
with the exception of Rosalind, who had gone to spend
a few months with an aunt, in a distant part of the Kingdom—
paid a visit to some relatives in Dublin.
Now it so chanced, that Captain Norbury and his company
were at this time quartered in Dublin; and the brothers
met Sir Walter, after a separation of years, with all
the warmth of feeling which two grateful natures could express
toward one who had acted so noble and generous a
part. William Norbury, the Artist, had risen to some distinction
in his profession; and was now in what was called
good circumstances, and doing well. He was at this
period the father of two children—a bright little boy of
four years, and the subject of our story, then in her
infancy.
The brothers were at once presented to Lady Clendennan,
their cousin, whom neither had seen since her marriage.
She was at this time in the full bloom of maturity—of
handsome person, fine mind, rare accomplishments, and
affable manners—and both the brothers were delighted at
the renewal of their acquaintance. Being cousins of blood,
and descendants of a house of which it was the pride of
each to boast—and the brothers also being among the
warmest friends of Sir Walter—all formality was laid
aside, and the parties met like members of one and the
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[figure description] Page 084.[end figure description]
same family—or, in other words, like two brothers meeting
with a dear sister. From this time, Captain Norbury, who
chanced to be unmarried—and who had a fine, commanding
person, and, notwithstanding his profession, a poetical
temperament, inclined to the romantic—became a
daily visitor at the house of his titled friend; and seemed
to delight more in the conversation of his cousin, who had
a turn of mind similar to his own, than in that of Sir
Walter, who, with all his sterling qualities, was always
eccentric and sometimes morose.
The fact was, the Baronet was a man of many noble
traits, whose friendship could be better maintained at a
distance, and through an occasional correspondence, than
by intimate personal association. Being, as before remarked,
of an eccentric turn of mind, and of an irritable,
peevish temperament, it was much easier for him to write
a smooth, generous sentence, at such times as his mind
was calm, than speak one when something, even though
foreign to the subject, had ruffled his temper. Therefore
it was, that Captain Norbury—prizing him for his real
worth no less highly now than at any previous time—preferred
the society and conversation of his lady to his own;
and thus, unconsciously, was laid a train, whose final explosion
was attended and followed by terrible consequences.
To be brief, the Baronet at length began to grow jealous
of the attention of Captain Norbury to his fair lady; and
though in reality he had no cause for jealousy, yet the
“green-eyed monster,” having sprung into birth, “grew
daily by what it fed upon,” till at last it assumed a
hideous and formidable shape. Sir Walter, meantime,
kept his own counsel, and an eye upon the parties; but
when at last an unpleasant rumor reached his ear, in which
their names were coupled, he decided it was time to act.
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He procured a brace of pistols, loaded them himself, and
concealed them about his person; and meeting Captain
Norbury shortly after, in a retired street, he approached
him, as if in friendship; and then, to the Captain's utter
amazement, whispered in his ear:
“Sir! you are an ungrateful, treacherous villain!”
“Sir Walter, what means this language?” inquired the
Captain.
“You know, and I know,” answered the enraged Baronet,
between his shut teeth. “We will neither of us mention
the cause, if you please. If you are not a coward,
follow me!”
“But I solemnly protest,” said the Captain, “that I
know of nothing I have either said or done, that can give
offence to one I have ever held to be my dearest friend.”
“Captain Norbury, are you a disgrace to the commission
which my money purchased for you? are you a coward?”
demanded the Knight.
“No, Sir Walter.”
“Then follow me!”
The Knight led the way; and the two, without speaking,
soon found themselves in a retired spot, beyond the
busy hum of the town. Sir Walter here abruptly presented
his pistols, and merely said:
“Quick! take your choice and your ground!”
“But I protest—” begain the astonished Captain.
“Coward!” interrupted the other, with a sneer.
The Captain said no more; but, compressing his lips,
took the proffered pistol, and retired about ten paces.
“You shall give the word,” said the Baronet.
“Fire!” returned the Captain, with the muzzle of his
pistol pointed to the ground.
Sir Walter took a deliberate aim, and fired. The
-- 086 --
[figure description] Page 086.[end figure description]
Captain staggered; and then tossing his undischarged weapon
toward his antagonist, exclaimed:
“Heaven bear witness, that I die without attempting
the life of my once friend and benefactor.”
With this he sunk upon the earth. Sir Walter was
appalled. Had he indeed murdered an innocent friend?
He ran to him, caught him up in his arms, and exclaimed:
“I have murdered you, James—for you did not fire at
me.”
“Why should I fire at you? or you at me, Sir Walter?”
inquired the other, feebly. “Are we not friends?”
“We were—we were, James—but—”
“But what?”
“My wife.”
“What of her?”
“I—I—believed—I heard,—in short, was there nothing
wrong between you?” gasped the Knight.
“Sir Walter,” returned the other, endeavoring to rise,
struggling for breath, and fixing his eye, already glazing
in death, upon the Knight—“I see it all. I am dying—
I feel it—I know it—but she must not be wronged. Will
you credit my last words?”
“Yes! yes! speak!”
“Then, as God is my Judge, and as I hope for mercy in
the other world, I solemnly swear, I never wronged her, or
you, even in thought.”
These were the last words the unfortunate man ever
spoke; and a few minutes after, he breathed his last, in the
arms of the distracted Baronet, who now felt that the
brand of Cain was on him. Like a madman, Sir Walter
hurried back to the city, sought his wife, and told her all.
Her emotions overcame her, and she swooned; and in that
swoon he left her, to seek safety in flight. It chanced that
a vessel, bound for the coast of France, was just weighing
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anchor; and getting on board of her, the Knight was soon
beyond the reach of justice.
It is not our purpose to follow him on that journey of
torture, but to sum up the consequences of his awful crime
in as few words as possible. Ere the first anniversary of
the direful deed, Lady Clendennan was no more. Some
said she died of a broken heart. Within three years, her
two sons followed her; and the grief-bowed, consciencestricken
Knight—pardoned by Government, but not by
Heaven—returned to his once happy home, only to feel it
was a home for him no longer. As soon as he could, he
now sold off his property, settled up his affairs, and sailed
for the United States—taking with him his only remaining
child, Rosalind, her governess, and two servants, who preferred
following the fortunes of their old master to seeking
a new one. After visiting various cities, he finally selected
Philadelphia for his future home, purchased a handsome
property, and settled down to a life of terrible gloom and
remorse. As we shall soon have occasion to bring him
before the reader in propria personæ, we will say nothing
further of him in this connection.
Serious, if not fatal, were also the consequences of that
tragedy to the surviving brother. Half demented by the
shock, William Norbury never recovered to be himself
again. A settled melancholy took possession of him; he
neglected his business; took to drinking; and finally, on
the death of his son, determined to leave the country for
ever. He, too, as chance would have it—or, perhaps,
more correctly speaking, as Providence willed it—sailed
for the very city in which the cause of much of his misery
was then living. But he died on the passage; his wife
did not long survive him; and the fate of poor little Ellen
is so far known to the reader
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CHAPTER VIII. THE KNIGHT AND THE SURGEON.
[figure description] Page 088.[end figure description]
It was this sad tale, so deeply interwoven with the
history of her own family, and in which therefore might
be found the primary cause of all the sufferings which she
had endured, that Ellen Norbury for the first time heard
from the lips of Rosalind Clendennan—not as we have
told it, however, in a connected form—but with an interchange
and comparison of facts, by which the two were
enabled to arrive at the same conclusion. Rosalind knew
her own family history and the history of her mother's
cousins, the father and uncle of Ellen, up to the period of
the tragedy narrated; she knew, too, that subsequently to
this, there was a sad change in the surviving brother; and
Ellen, by giving her early recollections of her parents, with
the loss of her brother, and the sad end of all but herself,
was thus able to supply the remaining links in the chain of
fatal events. Previous to her meeting with Rosalind, Ellen
had never heard the name of Clendennan but once; and
then it had passed the lips of her father, in a state of partial
intoxication, coupled with a curse that had made her
shudder, and which had produced an impression on her
mind that had never been erased. The name of her uncle
had never been mentioned in her hearing; and from this
fact the inference was now drawn, that the subject of the
tragedy was one to which her parents rarely if ever made
an allusion. The history of Ellen's mother, up to the
period already mentioned, was also known to Rosalind;
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[figure description] Page 089.[end figure description]
and as Ellen knew nothing, save that her mother's maiden
name was Montague, this subject also became one of the
deepest interest to her.
By these conversations, which occurred at different
times, and when the parties were only in each other's
company, Ellen learned wherefore it was so essential that
her own name should be concealed from the father of
Rosalind and the servants of the family. Of her father
Rosalind said but little; but from that little it was to be
inferred, that he was a miserable man—a prey to remorse
and grief—at times cold, morose and misanthropic—at
times peevish and wayward—always eccentric and ascetic—
and striving to compound with his conscience, by secret
acts of charity, for a crime he could not forgive himself.
He generally kept himself closeted in his library, rarely
went abroad, received no visitors, and seemed to take little
or no interest, beyond the aforesaid deeds of charity, in
the world without. There were times too when he locked
himself against intrusion, and permitted not even his
daughter to see him for days together. He wholly abjured
his title, constituted Rosalind sole mistress of his mansion,
allowed her to do as she pleased in everything, and seldom
took the least interest in her affairs. Such was the
establishment, in a country foreign to his birth, of a once
happy Baronet, in which poor little Ellen found herself
so singularly placed, by one of those freaks of fortune for
which there is no accounting, except by the overruling
power of Providence.
From the little she gleaned from Rosalind concerning
her unhappy father, taken in connection with the eventful
history we have related, Ellen readily perceived why it
was that the sweet, lovely face of her kind protectress, at
all times wore such an expression of deep-seated melancholy;
and notwithstanding her own sorrows, she had
-- 090 --
[figure description] Page 090.[end figure description]
abundance of sympathy to spare to her gentle friend and
cousin. Cousin! How sweet that word to the ear of one
who had been so vilely abused, and so long destitute of a
single relative or friend! It came like the warm sunshine
and soft south wind to the freezing flower, and restored
life and animation to her trouble-chilled heart. And
Rosalind was one to return her sympathy with interest;
and as Ellen told her sad tale of wretchedness and suffering,
the tears of both were unconsciously mingled, and both
felt happier without knowing why.
Rosalind was one of those gentle beings that seem expressly
formed to love and be beloved. She was about
twenty years of age, of the medium size, with a form symmetrical,
airy, and graceful. Her fair features had a delicate
refinement in detail as well as outline, and the natural
expression was one of great sweetness and amiability,
which lost nothing of loveliness, but increased in interest,
by the pervading cast of melancholy. Her sunny hair
hung down in clustering ringlets, and gave in some degree
the same pleasant shade to her countenance, that her long,
fringy lashes did to her soft, blue eyes. Her voice was a
melody; and to hear her speak, and note the gently parted
lips, with the even, pearly teeth just displayed, and mark
the beaming glance of her soft, expressive eye, was to feel
at the same moment the combined fascination of music and
beauty. And to this fascination, her sad, sweet smile,
with every feature radiant, seemed to add a charm irresistible;
and the enrapt beholder could readily fancy he saw
the light of Heaven upon a mortal countenance, after passing
through the chambers of a soul made pure by holy
thoughts and aspirations.
The painful events which had occurred during the last
ten years of Rosalind's life, together with a change of
country, and the peculiar condition of her father, had
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prevented her taking that position in society to which her
birth and wealth entitled her. In truth, being of a modest,
retiring disposition, she did not care to mingle with the
world; and since her arrival in America, she had striven
to live in that seclusion which she considered most consistent
with her circumstances; and in consequence, her
circle of acquaintances, at the period we introduce her into
our narrative, was rather limited. But it would have been
almost impossible for her to live wholly retired, had she
been so resolved; for common courtesy required her to
see those who called upon her, and to return the visits of
those whom she discovered to be congenial spirits.
In this way she became acquainted with a few families;
and among these, with one by the name of Stanhope. At
the time this acquaintance was formed, the Stanhopes—
consisting of father, mother, son, and daughter—were living
near neighbors, and were in easy circumstances; but
had subsequetly met with reverses, and had been obliged to
part with their elegant mansion, and take up their residence
in a small, unfashionable street. At the precise
period this change occurred, Newton Stanhope, the son referred
to, had just received his diploma as a Doctor of Medicine;
and though it had not been his intention to enter
upon practice for some years at least, yet he immediately
put out his sign, with the praiseworthy design of doing
what he could toward the maintainance of his parents and
sister. We are pleased to add, that, owing to the influence
of Rosalind and a few other friends of the family—
who, unlike the generality of so-called friends, did not desert
them in the hour of need—he had been successful beyond
his most sanguine expectations; and had found, with
a degree of pride and pleasure known only to high-spirited,
noble minds, that his income would be sufficient to
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maintain himself and those he loved, in what might be termed
a respectable style.
While the Stanhopes were in affluent circumstances, Newton,
and his sister Linda, had been frequent visitors at
the mansion of Rosalind; and she had experienced a degree
of pleasure in their society which she had found in no
other; and though their misfortunes had only tended to
strengthen her attachment to them, yet she now saw,
with pain, that one at least no longer met her as formerly.
She still continued to visit the family, and to receive a
cordial welcome from all but the young physician; who,
from some cause, which she, in her simplicity of heart, had
been unable to divine, had suddenly become reserved, cold,
distant, and formal. But even this, though it pained her,
and rendered her visits to the Stanhopes less frequent than
they might otherwise have been, did not lessen her friendship
for Linda, who was about her own age; and the young
maidens became more deeply attached to each other, as
time and circumstances more clearly revealed the noble
qualities of both.
But to return to our little heroine.
Ellen had been more than six weeks in the house of the
Baronet, and was able to sit up an hour or two at a time;
but though curious to behold the person who had had such
remarkable influence upon the fortunes of her family, she
had not yet been favored with a glimpse of Sir Walter.
One day, Rosalind having gone out with her friend, Linda,
for a walk, the Knight sent a courteous word to Ellen, by
Mrs. Wyndham, that, if agreeable to her, he would pay
her a visit. At this unexpected communication, Ellen was
not a little agitated; but promptly replied, to the effect
that the proposed visit would give her pleasure. Shortly
after, Sir Walter entered the apartment of the young invalid,
walking with a cane, and seeming in a feeble state
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of health. Ellen was seated in a large rocking-chair,
propped up with pillows; and as the Knight slowly approached
her, she fixed upon him a glance of curiosity,
mingled with emotions akin to awe or fear.
The personal appearance of the Baronet was not very
prepossessing. He was small in stature, and his body and
limbs had an appearance of being withered or shrunken;
and the skin, of a sallow hue, was dry and wrinkled. He
stooped considerably, and there was a painful nervousness
in all his motions—the nervousness of one continually
startled by the least discordant sound. His hair, what
little he had—for the front of his head was bald—was as
white as the driven snow, and had thus changed from a jet
black in a single night. His face, by no means large, had
now a cadaverous, ghastly look; and his once clear, keen,
gray eye, was now wandering and unsettled, with a restless,
unhappy expression. In short, the whole man was an embodiment
of the wretchedness of mental torture. Talk of
capital punishment for the murderer! of giving him the
extreme penalty of the law! It is no more in comparison
with the penalty inflicted by the law of God for the same
offence, than mortal structure is with the universe! Remorse—
deep-seated, eternal, corroding remorse—“the
worm that dieth not—the fire that is not quenched”—this
it is that punishes beyond all human invention, and gives
the doer of iniquity his just reward.
As Sir Walter approached Ellen, he fixed his eyes
searchingly upon her sweet little face; and then stopping
suddenly, he threw up both hands, and in a sharp, startled
voice, exclaimed:
“In the name of Heaven! who are you?”
“My name, sir, is Ellen,” replied the child, in a timid,
trembling voice, for she was much startled at the question,
look, and manner of the Knight.
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For nearly a minute, the Baronet, with his hands raised
in an attitude of surprise and astonishment, kept his eyes
riveted upon the niece of his victim; and then turning
away, he sunk upon a seat, covered his face with his hands,
and fairly groaned aloud—occasionally uttering:
“God be merciful to me, a sinner! God be merciful to
me, a sinner! for Christ's sake! for Christ's sake!”
After a time he seemed to grow more composed; but
now and then a long-drawn sigh, or a half-stifled sob, attested
how great was the struggle with himself, and how
much he suffered.
All this while, little Ellen sat and watched him, with
feelings of pity. Yes, strange as it may seem to such as
make gold their god, the poor, despised orphan could find
pity in her heart for the rich Baronet; for though deep
may be the distress of innocent poverty, it is the enjoyment
of Paradise compared to the sufferings of guilty wealth.
At last Sir Walter withdrew his hands from his ashy
face, and, turning to Ellen, said:
“Doubtless you think, child, that my conduct is very
strange; but there is such a remarkable resemblance
between you and one I once called friend, that the sight
of you revived painful emotions. Did you ever do wrong,
my child?”
“Yes, sir—many times.”
“Yet your sweet face shows that you are innocent of
any great wrong: God keep you so! What say you is
your name?”
“Ellen, sir.”
“But you have another name?”
“Yes, sir!” returned Ellen, somewhat confused.
“Well, no matter—you need not mention it—mea nihil
refert. Ah! forgetful me! I have not asked concerning
your wounds!”
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“I am getting better, sir—thank you.”
“Do you suffer much pain?”
“Only a little, sir, now.”
“But the pain of the mind does not mingle with that of
the body—eh! child?”
“I don't think I understand you, sir?”
“No! how should you? how should you? Well, I am
pleased to know you are getting better. Do you want for
any thing?”
“No, sir—thank you—I have every thing to make me
happy.”
“Heaven grant you ever have! Yet Rosalind tells me,
when she found you, senseless and bleeding in the street,
you were friendless.”
“That was true, sir, then; but it isn't true now; for
dear Rosalind tells me she is my friend.”
“Believe her, Ellen—for her pure soul was never soiled
by an untruth.”
“I do believe her, sir; and I want to live, to show her
how grateful I feel, and how much I love her.”
“Good child! good child!” returned Sir Walter, in a
state of partial abstraction, looking down upon the ground.
A pause of more than a minute ensued. “It is strange!”
he now muttered to himself; “it is very strange! such a
likeness! Alas! every body and every thing seem to conspire
to remind me of him! as if his image were not
stamped upon my heart, in colors of blood!—Well, well—
God be thanked! I have not to bear the earthly burden
much longer. This old frame must soon perish now, and
then that at least will be at rest. Oh! that I could know,
while here, what lies beyond this gloomy sphere of existence!
Does the mind, tortured here, continue in torture
there? God forbid! God in mercy forbid! O Christ,
and all holy saints, forbid! else must I suffer the conscience
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fires of eternal damnation! Death! thou seemest awful;
and yet I look to thee for relief; would to Heaven it could
be the relief of annihilation! Yet no—no—for then I
should never again behold the beings I most dearly loved
on earth! Death! Ah! there is coldness in the very sound!
the very thought of it sends an icy chill over my unhappy
spirit. Yet none can escape it! In all the ages of the
past—whether surrounded by pomp or poverty—whether
happy or miserable—none have lived to see the present—
none of the present will live to behold the future; and they
of the future will go down, generation after generation,
millions upon millions, to the same cold, silent grave, and
earth will be as if they had not been! Hei mihi! Semel
omnibus calcanda est via leti!”
While thus speaking to himself, he seemed to have forgotten
that another was present; and after another short
pause, he resumed:
“In the beginning of the race of man, if we are to believe
the Bible, the first human being born upon this earth,
became jealous of the second, his own brother, and murdered
him; and God set a mark upon his forehead, and
drove him forth, a miserable exile. Ah me! what need of
branding and banishing? If he had a conscience, hell was
with him, be he where he might!”
Saying this, he clasped his temples with both hands,
started up, and, with an eager, trembling step, began to
pace the room, to and fro. At length, his eye falling upon
Ellen, he stopped suddenly; and glaring upon her, with
the look of a maniac, he exclaimed:
“Great God! do the murdered dead live in the next
generation?”
Ellen was terribly alarmed; and had she consulted
merely her own feelings, would have called for help; but
she restrained her inclination; and, trembling like an
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aspen, with cold perspiration streaming from every pore,
kept her eyes riveted on the Baronet's. Presently she
perceived his wild, sharp, penetrating eye grow glazed and
stony, as if the sight were turned inward, and the mind
saw without the aid of its material surroundings. This unearthly
appearance continued for perhaps a minute, during
which sir Walter moved not a muscle; and then one gleam
of intellect after another began to light up his countenance,
till its natural expression was entirely restored.
“Ha! Ellen,” he said, “you look frightened! Have I
done any thing to alarm you?”
“I was afraid, sir, you were not well,” answered Ellen,
much embarrassed.
“Yes, I see—I had one of my spells. My health is
bad—very bad. Good health is a great blessing, my child—
a great blessing.” He again seated himself, gave way
to a moment's reflection, and then resumed: “I am told
that when these spells are on me, I sometimes speak in a
rambling manner: what did I say just now?”
“You were saying something, sir, about God driving
away the first murderer,” answered the other, with some
hesitation.
“Ah! very likely—yes, very likely. Vœ mihi!”
The unhappy Knight now entered into conversation with
Ellen, and carried it on in a manner so gentle and rational,
as to remove, in a great degree, the disagreeable, not to
say alarming, impression which his previous language and
conduct had produced. His command of language was
great—his faculty of pleasing, when he chose to exert it,
was wonderful—and long ere he had ceased entertaining
his fair little guest, the heart of Ellen had warmed toward
him to such a degree, that she felt as if she could throw
her arms about his neck, and love rather than fear him, as
a child should love a father.
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The conversation was interrupted by a servant, who came
to say that Dr. Markham was below, and desired to see his
patient. This was the Surgeon who attended upon Ellen,
and the husband—although Ellen did not know it—of the
Mrs. Markham who so rudely put her aside in Chestnut
street, and the father of the little girl after whom she had
gazed so sadly, envying her more happy lot.
“Stand out of the way, you beggar!” was the exclamation
of the purse-proud female, as she swept on in her
velvet robes; and yet, within two hours from the time
those words were spoken, the lord of that same soi disant
lady, felt a degree of pride, that he, of all others, should
be selected to approach, as a paid attendant, the bedside
of that same beggar, now the honored guest of the highborn
and wealthy.
Well, this is a curious world! curious, at least, in its
multiform variety of circumstances—curious in the miserable
conceits of human beings, who fancy that they are
better than their fellows, because they have more money!
What a contemptible thing is the mere aristocracy of
wealth! men without brains assuming a superiority over
intellect—making the pocket superior to the head—the
dross of the earth superior to the fires of God-sent genius!
It is a puny farce, too despicable to excite laughter, in
which the biggest fools play the leading parts!
“Show him up!” said Sir Walter, in reply to the servant.
The meeting between the Baronet and Dr. Markham
was polite, but formal. The Doctor was a plain, blunt,
practical man, rather eccentric withal, and therefore,
figuratively speaking, the antipode of his wife. His head,
covered by dark, curly hair, was extremely large, with a
broad, high, projecting forehead, and a coarse-featured,
dull-looking face. A glance at his sober, unspeculative
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gray eye, would at once convince you that he dealt in
nothing but facts—facts proved to be such by actual demonstration;
that, in short, he was a man of lines, curves,
angles and figures, with little or no imagination. He believed
in this world, because he saw it, felt it, knew it to
exist; he gave no thought to the other, because there was
no evidence to satisfy his mind of there being another. The
Bible he termed a theological romance; and as for man's
having a soul—he would believe it, he said, when he saw it,
and not before. He had dissected man carefully—had laid
bare every vein, nerve, muscle, and fibre—had examined
the brain, the heart, and lungs; and yet had seen nothing
of a soul, or even a place to put one. He had seen a dead
body dance by the force of a powerful battery, and therefore
argued that life was merely galvanism perfected. As
to who created the different worlds, the Doctor said it was
enough for him to know they were created; and if any
body knew more, they were welcome to make what use
they could of their knowledge, provided they would leave
him in peace to make what use he could of what he did
know.
As soon as the Surgeon had finished his examination of
his little patient, whom he pronounced to be doing remarkably
well, Sir Walter, who happened to be in a mood for
conversation, and who knew something of the Doctor's skeptical
opinions, thus addressed him:
“I would I knew, Doctor, whether man has an existence
after the death of the body!”
“Umph!” returned the Surgeon, drily—“there are a
great many in a like predicament.”
“But you have some opinion on the matter, Doctor!”
“So have you—or ought to have!” was the blunt rejoinder.
“I have heard that you do not believe in the immor
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tality of the soul—or rather, that you do not believe man
has a soul!”
“Why should I? I never saw it. Do you believe a
dog has a soul?”
“But a dog has no mind—no reason.”
“How do you know? you were never a dog.”
“But if a dog had mind, he would give evidence of it.”
“What do you call mind?”
“Why, that power which thinks, reasons, conceives,
weighs, measures, and judges—which from cause calculates
effect, and from effect finds out cause.”
“And do you tell me a dog, a horse, or a monkey, has
not this power?”
“Certainly not in the same degree that man has.”
“What do you mean by man, sir? Do you allude to
the mental giants of civilization? or the animal dwarfs of
barbarism? The term man is generic, and comprehends
all human bipeds; and boast of his intellect as much as
you may, I will name you thousands—nay, millions—of
the genus homo, who do not exhibit the sense and sagacity
of a New Foundland dog! Sir, I once put a muzzle
on a favorite dog of mine; and what think you the animal
did first? He sneaked off and hid himself for four-and-twenty
hours. He was evidently ashamed of being, as he
reasoned, disgraced. Afterward, sir, he got the muzzle
off, but carried it about with him, in his mouth, wherever
he went, and would let no one touch it.* Now he had
reasoned again, that that muzzle was put on for a special
purpose, and that it was necessary he should have it with
him, but at the same time preferred carrying it to wearing
it. Now prove to me, sir, that that canine quadruped
did not think, reason, conceive, and judge, and I will give
up the point.”
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“There does indeed seem to be a continuous chain, from
the lowest order of the vegetable world, up through the
animal kingdom, to the highest grade of intellect; and it
is hard to say where this begins and that leaves off—where
instinct stops and reason starts!” said the Knight, reflectively.
“Ah! true it is, as some author has observed—
`Qualis sit animus, ipse animus nescit.”'
“Yes, sir!” rejoined the Doctor; “true it is, that mind
is ignorant of what mind is; and therefore what authority
has mind for saying that mind can exist without the
body?”
“I have sometimes wished for annihilation,” sighed the
unhappy Baronet; “and yet it is an awful thing to think
our existence ends here!”
“Umph! very awful!” said the Doctor, sneeringly.
“The world has existed millions on millions of years—a
fact that can be demonstrated by the process of formation,
which is still in operation—and yet I'll wager my gray
mare against your front teeth, that it never occurred to
you to regret you were not born sooner! Annihilation
awful! Poh! you will know nothing about it. We often
lose hours in sleep that we have no recollection of; and
millions and millions of centuries, without consciousness,
would be the same to us as one lost second.”
“It is not the state itself, so much as the thought of it,
that is so awful,” said the Knight, in the way of explanation.
“But since you speak of sleep, Doctor—what do
you think of dreams?”
“What should I think of them, but as a species of diseased
fancies?”
“And yet they are often rational!”
“So is a maniac.”
“Have you then no faith in dreams?”
“Yes, I believe dreams are dreams; but if you mean as
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prognosticators—why, stulti confidunt somniis—and I leave
you to judge what claim I may have to be considered a
fool.”
“Because fools confide in dreams, is no reason why a
wise man, for doing the same, should be considered a fool,”
returned the Baronet, in a tone that indicated a slight degree
of irritation; “and as I hold you to be much wiser
than a fool, Doctor, I want you to tell me what authority
you have for asserting, that a diseased imagination, or
fancy, can array before the mind's eye a healthy and perfect
picture?”
“But I never said it could, sir.”
“No! but you term dreams diseased fancies; and yet
in dreams I have frequently seen the faces and forms of
my departed friends, exactly as they appeared in life—
while, awake, I have often labored in vain to call up a true
likeness. Now may we not base the immortality of the
soul upon the fact that man has a twofold existence—one
visible, the other invisible?”
“I do not catch your drift, sir!” replied the Surgeon.
“Why, this it is,” rejoined the Knight: “I suppose you are
prepared to admit that all my senses pertain to my animal
body? Nay, more—from the fact that you deny a spiritual
body, I presume you are ready to defend the idea that they
belong to the animal body only. Well, then, how is it
that, with my eyes closed in sleep, I can see objects I do
not look upon? hear sounds that do not enter through the
material ear? smell what does not come to the olfactory
nerve? taste what reaches not my tongue? and feel what I
do not touch?”
“Why, sir, I shall answer you, by denying that you see,
hear, smell, taste, or feel, in the manner you allege. That
you at the moment think you do, I will admit; but it is
all mere fancy—a deception of the brain—which, like the
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heart and the lungs, is often active when the rest of the
body is still in sleep.”
“You speak with assurance, Doctor,” returned the Baronet;
“but my interior perception tells me you are
wrong.”
“Well,” rejoined the Surgeon, looking at his watch;
“as I have not time to hold an argument with your interior
perception, I will take this occasion to say, good day, sir!”
For some time after the Surgeon had departed, Sir Walter
sat and mused. At length, turning abruptly to Ellen,
he inquired:
“My child, do you believe we live after the death of the
body?”
“I do, sir—for my mother often told me so.”
“Your mother was a good woman, my child; and she
was right; yes, she was right; I somehow feel it—I
know it!”
With this the Baronet arose, and quitted the apartment,
without saying a word.
eaf465n1* A fact which came under the author's own
observation.
CHAPTER IX. THE BURGLARY AND ABDUCTION.
As we have previously remarked, the three or four
months of Ellen's confinement in the mansion of the
Knight, with the lovely and gentle Rosalind for a companion,
was the happiest period she had known since the
death of her father; and it came like a gleam of sunshine
through the broken clouds of a fearful storm; but, to
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continue the simile, it was the sunshine through parted clouds
which were about to reunite and make the succeeding gloom
more awful, while the storm should again rage with increased
fury. We know little of astrology, and are not
prepared to say whether it may properly be considered a
science or not; but this we do know—that there is a certain
influence bearing upon every individual, which at times
completely controls him for good or evil; and if the evil
aspect rule, no human ingenuity, no human foresight, can
avert the fated calamity. Often, without premonition, in
the very height of prosperity and happiness, the awful blow
is struck, and the doomed one is crushed—perchance for
ever—perchance to rise again, all unexpectedly, by the
same mysterious power. It was his knowledge of this mysterious
something, perhaps, which caused the great bard so
truthfully to say:
“There's a divinity that shapes our ends,
Rough-hew them how we will.”
To little Ellen was still attached an adverse fate; and
notwithstanding her present bright prospects, the opening
future, into whose mystic depths she could not penetrate,
held in store for her misfortunes of a painfully trying
nature.
The residence of Sir Walter was a stately mansion, situated
on the corner of two elegant thoroughfares—the out-buildings
and high walls forming a paralellogram, and enclosing
a court, garden, and conservatory. The main
entrance was reached by marble steps, under a fine portico;
over which, along the second story, extended an iron balcony,
which became a favorite sitting-place during the warm
pleasant evenings of spring and summer.
It was here that little Ellen found herself one delightful
evening in April, with only Mrs. Wyndham for a
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companion. The Knight and his daughter had gone for a
drive to a neighboring town, taking with them two of the
four servants which they kept in employ; and it was uncertain
whether they would return that night or not; for
Rosalind had expressed an intention of persuading her
father to sleep away from home, in the hope that such a
change, from his dreary, monotonous course of life, would
prove beneficial to his health and spirits.
From some cause, which she could not explain, little
Ellen, on that eventful night, felt greatly depressed; and
when, at a rather late hour, she retired to her sleeping
apartment, without her sweet companion, Rosalind, a
weight of portending evil bore so heavily upon her gentle
spirit, that, as she threw herself upon her downy couch, her
slender frame trembled like the leaves of the aspen. She
made no mention of her peculiar feelings to any one, however;
and, soon after touching her pillow, fell asleep.
For an hour or two her sleep was deep and untroubled,
and then she began to dream. She thought she was in a
little boat, which had just passed over a dark, troubled,
tempestuous sea, and entered the haven of a beautiful, fairy
lake; and she was looking around with rapture upon the
silvery waters, and the gorgeous scenery which enclosed
them, when a bright being suddenly appeared, whose shining
raiment almost dazzled her eyes. In a moment she
knew this angel visitant to be her beloved mother; and
with a cry of joy, she clasped her in her arms, and shed
beatific tears. Suddenly the bright, joyful face of her dear
mother became overcast with a portentous sadness; and
her voice sounded like the wail of the Eolian harp, as she
said:
“My child—my dear, sweet child—I constantly watch
over you—I am ever near you; but there are dangers
around you, from which even a mother's love has not
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power to guard. Over a sea of tempests dire, you have
passed to this bright haven of momentary rest; but your
abiding place is not for the present here, and an ocean of
misery lies beyond. Put your trust in God, and call upon
Him in your hours of sorrow—for He alone can safely
guide your frail bark to the haven of eternal happiness.
My poor, dear child, you will soon be alone, on a world of
tempestuous waters, at the mercy of the wild waves, drifting
you know not whither, your gentle soul filled with
doubts, fears and despair. This I know, who cannot see
the end—for it is not given unto mortal or spirit to know
the secret designs of God. Put your trust in Him, and
pray ever! Farewell!”
With this the bright being kissed the sweet dreamer, and
vanished. Then the scene began to change. The gorgeous
landscape resolved itself into a seemingly boundless ocean of
murky waters, and the golden sky became overcast with
dark, lowering clouds, which sent forth angry winds to
raise mountainous waves. Through the deepening shades
began to play the forked lightnings, and peal on peal of
crashing thunder made the gloom more awful.
At this moment, with a stifled cry of horror, Ellen awoke—
but only to find the reality of her situation as terrible as
that of her sleeping fancy. A bright light, streaming full
upon her eyes, almost blinded her; and ere she could utter
a waking cry of terror, a heavy hand covered her lips, and
a deep voice, in a suppressed tone, said:
“Make the least noise, and you wont live to say your
prayers.”
Terrified beyond the power of speech, even had the hand
of the intruder not been pressed upon her mouth, Ellen remained
motionless, wondering whether she were yet awake,
or whether what she saw and felt were a part of some horrible
vision. The light, which shone upon her face, came
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from a dark-lantern; and its rays, being thus concentrated
into one focus, left the face and figure of him that held it, as
well as all other parts of the room, in deep shadow. Setting
the lantern down on the bed, but keeping the light streaming
upon Ellen, the Burglar—for such he was—took from
his pocket an old handkerchief, which he twisted and
thrust into the mouth of the trembling child, where he secured
it by passing a cord around her head. Having thus
gagged, he proceeded to bind her, hand and foot. This
done, he took up the lantern; and as he turned away, he
said, in a fierce whisper:
“If you make the least noise while I'm away, I'll come
back and slit your weasand.”
Glancing hastily around the apartment, he now went out,
leaving Ellen in darkness, a prey to all the horrors of a
fearful reality and an excited imagination. She now discovered,
poor child, that her dream was not all a dream—
for though the sky was fair when she retired to rest, a
storm had since come up, and the rain was now descending
in torrents, accompanied with a fierce wind and occasional
lightning and thunder. For some time she heard, or
fancied she heard, the Burglar moving about in the adjoining
apartment; and breathless with terror, she listened to
every sound, while a cold, clammy perspiration pressed
through every pore.
In something like half an hour, the man returned to the
apartment of Ellen, accompanied by another, who held in
his arms quite a load of silver plate. Placing his burden
on the bed generally occupied by Rosalind, he and his
companion in crime, by the light of the dark-lantern, contemplated
the glittering heap with a high degree of satisfaction.
“I say, Jim,” said the one who had brought the valuables
into the apartment in question, speaking in a low tone,
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“this here's a rare go, and we'll be able to set up among
the swell nobs, arter starving to death all winter.”
“Well, we will, pal,” returned the other; “and see if
we don't come the blind over the fancy. This here pile's
enough to set a feller up in business—to say nothing of
the ready, and that there gal, who'll fetch a few.”
“I say, Jim—how many shiners—eh?”
“Never you mind about that now, Jake—we'll count'
em when we git cribbed.”
“Honor bright, now, Jim?”
“In course—d'ye think I'm mean enough to cheat in
the swagger?”*
“We must be sure and clear the beaks.”†
“You must do that, Jake—for the big spile will have to
go with you. I'll take the gal, and come out right side
up, you can bet your life.”
“But what about the gal, Jim? I don't exactly understand
that part.”
“I do, though—and that's enough. What comes of the
gal, is my affair, Jake—but I'll tell you all about it some
other time.”
“Hark!” exclaimed the other; “didn't you hear a
noise?”
The burglars listened for some minutes, making their
lantern dark, by shutting a metal door over the convex
glass through which the light streamed.
“Nothing but the storm, I reckon,” at length said the
one called Jim. “It howls beautiful—just the night for
us. But, come—let's be off—this here's no place for confabulation,
or whatever the — gentry call the —
thing. Here,” he continued, gathering up the silk counterpane;
“this here rag 'll do to bag the swagger in;
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and so do you be off by the back way, while I stay and
fasten it arter you.”
“But what do you stay behind for, Jim?”
“Haint I got the gal to tend to?”
“But what do you mean about fastening the back
way? Aint you coming out through there?”
“No, I goes front.”
“What for, Jim?”
“Never you mind about that—I've got a reason, and
it's a good one. Come, travel; for this here storm 'll
soon blow over, and then the Charlies 'll be sneaking
about, with dry feathers, ready to pounce upon the first
miserable wretch they find. As long as it rains, we're all
right—for they'll take — good care not to git wet, let
happen what will. Is your barkers* all right, Jake?”
“Yes.”
“And your rib-digger?”†
“Ay.”
“Well, then, put out—and don't let nothing run afoul
of you and live to tell on't.”
The burglars now left the room together; and after an
absence of some five or ten minutes, the one called Jim
returned. Hastening to the trembling Ellen, he unbound
her limbs, without removing the gag, and said:
“Now, gal, hunt out all your fine toggery, right
sudden.”
The poor child, supposing his design was merely to rob
her of her clothing, and that he would then leave her and
depart, hastily complied with his command; and soon had
all that belonged to her—presents from Rosalind—collected
together. Meantime the Burglar, though keeping
an eye on his victim, was not idle. With a false key he
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opened the dressing bureau of Rosalind; where, to his
great delight, he found a costly necklace and several
jewels of value, which he immediately secured about his
person. He then bade his trembling captive dress herself
in a new silk frock, and put on her best bonnet, while he
made as small a bundle as he could of the rest of her
apparel. This done, he threw a costly shawl, belonging
to Rosalind, over her shoulders, seized upon a silk umbrella
that chanced to be standing in one corner, and
said:
“Now, then, my little gal, we're ready for a start.
We'll go softly down, and leave by the front way, and
that 'll be respectable, to say the least on't.”
Ellen would have remonstrated—but she was still gagged
and could not speak. What could the Burglar want of her,
after securing all that was valuable? Perhaps he only
intended that she should show him the way to the front
door; and in the hope that this was his main design, and
that he would then leave her and effect his own escape
alone, she obeyed his orders with some appearance of
alacrity. But when the front door was opened, he took
hold of her arm, and said, gruffly:
“Come, you've got to go with me—I want you. This
here's no time for foolery!” he added, as Ellen, trembling
with terror, drew back. “You've got to come, and that's
the long and short on't! Now will you come peaceable?
or shall I drag you along, and stir you up with my dagger?—
Mark this, gal—for it's as true as that you've now
got your breath in your body! If you come peaceable
and quiet, you wont be hurt—but if you manage so as to
git any of the watch down on us, I'll run this here steel
into your heart!”
What could the poor child do? There was no alternative.
She was completely in the man's power, without
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even so much as the use of her voice to call for assistance.
So she made a virtue of necessity, and yielded to a fate
she could not control or change.
The Burglar, with a view of presenting a quiet, respectable
appearance to the eye of any one they might chance
to meet, took hold of her hand, and spread the umbrella
over their heads. The course he took was through
streets dimly lighted and but little frequented; and in
something less than half an hour, Ellen found herself entering
that dismal quarter from which she hoped she had
forever escaped, and which in a former chapter we termed
the Infected District. After passing several dens of misery,
the Burglar at last entered an alley more dark and noxious
than any; and cautiously approaching an old, dilapidated
door, he rapped softly on it with his knuckles.
“Who's there?” inquired a female voice, which Ellen
fancied she recognized.
“It's all right,” was the answer, in a low, guarded tone.
“It's me, Mag—open quick!”
The next moment Ellen found herself dragged forward
through the partly opened door, into a place of total darkness.
Immediately the door was closed again, and the
man inquired:
“Has Jake come, Mag?”
“No.”
“The fiends take him, if he's trying any dodge, or has
blundered into limbo!”
“How have you made out, Jim?” inquired the woman.
“It's been a rare go, and we've bagged the swagger
without a bark. Hark!” he whispered—“there's a footstep;
and—yes—there's a knock. Speak, Mag!”
“Who's there?” again demanded the woman.
“Jake,” was the answer, in a low tone.
The door was again partly opened, and the second
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burglar glided in, and deposited his burden on the ground,
the apartment being still in total darkness.
“It's all right, pal,” whispered Jim, as he busied himself
with the fastenings of the door. “I's afeard you'd
run afoul of a beak.”
“I did come near one, and had to go a — long way
round,” answered the other. “Come, let's have a glim.”
“Here it is,” answered the woman, as she drew a match
across the jamb of the fire-place, and lighted a tallow
candle.
As the feeble rays fell upon the bloated countenance,
Ellen perceived that she had not mistaken the voice of the
woman, and that she was again in the presence of the
degraded being called Margaret. She instantly turned to
the master burglar, and saw, what she had before merely
suspected—for till now his face had been constantly in
deep shadow—that she was indebted for her present captivity
to the very man who had once probably saved her
life, by picking her up in the street when in a most destitute
condition. At that time, the home of this man of
crime seemed to her a little paradise: now, by contrast
with her late abode, a very hell.
“Why, who have we here?” said Margaret, now for
the first time aware of the presence of Ellen.
“There's a surprise for ye, Mag!” answered Mulwrack,
with a kind of chuckle.
“Why, as I'm a living sinner,” continued Margaret,
bringing the light close to Ellen's face, “if it isn't
the ungrateful little thief that stole my money and ran
off! How's this, Jim?”
“You may well ax how it is, Mag,” replied the other;
“for the whole thing gits me all of a heap. You see, as
me and Jake was rummaging the big crib, hunting for the
swagger, I happened into one of the sleeping-rooms, and
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then thought it best to know if any body'd spied me. Well,
on coming up to the bed, that had somebody in it, you can
fancy how the thing got me, when I seed the face of her
that we'd been looking for so long. Here's luck, thinks
I; and I'll bag you, if I don't nothing else. Well, I
gagged and tied her; and when we'd got through with our
tother business, I took her along. And what's more,” he
added, with a chuckle, “I made her git her toggery, and
we came out the front way, arter letting Jake out the
back way, and fastening all up tight. D'ye understand
that dodge, Mag?”
“I think I do,” answered the woman; “you mean the
big-bugs shall suspicion she robbed them?”
“You've hit the nail there, Mag—though Jake couldn't
guess,” returned Mulwrack.
On hearing this, poor Ellen uttered a groan of mental
agony, and reeled against the wall.
“Well, hang me, if I smelt the rat, Jim!” said Jake, in
a tone of admiration. “It takes you! So this was what
you wanted of the gal, arter all? But what'll you do with
her now?”
Mulwrack and Margaret exchanged glances, and the
former replied:
“Oh, leave that to me! I'll take care she'll fetch us
more spile than trouble.”
The last sentence he muttered to himself.
Margaret now removed the shawl which had been thrown
over Ellen; and as she glanced at her rich and fashionable
apparel, she uttered an exclamation of surprise.
“Why, how's this?” she said; “silks, as I live! Why,
she must have been something more than a servant in the
family!”
“Take that there rag out of her mouth, and let her
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explain!” rejoined the master burglar. “I'd like to know
something about it too.”
As soon as she could speak, Ellen fell upon her knees,
and besought her captors, in the most piteous tones, interrupted
with tears and sobs, to take all she had of value,
and allow her to return to her kind friends, before they
should suspect her of being so base and ungrateful as to
rob them—a crime which seemed to her pure soul as black
as the shades of hell itself.
“Stop your blubbering noise!” said Mulwrack, savagely—
“or I'll stop it for you. It aint much of a quarter for
the beaks, this here—but there's no use in letting our
neighbors into our secrets. The long and short on't is, you
can't go back at present—and so shut up your whining!”
“Umph!” sneered Margaret; “you make a monstrous
fuss about robbing them big-bugs; as if they cared for a
trifle; and as if you wasn't used to stealing! You didn't
feel so virtuous, probably, when you stole my clothes and
money! and from me, too, who'd tried to do you a kindness,
because you was poor and friendless like myself. Oh, no—
it didn't matter what you took from me—a poor, miserable,
degraded wretch. Come, I like that!”
“Oh! dear! dear!” cried Ellen; “don't think I stole
your money—don't! Oh! indeed, indeed, I didn't! I'll
tell you how it was.”
“Oh, yes—I'll be bound you have a lie ready made!”
replied Margaret.
“No, ma'am—I'll tell you the truth, and nothing else,
as I hope for heaven!”
There was something so convincing in the earnest,
agonizing tone in which little Ellen spoke, that, after
looking her steadily in the eye for a few moments, Margaret
said, in a milder voice:
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“Well, go on, and let's hear what you have to say for
yourself!”
Hurriedly Ellen narrated the manner of her meeting
with the Hunchback, on that eventful Christmas morning—
how she was induced to put herself under his guidance—
what took place at Jimmy Quiglan's—and how she subsequently
lost her way, wandered off to Chestnut street, got
run over, and so forth and so on.
“If I could only believe you!” said Margaret, on whom
Ellen's story seemed to make a favorable impression.
“Oh! ma'am—you must—you must believe me!” cried
Ellen. “Oh! don't think I would do wrong to anybody;
and particularly to one so good and kind to me as you
were!”
Hardened as she was in sin and crime, a tear—forced
up from some little cavern in her soul, not yet eternally
closed against the emotions which soften and save—
glistened in Margaret's eye, as Ellen spoke.
“Come, come,” joined in Mulwrack, gruffly—who noticed
that Ellen's language was awakening the sympathetic
feelings of his companion in vice—and which, if fully
aroused, might seriously interfere with his design—“Come,
come, Mag—what is't to you whether the gal's story's true
or not?”
“It's a good deal to me, Jim,” replied the other, with
some spirit; “for I hate to think every body's as wicked
as us—I mean as me.”
“Hush, now, with such — nonsense!” growled Jim.
“I'll git mad soon, Mag.”
“Oh! I can show you the scars, to prove that I was run
over!” said Ellen, eagerly, who saw that her only hope of
escape lay in the better feelings of Margaret, which she
could the more readily excite by convincing her that she
had spoken the truth.
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“Oh! can you do that?” exclaimed Margaret.
“If she can, she shan't!” rejoined Mulwrack, almost
fiercely. “See here!” he continued, addressing Ellen;
“if you know when you're well off, you'd better keep your
mouth shut! Will you do it?”
“Yes, sir!” replied the terrified child; “if you don't
want me to speak, I wont.”
“That's sensible; and mind you keep to your word, or
I'll break your head! If you think you can keep your
mouth shut now, and make no noise, you may go up that
ladder there”—pointing to one in the further corner of the
room, which led through a trap-door to the second story;
“but if I hear from you agin, I'll gag you, and chuck you
down cellar, among the rats! You know what's wanted
now—so start!”
Poor little Ellen, afraid of her life, hastened to the ladder,
without a word, and ascended to the floor above.
Mulwrack followed her, closed the trap-door, and fastened
it on the lower side. Ellen was now in an unfurnished
apartment, close under the roof, and in total darkness—
for the only window the room contained, was boarded up,
so that scarcely a ray of light could enter. Sinking upon
the floor, she buried her face in her hands, and struggled
to keep down the up-heavings of her seemingly breaking
heart, and stifle the sound of convulsive sighs and sobs.
After the storm there comes a calm, and vented grief gives
the troubled mind repose. Ellen at length became tranquil,
if not resigned; and hope, which seldom leaves youth,
sprung up in her breast. Till the dawn of day, she heard
them moving about in the room below, and conversing in
low tones—and once or twice she fancied her own name
was mentioned. At last all grew still; and about the
same time, strange as it may seem, she fell into a sound
sleep, from which she did not awake for several hours.
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When she did awake, she knew, by a small ray of sunlight,
which found its way into her chamber, through a crevice
in the roof, that it could not be far from the mid-day hour.
She looked around her prison, by a light resembling twilight,
and saw that bread and water had been placed
within her reach; but all was still below, and not a living
soul did she see throughout that day of wretchedness
almost beyond the strength of reason to endure.
Let us now turn to another scene, and see if we can
ascertain the mysterious cause which led to the abduction
and imprisonment of this poor child of sorrow.
eaf465n2* Spoil.
eaf465n3† Police officers.
eaf465n4* Pistols.
eaf465n5† Knife.
CHAPTER X. THE DEACON AND THE BURGLAR.
It was on the evening of the day following the burglary,
that a dark figure stole out of the gloomy region known as
the Infected District, and, gliding warily along some of
the more respectable thoroughfares, at length entered
Eighth street, and halted before a fine dwelling, which bore
upon a silver mounted plate, on the front door, the
name of Absalom Pinchbeck. After one or two cautious
glances up and down the street, he hastened up the steps,
and rung the bell.
“Is Mr. Pinchbeck in?” he inquired of the domestic
who answered his summons.
“He is, sure. Will ye walk in?” was the answer.
“First tell him a gentleman is here, who'd like to speak
with him.”
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The domestic turned away, with a smile of contempt, at
the idea of the stranger, whose dress she had scanned by
the light of the street-lamp, calling himself a gentleman;
and the next minute the Deacon himself appeared.
“Can we have a bit of private chat?” said the stranger
to the Deacon.
“Oh! I see—it's you, Mr. Mulwrack,” replied the Deacon.
“Yes—walk in here!” and he threw open the door
into the front parlor, and called for a light. The moment
the gas was lit, and the doors were closed, he added, in a
low tone: “What news?”
“The best,” answered Mulwrack.
“Ah! indeed! glad to hear it!” and the oily Deacon
rubbed his hands, keeping his eye the while inquiringly
upon his guest. “Yes—take a seat; there—so—well?”
“You know what we've talked of afore?” said Mulwrack.
“Yes, indeed—I've a good memory.”
“You know the gal was wanted to make you all right”
“Yes—if she could be found—and—and—”
“Put out of the way,” chimed in the Burglar, finishing
the sentence in a business-like tone.
“Hush! don't speak so loud! walls have ears, you know.
Yes! I believe that was something like what we talked of.”
“Well, she's found.”
“Ah! indeed! How? where? when?”
“Never you mind all that—that's my business—and I
don't blow my business to everybody. The gal's safe—
I knows where—and that's enough.”
“Yes—exactly—excuse me! So she's found, eh?
“Ay! and she can stay found, or be lost—you understand?”
“Yes, yes,—I see!” returned the Deacon, in a nervous
tone, glancing hastily around. “There! don't speak quite
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so loud,—this is a very serious thing, you know—very
serious!”
“You needn't be skeered,” said Mulwrack; “you've got
nothing to be afeared of; it's me, and not you, that'll do
the business.”
“Yes, yes—I know; but then, you see—you see—if
it should ever leak out, I would be in law accessory before
the fact; and that wouldn't be at all agreeable, you see.
Ah! law is a great thing; and I intend to make a great
lawyer of my son Nelson.”
“Curse the law!” grumbled Mulwrack; “I've had
enough on't; and if I does this job, I intend to show this
here town a clean pair of heels, and let them as wants
law, have it, and be —! But to business—for I can't
stay all night. Now you needn't be afeard of the thing's
leaking out; for if I does the business, I'll do it alone; and
I'm not the chap to peach on any man as pays me
well.”
“You say you have the girl safe?”
“I said the gal was safe—I didn't say who had her.”
“But how am I to know she is the right one?”
“Can't you believe what I tell you?”
“Doubtless you speak the truth, and it may not seem
right for me to doubt your word; but in a matter like this,
you know, where so much is at stake, I should like the
assurance of my own eyes.”
“Well, would you know the gal, if you'd see her agin?”
“I think I would—yes, I think I would. She stopped
here, begging, one night—at least I suppose she is the same;
and I have a pretty good recollection of her features.
Confound the thing! if I had known then what I do
now—”
“You'd have did the business yourself, I s'pose,” rejoined
Mulwrack, as the other paused.
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“Oh! no! no! not I!” hastily replied the Deacon.
“Well, the long and short on't is, if you're in 'arnest,
you shall see the gal afore I pocket the rhino.”
“Of course you don't expect your pay before you do
your work?” said the Deacon, inquiringly.
“Don't I?” sneered Mulwrack, looking the other
straight in the eye. “I hope you don't take me for a—
fool!”
“Oh! no—by no means, Mr. Mulwrack—you must not
take it in that light; but it is not customary, among us
business men, to pay for a job before it's done.”
“Well, I expect it's not customary, among you business
men, to bargain for such jobs, neither,” rejoined the Burglar.
“Now the long and short on't is this here—that when
the job's murder, (at this word he sunk his voice to a
whisper, and the other shuddered,) and that job's to benefit
another man, the chap that don't git his pay for't afore
it's done, is a — sight bigger fool than me—that's all
I've got to say about that.”
“Well, well—we'll talk of that by-and-by,” said the
Deacon, uneasily. “For the present, it may be as well to
consider how much I should be benefited by her—her—
being—ah—lost.”
The cowardly scoundrel could not bring himself to utter
the word murdered.
“Why, you know a'ready how much you'll git,” said
Mulwrack, impatiently; “we've talked this here all over
afore.”
“Yes! but I've kind of forgotten, you see. Business is
business, Mr. Mulwrack; yes, business is business; and one
ought never to transact it hastily. After all, the thing
seems to rest with that paper you found; and that really
may be nothing but—but—a—(he was going to say forgery,
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but checked himself and substituted)—but the idle work of
some idle man.”
“Well, I don't know—you'll have to be your own judge
about that there,” returned the Burglar, indifferently. “All
I know is, how and where I got it; and that when I showed
it to you, you thought it was genewine.”
“True—true—so I did; yes, so I did; and I think so
still; but thinking and knowing are two things, you see—
my—my—ah! Mr. Mulwrack,” rejoined the Deacon, turning
and twisting himself about in a manner indicative of
considerable uneasiness of mind.
“Well, what's up?” gruffly demanded the Burglar, who
began to feel not a little contempt for his hypocritical and
cowardly companion.
“Eh! what did you say?”
“I say what's up?”
“Up?”
“I mean what are you going to do? what do you decide
on?”
“Oh! ah! yes—ahem—I see! Well, first, I think I
would like to look at that paper again. Have you got it
about you?”
“Yes!” answered Mulwrack, looking the Deacon steadily
in the face for some time, as if to read his very
thoughts. “Now I expect there'll be no trick about this
matter!” he continued; “but if you do try to come any
game over me, I'll let daylight through you, if it costs me
a knot under the ear! D'ye understand?”
“Oh! no—Heaven forbid! I had no such idea—upon
my honor, as a gentleman, I hadn't!” stammered the worthy
church-officer. “And besides, how could I trick you?
what could I do? If that paper is correct, the information
is worthless to me while the girl lives; and, of course,
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(lowering his voice and shuddering,) her living depends on
you!”
“Well, here's the paper then,” said Mulwrack, taking it
from his pocket and handing it to the other. “Just read
it out loud—I'd like to hear it agin myself.”
The Deacon drew near the light, opened the soiled and
crumpled document—which was written in a bold, free,
business-like hand—and read as follows:
“THE WELDEN ESTATE.
“Archibald Welden, the younger son of the original
Baronet of the same name, by the death of a rich kinsman
on his mother's side, fell heir by will to a large estate and
great wealth. He married, and had for issue a son and a
daughter. The daughter died without issue. Charles,
the son of Archibald, wedded early in life. Issue, two sons
and a daughter. The brothers, Henry and John, sons of
Charles, died unmarried. Mary, the daughter of Charles,
inherited the estate of her father Charles, and grandfather
Archibald, which she brought as dowry to her wedded husband,
Edward Montague, youngest son of Richard Marquis
of Landfelt. This union was productive of three sons
and two daughters—but the estate was now entailed upon
the eldest son, Henry Montague, and the eldest son of his
body direct, legal issue, and so to continue in male descent
forever. But failing male heir direct, within five generations,
the estate was to revert to Willard, second son of
Edward Montague, and his first-born male, as before provided;
and failing heir in this line, to revert to Frederick,
third son of Edward Montague, and his heir male, as before
provided; and failing heir in this line, to revert to
Alice, eldest daughter of Edward Montague, and her heir
male, as before provided; and failing heir in this line, to
revert to Jane, second daughter of Edward Montague, and
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her heir male, as before provided; and failing male heirs
altogether, to take descent in the female line, reverting to
the eldest daughter of Henry, first-born of Edward Montague,
and her eldest male issue, provided the heir should
take the name of Montague; or failing heir in this line, to
revert in the order of birth to the eldest daughter of the
second son of Edward Montague; or failing heir in this
line, to revert to the next in the same order; and so continue
until an heir should be found.
“Now in the third generation, as before mentioned,
John de Carp, third son of Jane, second daughter of Edward
Montague, fell heir to the Welden Estate, and took
upon him the surname of his grandfather. John de Carp
Montague still lives, an old man, in feeble health. The
issue of his body was two daughters and one son—all deceased.
The daughters died without issue. The son,
James, married twice. By his first wife he had two
daughters. His second wife was a Montague, a distant relation,
and next heir to the estate, after James her husband,
failing mail issue. She died, leaving two daughters.
The younger died without issue. The elder married William
Norbury, Artist, and for some years resided in Dublin.
She had a son and a daughter—the son is deceased.
The mother, if living, is the heir presumptive—the
daughter, Ellen, next in succession. They set out for
America, and nothing more is known of them. Supposing
both mother and daughter dead, the next heir presumptive
is the granddaughter of James Montague by his first
daughter. She married a Ferguson, and came to America,
where he died. She next married a Williams, who is also
dead; and she is now the wife of Absalom Pinchbeck, and
resides in Philadelphia. Failing the daughter who married
a Norbury, and her issue—and the granddaughter, the present
wife of Absalom Pinchbeck—the Weldon Estate, now
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in the possession of John de Carp Montague, descends direct
to Lucy Stanhope, the wife of Casmir Stanhope, and
only daughter of Flora, second daughter of James Montague,
and great granddaughter of John de Carp Montague.”
Such was this singular document—to which was added,
in a different hand:
“It is possible! I have made strict inquiries concerning
the Norburys, and think all are dead. There only stands,
then, between my wife and the possession of this estate,
the wife of Pinchbeck. The estate is worth £10,000 per
annum.”
There was no signature to this paper; but the inference
was, that it had been taken from the possession of Casmir
Stanhope. Such indeed was the fact. Mulwrack, in one
of his burglarious expeditions during the winter, in rummaging
a secret drawer, had chanced upon this paper, and
secured it about his person. Margaret, who could read,
had afterwards informed him of the contents; and Pinchbeck
being known to him as the owner of some property in
the Infected District, he had ventured to call upon him
and let him peruse it. After sounding him a little, to see how
much further he might venture, Mulwrack had then informed
him that he knew a little girl named Ellen Norbury, whom
he doubted not was the one referred to; and that if she
were out of the way, he, Pinchbeck, might come into possession
of this property. The Deacon had also recognized
the name as the same the little beggar-girl had given him;
and remembering her statement, that her father was an
artist, and that both her parents were dead, it had readily
occurred to him, that one so friendless and unknown could
be silenced for ever, without eliciting any inquiry concerning
her. On perceiving that the Deacon was ripe for his
horrible scheme, Mulwrack had informed him that the
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child had stolen money from his wife, (so he termed Margaret,)
and run away—but that he doubted not he should
soon be able to find her, when he would again confer with
him on the subject. Ellen had been unexpectedly found,
in the manner detailed, and the Burglar was now present
with the Deacon, to close the compact which should consign
her to a violent death.
“Well,” said Mulwrack, when the Deacon had finished
reading, “now that you're through with the paper agin, and
I tell you that the gal's where I can put my hand on her,
what d'ye say now?”
“I hardly know what to say,” returned the other, not a
little agitated. “This seems to be all right; but one ought
to be sure before venturing upon—upon—a—ah—such a
thing—as—we have talked about.”
“Well, now,” growled Mulwrack, with a look halfsavage,
half-contemptuous, snatching the paper from the
Deacon's hand, and folding it hastily—“I've got something
better to do than to loaf here all night; and so as
you don't care to be independent rich, for a mere trifle, I'll
go and see what I can make from the gal herself.”
“Stop, Mr. Mulwrack—don't be too hasty!” said the
Deacon; “you should always give one time to consider a
proposition before withdrawing it.”
“It don't take me long to make a bargain, when t'other
side's willing, and the gains is all in my favor,” rejoined
the Burglar; “and the long and short on't is, I don't like
to wait a year for any body else to do the same thing.”
“Well, let me see!” said the Deacon, nervously; “let
me see! You are certain you could put her out of the
way, without leaving any clue by which I might be suspected
of having a hand in the matter?”
“Yes, I told you so afore.”
“And what am I to pay you for this?”
-- 126 -- p465-127
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“Well, considering that you'll git ten thousand pounds
a year, when the gal's dead, I reckon ten thousand dollars
down 'ud be the fair thing.”
“Ten thousand dollars!” cried the Deacon, in astonishment.
“Why, you are not serious?”
“Would you do it for less?”
“Oh! no! no! I would not do it for any sum; but
you would; and that price is outrageous—especially when
you consider that the old gentleman—the old Montague—
is not yet dead, and that he may outlive us all.”
“Well, then, what'll you give? Come! make an offer—
and then I'll know you're in arnest.”
“You must give me a little time to think over the matter—
it is so very serious,” said the Deacon.
“How much time do you want?”
“Say till to-morrow night.”
“Enough said then. I'll be here at nine o'clock; and
if we can agree, you shall go with me and see the gal yourself.
Will that do?”
The Deacon responded in the affirmative, and Mulwrack
took his leave.
CHAPTER XI. THE ESCAPE.
It is needless to say, that the long hours of her solitary
confinement, after awaking from the sleep into which she
had fallen, were hours of torture to little Ellen. And yet
it was not the imprisonment itself, nor the danger that
seemed to menace her personally, that most troubled her—
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but the thought that she should be suspected by her kind
benefactors of having robbed them. In anguish of spirit,
she groaned aloud, and wrung her hands, and sobbed,
and prayed to God to deliver her, that she might make
her innocence known. Throughout that day, as we have
elsewhere said, all remained silent below; and Ellen at
last became impressed with the belief that the house had
been deserted by its late criminal occupants, and that she
was herself the only human being within its walls. Perhaps
they had made off with their plunder, and left her
there to escape or perish! The thought was somewhat
consoling—for any fate seemed better than that of remaining
in their hands.
Barely tasting the plain food which had been placed by
her side—and this rather for the purpose of supporting her
drooping form, than because she had any appetite—she
passed the greater portion of the day in praying for deliverance,
without making any attempt to examine the
security of her prison. As night approached, and the
house continued silent, it suddenly occurred to her, that
possibly she might escape. Instantly the bare hope made
every nerve thrill with a strange sensation; and she
started to her feet, feeling her strength increased in a surprising
degree. She now passed around the room, examining
every part; and at length discovered that one of the boards,
which closed up the window, had been nailed on in a manner
so careless, as to require no great strength to wrench it
off. With emotions of hope, joy, and fear indescribable, she
clasped her hands, and murmured:
“Oh! I may yet escape!”
The hour was still too early to make the trial with safety;
and so Ellen sat down by the window, her little heart wildly
throbbing, and awaited with what patience and calmness
she could summon to her aid, the moment when the
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cover of night should permit her to carry her design into
effect, without exposing it to others. If she could but succeed
in removing this board, the aperture would be sufficient
to admit her body, when she could drop to the
ground, without much danger of being injured—the distance
not being over ten or twelve feet. But it would be
necessary to her purpose, to await the opportunity when
none of the occupants of the miserable shanties around
and adjoining might be on the lookout, or any one passing
along the miserable alley—lest discovery, exciting curiosity,
should lead to inquiry, and be the means of restoring her
to her dreaded jailors, or of placing her in a situation as
dreadful as her present one.
The sun went down at last, and night gradually gathered
around our anxious, trembling prisoner; but for an hour
or two, the certainty that there were a number of persons
moving about in the narrow alley in which the hovel in
question was situated, deterred her from making the
attempt, on whose success she felt hung more than life.
During the period that she was occupied in listening, some
person came to the door, which was just under the window
by which she was seated, and tried to gain admittance—
but failed, and went away, grumbling and cursing. This,
although Ellen did not know it, was Mulwrack himself, who
had remained secreted in another place during the day, and
was then on his way to pay that visit to Deacon Pinchbeck,
of which we have given an account in the preceding chapter.
And we may as well state here, that, notwithstanding
the old hovel had the appearance of being untenanted, and
was so quiet as to lead Ellen to suppose the occupants had
all left, yet Margaret was in the room below, lying on a
straw mattrass, in a state of beastly intoxication.
At last the time arrived when Ellen thought she might
venture to begin her work; and applying all her strength
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to the board, she succeeded, after a few minutes of hard
labor, in wrenching it off, without making sufficient noise
to attract the attention of any one outside. Who shall
describe her feelings now, as she stood within the aperture,
prepared for flight, and felt the cool night-breeze upon
her fevered brow and cheek? Before her were life,
liberty, innocence, and happiness—behind her, misery,
crime, imprisonment, and perhaps death! Could she
hesitate which to choose? Taking hold of the window-casement,
she gradually lowered herself, till she hung by
her hands, and then dropped to the ground without injury.
She was now in a dark, narrow, filthy alley, and knew not
which way to go; but any way was better than standing
still; and any place, she fancied, better than the one
she had left. So she started forward, groping along in a
darkness as black and cheerless as the dismal shades of
Erebus; but had not gone far, when her foot slipped on
the muddy earth, and she pitched her whole weight upon
the body of some human being, stretched out upon the damp
ground. Terrified nearly out of her senses, she uttered a
sharp cry, scrambled upon her feet, and passed over the
body, which still lay motionless—but whether dead, or
drunk, she had no means of knowing, and certainly did
not consider herself in a proper condition to stop and ascertain.
A little further on, she reached the corner of the
alley, and turned into another, which, if there could be
any comparison between such vile places, was worse than
the first. She now became aware that she had taken the
wrong direction to reach the larger street by the shortest
course—but still kept on, fearing to retrace her steps
Suddenly she found her progress terminated by an old
crazy building, which stretched across the alley, and which
was apparently filled with human beings of the lowest and
most degraded class. Here and there a crevice showed
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that there were lights within; while wild, hollow laughter,
and hoarse, cracked voices, giving vent to profanity and obscenity,
with an occasional demoniac yell, and the stamping
and shuffling of many feet, indicated that orgies were
there taking place, more worthy of the fiends of darkness
than of beings made in the image of Jehovah.
Little Ellen shuddered as she listened, and she looked
around in terror and bewilderment. She could not go
forward, and she trembled at the thought of going back;
while to remain where she was, was almost certain to lead
to discovery. And then, if missed from her prison, every
exertion she knew would be made to recapture her—and
nowhere in this loathsome quarter could she feel herself
safe for a moment. What was to be done? She crossed
the street, and discovered a board fence, which ran between
the larger building and a low, miserable hovel.
Should she climb this fence and try her fortune on the
other side? It seemed preferable to turning back, or remaining
where she was; and so she made haste to mount,
and descend into a small, muddy, filthy lot, which abounded
with stagnant pools, dead animals, and decaying offal,
whose sickening stench and malarious poison were almost
insupportable. In attempting to cross this open ground,
to where she saw a light glimmering on the other side, little
Ellen soon found herself sinking in a miry pool; and she
was forced to retrace her steps, with wet, muddy feet.
She now passed around by the fence, which enclosed the
lot on one side, to the rear of some low, miserable shanties;
and while searching for a passage-way into the street, she
trod upon a rotten cellar-door, which gave way under her
light weight, and plunged her into a dark, damp vault,
where, her head striking against the ground, she was deprived
of consciousness.
How long she lay in a state of insensibility, she never
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knew; but when her senses returned, she found herself on
the damp earth, on the very spot where she had fallen, and
around her a darkness impenetrable to the eye; while the
stench was so overpowering, that it seemed as if she would
faint with every foul breath she drew. She looked up
through the broken door, and perceived one or two stars
twinkling in their far-off realms; and the sight brought a
ray of hope to her despairing soul. She got upon her
feet, feeling cold, weak, and dizzy, and made an effort to
get out of her second prison—but only to meet with failure.
The slimy wall was high above her head, and there
were neither stairs nor ladder, nor aught that she could
stand upon, to reach the top with her hands. She was
afraid to call for help, lest she should be discovered by
some one who would return her to her late jailors—and
yet to remain where she was, seemed little less terrible.
While she thus stood trembling, uncertain what to do,
she was startled by a dismal groan, which seemed to proceed
from some object enclosed within the same horrible
pit as herself. She sunk down terrified, afraid to speak or
move; and again that awful groan sounded in her ear, and
she heard something move within a few feet of her. This
was an accumulation of terrors, greater than her overtasked
nerves could bear, and nature kindly came to her
relief. She swooned, and for a long time lay as one dead,
on the damp ground, in that noisome, pestilential atmosphere.
When consciousness again returned, the gray of morning
was struggling to dispel the darkness from the
horrible vault, or cellar, in which Ellen had passed that
eventful night. At first her mind was too much confused
and bewildered to permit her to comprehend where she
was, or how she came there; but by degrees memory gave
forth each event, in the order of its occurrence, and she
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looked eagerly around for the means of escape—though so
weak and stiff as scarcely to be able to get upon her feet.
An object, at the distance of some two or three paces—which
appeared to be the figure of a man, stretched out upon the
earth, though barely seen in the gloomy light—arrested
her attention, and caused a cold shudder of dread undefinable
to pass through her slender frame. There seemed
something awful in that still form, seen in that dismal
abode, in that dreary, uncertain light—something that
seemed to tell of death in one of its most terrible forms—
of death when the soul leaves the body without a friend
nigh, to speak a consoling word, or breathe a kind farewell.
Should she approach that object, and learn the truth, the
horrible truth? She involuntarily shrunk back, trembling
at the bare thought; and yet a mysterious spell seemed to
fasten her eyes there, and she fancied it impossible to remove
her gaze. Slowly, slowly, she drew near the mysterious
object; and at last, shuddering with unspeakable
terror, bent over it. Yes! it was a dead body—a skeleton
body—the body of a man who had perished of starvation
and a loathsome, contagious disease—a disease that gives
forth its seeds long after the breath has ceased.
Horror-stricken, poor Ellen turned away, looking for
some means of escape. A hollow, unearthly groan again
sounded in her ear; and for a moment she felt as if
her senses were again leaving her. She looked wildly
around, and, in the increasing light, saw another human
form, stretched out on the damp ground, only a few feet
distant from the first. This second object moved—it
was alive. Nerved by the courage that springs from desperation,
Ellen approached, and bent over it, in the dim
light. She saw it was a woman—a woman in the last stage
of mortal suffering. Partly resting on her breast, with
one arm of the living mother thorwn around it, lay a dead
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infant—dead and cold. Father, mother, and child—the
father dead—the child dead—the mother dying! Heavens!
what a scene!
And yet, kind reader, a scene that is not fictitious, and
wrought up for effect—a scene that is not uncommon in
the loathsome quarter we have sought to bring to your
notice. Must such scenes continue to be of almost daily
occurrence in our populous and wealthy cities? Will man
never learn the duty he owes to his God, and assist his
fellow man, by lifting him up from the miry pit of degradation
and misery?—and by feeding him, and clothing
him, give him palpable assurance that he is one of the
great human family, whose kind and loving Father is in
Heaven? We hope so! we trust so! God in mercy forbid
that it should be otherwise!
“Can I do anything for you, poor woman?” inquired
little Ellen, in a low, gentle, pitying tone, as she bent
over the dying mother.
“Who speaks?” returned the sufferer, opening her eyes,
and fixing them upon Ellen, with a wild and somewhat
vacant stare.
“Can I do any thing for you, poor woman?” repeated
Ellen.
“Do! for me?” cried the wretched mother, striving to
fix her eyes upon the cold dead infant on her bosom.
“Yes! take this little one away, and nurse it, and take
care of it, and look to God for your reward.”
“But the child is dead!” said Ellen, deeply affected.
“Right!” rejoined the mother, speaking with difficulty;
“you are right! it is dead! and it is better off than the
living. But my husband—my dear husband—he is sick
and suffering—yonder—help him if you can—I am past
all human aid!”
“Alas! he is dead too!” sighed Ellen.
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“Dead?” repeated the woman, making an effort to rise,
and speaking in a wild, startled tone. “Dead? all dead?”
She closed her eyes, shut her teeth hard, drew in a long
breath, and sent it forth in a shriek of anguish.
It was her last. With that shriek her spirit parted
from the clay, and stood in a better world; and poor
little Ellen was alone with the dead, in that damp, dismal
vault.
With a cry of horror, she turned to escape. A broken
chair caught her eye. She seized this, and bore it to the
mouth of what was now a charnel house. Mounting upon
it, and stretching up her slender form, she was barely able
to grasp the sill of the doorway above. Weak though she
was, the excitement of horror and terror gave her strength;
and she drew her body up into the light of breaking day,
and for a few moments seemed to gulp the fresh air, as one
struggling against suffocation.
She was now in the same lot or open space which she
had ventured into the night before, and knew not where to
go or what to do. Should she seek out some of the miserable
inhabitants of the miserable hovels before her, and
tell them what she knew of the horrors of the dismal vault
from which she had just escaped? But for what purpose?
what good could result from her information? The late
inmates of that awful place were all dead; and why should
she expose herself to questions of curiosity, which might
lead to her own detection and return to the quarters where
she had so recently been held a prisoner? more especially,
since it was very likely that she had been missed ere this,
and a careful search been set on foot. No! self-preservation
required her to be silent concerning what she had
witnessed, and fly from this loathsome quarter as from the
devouring plague. Looking hurriedly around, she perceived
a narrow passage-way, between two old buildings,
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leading into a wretched street; and through this she passed
with as much haste as her weak but nervous and excited
condition would permit.
She breathed freer when she had gained the street, and
perceived that only here and there an inhabitant of this
vile locality was abroad at that early hour; but she was
not safe even now; and she hurried on, guided more by
instinct than reason, looking timidly and suspiciously at
every object, and shrinking from the notice of any she met
or passed, like one guilty of a deed of crime. Thus terrified,
she hurried on, her nerves braced with intense excitement,
and her gentle but sinking spirit buoyed up with the
hope that she was about to escape and return to her
friends. She had turned two corners, and was still pressing
eagerly forward, through a street of better appearance
than the one she had lately quitted, when she was startled
at hearing herself addressed in a familiar manner, and in a
voice that she fancied she recognised.
“Ah! my little lady! whither away so fast this fine
April morning? Come! I pray you stop, and have a chat
with an old friend.”
Ellen looked quickly around, and perceived Nabob
Hunchy hastening across the street to meet her. She
would gladly have avoided him—but finding she could not,
she stopped, and said:
“What do you want with me?”
“To say how do ye do, and apologize for the abrupt manner
in which I parted from you at Jimmy Quiglan's,” returned
the Hunchback, with the greatest sang froid. “Why,
my little lady,” he continued, in a tone of surprise, glancing
at Ellen's rich garments—which the reader will bear in
mind were the same which Mulwrack had forced her to put
on when he took her away from the mansion of Sir Walter—
“why, you have had good pickings, somewhere, since we
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met! Silks, I do declare! and soiled with mud! Where
are you living? what have you been doing? and where are
you going now?”
Ellen shuddered.
“Oh!” she said—“ask me no questions! but show me
the way to some fine street.”
“Aha! bound for a promenade?” returned Nob, laughing.
“But you look pale!” he added, in an altered tone;
“you appear to be weak and faint! Come! I'll stand treat
this time; and a little good brandy will set you all right.
By-the-by,” he continued, feeling in his pockets, “I believe,
upon my soul, I have left my money at my lodgings;
but that needn't make any difference, since you can spare
that apron, which I can pawn for enough to make us both
jolly.”
“Leave me! leave me!” cried Ellen, nervously; “show
me the way out of this awful place, and leave me!”
“But let us have a merry drink together first.”
“No! no! I never drink. Oh! I am so much alarmed!
I want to get away—quick—get far, far from here.”
“Well, then, I'll tell you what I'll do—I'll guard and
guide you into a clean, nice street, if that is what you
want, and you shall leave me that pretty apron as a keepsake.”
“Yes, yes—take it—take it!” rejoined Ellen, almost
tearing it from her, in her haste, and handing it to the
other; “and now quick! quick! let us go!” and she
looked hurriedly around, fearful of being discovered by the
Burglar.
Nabob Hunchy coolly pocketed the apron of little Ellen,
muttering to himself:
“I'm good for one jolly drunk on that, at all events.”
He then set off with Ellen, both walking fast. As they
turned the corner of a street leading out of that wretched
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quarter, the Hunchback stopped before a low, miserable
structure, from which projected a sort of iron trident, suspending
three large, gilded balls, announcing it to be a licensed
establishment for the encouragement of thieves and
the robbery of the poor—or, in other words, a pawnbroker's
shop.
Many of these shops, which, if properly conducted, might
be of some benefit to the community, are in fact but little
better than hells of vice. They encourage thieves, because
most of them receive stolen goods in pledge for a trifling
loan of money, and ask no questions. They rob the poor,
because they loan money on every article brought to them,
at the rate of-about one-third, or, at the most, one-half of
its real value, and, for the use of the money so loaned,
charge the enormous interest of seventy-five per cent. per
annum. If the poor wretch who borrows, is not able to redeem
his property within a certain time, it is sold at auction,
the pawnbroker receives his pay in full, and there is
an end of the matter. They indirectly encourage drunkenness,
because the habitual inebriate, out of money, seizes
upon some article of dress or furniture, and takes it to the
place where he is certain to get sufficient means to purchase
enough of his favorite poison to lay him out in the gutter,
or make him a dangerous maniac. They corrupt morals,
because the principle upon which they start is a kind of
legal swindle; and those who swindle cannot be honest, and
those who deal with swindlers see no encouragement to remain
honest. Vice is a muddy pool, in which none can
dabble and escape being soiled.
It was before one of these establishments, of the lowest
order, that the Hunchback made a halt; and turning to
Ellen, he said:
“Wait here a moment—I have some business with the
gentleman inside.'
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“I will hurry on then, by myself,” replied Ellen, nervously;
“so, good bye!”
“Oh, no—stay—I will only be a moment!” said Nob;
“and having promised to see you safe out of this quarter,
I should like to keep my word.” As he spoke, he tried the
door, but found it fast. The hour was early, and the proprietor
had not yet opened his nefarious business for the day.
“I know how to get in,” continued the deformed boy; and
turning into a narrow, filthy alley, which ran along one
side of the building, he hastened round to a back entrance,
and little Ellen lost sight of him.
For a short time, Ellen awaited his return in a rather
impatient mood—during which she kept her eyes constantly
roving around; while she trembled, lest they should
light upon her most dreaded enemy. Suddenly she started,
and a cry of terror sprung to her lips—but she succeeded
in repressing it. On the other side of the way, almost opposite
to where she stood, was another alley; and coming
down this, toward the larger street, was a person whom
she believed to be Mulwrack. Should he discover her, she
felt she would be lost; and any place of refuge, she thought,
would be better than remaining so exposed. So she darted
into the alley nearest her, intending to follow the Hunchback
into the pawnbroker's; but when she reached the back
entrance, it was closed, and he was not to be seen; and not
being certain where he had entered, and fearing discovery,
she sped on some distance, down the filthy alley, till she
came to an open gate of a small yard. Without looking
back, she sprung through the opening, and, hurriedly closing
the gate, looked around her, trembling and half bewildered.
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CHAPTER XII. STRANGE QUARTERS.
[figure description] Page 139.[end figure description]
The yard which little Ellen had entered, was small; but
the dwelling to which it belonged, was of brick, some three
stories in height, and, compared with the buildings around
and adjoining it, had quite a respectable and comfortable
appearance. A flight of stairs, a few feet distant from
where she stood, descended to a basement-kitchen; and
hearing some one moving about in this apartment, she
thought it best to go down, apologize for her abrupt entrance,
and implore protection. Accordingly she descended
to the kitchen, where she found an Irish woman, in a dirty,
slovenly dress, with unwashed face, and uncombed, dishevelled
hair, busily engaged in making a fire in a cooking-stove.
As Ellen entered, the woman looked around,
stared hard at her for a moment, and, in a sharp, harsh
tone, exclaimed:
“Well, and who is you? and what is't ye're wanting
here, jist?”
“I beg your pardon, ma'am, for intruding here—but I
saw a man out here I was afraid of, and I ran in here to
get out of sight.”
“Och! hoity-toity!” returned the woman, getting up
from the stove, approaching little Ellen, setting her arms
a-kimbo, and taking a searching survey of her person.
“And if it's a peliceman ye're running away from now,
ye've made a mistak in the house—for it's not Bridget
M'Callan as will consale the likes of ye.”
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“No, ma'am,” returned Ellen, in a timid tone, “it was
not a policeman—but a man that—that—”
She stopped, and grew confused, for she knew not what
to say.
“Troth, now,” rejoined Mrs. M'Callan, sharply, “ye
nadn't trouble yoursilf to invint a story to desave mesilf,
as is an honest widder, and mother of three childrer—for I
knows the likes of ye, as well as I knows the grave where
my poor Terrence (Heaven rist his sowl!) lies buried. It's
not likely, by the look of ye, ye'd rin from ony man but a
peliceman.”
“Indeed, indeed, ma'am, what I tell you is true!” said
Ellen, her eyes filling with tears. “Oh!” she continued,
in a pleading tone—“if you are a mother, as you say, let
me, a poor orphan, appeal to you for protection!”
“Appale to me, is it? Och! but ye're a cute one now,
jist. Appale to me? Troth! and ye're a cunning divil
for your age; and it's like ye're making up your mind
now what ye can stale the whiles. It's mesilf as hasn't
lived twenty year in this part of the city, widout knowing
the likes of ye.”
“What can I do to convince you of my honesty and
innocence?” cried poor little Ellen.
“Till me where ye got the nice clothes ye has on—
how ye got 'em so muddy—and how ye come to be here at
this time in the morning?”
“And will you believe my story, ma'am?” asked little
Ellen, nervously.
“Is it belave it, I will? Troth! it's mesilf as 'ill hear
it first, jist—and think aboot it. And mind ye till me the
truth now! or I'll give ye to the pelice when ye're done,
so I will.”
“It is a long story, ma'am,” returned Ellen; “but I
will try and make it as short as possible.”
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“Well, sit down there, and I'll be making the fire
the whiles, and cooking the breakfast for the boorders, I
will.”
Ellen sat down as directed, and told her story, in a
straightforward manner, avoiding detail as much as she
could. She touched upon all the principal events known
to the reader; and what with interruptions, and questions
put by Mrs. M'Callan, the best part of an hour was consumed
in the narration. The story, on the whole, seemed
to make a favorable impression upon the widow; and
breakfast being ready by the time it was concluded, she
bade Ellen take off her bonnet, and sit quietly in a corner,
till the boarders should have taken their meal and
departed.
At a call from Mrs. M'Callan, the “boorders” now
came lumbering down, to the number of ten stalwart,
hard-featured Hibernians; and with unwashed hands and
faces, and hair uncombed, but drawn down low on their
foreheads, they gathered around the table, with little
regard to order, and commenced a voracious onslaught on
the smoking food before them—jabbering among themselves,
the while, in a language that was certainly Greek
to little Ellen. Mrs. M'Callan presided over the teapot,
and took part in the conversation—but did not herself
touch any of the tempting viands. Several curious glances
were cast upon Ellen—but no one addressed her; and in
something like twenty minutes, the boarders had all departed
to their daily occupations.
“Now, honey,” said the widow to Ellen, in a kindly
tone, “ye'll tak' a wee bit of breakfast wid mesilf, and
we'll talk the gither, the whiles, jist.”
Ellen, who stood greatly in need of food, did not require
much urging to comply with so reasonable a request; and
though she knew the victuals before her were not any too
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clean, yet hunger made them very palatable; and she ate
with a relish, and ate heartily.
“It's a quare story ye's been tilling me,” said Mrs.
M'Callan, when her own appetite had become somewhat
appeased; “and sure, it's mesilf as doesn't know whether
to belave it or not. Ye look as if ye spake the truth, I'll
say that for ye—but, troth! and this same is a desaving
world.”
“Oh! ma'am, I do assure you, I've spoke nothing but
truth!” returned Ellen, eagerly.
“And sure, and why don't ye go to a constabble, or a
alderman, and complain of this robber villain, now?”
“I don't know where to go, ma'am; and I'm afraid to
go any where, for fear he'll find me, and do something
terrible to me. Oh! ma'am, I want to get back to my
friends, and take their advice.”
“And where d'ye say this Misther Clendennan lives?”
inquired the widow.
Ellen had not mentioned the fact of Clendennan being
a Knight, for the reason that she knew he was only known
in the city as Mr. Clendennan, and that he did not wish
to be known as the possessor of a title; and though we
have spoken of him as the Knight, Baronet, and Sir
Walter, we have done so merely for convenience, and
because we had exposed to the reader the secret of his real
position.
At the question of Mrs. M'Callan, Ellen blushed to the
temples, and became greatly embarrassed and confused.
“I—I—did not—not say where he lived,” she stammered.
“Well, ye can, I'm thinking, if ye're not an imposter,
jist,” replied the other, sharply, looking suspiciously at
her little guest.
“It may seem very strange to you, ma'am,” returned
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Ellen, in a nervous, but earnest tone; “but oh! I do
assure you, ma'am, it is as true as I sit here—that—that
while at Mr. Clendennan's, I never thought to ask the
name of the streets (it was a corner building) on which the
house stood—and I never heard any body mention them,
as I recollect of.”
“Hoity-toity, now! Sure, thin, and how did ye find
your way back agin, when ye wint out?”
“I only went out a few times, and Rosalind was always
with me.”
“And how, in St. Pathrick's name, thin, do ye expect to
find your way back now, will ye till me, jist?”
“Alas!” cried Ellen—“I do not know, unless I can
find somebody that knows Mr. Clendennan.”
“Well, well,” said the widow, sipping her tea; “may
the fiend fly away wid ye, if ye's been tilling me lies this
while! and sure, it's not Bridget M'Callan as knows
whether ye're lying or not, now.”
Ellen repeatedly assured her that she had spoke nothing
but truth, and at last the other appeared to be satisfied to
take her word.
“And now, thin,” she said, “it's mesilf as don't
know how to advise the likes of ye. I don't think it's
best to let that bloody robber git hold of ye agin, at all,
at all; and what'll ye do to git back to your frinds?”
“Indeed, ma'am, I do not know!” replied little Ellen,
beginning to cry and sob.
“There! there! hush, honey, mavournin!” rejoined
the widow, who really had a kind heart. “I'll see what
I can do for ye. There's my boy, John—bliss his sowl!—
who's aslape up stairs: he's out the nights, enjoying himself,
the darling, and don't git up till afthernoon: I'll git
him to tak' ye; he can find onywhere he likes; and he'll
be delighted, the young rascal!” and the widow ended
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with a hearty laugh at her own pleasantry, in calling her
darling son John a rascal—though she might in truth
have substituted villain, without applying a misnomer, as
we will show anon.
It was finally settled that little Ellen should remain
with Mrs. M'Callan, till such time as her hopeful son
should see proper to rise, and, after being made acquainted
with the facts in the case, should be ready to set off with
her in search of her friends. Ellen, it must be confessed,
was not altogether pleased with this arrangement—for she
felt extremely anxious to get out of a locality where she
could not consider herself safe from one moment to another—
but unable to devise anything better under the circumstances,
she thanked Mrs. M'Callan for her kindness,
and resolved to await the time of her departure with what
cheerful patience she could summon.
Dinner-time came, and the “boorders” came and went—
but still Master John did not make his appearance. A
couple of hours passed away—most tedious hours to little
Ellen, who began to grow very nervous—and still the darling
son of Widow M'Callan slept on, as though determined
to rise no more. At last, between the hours of three and
four in the afternoon, there was heard the sound of heavy
feet on the naked stairs; and with the delight of a fond
mother, as she flew about to prepare his first meal for the
day, the widow announced to Ellen that the last scion of
the M'Callans was about to become visible to both anxious
expectants.
And almost immediately her words were verified, by the
presence of John M'Callan himself; who entered the kitchen
with dirty face and hands, hair matted and tangled,
with coat and vest slung over one shoulder, and the bottom
of his trousers tucked inside the legs of heavy, cowhide
boots. He was about sixteen years of age, tall and gaunt,
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with an appearance not at all prepossessing. His face was
thin and freckled, and showed the traces of the lowest kind
of dissipation. He had a large, sensual mouth, a slightly
turned-up nose, and small, black, sinister-looking eyes,
around which the red flesh seemed swollen and feverish,
with dark lines in the hollows beneath. A sort of sullen,
savage, hang-dog expression pervaded the whole countenance;
and little Ellen, as she gazed upon him, shuddered
at the thought that she was about to trust herself to his
guidance.
He stared hard at Ellen for some time; and then
savagely throwing his coat and vest across a chair, he
thrust his hands into his pockets, and, turning to his
mother, exclaimed, in a harsh voice, which had no touch
of the Irish brogue:
“Well, old woman, I'll thank you to stir your stumps,
and let me have some breakfast—for I'm as hungry as
be —!”
“Sure, and isn't it mesilf as is doing that same, my
darling?” replied the widow, bustling about in a great
hurry.
My-darling, without deigning a reply to this tender remark,
threw himself heavily upon a chair, and began to
whistle—looking out, the while, from under his frowning
brows, at little Ellen, who began to feel very awkward and
uneasy.
“I say, little gal,” he said at length, addressing Ellen,
“who are you, anyhow?”
“Johnny, my dear,” said his mother, stopping in front
of him, “it's her I wants to spake to you about, jist, to ask
a favor of ye.”
“Well, old woman, just you get that ther' breakfast first,
and then you can open your mouth as much as you like,”
was the polite response of Johnny-my-dear, who now got
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up, and put on his vest, and went out into the yard, to
take a wash at the hydrant.
“Och! sure, and he's a M'Callan all over, so he is!”
said the fond mother, with a look of pride, as she gazed
after her hopeful son; “jist for all the world like his dear
father, my own dead and gone Terrence, pace to his sowl!
Ah! troth, now, Miss Ellen, and isn't it yoursilf as thinks
him a broth of a boy?”
“I never saw any one like him,” replied little Ellen, who
really knew not what to say.
“And ye may well say that same, honey!” rejoined the
widow, taking it as a fine compliment. “Och! but it's a
high time the leddy will have as catches my John for a
husband!”
There was no doubt about this being the case, from
present appearances, and Ellen did not think proper to express
a different opinion.
During the next hour, Master John learned all about
Ellen his mother cared to tell him, finished his breakfast,
and smashed a couple of dishes to show his sweet temper.
At first he objected to acting as a guide to Ellen, saying
he had a pressing engagement for the evening; but afterward
consented to do so, provided she would wait till dark
before setting out. Poor little Ellen saw there was no alternative,
and yielded a reluctant assent—trembling, at the
same time, at the thought that she would be at the mercy of
one, who, if looks and actions could be taken as indexes,
was at heart a villain.
Having named the hour at which he would return for
Ellen, Master John put on his coat and hat; and cursing
his mother for an old fool, because she happened to ask if
he would be sure and not forget to be back at the time
he had set, he went out, slamming the doors behind
him
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It was a dreary and even painful time to little Ellen, the
time which elapsed between the going forth and return of
John M'Callan. Hour after hour went by—the men returned
from their labors and ate their supper—night set
in—and still the hopeful John remained away, and little
Ellen cried for loneliness and heart desolation. At last,
between eight and nine o'clock in the evening, he made
his appearance, and growled out some excuse for not being
back sooner. He said he had made some inquiries concerning
the Clendennans, and thought he could find their
residence without much difficulty. This would have been
cheering news to little Ellen, had it come from one in
whom she could have placed confidence; but there was a
something in the expression of John's eye, as he fixed it
upon her, that made her pure and gentle spirit shrink away
as from a contamination. She felt, without exactly knowing
why, that he was a secret enemy, as much to be dreaded
as Mulwrack himself. She saw, too, that he had been
drinking—and this had no tendency to inspire confidence.
She fairly shuddered at the thought of setting out with
him, in the night, alone, and in such a locality; but there
was no alternative; she could make no excuse that would
avail her; and so she donned her bonnet, (her shawl she
had left at Mulwrack's,) and prepared to set forth.
John, however, seemed in no hurry to start. He had
first to have his dinner, as he facetiously termed it—which
he ate very slowly; and then he went up stairs, and remained
for half-an-hour; and what with one delay and
another, he managed to keep little Ellen waiting till half-past
ten o'clock.
“And sure,” said his mother, when at last he announced
himself as ready; “sure, now, Johnny, my darling, ye had
best wait and tak' another day for't. The good folk'll be
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all abed, jist—and won't know ye from a tief of the
night, now!”
“Old woman,” replied John, “you're a fool! and may
jest as well keep that mouth of yourn shut! I know my
business, and I want you to mind yourn!”
“Howly Virgin! but he's like his father, so he is!”
said Mrs. M'Callan, turning to Ellen. “Poor Terrence!
he was a broth of a boy, that same—pace to
his ashes! Well, good-bye, child; and ye'll sometimes
think of Bridget M'Callan, it's like, when ye git amongst
the big-bugs!”
“Indeed, indeed, I shall never forget your kindness,
ma'am!” returned little Ellen, fairly sobbing aloud.
“There, go! and God bless you!” rejoined the kind-hearted
widow, bestowing upon the little orphan a hearty
kiss. “Tak' care of the wee thing, and allow no harm to
come anigh her, Johnny, dear!” were her last instructions
to her dissipated son.
“Come along!” said John, gruffly, as he sallied forth;
and little Ellen meekly and timidly followed him into the
darkness of the night.
The street on which stood the residence of Widow
M'Callan, was, compared with some in the immediate
vicinity, quite respectable—though it would have appeared
dreary enough to persons accustomed to living in more
fashionable quarters. A gas-light, here and there, at
rather long intervals, threw out a dim, uncertain light—
but sufficient to enable one to pick his way, with a little
care, without stumbling over the rough, uneven pavement.
A few shops fronted on this street, mostly kept by negroes
and people of the poorer class; but these were now, owing
to the lateness of the hour, nearly all closed for the day;
and only here and there a ray of light, save from the
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before-mentioned jets of gas, shone upon this gloomy
thoroughfare.
For the distance of something like a square, little Ellen
and her sullen guide walked along, side by side, in silence;
and then, as he turned into a narrower and darker street,
the latter said, in a more kindly tone than was usual with
him:
“Here, Sis—give me your hand—you might fall.”
He took her hand, and walked on a short distance;
when Ellen, who was trembling with a secret apprehension,
though she strove to be calm, ventured to inquire, in a
timid tone:
“Are you sure we are going right, sir?”
“Of course I am,” he answered, rather gruffly. “Umph!
I know the ways round here like a book.”
“But do you think Mr. Clendennan lives in this direction?”
she asked again.
“Now what's the use of yer talking that ther' way to
me?” he replied, half angrily. “You don't take me for a—
fool, I hope! You know, as well as I do, that that
ther' yarn, about the Clendennans, and sich like, is all stuff—
gammon—sheer — nonsense—jest made up to come it
over the old woman!”
“Indeed, sir, it is not!” said Ellen, quickly, stopping
at once, and endeavoring to get a glimpse of the other's
face, which the darkness of the street, where they were,
prevented. “All I said to your mother was true,” she
continued; “and if you don't think so, and are not doing
as if it were true, then leave me, and I will try to find my
way somewhere by myself.”
“And where'd you go this time of night, I should like
to know?” said John.
“I don't know, sir, where,” sobbed little Ellen; “but I
would try and find a better street than this.”
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“Oh, well, come along!” he rejoined, in a tone less
harsh; “and don't spile that ther' pretty little face of
yourn by crying. Come! I was only jest in fun—so
come along!”
“But where are you taking me to, sir?”
“Only jest round here, to a friend of mine, who knows
all about the folks you want to find.”
“But it is so dark here, on this street, sir, that I feel
afraid.”
“Poh! come along! I'll take care of ye—nothing shall
hurt you. Only round the corner here, and we'll come to
where it's light.”
“But you're really in earnest about taking me to Mr.
Clendennan's?” hesitated Ellen.
“Of course I am—didn't I tell you so? So come along!”
replied John.
Thus assured by her guide, but still shuddering from a
secret apprehension, little Ellen ventured timidly forward.
From the miserable street they were in, John soon turned
into a dark, dismal, narrow, filthy alley—all the while encouraging
his timid charge to continue on, by assuring her
that the way they were taking was their nearest course to
a broad, clean, well-lighted thoroughfare.
At length he stopped before a gloomy-looking, wooden
structure, which seemed to frown darkly upon the poor
orphan. All the shutters were closed, and not a ray of
light streamed forth; and it might have been thought that
the people were abed, or that the building was untenanted,
had not the ear caught the faint sound of a biosterous
merriment, apparently taking place in a rear apartment of
one of the upper stories.
“John, without saying a word, rapped quickly and
heavily on the door, giving four distinct knocks. Instantly
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the sounds of merriment were hushed, and all became still
as the grave.
“Oh! sir, you are not going in there?” exclaimed
Ellen, greatly terrified.
“Hush!” said John. “I only want to speak to a
friend.”
Presently the door opened slightly, as if held by a chain,
and John passed a few words, in a low tone, with some one
within. Then turning to Ellen, he said:
“Come! let us go.”
At the same instant, he clapped his hand over her
mouth—the door flew wide open—and lifting her from her
feet, he bore her across the threshold, into a place of utter
darkness; and, with a sinking heart, she heard the door
close behind her, shutting her from the world without.
Poor child!
CHAPTER XIII. A DEN OF INFAMY.
It was with a sinking heart, as we have said, that poor
little Ellen heard the door close behind her; while the
rattling of bolts and chains, assured her that it was made
fast against egress or ingress. But still, though much
terrified, she did not faint; and presently she felt her
nerves strengthened with a kind of desperation, and a
secret influence for which she could not account. Strange
as it may seem to those who have not made the human system
a study under all the various emotions of hope, joy, grief,
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fear, terror, and despair, her gentle spirit seemed to rise
up from beneath its weight of despondency, and become
comparatively light and buoyant, infusing strength and
vigor into her weary body and limbs. In a word, she
began to feel strong and resolute, at a moment when one
might have reasonably expected to see her sinking in dismay
beneath the stroke of a new misfortune.
As soon as the door was bolted, John M'Callan removed
his hand from the mouth of Ellen, and held a hurried conversation,
in a low tone, with the person who had admitted
him. Then taking hold of Ellen's hand, he said:
“Come, my dear—let us go up stairs, and find a pleasanter
place than this here. Don't be afeard—nobody's
going to hurt you.”
“I'm not afraid, sir!” replied Ellen, in a tone that surprised
even herself—it was so severely calm, and cold, and
firm.
“Why, hello!” said John, as she placed her hand in his,
and he discovered that it exhibited not even the slightest
tremor. “Why, if you're not one of the birds, may I be—!”
we will not repeat his oath. “Can't fool this
child! I knowed all the time you was playing possum.
Come along.”
Saying this, he conducted Ellen up a steep flight of
narrow stairs, in the dark, the attendant following close
behind. On reaching the top, they made one or two turns
through a narrow corridor, when a light from an open
door, in which stood three or four figures, peering out, enabled
them to see clearly the rest of their way to the
apartment of revelry.
“Fall back there!” said John, in an authoritative tone;
“and make room for the Queen of Beauty!”
Instantly the figures disappeared; and the next moment
little Ellen, with her hand firmly clasped in the hand of
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John M'Callan, found herself standing in the door of an
apartment, which, together with its occupants, we must
pause to describe.
The room was large, but with a low ceiling, and was
lighted by two very respectable chandeliers, which burned
candles instead of gas. The rough walls were gaudily
papered, and disfigured with French prints—some in
frames and some without—many of which were hardly fit
for the modest eye of purity. The floor was without a
carpet, but sanded; and around all sides of the apartment,
leaving a vacancy in the middle, were arranged settees,
chairs, benches and tables. The occupants were about
twenty-five in number, of both sexes, ranging from ten to
five-and-twenty years of age. Some were standing, some
sitting, some lounging, several were smoking, and all had
been drinking—for on every table were tumblers, some
quite empty, and some partly filled with liquors of various
kinds. There was nothing like order or respectability in
the assembled company—which, with few exceptions, appeared
to be of the lowest and most depraved class. The
girls were characterized by a premature oldness of look
and boldness of manner, and were flauntingly dressed in a
style that showed that excessive modesty was not one of
their prominent virtues; while all the youth—some with
coats on and some without—had the hardened looks of
dissipation and vice—with eyes red and bleared, and faces
swollen and weather-beaten. In short, the place was a
kind of juvenile hell; and a fiend, in the shape of an old
crone, wrinkled and toothless, with one foot already in the
grave, presided over the establishment. There had been
a dance, interrupted by the knocking of John M'Callan;
and a negro, perched upon a stool in one corner, was now
thrumming the strings of his violin, and waiting to be
called on to strike up his tune anew.
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Such was the scene presented to the view of little Ellen,
as she found herself standing on the threshold of the apartment;
and as she saw so many eyes turned upon her, with
a rude, impudent stare, it required all the nerve which had
recently been given her, to keep her from sinking down in
dismay.
“This here,” said John, in a loud tone, as he held little
Ellen by the hand, “I calls the Queen of Beauty—and I
want you all to pay respect to her.”
Most of the company bowed, in a kind of mocking homage,
and then gave way to a hearty laugh.
“She's a mighty little queen!” said one.
“But a — pretty one!” said another.
“Nothing to brag on, though!” put in one of the girls,
tossing her head in disdain.
“Go along, Bess—you're jealous.”
“Not of her—the minx!”
“Where'd she come from?”
“Go it, John!”
“Where'd you pick her up, Mac?”
“Got on silks—whew!”
“I'll put up a quarter agin her, John, and play you a
game of old sledge!”
“I'll stand treat for the first dance with her!”
“And I another for the second!”
“Let's drink to her any how!”
“Bravo! here's your health, Miss Queen!”
“Hurrah for the dance!”
“Go it, old Ebony! come! strike up!”
Such were some of the exclamations and remarks, from
different parties, that greeted the ear of little Ellen, as
John M'Callan led her forward to a seat. Poor child!
she saw she was entrapped into a den of infamy; and she
mentally called on God for protection and deliverance, and
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strength to sustain her the while through this painful and
disgusting scene of trial.
“She's a beauty, ain't she? and all beauties is welcome
to my nice home!” said a tremulous, cracked voice, followed
by a fiendish chuckle.
Ellen started at the sound of that voice—it had something
so awful, almost unearthly, in its tones; and on
turning to the speaker, she was startled at the appearance
of the old hag already mentioned, who was the person who
had admitted John and herself into the house, and had followed
and entered behind them, and now stood near her,
stooped and withered, grinning, and blinking her small,
dark, bleared eyes, and looking more like one of the
witches of the heath, who foretold Macbeth his destiny,
than a human being. Ellen felt a thrill of horror run
through her slender frame, as she looked upon that toothless
crone—such a thrill of horror as one would experience
on finding the cold body of a deadly serpent crawling over
the naked flesh; and she turned her gaze away, and strove
to shut out from the mind's eye the repulsive vision. But
it was in vain. The image of the repulsive crone was
stamped upon her young and guileless heart, and it remained
and haunted her for years.
“Come,” said John to Ellen—“there's a-going to be a
first-rate dance, and I'll take you for a partner.”
“I never dance,” replied Ellen, quietly.
“Pshaw! what's the use of your talking that ther' way?
Come along!”
“I never dance,” answered Ellen, more firmly, drawing
back, and secretly shuddering—though she managed to appear
calm and collected.
“But I say you must dance!” returned John, half
angrily, taking hold of her arm, as if to urge her forward.
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“I don't know how, sir—I never danced in my life,”
replied Ellen, holding back.
“Well, git up here, and I'll larn ye then—though I
know you're fibbing all the time,” said John.
`Oh! please excuse me, sir! I'd rather not.”
“But I say you shall!” cried John, now really angry;
“and when I say a thing, it's got to be—mind that!” and
again he pulled her by the arm, and this time so roughly,
that poor little Ellen, overcome by her feelings—her
lonely, friendless, unprotected situation—burst into tears.
“Oh yes—cry!” growled John—“that's always the way
with you gals, when us fellers wants you to do something
you don't jest want to.”
“Oh! look at the poor baby!” exclaimed two or three
of the girls, who sat near Ellen, and who naturally felt
jealous of her; and they closed with a mocking, heartless
laugh.
“Shall it have some cake, the deary?” said one.
“Or a bit of sugar candy, for its 'ittle self?” laughed
another.
“Shall it go to its dear mamma?” mocked a third.
At the mention of the sacred name of mother, little
Ellen gave vent to a fresh burst of grief, and cried and
sobbed as if her poor little heart would break.
“Oh, come!” said a tall youth, about the age of John,
and who seemed to be less hardened in vice than his associates—
or perhaps had the germ of something better in his
heart, not all defiled: “come! don't be too hard on her
at first!”
The words were uttered in a conciliating tone, and in a
tone of sympathy; and as they fell on the ear of little
Ellen, she looked up through her tears, and saw a kindly
expression in the blue eyes of the boy, who was standing in
front of her, and gazing steadily at her.
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“Henry Crawford, you'll please mind your own business,
and leave me attend to mine!” said John M'Callan,
almost fiercely.
“Not if you make it your business to abuse that there
little girl, I won't!” returned the other with spirit, his eyes
flashing.
“Who's abused her?” cried John.
“Why don't you let her alone then?”
“'Cause I don't choose to.”
At this juncture the fiddler struck up, and the dance
commenced; but as only a part of the company could occupy
the floor at the same time, most of the others began
to gather around Ellen and the two excited youths, all
anxious to hear and see—for there was a great probability,
from present appearances, that the matter would end in
a fight. To prevent this, the old hag came shuffling in between
young M'Callan and Crawford, and in a whining,
cracked voice, said:
“Come, come, young gentlemen—be easy now—be
easy—no quarrelling; the chick is a nice, good girl—only
give her time to get acquainted like.”
“Old woman, jest mind your business! and get out the
way, will ye?” cried John, savagely; “and what's better,
fetch me some brandy!”
“That's right, my dear!” croaked the crone; “take a
little brandy, and never mind what's been said, my dear.
I'll get it for ye—Mother Grimsby 'll get it for ye, with her
own hands, this very minute, my dear;” and the stooped,
and withered, and toothless old hag shuffled away in haste;
and soon returned with a greenish-looking bottle, which
she declared contained the genuine old Cognac.
John threw down a quarter-dollar, seized the bottle, and
a tumbler that stood on the table by his side, poured out a
third of a glass, and gulped it down; and then setting
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the bottle down hard, he invited all present, who felt
friendly to him, to help themselves. Several of both
sexes now advanced to the table, and took a drink, uttering
the while profane and ribald words; but Henry Crawford
and two others stepped back, and held a hurried conversation,
in low tones.
“Why don't you drink?” said John to Ellen; “aint
you friendly to me?”
“Oh! sir, take me away to my friends!” sobbed Ellen;
“remember what your mother told you!”
At this there was a loud laugh of derision from all the
girls near—some five or six in number—and several of
both sexes made comments which we need not repeat.
“I say, young gal,” pursued John, in a savage tone—
“aint you going to drink with me?”
“No, I never drink.”
“Don't drink or dance?” rejoined he, scowling darkly;
“that's a — likely story! You think you can jest do
as you like here, may be—but I'll let you know different,
afore you're much older; and if any body wants to take
it up, there'll be a fight on hand;” and he looked from
under his knitted brows, over to where Crawford was
standing. “Nance,” he said to one of the girls, “jest put
some sugar and water in that ther' glass! There—that'll
do. Now here goes in some brandy,” he continued, pouring
out a small quantity of the vile liquor. “Look you, my
crying beauty—you've got to drink this here decent, or
I'll pour it down your throat! D'ye hear?”
“Oh! sir—remember what your mother told you!” said
Ellen, pleadingly.
“She can jest go to thunder, for an old fool!” rejoined
John, rising and placing himself in front of Ellen, with
the tumbler in his hand. “Come! drink, I say!”
At this moment a loud knock was heard at the outer
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door; and instantly the fiddler ceased playing, the dancers
stopped in their places, and a deep silence ensued—broken
only at intervals by whispers, or the guarded footsteps of
some of the company, stealing to the door of the apartment
to listen. John placed his tumbler on the table, and quietly
reseated himself—while the old hag hurried away, to answer
the summons for admittance.
A few minutes of anxious suspense ensued; for it sometimes
happened—though we regret to say very rarely—
that the police made a descent upon this house of vile resort,
and arrested all they could find within; and consequently
the parties stood prepared for flight, in case the present
applicant, or applicants, for admission, should prove to be
the dreaded officers of law.
At length those on the watch announced the fact that
all was right; and immediately after, the Hunchback made
his appearance at the door, and was greeted with a mixed
storm of laughter and invectives—during which the fiddler
again struck up, and the dance was resumed.
“Hello, Nob!” called out John, who knew something
of the deformed boy's physical strength and desperate
fighting qualities, and was therefore anxious to secure him
on his side, in case there should be a fracas—for John,
like most other bullies of his stamp, was at heart a paltry
coward, and could only be courageous when supported by
numbers against a few: “Hello, Nob! this way, and take
a drink!—here's brandy that'll make you a gentleman—
some of old Grimsby's best.”
“Thank you, Mr. M'Callan!” returned the Hunchback,
approaching with a smile and a bow—“I never refuse a
good offer. I hold brandy to be the life and soul of man—
victuals, drink, lodging, and washing included.”
He took up the bottle as he spoke, and held it up to the
light—as if to see if the liquor were clear, but in reality
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to see how much there was of it—and then poured out a
tumbler half-full.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, with affected politeness,
looking round upon the laughing spectators, and nodding
to each—“here's my—”
He stopped suddenly, with an expression of surprise
and slowly set down the glass, with its contents untasted.
His eye, in going round the circle, had encountered the
tearful eyes of little Ellen, fixed earnestly and imploringly
upon him.
“Why, how is this?” he said; “how came my little lady
here?”
At this the bystanders laughed, thinking he spoke in derision,
merely to make a joke; but John, who sat facing
him, fancied he saw something in his eye that implied
serious earnest.
“Your little lady?” John repeated; “what d'ye mean
by that ther', Nob?”
“Oh! take me away from here!” cried Ellen, appealing
to the deformed boy—for she, too, saw that in his eye,
which led her to hope he would stand her friend. “Take
me away from here, I beg of you! You promised to see
me to a nice street, and you didn't do it.”
“That was because you ran away, and I couldn't
find you,” returned the Hunchback; while the different
parties began to crowd around, and become more deeply
interested in the curious turn that matters were taking.
Half-a-dozen speakers now asked half-a-dozen different
questions in the same breath; but the Hunchback kept his
dark eyes fixed upon Ellen, and paid no attention to any
of the others.
“I ran away from where you left me,” said little Ellen,
eagerly, “because I thought I saw a man that I was afraid
of; and I ran into John M'Callan's mother's; and she
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promised that he should take me to my friends; and he
brought me here, and forced me into this house. Oh! do—
do, now—take me away from here, and let me go back
to my friends, and God will reward you for it!”
“I will!” said the deformed boy, resolutely, the tearful
appeal of the friendless little orphan touching his heart—
which, though enclosed in a rough, ungainly casement, unlike
many others of fair exterior, ever beat sympathetically
for the wronged and oppressed—at least when his
brain was clear of the fumes of the poison which was his
favorite beverage. “I will take you to your friends, if
you've got any—and then I'll get jolly on the strength of
one good act, if I never do another. I promised to see
you to a nice street, my little lady—and drunken Nob
Hunchy always keeps his word when he's sober.”
“'Spect you'll ask my leave, afore you do that ther,' Mr.
Nob?” said John, sullenly. “Mighty pretty airs you're
putting on, 'pon my word! to come here and 'spect to take
away a gal that I've fetched here, without asking my consent,
or the consent of them that's here and paid their
reckoning;” and he looked around to see what effect his
words would produce upon the different parties, so as to
be able to judge how many were likely to stand by him,
in the event of his making a forcible resistance to the design
of the Hunchback. He appeared to receive the
encouragement he expected—for he immediately added, in
a bolder tone, with a bullying air: “If she gits out of this
here house to-night, Mr. Nob, there'll be a fight first, I
can tell you. Aint I in the right, Mother Grimsby?” he
concluded, appealing to the mistress of the establishment,
who had drawn near during the conversation.
“I don't want ye to fight—I don't want ye to fight,”
replied the crone, shaking her head. “And I don't want
the pretty, sweet little beauty to go away from me, who'll
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be a mother to her,” she added, looking at little Ellen with
what she intended should be a winning smile, but which her
old, wrinkled face converted into a hideous grin.
“Well, she aint a-going to go away!” rejoined John,
looking fiercely at the Hunchback, whose black eyes began
to gleam with that fiery, sullen light, which should always
be noted as a warning that the possessor is resolved to
conquer or die.
“See here, Nob,” said the old hag, turning to him; “if
I'd a known you was coming in here to raise a fracas,
you'd have staid outside.”
“And if I had,” answered the deformed boy, quietly,
“before this time to-morrow night, the beaks would have
been down on your infernal den!”
“Hear him! hear him!” croaked the old she-fiend, turning
pale with anger and fear.
“Yes, and hear this too!” pursued the Hunchback: “if
this little girl is not allowed to depart with me quietly, I'll
break up this hell of yours, Mother Grimsby, if it costs
me my life!”
“And if you dare to blow on this here place, by —!
it shall cost you your life!” cried John, fiercely, while
several of the others began to grow much excited.
“Look you, John M'Callan!” returned the Hunchback,
fixing his dark eye, with a keen, penetrating glance, upon
the cowardly ruffian, and speaking in that calm, determined
tone, which never fails to produce a marked impression:
“Look you, John! I know you well, and you know me;
and if you dare to lift a hand against me, you shall rue it
to the end of your miserable life!”
On hearing this, John turned pale, and began to grow
nervous; but he had already gone too far to retreat, without
subjecting himself to the raillery of his companions;
and he also felt his drooping courage revive, by the
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exclamations of some two or three of his friends, who stood
around him.
“He's a traitor!” said one.
“A — villain!” cried another.
“Let's break his head, and pitch him into the street!”
vociferated a third.
But the deformed boy stood firm, glancing quickly from
one to the other of the different parties, not one of whom
seemed inclined to be the first to molest him.
“If you let me take that little girl away quietly,” he
said at length, “you'll have no occasion to consider me a
traitor; and I'll save you the trouble of breaking my head
and pitching me into the street—for I'll leave at once, and
never come here again.”
“She can't go with you!” said John, loudly, getting up
and pushing back the cuffs of his sleeves, as if preparing
for a fight. “I've said it, and I'll stick to it!”
The Hunchback made no reply to this; but while he
kept his eyes warily about him, he said to Ellen:
“Come, my little lady—I don't think these boys are so
bad as they pretend—and I can't see why they should
harm you, who have never harmed them.”
As he spoke, he motioned to Ellen to approach him; and
as she tremblingly arose, and attempted to do so, John
M'Callan pushed her rudely back upon the bench, exclaiming:
“Don't you dare to stir, without my leave!”
Scarcely were the words spoken, when, bounding forward
like a ball, the Hunchback struck him in the pit of the
stomach with his head, and sent him clean from the floor
against the wall, where he struck with a dull, heavy sound,
and then fell to the ground like a log. This was done
almost with the quickness of thought; and as the gallant
boy recoiled from the blow he had himself given, he struck
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another, one of John's friends, in the stomach, in the same
manner, laying him out on the floor—while with his active
fists he knocked in two of the front teeth of a third.
The dance now broke up with the cry of “A fight!” and
several of John's friends made a rush upon Ellen's champion.
But they met with an opposition they did not expect—
for young Crawford, and two or three others, came
to his assistance, and soon the fight became general. The
girls screamed and ran away, with the exception of a few
of the more vicious, who remained to take a part in the
contest. And brutal, bloody, and disgusting it was.
Bottles, tumblers, and every sort of missile that could be
laid hold hold of, were hurled by one combatant at the head
of another—and chairs and tables were broken, and the
fragments freely used.
At length, to stop the melee, some two or three of the
oldest girls—who, along with the frightened old hag, had
fled to the corridor for safety—dashed boldly in and put
out the lights; but still the enraged combatants fought on
in the darkness. At last, a heavy knock, on the outer door,
resounded through the gloomy vacancies of the old building;
and almost immediately the uproarious tumult was
succeeded by a deep silence.
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CHAPTER XIV. THE RECAPTURE.
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Little Ellen, who was indirectly the cause of the melee,
as we have shown, had fortunately managed to escape unharmed.
Terrified and half bewildered, she had fled from
the apartment, with several others of her sex, to the narrow
corridor; and had taken occasion, favored by the darkness
here, while the attention of all the rest was occupied by
the fight within, to steal away to the stairs which led down
to the street. Here, dropping upon her knees, she folded
her little hands; and turning her sweet, pretty face, and
tear bedimmed eyes, toward Heaven, prayed earnestly—oh!
so earnestly—that God would send her deliverance from
this awful den of iniquity. She was still here, still kneeling,
and still praying, when there came four heavy knocks
upon the door; and her superstitious nature and excited
state of mind, led her to fancy it an answer to her humble
petition.
Suddenly the idea, that she might now escape, flashed
upon her brain, and fairly made her dizzy with hope; and
springing to her feet, she darted down the steep, narrow
stairs, with the light step of a fairy, and concealed herself
near the door—so that, in the event of its being opened,
she might rush out, and trust the rest to Providence.
In something like a minute from the first summons, four
distinct, heavy knocks were again bestowed upon the door,
by what appeared to be the fist of some one standing with
out—and then little Ellen could hear the gruff voice of a
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man, grumbling and cursing. Presently there was a
creaking of the old stairs, as of some one descending; and
then the cracked, tremulous voice of the old woman was
heard asking:
“Who's there, who's there, at this unseasonable hour
of the night, disturbing honest people? and what d'ye
want?”
“It's me, you old she-wolf!” growled the person outside;
“and you'd best open the door, afore I split it
open.”
“Is that you, Jimmy Quiglan?” inquired the old crone.
“Yes, it's me—now unbolt—quick!”
“In a minute, Jimmy—in a minute,” rejoined the old
hag, as she began to fumble away at the fastenings. “Oh!
I'm so glad you've come—the young rascals have been
having such a fight up stairs—dear me!”
“It's a — pity they didn't smash in your old head!”
responded Jimmy, savagely, as the door swung back as far
as the chain would let it, while Mother Grimbsy peered
cautiously out, to be certain that all was right.
Poor little Ellen's chance of escape was now at hand;
and she stole cautiously up behind the old woman, her
little heart almost beating audibly, while she fairly held
her breath, and trembled from head to foot with the contending
emotions of hope and fear.
“Come! down with the chain, you old fool! it's nobody
but me,” growled Jimmy.
The chain was now unfastened, and the door swung half
open, still held by Mother Grimsby; and as Jimmy entered,
little Ellen shot past him, and found herself in the
open air.
“Hello! who're you?” called out the Dwarf, turning
round.
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“Who's who?” cried the old woman, nervously, who
chanced not to see Ellen as she escaped.
“Some one's put out, she-wolf,” replied Jimmy.
“He's dreaming, so he is!” said the crone, playfully, as
she closed the door and proceeded to fasten it.
As it is our purpose to follow the little orphan, we shall
consider ourself fastened out with her; and will leave the
vile den, the old woman, and her hopeful guests, to enjoy
themselves in their own peculiar way.
As fast as fear and her limbs could carry her, little
Ellen flew down the alley, not heeding whither she went,
nor caring, so she might put distance between her and the
earthly hell from which she fled. The night was dark and
cloudy, the hour late, and no light gleamed forth in this
miserable quarter to guide her steps. Still she sped on,
breathless with terror, turning from one dark alley or
street into another, till she at last came in sight of a feeble
lamp, which led her to hope she was approaching a less
vile quarter than she had left behind. Suddenly, in
turning another dark corner, she ran against a man, with
so much force as to throw her down.
“Hello!” said a gruff voice—“who're you, little one?
and what are you doing out this time of night, running so
fast?”
A cold shudder passed through the slender frame of the
little orphan, as that voice fell on her ear. She looked up,
and was just able to catch a faint glimpse of that man's
face. It was enough—enough to freeze the hot blood in
her veins. Yes! judge of her feelings—judge of her
horror—when she once more saw herself in the power of
her most terrible enemy—in the power of Mulwrack the
Burglar!
“Come! git up—git up—and travel on! What d'ye
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keep down there for? you aint hurt, be you?” pursued the
man of crime.
Hoping to escape, poor little Ellen quickly got upon her
feet; and she was hastening past the robber, when he caught
hold of her, and said:
“Stop! I want to see your face.”
The awful moment had arrived—the moment of detection
by the man she dreaded; and poor little Ellen, during the
scrutiny of the Burglar, experienced all the feelings of
horror of one suspended over a terrible abyss.
“The gal I wanted, by ——!” exclaimed the man of
crime, as he peered into the face of his trembling victim
by the dim light of the distant lamp. “Here's luck!” he
added, with a kind of inward chuckle; “who'd a thought it?
See here, little gal! you got away from where I put you,
and cleared out, didn't you? May be you'll do it agin—
we'll see.”
Ellen looked around in terror, hoping to perceive some
chance passenger, upon whom she could call for aid—but
the hour was late, and the streets deserted. The Burglar
instantly comprehended her design; and drawing a knife
from his bosom, the blade of which Ellen could just perceive
gleaming in the dim light, he said, in a low, savage
tone:
“See here, gal! if you 'spect to git away this time,
you've made a bad mistake. The long and short on't is,
if you dare to scream, or call anybody to help you, I'll
drive this here through your heart—I will, by —!
Come! not a word—me and you is going together decent.”
He took hold of her hand as he spoke, and, half supporting
her, for her little limbs trembled so as to need this
aid, he hurried forward, muttering:
“Well, who'd a thought it? to stumble on to her that
way, arter I'd gin up looking for her high and low.”
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Avoiding the gas-light, and selecting the dark, filthy
streets, lanes and alleys, for his route, Mulwrack was not
long in arriving, with his terrified prisoner, at the door of
the very hovel from which she had escaped the night before.
He knocked, replied to the question asked, and soon
gained admittance—pushing Ellen in before him, and shutting
and bolting the door.
“There, Mag,” he said, gruffly—“I've got her agin;
and I rather think as how she won't git away again, of her
own accord.”
Margaret, who, previous to Mulwrack's return, was the
only occupant of that old structure, took hold of Ellen's
hand, and drew her toward the fire-place, in which were a
few dying embers, and then threw herself upon a seat, without
saying a word. Somewhat struck by her peculiar manner,
Ellen looked up in her face; and notwithstanding her
own terror and desolation of heart, could not avoid a start
of surprise at the appearance of the other. That face
was frightfully swollen, and almost black, from the chin
upward, from the effect of blows, which the brutal Burglar,
in the first vent to his rage, for the loss of Ellen, whose
escape he attributed to her carelessness, had inflicted upon
her. The eyes of the poor creature were almost closed by
the livid and swollen flesh around them—her hair was
dishevelled—her dress torn and disordered—and, altogether,
she was an object for pity.
“Come! none of your sulks!” said the Burglar, with a
fierce scowl, as he threw his hat upon the ground, and cast
himself heavily upon a seat, directly opposite his partner
in vice and crime, so that he could look full into her face,
by the dim light of the dying embers. “You know, Mag,
I don't allow none of them things! You see I've got the
gal back agin!”
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“I see!” answered Margaret, speaking in a rather hoarse
tone.
“Well, you act as if you wish I hadn't.”
“What do you want me to do?” inquired the other.
“I want you to say something, and not set there moping
in that are kind of a way.”
“How did you find her?”
“Now you're talking sensible. Why, would you believe
it, Mag—jest as I was coming home, arter I'd gin her
clean up, she bounced out of an alley, right agin me.
Queer, wasn't it?”
“Very queer, Jim.”
“I 'spect Providence put her there, Mag;” and the
harsh features of the robber relaxed into a grin, at what
he considered a very facetious rejoinder.
“Likely enough,” said Margaret, turning to the fire,
and poking the embers together with a pair of old tongs.
“Any body been here to-night, Mag?”
“Not a soul, Jim.”
“Beaks is off the scent, I reckon?”
“I think so.”
“Mulwrack indulged in a yawn, and a long stretch of
his muscular limbs.
“Been to bed, Mag?”
“I just laid down a few minutes.”
“How's the liquor?”
“I haven't touched it.”
“Umph! that's odd—for you're ginerally drunk afore
this time of night. Fetch it here, and I'll take a swig.”
Margaret got up, and going to the same old chest, which
we mentioned as serving her for a closet or pantry at her
former lodgings, took out a black bottle, and brought it to
Mulwrack. The robber took it, gave it a hearty shake, uncorked
it, and held it long to his lips.
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“That's the stuff, Mag,” he said, with a smack—“try a
little.”
“I would rather not to-night, Jim.”
“Why?”
“I don't feel well.”
“Ah!” said the Burglar, with a slight show of feeling.
“'Taint nothing serious, is it, Mag?”
“Nothing particular.”
“Hum! got any thing to eat?”
“There's some bread and cold meat in the chest.”
“That'll do—fetch 'em on.”
Margaret quietly brought the ruffian his food, of which
he ate heartily, taking now and then a drink from the
bottle.
“There!” he said, when he had finished his lunch—“I
feels better now. Think there's any danger in my sleeping
here, Mag?”
“You should know best, Jim.”
“Well, I'm going to risk it, any how. Jake's got off, I'
spect; and we'll follow, when—”
He stopped, and gave a slight nod toward Ellen, who
had sunk upon a seat, with her face buried in her hands.
“Big haul that!” he continued, mysteriously referring to
the burglary at Clendennan's; “and if it wasn't for this
here deacon affair,” (and again he nodded toward Ellen,)
“me and you would put out, and travel for our healths—
eh! Mag?”
“Better let that go, Jim, and go now—something bad'll
come on't,” responded Margaret, also nodding toward the
poor orphan.
“You're a fool!” growled Mulwrack. “Think I'd go
and leave them ten thousand the old rascal promised?
Arter all, it was a good thing, that are running away—for
old skin-flint got skeared, for fear he'd lose the chance;
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and if I got her agin, (once more nodding toward Ellen,) he
swore he'd plank.”
“But you can get the tin, and not hurt any body,” said
Margaret, alluding in this way to the contemplated murder
of Ellen, which had been previously discussed between the
two.
“See here, Mag!” rejoined Mulwrack, with offended
dignity,—“d'ye think I'm such a — knave as to git a
man's shiners for a job I don't do? You ought to know
me better'n that by this time, old gal!”
Such was a murderer's idea of honor! He could beat
his poor female partner almost to death, to gratify his
savage passions; he could break into an honest man's
house, and rob it, without a scruple of conscience; he
could kill that innocent little girl for a certain sum; but
the mere suggestion of taking a brother villain's money
for a wicked deed, with the intention of cheating him, by
not fulfilling his bloody contract, was highly repugnant to
his sense of right and honor. Have we not others among
us, moving in what are considered high circles, whose ideas
of honor are about as just as those of the Burglar? How
many are there among us, who would not scruple to cheat
an honest tradesman of honest dues, to pay a gambling
debt? How many are there among us, who would not
hesitate to stake a life against a life, because of a trifling
difference of opinion, and yet would feel a pride in being
the author of some confiding female's ruin?
“What are you going to do with her for the present?”
inquired Margaret, pursuing the conversation.
“Why, she'll go below this time—she'll keep there, I
reckon.” Then addressing Ellen, he continued: “See here,
little gal! I'm a going to turn in, and I want to put you
where you'll be safe.”
Little Ellen looked up, pale and agitated.
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“Mag, raise a glim!” continued the robber. “I'm
going down to see them quarters myself.”
Margaret lighted a candle, and handed it to the Bur
glar—who immediately got up, and removing the chest from
where it stood, raised a small trap-door, and descended an
old ladder, into a damp, disagreeable cellar, or vault, about
ten feet square, which was walled in on every side, without
any means for ventilation or the admission of light, and
which could only be entered and left through the trap
door just mentioned. The moment the Burglar had fairly
disappeared, Margaret turned to Ellen, seized her hand,
pressed it warmly, and looking quickly around, in a
startled manner, put her finger to her lips, as a sign of
caution, and said, in a hurried whisper:
“Don't despair, poor child! I'll be your friend—though
it may cost me my life.”
She turned away, and tried to hum the air of a popular
tune, in order to appear indifferent, and excite no suspicion—
while little Ellen labored hard to force back the tears
that involuntarily sprung into her eyes. The next moment
the robber called from below:
“Come down here, little gal!”
“Yes, go down,” said Margaret; “and we'll see if
you'll escape again!”
Her voice was harsh and unfeeling; but she turned to
Ellen, caught her hand, and pressed it nervously; and in
this silent manner made known to the poor little orphan
how deeply she sympathised with her.
Ellen seized Margaret's arm convulsively, but clung to it
only a moment; and then, without saying a word, rather
staggered than walked to the mouth of what seemed to
her a horrible pit, and nervously descended the ladder.
“This here's not a very nice place,” said Mulwrack, who
stood at the bottom, speaking in a less harsh tone, as he
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held the light to her pale, agitated countenance; “but
you've got nobody to blame except yourself for't—for if
you hadn't run away, I'd a let you staid up stairs.”
“Oh! sir, don't leave me alone, in this awful place!”
pleaded little Ellen, as she glanced tremblingly around
upon the damp, massive, mildewed walls. “Oh! sir, please
don't!”
“Must do it!” said the Burglar, firmly. “I want to
keep you awhile—and you'll be safer here than anywheres
else. I'll throw you down something to lie on—'taint cold,
and you'll do well enough; and besides, you won't have to
stay here long.”
As he said this, he began to ascend the ladder, taking
the light with him, and leaving the poor child at the bottom,
shuddering with terror, and only sustained against
giving away to utter despair, by the kind and mysterious
words which Margaret had whispered in her ear. As soon
as the Burglar had got upon the floor above, he seized a
piece of old carpet, and threw it down, saying:
“There! that'll do you to lie on; and my advice to you
is, to lie down and go to sleep. No whining now! 'cause
we can't have none of them things.”
With this he shut the trap-door, drew the heavy chest
upon it, and little Ellen found herself in total darkness.
Soon after this, the man of crime threw himself upon
the bed in the room, without undressing, and fell asleep.
But in his sleep he tossed his arms about, rolled uneasily
to and fro, grated his teeth, and muttered deep and savage
curses. Oh! the conscience of the guilty! that ever present,
continual, eternal hell!
Margaret laid down, but did not sleep: her mind was
striving to pierce the vail of the awful Future which lay
before her!
-- 175 -- p465-176
CHAPTER XV. A MEETING OF OLD FRIENDS.
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It will be remembered, that Sir Walter Clendennan, his
daughter Rosalind, and two of the servants, were away on
the night of the burglarious entrance and robbery of their
mansion. They returned at an early hour on the following
day, and were both startled and pained at the news
which was poured into their ears at the very steps of the
carriage. The house had been robbed of plate, money, and
jewels; and the little stranger, whom they had taken in,
and saved from death, and nursed so tenderly, was the
thief.
“What! that child a thief?” cried Sir Walter, much
excited, while Rosalind listened in dumb amazement. “'Tis
false! the very accusation carries falsehood on its face!”
“I deeply regret to say it is true,” replied Mrs Wyndham,
who was the communicator.
“How do you know it is true?” demanded the Knight,
in a harsh, irritated tone.
“Because, sir, she has fled, taking with her the clothes
which Miss Rosalind was so kind and generous as to give
her.”
“Tut! tut! woman!” cried the Baronet, angrily; “you
forget that a child like her was not strong enough to carry
off my heavy plate!”
“Well, she might have had help, sir—and doubtless she
had; but whoever helped her, must have come in at the front
door—and been let in, sir—for that was found unfastened
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in the morning, and every other part of the building just
as it was the night before. And besides, sir, the girl is
gone, and her own clothes gone with her; and if she is
not the thief, the whole matter passes my understanding.”
The Knight got slowly out of his carriage; and supporting
himself, with one hand upon the door, rolled his hollow
eyes, nervously and somewhat wildly, over the group of
startled-looking faces that were now turned toward him.
“Mirabile dictu! Amor habendi!” he exclaimed, with
impressive solemnity. “Well, well—if that sweet child is
guilty, Heaven knows I never want to look upon another
human face! Rosalind, give me your arm, and conduct
me to my own private apartment.”
Rosalind hastened to obey; and when she reached the
door of the apartment, over the threshold of which she
dared not venture without permission, she said, in a low,
troubled tone:
“Father, Ellen is not guilty, believe me! I would stake
my life upon her innocence.”
The Baronet turned and seized her hand.
“You think she is innocent?” he said, with a quivering
lip.
“I know it, father.”
“Thank you! thank you, Rosalind!”
With this he stepped within, closed and bolted his door;
and Rosalind hastened to the drawing-room, to learn the
whole particulars of the affair—at least all that were known
or could be surmised—from Mrs. Wyndham.
An hour later, Rosalind was pacing up and down this
same elegantly furnished drawing-room, in a state of mind
not to be envied. She was alone, and her features were
very pale, and her eyes showed traces of recent tears.
She was evidently expecting some one—for every other
minute she hurried to the window, and looked out into the
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street. At length the bell rung; and hastening to seat
herself, she made an effort to appear composed. Presently
the door of the drawing-room opened, and the servant announced:
“Dr. Stanhope.”
The individual thus ushered into the presence of Rosalind,
and who has been previously mentioned in these
pages, deserves a passing notice. He was about twenty-five
years of age, tall, well-formed, with dark, curly hair, and
dark, expressive eyes. His features were finely moulded,
and highly intellectual—but rather thin and pale, like one
much given to thought and study. His finely turned chin,
classic mouth, and slightly acquiline nose, gave character
to the face, and denoted a marked degree of firmness,
energy, and decision. He was elegantly dressed, without
being in the least degree foppish—in every movement
there was grace—and his whole manner was that of a hightoned,
well-bred gentleman. He bowed politely to Rosalind,
who rose on his entrance, and both for a moment or
two seemed slightly embarrassed.
“I trust you will pardon me, Dr. Stanhope,” said Rosalind,
with just sufficient color in her lovely countenance to
render her perfectly beautiful, “for sending for you, to
ask a favor!”
Any thing that I can do for one who has shown herself
so true a friend in time of need, believe me, Miss Clendennan,
I shall perform with a degree of pleasure that I
may not be able to express in words,” replied the young
physician, cordially.
“Pray, be seated,” said Rosalind, pointing to a chair,
and turning away to another—while the glow deepened on
her lovely features, and she found it required no little
effort to suppress all show of agitation. “My father and
myself, with two of our domestics,” she resumed, as she
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seated herself a short distance from the young Doctor,
“were out of town last night, and have only just returned,
to be startled with the intelligence that our house has been
robbed in our absence.”
“Robbed!” exclaimed young Stanhope, with a start.
“I sincerely hope your loss is not heavy, Miss Rosalind!”
“I do not know the full extent of our loss,” replied
Rosalind; “but that, however much or little, can easily
be repaired, and is the least which troubles me.”
“Indeed!” said the other, with increased interest;
“something more serious? I pray you speak as to a
friend. Your father—”
“Is as well as usual,” rejoined Rosalind, hastily;
“though I do not know how this affair may affect him.
But it is of another I wish to speak. You remember my
little coz—I mean the little girl who was run over in
Chestnut street, on last Christmas day, and whom I had
conveyed hither, and succeeded, by the aid of kind Providence,
in restoring to life and health?”
“I have heard my sister Linda speak of her, as a very
bright, sweet, interesting little child.”
“She was every thing that was good and lovely,” said
Rosalind, with considerable emotion; “and oh! how I
loved her, from the depths of my inmost soul! I can not,
can not, will not believe that she is guilty—it would
destroy my faith in human innocence.”
“Guilty of what, Miss Rosalind?” exclaimed the other,
quickly.
“Of robbing us—of robbing her benefactors.”
“Of robbing you? Good heavens! is she suspected of
so heinous a crime against law and gratitude?”
“By some she is, sir—though not by me. She is gone,
however; and the clothes I presented her, are gone with
her.”
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“You astonish me! May it not be a case of burglary,
robbery, and abduction?”
“Yes! yes! it must be—I dare not think otherwise!”
cried Rosalind, greatly excited. “But it is so singular—
so very strange! I am half-bewildered—I know not what
to think. All the servants believe her guilty, and are
eager to inform the police—but I have forbidden them to
speak of the matter to a single soul. If she is guilty—
and I will not think she is—she must escape detection—at
least I will not be guilty, either as principal or accessory,
of hunting her down like a wild beast! How can she be
guilty, Doctor? She is a poor orphan—when I took her
in, she had neither home nor friends—how could she rob
one who had treated her so kindly? who loved her so
dearly? Oh! speak, sir! and tell me you believe her
innocent of so foul a crime! let me know there is one
impartial judge who thinks suspicion wrongs her!”
Rosalind spoke under great excitement, seemingly controlled
by a noble, generous impulse; and in spite of herself,
the tears started into her sweet blue eyes, and made
them dim. The look of young Stanhope betrayed deep
sympathy; he unconsciously moved his chair nearer to
Rosalind; a slight color overspread his pale features; and
his voice was a little tremulous, as he replied:
“Calm yourself, Miss Rosalind, I pray you! you are
much agitated. I appreciate your noble feelings—they
are worthy of a pure and generous mind; but try and be
calm, and let me know the whole particulars, and I will
advise with you to the best of my humble ability.”
“Thank you!” returned Rosalind, somewhat warmly;
“thank you, Dr. Stanhope! I believed you would advise
me for the best; and therefore, on the impulse of the moment,
I ventured to take the liberty of sending for you.
I am so circumstanced, that I have but few acquaintances,
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and fewer friends, of whom I may ask a favor, and in
whom I can confide. I would have sent for your dear
sister, Linda; but she, like myself, would be unable to do
what I would have done.”
“I assure you, Miss Rosalind, it affords me a high degree
of pleasure and pride, to know you think me worthy
of your confidence, and that I have been selected to give
you any little assistance which may be in my power,”
replied the young physician, warmly. “Believe me,” he
continued, with a degree of emotion which he evidently
strove to suppress—but which betrayed itself in his manner,
look, and voice: “Believe me, Miss Rosalind, when
I say, that though I have not made so marked a display of
my feelings as some might have done, I have not forgotten,
and will never forget, that you are one of the few
friends, who, having known us in prosperity, did not desert
my dear sister and family in the hour of adversity—but
stood nobly by them, unchanged, save in being kinder,
more generous, and more affectionate.”
His voice faltered so much toward the last, that he was
scarcely able to articulate the closing words of the sentence;
and he turned his face away to conceal his emotion;
while Rosalind, with the hot blood mounting to her
very temples, experienced a degree of agitation that she
would not have had the other observe for the world; and,
unperceived by him, she hastily brushed a tear from her
eye.
“I have ever loved Linda, as a dear, sweet sister,” she
hastened to reply; “and what little I have done, has
been but a poor repayment for the delightful hours I have
spent in her company. But pardon me, Doctor—”
“You once called me Newton,” he interrupted, hastily;
“may I not hope that the friend of my sister and family
can be induced to address me as formerly?”
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“Certainly,” replied Rosalind, with some embarrassment;
“if—if you desire it; and on condition that you
will use as little formality to me, as when you—”
She hesitated, and he quickly rejoined:
“I will, Rosalind—I will. The present shall be as of old—
we will forget the long interval between. I scarcely need
tell you, that I am proud and sensitive; and it was pride
that made me seem so cold and formal. I should have
acted differently to one who has been so kind; I have
often regretted my sullen waywardness; but, somehow,
nature would out, and it seemed as if I could not do
otherwise. I was poor, and you were rich; and the world
sees such a gulf between poverty and riches. But as
regards you, I acted foolishly, wrongly, unjustly; and I
now take a pride in acknowledging my fault, and in
craving your forgiveness! But I interrupted you—pardon
me!”
Rosalind flushed and paled alternately, while the other
was speaking—and it was some little time before she
could recover the composure she desired.
“I was about to say,” she resumed—“that is, I was
about to request your assistance, in finding this little girl.
If she is guilty, I would have her found and reclaimed
from vice; and if she is not guilty, I would have her
found and restored to me. I do not wish the police to
know of this affair; for should she fall into the iron grasp
of the law, I might not be able to save her from the disgrace
of a prison, the doom of a criminal. I thought if
you would be so kind as to make a search for her, perhaps—”
“Yes, yes—I understand!” again interrupted the other;
“I understand; and believe me, all that I can do, shall
be done. I will proceed in the matter at once; and I will
search for her as if she were my sister; and if so
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fortunate as to find her, she shall find in me a brother, whether
guilty or not. Please inform me of her name, age,
and appearance—what dress you suppose she wore away—
what you know of her history, her former associates, and
the particulars of the robbery.”
Rosalind hastened to put the young physician in possession
of all the facts she knew concerning the robbery
and the unfortunate little orphan, with the exception of
her name, parentage, her own relationship, and the events
connected with the two families of Norbury and Clendennan.
“But you have forgotten to mention her name, Rosalind!”
said the other, as she paused.
“She is called Ellen.”
“But she has a surname?”
“We never addressed her by any other name than
Ellen, while with us,” she answered, coloring.
“But if I knew her surname, it might assist me in my
search,” he replied.
“Oh! do you think her guilty?” she inquired—thus
turning the conversation from the point upon which she so
much dreaded inquiry, and for reasons which are already
known to the reader.
“No,” he replied, after some reflection, “I cannot say
I think her guilty of robbing you—certainly she could not
have done so alone, to the extent you mention. I think
it more probable that she was abducted—though for what
purpose, it is difficult to divine. The whole affair is very
singular and mysterious! Perhaps the Burglar, whoever
he was, knew her—she might have seen and recognized
him—and thus have been taken away for his own security.
Or, what seems even more probable still, considering that
she carried off her own garments, he might have compelled
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her to do this, in order to attract suspicion to her, and
thus be the better able to screen himself.”
“Oh! Newton,” cried Rosalind, as a wild, terrible
thought flashed upon her brain—“you do not think she
has been murdered?”
“No, Rosalind, I hardly think that—because, by murdering
her, he would gain nothing, and would put his own
life in jeopardy.”
“Oh! find her! find her!” exclaimed Rosalind, laboring
under great excitement: “find her, Newton, and my
gratitude shall almost be boundless!”
“I will do all that can be done, Rosalind,” he replied,
rising; “and I will set about it at once. Calm yourself,
I pray you—try and be composed. The first intelligence
I get concerning her, shall be forwarded to you without
delay; and if I am not successful, I will myself come in
the evening, and make a full report of the day's search.”
“Thank you! thank you!” returned Rosalind: “may
Heaven aid you, and protect the poor child! If you see
Linda, bid her come to me—tell her I feel very low
spirited.”
The young physician promised to do so, and took his
departure. For half an hour after he had gone, Rosalind
walked hastily, up and down, over the rich, yielding carpet
of that gorgeous apartment, her mind agitated by strange
conflicting emotions: then she threw herself heavily upon a
crimson-plush divan, and found relief to her overcharged
heart in a flood of tears.
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CHAPTER XVI. SUSPICION IN THE RIGHT QUARTER.
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As the reader already knows, the first and second day
of Dr. Stanhope's search for little Ellen, was without avail;
for the first day she was a prisoner at Mulwrack's—the
second day a guest of Mrs. M'Callan—and, we may add,
the third day drew to a close, without the young physician
obtaining any tidings of the poor orphan. Each night he
repaired to Sir Walter's mansion, to make his sad report
to Rosalind; and when he made his appearance there on
the third night, his whole look showed that he was quite
disheartened.
“Alas!” exclaimed Rosalind, who almost flew to meet
him, so eager was she for the news: “Alas! Newton, I see
by your countenance you have again failed!”
“I have,” he replied, sadly. “I can glean no tidings
of her whatever.”
“Oh! depend upon it, she has been murdered!” cried
Rosalind.
“I think not—at least I hope not—but it is very strange
what can have become of her!”
“My poor father!” groaned Rosalind; “this will be sad
news for him!”
“Does he then take her loss so much to heart?”
“Yes, and says it is all his doing.”
“How his doing, Rosalind?” inquired the other, in a
tone of surprise.
“Why, you know he has strange spells and fancies, and
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fancies to him are realities. He now fancies that he has
said something harsh to the poor child, in one of his dejected
moods, and that this has troubled her sorely, and
been the main cause of her leaving.”
“And does he think her guilty of the robbery?”
“No! he says she cannot be guilty of that—that she was
too good, and pure, and guileless, to commit such a crime—
but he thinks she may have taken her own clothing
away, supposing it belonged to her; and that in leaving,
she may have left the front door open; and that some other
person, having seen it open, may have entered and robbed
the house.”
“That is certainly not an unreasonable supposition,”
replied young Stanhope, reflectively. “What think you
of it, Rosalind?”
“I know not what to think,” replied Rosalind, in a desponding
tone. “It may be so. I would sooner believe
that something might have induced her to leave me without
a parting word, than that she could have deliberately robbed
those who were her truest friends. Ha!” she added,
with a start of surprise—“here comes father!”
The Baronet had entered the upper end of the drawing-room,
while Rosalind was speaking; and now, with a
feeble, nervous, unsteady step, advanced straight to the
young Doctor, fixing his hollow eyes steadily upon him,
with an anxious, inquiring look. The physician rose to receive
him, and made a graceful inclination of his head.
The Knight caught the hand which the other extended,
and with a wild, searching glance at his face, exclaimed:
“The child? the child? what of her?”
`I deeply regret to say, Mr. Clendennan, that——'
“You failed!” half-shrieked the unhappy Sir Walter,
throwing up his hands, with a nervous jerk. “Yes! yes!
you need not speak. I can see—I can see. Oh, God!
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forgive this poor wretch! Holy Redeemer! intercede for
this poor wretch!” and staggering to a seat, he sunk down
upon it, covered his face with his thin, wasted hands, and
moaned and groaned, as one in deep distress of mind.
The young Doctor was about to offer him such feeble
consolation as words can give—but a motion of Rosalind
deterred him; and he quietly reseated himself, and remained
silent. At length Sir Walter withdrew his hands, and said,
sharply:
“You have not looked for her, sir! you know it.”
“Indeed I have, Mr. Clendennan: I—”
“Tut! tut!” interrupted the Knight, almost fiercely;
“don't contradict me, in my own house, sir!”
The features of Stanhope flushed, and he was about to
make an injudicious rejoinder, when a sign from Rosalind
induced him to suppress all show of resentment.
“Where did you look for her, sirrah?” demanded the
Knight, as if speaking to a menial.
“I made inquiries in every direction, Mr. Clendennan,”
replied the Doctor, in a mild, gentlemanly tone; “and
especially did I search for her through that vile quarter, in
which, as I learned from Rosalind, she for a short time
resided, previous to her being brought hither.”
“Umph!” sneered Sir Walter; “at your age I could
have found her.”
“Whether living or dead, I suppose?”
“Dead!” exclaimed the Baronet, with a start. “Dead!
What do you mean by that, sir?”
“It is possible she may not be living now.”
As he said this, Sir Walter's face assumed such an expression
of remorse, agony, and terror combined, that Dr.
Stanhope instantly regretted having made use of the words
he did.
“If she is dead,” almost shrieked the Knight, “then I
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killed her—I killed her. I drove her to it. My God!
My God! hoc me libera metu! Oh! when shall I be at
rest!”
“Do not accuse yourself, Mr. Clendennan,” began the
young physician—but the Baronet hastily and harshly interrupted
him.
“Tut! tut! sir!” he said: “keep your advice for your
patients, and give it with your physic, and put it in the
bill! Youth should respect age, and not think age a fool
and grow meddlesome. So I was taught when I was a boy.
But I forgot. Boys are men now; and men are—Heaven
knows what! Good night, sir!”
With this, without saying a word to Rosalind, first or
last—and, in fact, without even appearing to be aware of
her presence—Sir Walter arose from his seat, and tottered
out of the apartment, through the door by which he had
entered.
“Oh! Newton, forgive his harsh words, for my sake!”
said Rosalind, with tearful eyes, as her father's form disappeared.
“I will,” replied Stanhope, frankly. “Ay,” he added,
with considerable feeling, “for your sake, Rosalind, I
would forgive him even a blow.”
The features of Rosalind instantly became suffused with a
beautiful glow—but she said quickly, as if to turn the conversation:
“So you think there is no hope of finding the poor child?”
“Why, the prospect of doing so, looks rather gloomy
now, I am sorry to say—but still we must not despair.
By-the-by, while searching for her through that miserable
locality, of which I have spoken, I met a well-dressed, benevolent-looking
gentleman, who had just come out of a
miserable groggery, kept by a hideous Dwarf, who makes
his living by dealing out poison, under the names of brandy,
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gin, and so forth, to the most degraded and filthy wretches
of both sexes.”
“Why, I do believe that is the very place which Ellen
told me about, with such a feeling of loathing,” exclaimed
Rosalind. “She was decoyed in there by a hunchbackboy,
who told her it was the proper place to get the liquor
for which she had been sent by a drunken mistress. Did
you inquire in there? It is possible some one there may
know of her present whereabouts.”
“No, I made no inquiry in there, for I did not like to
venture into such a den; but I accosted the gentleman who
had just come out—and who, from his appearance in such
a vile quarter, I conjectured to be a Minister of the Gospel—
and put my inquiries to him. He had seen no such little
girl as I described; but said if she were in that part of the
city, he thought it not unlikely he might find her, as he
spent most of his time in going about among those poor,
degraded beings, relieving their physical sufferings when
he could, and talking to them concerning the religion which
saves from eternal death. He had just witnessed a scene
in that groggery, he said, which had made a painful, a
terrible impression upon his mind—an impression that time
could never erase. He had, in derision, been invited by
the Dwarf, to pray with his wife, who was dying of a contagious
fever. He had accepted the invitation, and had
offered up prayers for her soul's salvation; but she had just
died, with bitter curses and blasphemous oaths on her lips,
On my asking if he was a professional minister, he replied
that he was not, but a private citizen, who felt it his duty
to do all that lay in his power to relieve the sufferings of
his fellow beings.”
“Heaven bless him!” exclaimed Rosalind.
“Ay, and Heaven will, Rosalind, if he is sincere, which
I believe. Would to God there were more like him! for
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suffering humanity needs the aid of all such philanthropic
hearts. Had I not seen for myself, I would not have believed
it possible to find such awful wretchedness and degradation
in the heart of this great city. After some further
conversation with Mr. Shelden — the gentleman in
question—we exchanged cards and separated—he cheerfully
promising to aid me in my search. I fear our only
hope of success now rests with him.”
“Oh! if he do but find her,” cried Rosalind, “I will
never cease to call on Heaven to bless him. I will do more.
Here, take this purse, and when you see him again, give it
to him, and say it is for the poor.”
She produced a well-filled purse as she spoke, and
handed it to Dr. Stanhope, who promised compliance with
her request.
“How is it,” he said, reflectively, “that there can be
so many starving poor in a city so noted as this for the benevolence
of its citizens?”
“It is, perhaps, because those who have the means to
relieve distress, do not reside in a quarter where it comes
under their notice,” suggested Rosalind.
“Ay, that must be it,” he rejoined. “Yes, it must be
so. I will think so, at all events; for to think otherwise,
is to lose faith in humanity. Ah!” he exclaimed, suddenly—
“by-the-by, you did not tell me the surname of
Ellen; and somehow I have always forgotten to inquire
since I first asked you—it may be of much importance to
Mr. Shelden.”
“As I told you before, Newton, she went by no other
name than Ellen, while with us,” replied Rosalind, with
some embarrassment.
“But, surely, you know her name?” he rejoined, in a
tone of surprise, looking her full in the face.
“I do know her name,” she replied; “but it is a name
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that I would not dare to pronounce in the hearing of my
father.”
“Indeed!”
“Nor would I have one of the servants hear it. You
think this strange, Newton, and I cannot explain. But I
will trust you with the name; and you will promise me not
to mention it again in this dwelling, for fear it might reach
my father's ears.”
“Certainly, Rosalind,” he replied, “I will withhold the
name, if it be your desire.”
“It is. Sometime I may be able to satisfy your
curiosity—but not now.” She looked quickly around the
splendid apartment, and added, in a low tone: “Her last
name is Norbury.”
“Norbury?” exclaimed the young physician, half starting
from his seat. “Ellen Norbury?”
“Have you then heard of the name before?” said Rosalind,
quickly, in her turn greatly surprised.
“Speak, Rosalind! was her father an artist?” he demanded,
flushed with excitement.
“Yes.”
“Did he ever reside in Dublin?”
“Yes.”
“Good heavens! how strange! Ah! I fear I see it all!
the worst—the worst! Oh! that I had known this at first!
It may now be too late.”
“You surprise, alarm me, Newton! what is it?” cried
Rosalind.
“Heavens!” exclaimed the other, springing up from his
seat: “I must go at once.”
“Go where! what is it? Oh! I beseech you, tell me,
Newton?” cried Rosalind, also rising in considerable agitation.
“I must be quick, then;” and he looked at his watch.
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“You remember when our house was entered by a burglar,
some two or three months ago?”
“Yes! yes!”
“The thief carried off little, thanks to our poverty; but
he broke open my father's escritoir, and, among other
things, took away a certain paper, that may, for aught I
know, have a great bearing upon the mysterious disappearance
of this little girl.”
“How, Newton? speak!” almost gasped Rosalind.
“That paper, forwarded to my father from a friend in
Ireland traced out the descent of the Welden Estate,
through several generations, to the present holder, and
named three heirs presumptive—the first legally claiming
on the death of the holder, the second on the death of
the first, and the third on the death of the first and
second.”
“But what has this to do with Ellen?” cried Rosalind,
anxiously.
“I am hastening to tell you. The present holder of this
estate, is John De Carp Montague, a gentleman well advanced
in years—the first heir presumptive, Ellen Norbury—
the second, the wife of Deacon Pinchbeck—the third,
my mother.”
“Indeed! Well?” gasped Rosalind.
“If Ellen Norbury were out of the way, you perceive,
Pinchbeck's wife would be next in succession.”
“Yes! yes! I understand, Newton—go on!”
“Deacon Pinchbeck, from what I know of him, is not
any too good to put her out of the way, if he dared.”
“Well? well?”
This robber, whoever he was, may have known the old
scoundrel of a deacon—for if he don't consort with thieves,
it is not from being too honest—and may have shown him
this paper.”
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“Yes! yes!”
The burglar may have heard or known something of
this child, from her having been in those vile haunts I
have mentioned, and he and the Deacon may have plotted
together to get her in their possession.”
“You horrify me, Newton—but go on!”
“It is possible she may have been traced to this house,
and the burglar have prowled around, watching an opportunity
to kidnap her.”
“Well?”
“That opportunity may have presented itself the night
you were away.”
“Great Heaven! Well?”
“If my surmises are correct, we must prepare ourselves
for the worst.”
“Merciful God!” almost shrieked Rosalind: “you think,
then, she has been murdered?”
“I fear so. But I am now going to ascertain if my
suspicions are well founded.”
“Where are you going?”
“To the house of Deacon Pinchbeck. I will see him—
I will mention her name. If he quail, I will boldly accuse
him. He is too great a coward, and too shallow a villain,
to conceal his crime from me, if criminal he be; and if I
find him guilty, I will see that he swings before a year rolls
around.”
“But it may not be too late, even now!” cried Rosalind,
wringing her hands in her excitement. “If the crime is
contemplated, and not committed, you may save her yet!
Oh! fly! fly! there is not a moment to be lost!”
“So think I. Adieu! You shall soon hear from me
again.”
“Oh! take care of yourself!” cried Rosalind, forgetting,
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in her anxiety, how much she was betraying the true state
of her heart.
The young physician turned and caught the glance of
her soft blue eye—saw the generous blood spring upward
to her very temples, as she reflected on her expression—
and, with his own features flushing, and his heart throbbing
with strange emotions, he rejoined:
“Thank you, Rosalind! I will remember.”
The next moment he had gone; and Rosalind, pale and
trembling, and agitated by wild, conflicting feelings, stood
gazing on the door through which he had disappeared.
CHAPTER XVII. THE PRICE OF BLOOD.
Deacon Absalom Pinchbeck was seated in his back-parlor,
in front of his writing-desk. It was an early hour of
the same evening of the tete-a-tete between Newton Stanhope
and Rosalind Clendennan, as described in the preceding
chapter, and the night following the recapture of
little Ellen by the Burglar. The lighted gas, just in front
of the worthy Deacon, poured a bright light upon his pale
face, and clearly revealed an expression that would have
perplexed an experienced physiognomist. It was an expression
that seemed to denote a pitched battle between
grasping avarice and paltry cowardice; and during the
continuance of the strife, each combatant by turns appeared
to get the upper hand of his antagonist. Occasionally
there would be a kind of resolute twinkle of the small grey
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eyes, and a thin, meagre, half-starved, sardonic smile,
would peep out around the sensual mouth, make a timid
advance, and beat a hasty retreat. Then the eyes would
enlarge, and look frightened, the under jaw would drop a
little, and the thick, nether lip would turn ashy, hesitate,
and grow tremulous.
The Deacon was alone, so far as having a human companion—
but dark, guilty thoughts were with him; and
each thought seemed to be attended by a fearful spectre,
whose presence could be felt rather than seen; for every
now and then the Deacon would look hurriedly around,
as if half-expecting some frightful apparition in a tangible
shape; and even his own shadow on the wall, more than
once caused him to start with a nervous thrill of terror.
“O Lord!” he muttered; “be kind and gracious to Thy
poor humble servant, who seeks wealth only that he may
do good! Help me to succeed in this, O Lord! preserve
and prosper me—restore my dear child to health—and
bless us with Thy Divine Grace—and I solemnly promise
to give largely to the church in which I worship Thee, and
freely to the poor who may need pecuniary aid to save
them from death! For the Redeemer's sake! Amen.”
Having uttered this selfish prayer, and insulted Heaven
with its blasphemy, the Deacon comforted himself with the
idea that he was really very pious, and that, consequently,
the Lord must be on his side. He felt strengthened with
this reflection, and thought he could safely venture to go
on with his guilty purpose. There was a dirty little scrap
of paper lying on the open lid of the desk before him; and
he picked it up, and read it for the twentieth time. There
was nothing very remarkable in the words it contained; but
the writing itself looked like crow-tracks, and the spelling
was such as no orthographer has sanctioned. It appeared
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to have a charm for the worthy Deacon, however; and so
we transcribe it, verbatim et literatim:
“sur she'z fownd i hez gott wich iz a nuf git thay dow
riddee see yu Ternite tin thowson git gold furm
“Yu No Hoo.”
“Yes, it must be that he has got the girl again,” mused
the Deacon; “this could have come from nobody but Mulwrack.
What a hardened scoundrel he is—to charge such
an enormous sum for such a trifle. I've a great notion not
to give it—it takes every cent I can raise, without selling
a house or a piece of land. Confound the thing! if I hadn't
told him I'd do it, like a fool, I could have got him to do it
for less—I know I could. I'm always just such a fool when
I get anxious—always getting swindled and cheated. And
then, if it really should turn out nothing after all, I never
should sleep again, for thinking of those ten thousand.
I've the money here, all counted,” he continued, tapping a
drawer. “I thought it was just as well to have it on hand,
even if I shouldn't pay it out. Confound the thing! suppose
he should bungle, or the affair get wind!” The Deacon
stopped and shuddered. “No, no—I'd better not; no,
I won't—for I might not get the fortune after all. I have
half a notion to tell my wife, and get her advice. No, I
won't tell her—women can't keep secrets—and Mrs. Pinchbeck
might box my ears. Confound the thing! I'll surprise
her with the fortune, and see her stare—that is—
that is, I mean, if I conclude to do it. Well, I don't, know—
I don't know. I'll wait and hear what the scoundrel
says, before I decide. Oh! if the Lord would only take
the child, and save me the ten thousand—and—and—the
other!”
Here the Deacon tumbled over some loose papers on his
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desk, got his cash-book, made a few entries, looked at his
watch, and was about to leave the room, to go and see his
little boy, who had gone to bed, suffering from what was
supposed to be the effects of a severe cold, when his eye
chanced upon an evening paper, lying on the table.
“Ah!” he said, picking it up—“I must just glance at
the foreign news.”
He again seated himself at the desk, and for a few minutes
very quietly ran his eye over the intelligence by the
last European steamer. Suddenly he gave a violent start,
and uttered an exclamation of profound astonishment.
Then clutching the paper, as a miser would his purse,
while his whole frame trembled, he eagerly, with distended
eyes, re-read the paragraph which had been the innocent
cause of such a heavy shock to his nervous system.
“Well,” he said, looking up at the wall, at an angle of
about forty-five degrees, “who would have thought it?”
As the wall made no reply to this, he repeated the observation,
and then re-read the paragraph. Then looking
up at the wall again, he exclaimed:
“Well, I never!”
This was said so seriously, with such emphatic earnestness,
that any one, to have heard it, must have felt convinced
that the worthy Deacon spoke the truth, and that
in fact he had “never.”
Just at this juncture, the door was thrown quickly open,
and Mrs. Pinchbeck sailed in, with the stately majesty of
a queen, and with a heavy frown presiding over the angles
of the crow's-feet. From that clouded brow, the Deacon
readily conjectured that a matrimonial storm was about to
burst upon his devoted head; and he hastened to fortify
himself against it, by jumping up and placing his chair between
himself and his rouge-blooming companion.
“Yes, you may well dodge, you unfeeling brute!” cried
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the amiable Mrs. Pinchbeck, in a towering passion. “If
I get to you, I'll make your ears ring, I promise you!”
“What have I done, my dear?” whined the trembling
Deacon, keeping his eyes warily upon his bigger and better
half, just as a pugilist would watch his opponent, in order
to dodge his blow.
“Done!” half shrieked the enraged better-half; “you've
done nothing! You're a fool! a knave! an idiot! an unfeeling,
ugly brute! There is poor Nelson up stairs,
a-dying—and you havn't been near him! I only hope he
may live to strangle his beast of a father!”
“Thank you, my dear; but if he's dying, he won't, you
know.” Deacon Pinchbeck was not in a mood for jesting—
but this half-jocular expression was compelled out of him,
as it were, by the force of circumstances. “But is the
child really sick, my love?” he hastened to inquire, with
an anxious, troubled look.
“Come and see, if you want to know—if you care to
know—you brutish, lazy drone!” replied Mrs. Pinchbeck,
leading the way out of the apartment, in the same stately
manner in which she had sailed into it.
The Deacon was agitated by so many contending
emotions, that he was obliged to steady himself by the
railing, as he ascended the stairs behind his queenly wife.
On entering the sleeping apartment of his son, he found he
had some fever, and perceived a difficulty in his breathing;
but attributing both to the effects of an ordinary cold, he
merely said:
“Oh! poh! poh! my dear—there is nothing the matter—
nothing serious, I mean; he will be well in the morning;
I have some important business to attend to; excuse me—
I will go and pray for him;” and Deacon Pinchbeck, with
a bow and a scrape, retired; and Mrs. Deacon Pinchbeck
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threw herself upon the bed, alongside of her son, in a fit
of sullen anger.
No sooner had the Deacon reached the back-parlor
again, than he hurried to the light, and again feasted his
eyes upon the paragraph, which he had already read some
three or four times. It was a little singular, certainly,
that those few lines should have been found there by him,
at just such a time; and seemed, to say the least, a peculiar
coincidence. The paragraph alluded to, ran as follows:
“John De Carp Montague, of Welden Park, the last
possessor of what is known as the Welden Estate, was
taken suddenly ill, on the 10th ult., and expired within
twenty-four hours, deeply regretted by a large circle of
friends. What is a little curious, no heir to this immense
estate, which is said to be worth, at the very least, some
ten thousand pounds per annum, has as yet been found. It
is supposed that the fortunate inheritor is somewhere in the
United States—perhaps in indigent circumstances.”
It will be readily perceived, that this public announcement,
corroborating as it did the statement set forth by
the mysterious paper in the possession of the Burglar, made
a powerful impression upon the mind of one as grasping
and avaricious as Deacon Pinchbeck. The great doubt of
positive inheritance, which had thus far kept in check the
guilty design of his soul, was now removed, and he was
ready to stain his hands with the innocent blood of the
helpless little orphan, to secure the fortune within his
grasp. He never doubted that the paper referred to contained
a statement of facts—for the family of Stanhope
was known to him, and he knew there was some kind of
relationship between Mrs. Stanhope and his wife; but so
long as John De Carp Montague might live, he could not
be benefitted by the death of Ellen Norbury, and this made
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him hesitate. But here seemed a positive certainty—remove
Ellen, and his wife was the next legal claimant—and
what was the obstacle to be overcome, when compared with
the result?
“And even if the crime should be found out,” he reasoned,
“and it should be proved that I was accessory before
the fact—which is hardly possible—and yet admit all
this for the sake of argument—what could the law do with
a man worth fifty thousand dollars a year? Poh! poh!
the idea of any thing very dangerous, is absurd. Why, I
could buy up the lawyers, the jury, the public press, which
is public opinion, and, if necessary, even the Governor
himself. And even then, admitting that the worst should
come to the worst, would not Nelson be the heir after his
mother? and should I fail to make such a trifling venture
for my dear son? I'll do it—yes, I'll do it. It can't
surely be any great crime to put that little girl out of the
way, if one only looks at it in the right light. She is
miserable here, of course; and who knows but the Lord
would look upon it as an act of charity, to put her out of
her misery. It must be a good act; and the more I think
of it, the more I feel convinced that it is. She's got no
family to leave behind her—she's got no friends or relations
to mourn her loss—she is certainly unhappy in this world—
and so what is to hinder its being a good act to send her
to the next? I can build a church with that money, and
who knows but she is an infidel? I can give bountifully
to the poor, whom she might be too proud to notice; and I
can—in short, I can do a world of good, of which the Lord
will approve. And then Mulwrack is shrewd, cunning, and,
no doubt, honest in his way—so that should even he be detected,
which is hardly probable, I do not think he would
blow on me, considering I pay him his price. Confound
the thing! I'll do it—yes, I'll do it. Nothing venture,
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nothing have, is a true maxim, in some cases, and I'll make
the venture.”
Thus soliloquized Deacon Pinchbeck—relieving the compunctions
of conscience, as many another has done, and
many another will do, by the fallacious reasoning, that evil
may be done that good may follow. Beware—oh! beware
of that snare of Satan! The victim lured into its meshes,
is doomed to ruin and death. Remember engrave the
sacred truth upon the inner tablet of your heart, and remember—
No evil can be justified! God our Father is pure
and holy—and nothing that is pure and holy, can sanction
evil, be it great or small!
Scarcely had Deacon Pinchbeck finished his soliloquy,
when he heard the street bell ring; and starting to his
feet, he made an effort to appear composed and indifferent,
and hastened out of the room.
“I'll answer the bell myself, Catharine,” he called to the
servant, whom he heard ascending the kitchen stairs; and
proceeding to the door, he leisurely opened it.
As he had expected, James Mulwrack, the Burglar,
stood before him.
“Walk in, sir,” said the Deacon, making a sign of
caution. “Quite a pleasant evening—though a little
cool.”
Mulwrack uttered a sort of growl in reply; and having
fastened the door, the Deacon led the way into the back-parlor.
As soon as he had locked this door against intrusion,
he said:
“You are a bold man, Mr. Mulwrack. How did you
know but I would betray you to the police, and bring you
into a trap here?”
“Because, in the first place, I knowed you was as big a—
villain as me,” returned the robber, with one of his
peculiar chuckles; “and wouldn't like to have the beak's
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fingers in your dish, any more'n me. And besides,” he
added, slightly displaying the handle of a knife, “I knowed
you wasn't ready to have your throat cut yit awhile;
which, by —! I'll do, if you ever try to come any of
your foul games over this child.”
“Oh, of course, I was only jesting, my friend,” returned
Pinchbeck, turning pale, and getting a little nervous.
“In course—I knowed you was,” rejoined the other,
taking a seat, and looking rather suspiciously around him.
“Well,” he continued, “now to business. D'ye git my
letter?”
“I must caution you not to speak quite so loud,” said
the Deacon, picking up the dirty scrap of paper lying on
his writing-desk. “Is this what you mean?”
“Well, yes, that's it,” replied the Burglar, taking it
from the Deacon's hand, tearing it in pieces, and throwing
the whole into the fire. “Mag did that,” he continued;
“she's some'at of a scholar, Mag is—I can't write myself.
And arter I'd got it writ,” he pursued, “it bothered me,
like sin, to git it to you. You see, I didn't like to leave
my crib in the day-time; and Mag she'd fell down and got
a bad face, so that she didn't like to go; but she went and
got a boy to take it, and that did jest as well. Well, what
have you got to say to it? I 'spect your mind's made up,
one way or t'other, by this time.”
“And you have really got the child back again?”
“Didn't that there letter say so?”
“Certainly—at least so I understood it—the hand being
a little cramped.”
“Whose hand?”
“I mean the writing.”
“Oh, yes.”
“By-the-by, where did you find the girl?”
“Well, that, I believe, is my business, and haint got
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nothing to do with this here,” replied Mulwrack, rather
gruffly. “The long and short on't is, is you going to do
what you said you would?”
“Pray, don't be so hasty!” answered the Deacon; “you
hardly give one time to think.”
“Better take a couple of years,” sneered Mulwrack.
And then he added, with a savage scowl: “The long and
short on't is, if you don't come to the pint, one way or
t'other, right quick, I'll be tempted to break your head, and
put out. What I does, is always in arnest—and I can't
stand trifling from nobody.”
“Oh, certainly—yes—well—certainly—that's right,”
said the Deacon, with some confusion. “Well—yes—I
think, on the whole, I'll—You couldn't do it for less,
eh?”
“No!” growled Mulwrack; “and I'll not do it at all, if
you fool round much longer.”
“But if I should pay you this money—a tremendous
big sum, you know—if I should pay you this, in good hard
gold—and you should do the—the—a—ah—a—what you
agree to, you know—and you should ever get found out,
you wouldn't blow on me, would you?
“No, I'm not such a — villain as to peach,” returned
the Burglar, in a tone of honest indignation.
“Well, I suppose I can see the girl, and be sure, before
you—before it is—ah—done?”
“Sartin—that's fair, if you're in 'arnest; and, for that
matter, you may stop and see me strangle her, if you like.”
“Oh! no! no! I thank you—nothing of that kind!”
cried the Deacon, much horrified. “No! no! Mr. Mulwrack—
I could take no pleasure in that kind of thing. I
am a church-going man, sir, and would not offend the Lord,
(who has been very kind to His poor, humble servant,) by
looking upon—upon—a—ah—that kind of thing. But I
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suppose I can see her to-night—just to be sure she's the
one?”
“Oh, yes—just plank, to show you're in 'arnest, and
come with me, and I'll take you right to her,” replied the
robber.
“What do you mean by plank, Mr. Mulwrack?”
“Why, jest down with the tin, the shiners, the dust, the
dough, or whatever you choose to call it.”
“Oh! you mean the money?”
“In course.”
“But business is business, my friend; and so I trust I
shall be allowed to retain the amount, till I am satisfied
all is right?” said the wary Deacon.
“Sartin, if you'll fetch it along with you—for I can't
be running up here all the time,” answered Mulwrack.
The Deacon wriggled about for a few minutes, uncertain
what to do. He did not like to part with the money, without
being sure that the Burglar really had the girl in his
possession; he did not like to go with him, to see for himself;
and he was too anxious to have the foul deed perpetrated,
to think of putting the affair off till another time.
But at last, after some rumination, he concluded to go, and
just see the child; and if she were really the one he had
once catechised in that same back parlor, he would know
that, so far, the Burglar had not deceived him in his statements;
and, this being the case, he thought he might safely
venture to trust to his honor, as a ruffian, to fulfil the rest
of the bloody compact.
“Well,” said the Deacon, at length, “suppose I meet
you at the corner of Seventh and Fitzwater streets, some
ten or fifteen minutes hence? as our being seen together,
might possibly, should any thing occur, attach suspicion
to me.”
“That'll do,” replied the Burglar, rising; “I'll be where
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you say; but don't keep me waiting too long. You'll be
ready to plank, I s'pose?”
“Pay, you mean?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, certainly.”
“All right, Deacon—just show me out.”
Having seen the robber into the street, the Deacon
hastened back into the room, and locked the door. He
then opened a drawer in his desk, and took out ten bags,
each containing a thousand dollars in gold. The combined
weight of these was rather heavy; and for a few minutes
the good man pondered the best plan of carrying the
“price of blood,” with the least degree of exposure. At
last he decided to tie the ten bags in two separate handkerchiefs,
and suspend these, one on each side of him, by a
strap across the shoulders, in the same manner that he had
once carried his goods, in the days when he was a mere
pedlar. By putting on a cloak, the strap and handkerchiefs
would be completely concealed; and thus equipped,
and prepared for a new adventure, he sallied forth, to keep
his appointment with the Burglar.
But scarcely had he turned the first corner, after leaving
his house, when he met an old friend, who would enter
into conversation, in spite of him; and this resulted in
making him half an hour too late for his appointment.
At Seventh and Fitzwater streets, Mulwrack was not to be
found; and the Deacon had the satisfaction of waiting for
his partner in crime, till he himself was on the point of
leaving and returning home.
The two worthies got together at last—Mulwrack cursing
Pinchbeck for his tardiness, and declaring that he had
been again to his house, to see what had become of him.
The Deacon apologised, gave a true reason for his delay,
and the two set off together, going down into the very
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heart of the Infected District. But when the Deacon
came to the hovel, in which Mulwrack said little Ellen was
confined, his courage failed him, and he declared he would
not go in.
“I'll trust to you,” he said, hurriedly; “I'll trust to
you. Here is the money, all counted—take it, and let me
go home.”
He hastily transfered the gold to Mulwrack, who, as
he received it, said:
“Well, this here feels all right; and if I find it so,
depend upon it, Deacon Pinchbeck, your woman will be a
heir in less than an hour. Good-bye, old feller; and if we
shouldn't meet agin in this world, I'll look for you in
Brimstone Corner.”
He shook the trembling hand of Pinchbeck, who turned
and fled through the darkness of the night, accompanied
by a thousand guilty thoughts and their attendant spectres,
and closely watched by that All-Seeing Eye which never
sleeps.
CHAPTER XVIII. A GUILTY CONSCIENCE.
When Deacon Pinchbeck reached the steps of his dwelling,
he felt the weight of a murderer's guilt upon his
soul. He looked around in terror, fearful of having been
seen and pursued by some officer of justice, and half expecting
to find the very stones rise up and cry out against
him. He had done many sinful things before—but none
which impressed him with such nameless horror as this
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crowning act of wickedness. He believed in a gigantic, allpowerful,
omniscient, omnipresent Devil; and notwithstanding
his recent conviction, that, in his particular case, the
Lord would sanction the highest crime known to the law,
he now fancied that this same Devil stood at his back, grinning
a horrid approval of his last damning deed. It had
been the good man's design, for the last ten years of his
life, (and we regret to say there are many like him,) to be
just religious enough to escape the Devil at last; but now
he fancied his soul was fairly caught in Satan's snare, and
might eventually find its way to the Bottomless Pit, along
with such common sinners as did not regularly attend church
on the Sabbath. The only fault we have to find with
the Deacon's fancy is—not that he should now think himself
enrolled among Satan's victims—but that he should
ever have thought otherwise.
With a cold, clammy perspiration covering his face and
hands, and his nether limbs trembling and bending under
him like reeds, Deacon Pinchbeck tottered up the steps of
his dwelling, about as miserable and contemptible a piece
of humanity as the most morbid curiosity-seeker could wish
to find. After pausing awhile, to take breath and gather
a little courage, and having wiped the perspiration from his
hands and face, the Deacon ventured to ring the bell. The
door was almost immediately opened; and as soon as she
saw who it was, the domestic hurriedly exclaimed:
“Oh! sir, I'm so glad you've got back, sure—for there's
a gintleman in the parlor waiting to spake to ye, and
Master Nelson is so sick.”
“A-a-gentleman—Nelson—” stammered Pinchbeck;
“wha-what—who, I mean—who is it? and wha-what does
he want?”
“He didn't tell his name, sir—but said he wanted to
see you on very particular buzness—and so I axed him in
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to wait. But the boy is very sick, sir—hadn't you better
see him first now?”
“Ye-ye-yes,” replied the miserable man—“I'll—I'll
go right up, Catherine.”
But instead of going “right up,” he blundered along to
the back-parlor and opened the door. To his surprise—we
may add, to his horror, all things being taken into consideration—
his eye fell upon the person of Dr. Newton
Stanhope. The parties knew each other by sight, and were
slightly acquainted—for the father of the young man had
borrowed money of the Deacon on more than one occasion,
and once or twice Newton had taken his father's notes to
him to be discounted beyond the legal rate.
“Good evening, Deacon Pinchbeck,” said young Stanhope,
rising and advancing, with extended hand, and fixing
his eyes piercingly upon the colorless face of the host.
“I trust I find you well, sir, in body and mind.”
“Ye-yes, sir—Dr. Stanhope, I believe,” stammered
Pinchbeck, taking the young man's hand, and immediately
dropping it in his confusion. “Ye-yes—I'm very well;
but—but my boy is sick, sir—Nelson—quite; and—a—ah—
I hope you're well too, sir!”
“Is your child very sick, Deacon?”
“Oh! yes, my friend—quite—terrible, sir—indeed he
is—and that is what horri—I mean, agitates me so. I'm
very nervous, Doctor—very nervous; and—and—what is
good for the nerves, eh?”
“Well, a good conscience, for one thing,” replied the
young physician, keeping his eyes fixed steadily upon the
Deacon's pallid face, and closely watching every expression.
“Ha! ha!” laughed the Deacon, in a wild, unnatural
tone, and turning away, as if for the purpose of depositing
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his cloak and hat on a distant chair. “I—I—think I've
got that, my young friend.”
“I hope you have, sir!” was the pointed rejoinder.
And then he added, quickly: “But your child is sick, and
I will not detain you but a moment. I called to see you
concerning a matter rather out of the ordinary line of
business, and I must beg you will pardon my intrusion. I
believe you own some property in what is called the Infected
District?”
“Some—yes, Doctor—some,” replied the Deacon, seating
himself, and beginning to breathe a little more freely.
“And you are occasionally down there yourself, Deacon?”
“Occasionally, sir—yes, occasionally.”
Young Stanhope, as if without design, now managed to
place his seat directly in front of Pinchbeck, so that he
could look full into his eye, and note the slightest change
in the expression of the guilty man's features.
“Well,” he resumed, “the business I came on is this:
Some three nights since, the house of a particular friend
of mine, was robbed of considerable money, valuable plate,
and jewelry; and a little girl, who was living with this
friend, has ever since been missing; and all our search for
her has, up to this time, been without avail. But heavens,
sir, you are ill!”
The Deacon did appear to be ill, it is true; for his face
assumed a sickly, deathly hue—his very features quivered,
and became distorted, as if with a spasm—and he clung
nervously to the arms of his chair, as if he felt himself
going headlong over an awful abyss.
“I—I—do-don't feel well,” he gasped.
“Well, I will hasten my story to a conclusion,” said
young Stanhope, who marked every effect his words produced,
and who more than ever felt convinced that his
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suspicions had fallen upon the proper person. “This little
girl that I speak of—a very sweet, interesting little orphan,
from all I can learn of her—is suspected by some of having
robbed my friend's house; but others feel certain that she
was not strong enough to carry off so many heavy articles
as were lost. However that may be, she is certainly missing,
and nearly all her wearing apparel is missing with her.
As it was known that she had for a short time been among
the degraded outcasts of the Infected District, our search
for her has been carried through that vile locality; but
being, as I have said, unsuccessful, it occurred to me, that
you, Deacon, who own some property in that vicinity,
might possibly have some knowledge of her.”
“No! no! no! I haven't—I haven't—not the least, I
assure you, Mr. Mul—I mean—a—ah—excuse me—
Dr. Stanhope!” cried the guilty man, almost wildly.
“Really,” he said, rising, “some other time I shall be
very—happy—to tell you all about her—I mean, to—to—
talk to you on the subject; but—but my dear boy is very
sick—tremendous sick—horrible—I should say alarming—
and—and—”
“Nay,” interrupted the other, somewhat sternly, “sit
down for a minute—I have not yet told you the name of
this child.”
“I know—I know—that is, I mean, I don't want to
know—or rather—a—ah—I—”
“Deacon Pinchbeck,” again interrupted the young physician,
even more sternly than before, “your manner is
such as to lead me to suspect that you do know something
of this child!”
“Who, me? I? me?” stammered the other, taking hold
of the chair for support.
“I say, your manner is such as to exite this suspicion,”
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returned the Doctor. “Pray, sit down, one minute, and
I will tell you her name, and something of her history.”
The Deacon, though never so anxious in his life to get
away from a speaker, whose every word seemed to plunge
a dagger into his guilty soul, seeing there was no chance of
escape, resumed his seat, and made a powerful effort to
compose his mind, and fortify it against the impending
blow.
“Go on,” he said, rather feebly.
“The name of this missing child,” resumed his tormentor,
speaking slowly and distinctly, and watching every expression
of the Deacon's chalky face—“is—Ellen Norbury.”
“Ha!” exclaimed the Deacon, with a spasmodic start.
“Well?”
“You know her then?”
“Me?” cried the other: “I? no! never heard of her
before—upon my honor, as a—as a—(he was going to say
gentleman, but substituted)—church-member.”
“Well, then,” pursued young Stanhope, “I will tell you
something about her, that must be very interesting for you
to hear.”
“Really—I—I haven't time—Mr.—a—ah—Dr. Stanhope,”
replied the other, making an effort to rise.
“Nay, sit still, Deacon Pinchbeck!” rejoined the young
man, speaking in a firm, decisive tone. “You must hear
the story—you shall hear it—or else the consequences be
on your own head!”
“Wha-what consequences?” gasped the guilty man.
“The consequences, sir, of being brought before the bar
of justice.”
“I—I—do-don't know wha-what you mean,” stammered
the Deacon, sinking back in his chair; “but go—go—on.”
“This child, as I was saying,” pursued young Stanhope—
“this Ellen Norbury—was the daughter of William
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Norbury, an artist, who once resided in Dublin; and is a
distant relation of John De Carp Montague, a gentleman
of wealth, now living in Ireland; (the young Doctor had
not yet seen the paper announcing his death;) and her
father and mother both being dead, she is the heir presumptive
of the Welden Estate, now held by this same
John De Carp Montague.”
“Well, and what is all this to me?” the Deacon now
ventured to inquire—having, through sheer desperation, in
some degree regained his natural assurance.
“I will tell you what this is to you,” sternly answered
the young physician; “and I believe I shall thus repeat
what you already know. If this same Ellen Norbury were
dead, your wife, Deacon Pinchbeck, would be the next heir
to this estate.”
“Indeed! this is news to me.”
“Is it? we shall see!” was the rejoinder. “After Ellen
Norbury and your wife, my mother would be the next heir;
and a paper, containing this statement, and much more of
the same nature, was in my father's possession, till within
two or three months, when it was stolen by a burglar, who
luckily found little else to steal. Now considering that
fact, in connection with the mysterious disappearance of
this orphan, and the inference to be drawn is, that some
interested party has had a hand in her abduction, perhaps
murder.”
The last word was pronounced so emphatically, that, in
spite of himself, the guilty Deacon could not avoid a kind
of spasmodic start. Stanhope noticed this, and quickly
added:
“Deacon Pinchbeck, a train of circumstances has fixed
suspicion upon you, as the author of a dark deed—a deed
that may send you to the prison, perhaps the gallows!”
“Upon me? what circumstances?” gasped the other.
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“No matter what—you are the guilty man!”
The Deacon sprung from his seat, and the young physician
rose at the same time, keeping his eye fixed steadily
upon the accused.
“Where is that child?” he almost fiercely demanded.
“I—I—do-don't know—upon my word, I don't!” stammered
the agitated church-officer.
“'Tis false! you do know! and I know you know!” was
the emphatic rejoinder. “Now mark me!” he continued,
stepping in front of the accused, and speaking in a tone
that admitted of no doubt of his keeping his word: “if this
girl is restored to her friends, safe and sound, within four-and-twenty
hours, your part in the guilty transaction shall
be overlooked, and the secret kept; but if she be not so
restored, within that time, then the law shall take the affair
in hand, and you shall answer for your crime at the bar
of justice!”
“But—but—how—how—” began the Deacon, when the
other interrupted him.
“Not another word!” he said, sternly. “I have said my
say, and warned you of the consequences. Restore that
child, or woe be to you! Good-night.”
He opened the door into the entry, and the trembling
Deacon followed him.
“Wha-what—what do you know about it, any how?”
gasped the latter.
“To-morrow night, at this time, you shall learn something
about what I know, if that child is not restored to
her friends ere then.”
Young Stanhope opened the outer door as he spoke,
closed it after him, and darted down the steps; while the
guilty Deacon leaned against the wall for support, and
fairly gasped for breath.
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“O Lord! O Lord!” he muttered—“what will become
of me?”
“Oh! sir,” exclaimed Catharine, at this moment appearing
at the head of the stairs—“isn't you coming up, sir?
The boy is so sick—choking like—and mistress is crying,
and seems as if she'd go into a fit—and I'm so frightened!
Oh! do, sir, come up, and send for the Doctor!”
“I'll be there in a minute,” groaned the guilty wretch,
hardly conscious of what he heard, or of what he was saying.
He staggered along into the back-parlor, and sunk upon
a seat, one of the most miserable beings then in existence.
“Too late!” he groaned; “too late! I'm lost! I'm lost!
He has done the bloody deed, before this, and fled. O
Lord! O Lord! what will become of me?”
Suddenly he bounded to his feet, with the exclamation:
“It may not be too late to save her yet! Something
may have happened to prevent the crime! If it isn't
done, I'll stop it, and get the girl, and he may take the
money and go.”
He seized his hat as he spoke, and rushed out of the
house like a madman. Down one street, and up another,
he fairly flew, till he reached the Infected District: then
he was forced to advance more cautiously in the thick darkness.
But he had been to the house, knew where it was
situated, and he hurried toward it by the nearest course—
plunging on through dark, filthy lanes, alleys and courts,
till the dismal structure stood before him, rayless and silent
as the grave. Neither looking to the right nor to the left,
and thinking of nothing but the bloody deed, whose guilt
must be upon his soul if a single moment too late, he
reached the door, quite out of breath, and gave a few hurried
raps.
As he did so, a figure, which seemed to start forth from
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the very darkness itself, tapped him on the shoulder; and
words, that made his blood curdle, sounded in his ear:
“Sir! I summon you, as a juror, to hold an inquest upon
a female body within this house! Who are you? and what
is your name?”
“O Lord!” mentally groaned the Deacon; “then it is all
over! and I am lost—ruined—lost!” and he clung nervously
to the casement of the door, to keep his trembling
frame from sinking to the earth.
“Quick! speak! who are you, sir?” demanded the Coroner—
for the person who addressed the terrified and guilt-burdened
Pinchbeck, was no other than that officer, legally
acting in the discharge of his duty.
“My — my name — is — is — Pinchbeck,” gasped the
Deacon.
“What Pinchbeck? and where do you live?”
“Absalom, sir — Absalom Pinchbeck — and my — my
residence is—a—ah—No. — South Eighth Street.”
“Ah! Mr. Pinchbeck, I know you.”
Pinchbeck felt as if every thing guilty and wicked knew
him now, as well as the officer.
“I am surprised to see you here, sir, at this hour,”
continued the Coroner; “but it is no business of mine. Remain
here till I summon the rest of the jurors! I will not
keep you long.”
“Oh! sir, please excuse me!” whined the Deacon. “I
have a child at home, very sick—indeed I have!”
“I am sorry to say that I can't excuse you, Mr. Pinchbeck—
or Deacon, as I believe you are usually termed. I
want just such men as you—but they are very scarce round
here. Remain, sir, till I return! I will not keep you
long.”
He hurried away as he spoke; and the Deacon, afraid to
leave, sunk down, terrified, upon the damp, filthy ground.
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It was awful enough, he thought, to be guilty of a murder,
without being obliged to sit as a juror on the corpse of his
victim; and in the half hour that the officer was away, he
suffered the agonies of a thousand horrible deaths himself.
At last the Coroner returned, with a light, in company with
the rest of his jury; and the old hovel was immediately
taken possession of by this officer of the dead.
As the Deacon, the last of the party, stepped over this
late abode of crime, he fairly shook in every limb, and
gasped for breath, and felt that hell itself was within him.
CHAPTER XIX. THE SUICIDE.
It will be remembered, that we left little Ellen in the
dark, damp vault of that miserable old structure, which we
have just seen the Coroner take possession of, for the purpose
of holding an inquest upon a female body; and it
may naturally be inferred, that the Burglar kept his word
with the guilty Deacon, and earned his money by a bloody
deed. We will therefore now return to our little heroine,
and see whether this inference is correct or not.
It was a horrible night that the poor child passed in
that loathsome place, with only rats, and animals of a still
inferior grade, for companions. She did not lie down on
the piece of old carpet thrown to her by Mulwrack—but
crept half-way up the ladder, and clung there for hours,
terrified and despairing, but continually praying to her
Heavenly Father for deliverance. When daylight came,
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although it reached not her rayless prison, Margaret raised
the trap-door, and bade her come up; and Ellen was not
slow to obey this new order—or rather, avail herself of
this permission.
“If you won't try to get away again,” said Margaret,
`and won't make no noise, and will promise to go right
down below and be silent, if anybody comes, we'll let you
stay up here, perhaps all day.”
“Oh! ma'am, I'll promise anything, if you'll only let me
be with you!” said the almost heart-broken little girl, in a
piteous tone.
Margaret gave her a peculiar look—a look which Ellen
knew not how to interpret—and immediately turned away,
to busy herself about the chimney; but Mulwrack, who
was lying awake on the bed, immediately added:
“Well, little gal, it's my opinion you'd best keep pretty
quiet, and do what you're told! Mag, you know I've let
her come up to please you; and I tell you agin, if she gits
away, it'll cost you your life, may be.”
“I'll stake my life against her escape, Jim,” was Margaret's
reply.
“Very well; and as I knows you for a true blue, when
you set out, I'll just roll over and take another nap.”
Accordingly, the robber turned himself over, with his
head to the wall; and soon after, a loud snore announced
that he had fallen asleep.
“Poor child!” whispered Margaret to Ellen; “don't
despair! I'll save you.”
She pointed Ellen to a seat as she spoke, made a sign
for her to keep silent, and then busied herself with kindling
a fire and preparing breakfast.
The sun was an hour or two high, when Mulwrack awoke,
got up, and devoured his morning meal. Margaret handed
Ellen some bread and meat; but she was suffering under
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such a burden of sorrow, that she ate only a very small
quantity. Having finished his breakfast, the Burglar had
recourse to the bottle again, and invited Margaret to join
him—but she positively refused to taste a drop of her
favorite beverage.
“Mag,” said Mulwrack, looking her full in the face,
“either you're not well, or else you've got some — plot
in your head.”
“I don't feel exactly well, Jim,” she replied.
“Well, I'm sorry for that,” he returned, with some
show of feeling. “'Spose you lay down awhile!”
“No,” she said, turning away, and hastily brushing a
tear from her eye—“I'll wait till night, Jim, and then may
be I'll sleep well. I think I shall rest then.”
“Why, to-night, you know, we talk of going away,”
pursued the robber.
“I know I'm going away, Jim,” she answered; “but I'd
rather not lie down now.”
“Well, please yourself,” rejoined the other. Then, after
a long pause, during which he seemed to be deeply ruminating,
he called Margaret aside, and said: “Mag, we
must send word to old Pinchbeck, that the gal's found, so
as he can be ready with the tin, when I call on him to-night.
How'll we do it? I can't go out, for fear of the beaks;
and you aint no beauty, jest now, with that there face.”
“Do you intend to call on him yourself to-night?” inquired
Margaret.
“Yes, that's my notion.”
“What time will you go?”
“I'll start out as soon as it gits to be dark.”
“How long will you be away?”
“Well, an hour, may be—may be longer. Why?”
“Nothing—only I want to know what time I'll start on
my journey.”
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“Jest arter I git back—'twont take me long to do the
job.”
“Oh! Jim, don't do it!” said Margaret, earnestly.
“Come, Jim—don't!”
“Now stop this fool talk!” replied the Burglar, roughly.
“I won't stand it, Mag!”
“But see here, Jim—couldn't you make as much, or
more, by telling the child what's coming to her, and all
about the Deacon's wicked plot?”
“Why, she haint got no money; and the old feller is
living, and may live ten year; and she can't git a copper
till he's dead; and this, you know, will be right in hand.”
“But, Jim, something bad'll come on't!” said Margaret,
sorrowfully.
“Oh! you're always gitting skeered, Mag; so don't
say no more, or I'll git mad! Come! tell me how I'll git
word to old Pinchbeck. I want it to go to him kind of
mysterious like, so as nobody else won't know nothing
about it.”
“Perhaps I'd better write him a note,” suggested Margaret.
“That's it—that's it—and then you can hire a boy to
take it,” returned Mulwrack. “It takes you, Mag.”
Accordingly, the few words, on a dirty scrap of paper,
which we transcribed in a former chapter, were dictated
by Mulwrack, written by Margaret, and dispatched to
Deacon Pinchbeck by a boy, who found him in his business
office, not far from the Exchange. The effect of that note,
as has already been shown, was to induce the Deacon to
prepare himself to pay in gold for the commission of an
awful crime.
But little was said to Ellen during the remainder of the
day, which seemed for all parties to drag heavily to a
close. Mulwrack occasionally walked about the room, and
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stamped his foot with angry impatience; but Margaret
mostly sat in silence, seemingly brooding over something
dark and terrible. As night set in, Mulwrack prepared to
go forth. Just before leaving, he called Margaret to him,
and said, with some feeling:
“Mag, you don't seem in good spirits; but don't mind
this little affair—it's nothing alarming—and as soon as it's
over, we'll bolt, and leave on the first train. We'll git
away—don't you fear.”
“Will nothing change you, Jim?” inquired the other.
“Nothing but the Deacon's backing out; and I aint
much afeard of that—the old rascal's too anxious for
futur wealth.”
“Well, go!” said Margaret, in a voice slightly tremulous;
and impulsively, as she spoke, she threw her arms
around the Burglar's neck, and burst into tears.
“Come, come, Mag,” returned the other, a little affected,
in spite of himself—“you're making a fool of yourself, and
me too. What's come over you all at once? You didn't
use to mind trifles.”
“I know, Jim, I've been a bad woman,” sobbed the
other.
“Poh! nonsense! you haint been no such a thing—don't
think so. There! there! stop now—I can't stand this—
whining.”
“Jim, you've often stole money to keep me from
starving,” said Margaret, with feeling solemnity: “May
God forgive you!”
“Why, Mag, I believe you're going mad!” said the rob
ber, in a tone of surprise: “you'd better turn preacher
and done with it. Now see here!” he continued, somewhat
sternly—“don't go for to let your chicken heart work up
your feelings for this here gal—'cause it's no use. If I
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knowed you was going to let her off, I'd take her down
stairs, and strangle her at once.”
“Didn't I say, Jim, I'd stake my life against her security?
and did I ever break my word to you, when I
pledged it that way?”
“No, that's a fact—you never did, Mag—I'll say that
for you.”
“But I've many times been cross to you, Jim; and I
feel so bad just now, I want you to say you forgive me.”
“I reckon I'd better ax that of you,” returned the
Burglar, with a softened expression; “seeing as how I've
beat you so many times.”
“Never mind that, Jim,” rejoined Margaret, quickly;
“but just say you forgive me!”
“In course I do. Why, what the — is the matter
with you to-night?”
“Nothing—nothing. There! I'm all right now.”
“Well, don't let the gal know nothing, Mag—I won't
be long away—and you can be all ready to travel when I
git back.”
With this the Burglar unbolted the door, cast one or two
quick, searching glances around him, and disappeared in
the darkness. His subsequent interview with Deacon
Pinchbeck is already known to the reader.
Margaret stood at the door a few minutes, gazing upon
the spot where the form of the Burglar had disappeared
from her view. Then heaving a long, deep sigh, she
turned back into the room, closed the door, sunk heavily
upon a seat, covered her eyes with her hands, and for some
time remained almost motionless, seemingly in great distress
of mind. Then she got up, and, going to the fire-place,
struck a light, placed it on the table, and turned to
little Ellen, who sat watching her in anxious silence.
“Ellen,” she said, in a low, solemn tone, “I promised to
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save you, and I'm going to keep my word. You and I are
going to part now; and we'll never meet again—no! never—
never!”
“What do you mean, ma'am?” inquired little Ellen,
anxiously.
“Hush! don't speak so loud—we might be overheard!”
said Margaret, glancing hastily around. Then drawing
from her bosom a diamond ring and necklace of great value,
she held them to the light, and continued: “Did you ever
see these before, child?”
“Oh! yes, ma'am, I think so,” answered Ellen, quickly.
“At least, Miss Rosalind had just such pretty ornaments.”
“Was she the lady you lived with, when Mr. Mulwrack
found you?”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“And would you like to take these back to that good
lady?” inquired Margaret.
“Oh! yes, ma'am—yes!” cried Ellen, clasping her
hands, and looking eagerly, almost wildly, at the other.
“Oh! ma'am, if you will let me go back, I will kneel down
every night, as long as I live, and call on Heaven to bless
you! Oh! ma'am, I do so want to tell dear Rosalind that
I didn't take away her pretty things, after her being so
good to me!” and as she said this, she burst into tears.
“Poor, dear, sweet, innocent little child!” cried Margaret,
impulsively throwing her arms around the gentle
orphan, and straining her to her heart. “Oh! would to
God,” she added, in a tone that betrayed intense emotion:
“would to God, I could be as innocent as you are! Oh!
what a guilty wretch I've been! so wicked, that I know
God won't forgive me!”
“Don't think that, ma'am!” returned Ellen, soothingly.
“My dear mother used to say, God would forgive anybody
that repented and tried to be good.”
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“But I can't try to be good—it's too late!” exclaimed
Margaret, bursting into tears.
“Oh, no, ma'am, it's never too late to try,” said little
Ellen, consolingly; “so don't cry, please.”
“But I've been such a bad, bad woman!” sobbed the
other; “and for so many years too! Ah! dear child, you
don't know the wicked things I've done, since I first came
to this awful city! I was once pure and innocent like you
are; but I was persuaded to run away from my happy
home in the country, and begin a new life of wickedness,
and let my parents break their hearts about me; and God
won't surely forgive such a wretch as I am! I first saw
Mr. Mulwrack in the country; we were both young then;
and I loved him, and took his advice, and came with him
to the city. I thought he meant to do well by me, and
marry me—but he didn't. But perhaps I was more to
blame than he,” she continued, sobbingly; “at least I want
to think so now—for I love him still; but I can't see you
murdered—for it was you that made me think again of
old times.”
“Murdered!” cried little Ellen, greatly horrified.
“What do you mean, ma'am?”
“Yes, little innocent, they want to murder you, because
you will one day get a great property, which somebody
else wants to get hold of. Mr. Mulwrack is to have ten
thousand dollars for doing the wicked deed—and he's gone
now to see about it. But don't be afeard! you shan't be
hurt. I told you I'd save you, and I'll do it; and my
saving you will prevent him committing murder—so that
I have a double reason for doing it.”
“Oh! ma'am, I'm so frightened!” said Ellen, trembling.
“And well you may be, poor child!” returned the
other. “But you must fly, and escape while you can.
Here, take these things, and give them to the good lady,
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and tell her to pray for my soul! They're all I could save
out of the plunder; but they're worth something; and I
shall feel better to know I've sent something back;” and
she nervously placed the ring and necklace in the trembling
hand of the terrified Ellen. “You won't forget to pray
for me, as you promised, will you?” she inquired, eagerly.
“Oh! no, ma'am—no—never!” cried the half-distracted
child. “I'll pray for you every night, as long as we live.”
“Well, kiss me good-bye—and go now—for there's no
knowing when Mr. Mulwrack may come back.”
Ellen threw her arms around Margaret's neck, and
kissed her swollen lips.
“Here,” added Margaret, thrusting a crumpled paper
into the hand of Ellen; “conceal this in your bosom, and
don't let anybody get hold of it but your friends—it will
tell you all about the fortune. Quick, now, my sweet
child—put on your bonnet, and fly! for I tremble all the
while you stay here. There, now, go! go! stay not
another minute!”
“Won't you come with me, ma'am?” asked Ellen.
“No! no! I must stay here.”
“But Mr. Mulwrack might—”
“I know what you would say,” rejoined the other, as
Ellen paused, for fear of wounding her feelings, and looked
anxiously into Margaret's face. “You think he'll beat me—
may be kill me; but he won't—you needn't fear;” and
she drew a long, deep sigh. “Come!” she cried, starting
up, and half-dragging little Ellen to the door, which she
cautiously opened; “one kiss more; and then, good-bye—
forever!”
The last word was pronounced emphatically, in a tone
of deep, mournful solemnity.
The little orphan required no further urging, to induce
her to hasten her departure from a place, where, as she
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had now learned, her life was not safe from one minute
to another; and so, imprinting a farewell kiss upon the
lips of Margaret, she murmured, “God bless you, ma'am!”
and disappeared in the darkness.
For some five minutes, Margaret remained at the door,
motionless as a statue, looking out upon the night. Then,
with another long, deep sigh, she turned back into the
house, and closed the door, but did not bolt it.
“He'd have killed her, and that would have been murder,”
she muttered, walking up and down the room; “he'd
kill me, for letting her go, and that would be murder too;
but if I die before he comes, I'll save him; and I can
never die less guilty than I am now. O God!” she continued,
clasping her hands and looking upward, in an
attitude of supplication; “forgive this wretched being, for
the Redeemer's sake! I'm about to stand in Thy awful
presence, by the last wicked deed I'll ever do; and, O God!
receive my soul, and put it not into eternal torments, for
the Redeemer's sake!”
As she ceased, she drew a small paper from her bosom,
opened it with a trembling hand, and glanced at the white
powder it contained. A cold shudder passed through her
frame.
“It is terrible!” she muttered; “but it must be done;
and if not done at once, I may lose the courage. I'll not
think till too late to escape. Jim, I die for you. O God!
forgive me!”
With a spasmodic movement, she raised the paper to her
lips, and swallowed the contents.
It was that deadly poison known as strychnine.
“Now, then, let me pray, till death comes!” she said,
kneeling upon the ground.
She continued kneeling and praying for about twenty
minutes. Suddenly clasping her temples with both
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hands, she cried, “I die! I die!” and fell over upon her
back.
These were her last words. Life continued a few
minutes longer, and then her spirit took its flight to the
eternal world.
Thus died poor Margaret Cassady; died by her own
hand, the death of the suicide; died in the very prime and
vigor of womanhood; died alone—as hundreds and thousands
of wretched beings have died—without one kind, consoling
word, to lift the desolation of her crime-burdened
soul, and cheer it, with a ray of hope, in its dark flight over
the dread abyss which separates time from eternity; died
that another, whom she loved, might not stain his hands
with her own blood, or the blood of the innocent orphan.
Who dare say, in the great summing up of the good and ill
of her mortal life, that the doom of eternal woe shall be
pronounced upon that poor, unfortunate, deeply-erring
woman? Who dare step between her and her God, to give
human judgment?
When, after quitting Deacon Pinchbeck, burdened with
the price of blood, and ready to plunge his dark soul into
the awful crime of murder, James Mulwrack entered that
old hovel, he found the candle burning on the table, and
its feeble, flickering rays falling upon the upturned face of
her who had long been his partner in guilt. With an angry
oath, supposing her intoxicated or asleep, he stooped down
to raise her, and found her dead. Then, like lightning, the
meaning of her mysterious words and actions flashed upon
his dizzy brain; and with a yell of horror—a yell that resounded
through that old hovel, and far out into the night,
like the shrieking of a demon among the damned—he started
to his feet, and turned, and fled; fled as one who fancied
himself pursued by a ghastly phantom—fled into the deep
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darkness, which covered him as a pall, and concealed him
from all human eyes.
A woman was the first, after the Burglar, to discover the
corpse of Margaret; and she hastened to inform the Coroner,
who lived not far from the limits of the Infected
District; and this will account for his presence there, at
that hour of the night, and so soon after the commission
of the fatal deed.
CHAPTER XX. THE ARREST.
If the Burglar fled rapidly, to escape from the miserable
locality we have so often named, so did little Ellen; and
both fled in terror—though the terrors of one were as different
from the terrors of the other, as night is from day,
or guilt is from innocence. Both avoided their own kind
as much as possible, and both were more than once startled,
with a new thrill of fear, at the sight of a mere shadow.
But though little Ellen gained hope with distance, she was
destined to remain still longer in the meshes of the web
which Fate had woven around her. She had already
hurried through several narrow lanes and alleys, and was
on the point of turning the corner of a large and lighted
street, when a tall youth, who was standing under a lamp
which she had to pass, suddenly sprung forward and caught
hold of her, exclaiming, in a voice which she recognized
with increased alarm:
“So, my little runaway—I've got ye agin, have I? I
thought as how I'd cast my grappling irons on to ye agin
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afore long—for I knowed you'd be about these here quarters,
for all of the — lie you told the old woman, about
your big-bug friends, and sich like stuff!”
“Oh, John M'Callan, let me go—do!” cried Ellen,
piteously, trying to disengage herself from the grasp of the
villainous youth.
“Hush your noise, afore I break your head!” growled
John; “and come with me! Yes! I'll let you go, arter
the trick you played me 'tother night! I'll let ye go, in
a horn, you little jade! Come along!”
“I won't go with you!” cried Ellen, holding back, as
John began to drag her forward. “Let go of me—or I'll
scream for help!”
“If you do, and a watchman or a constable comes, I'll
hand you over to him, and swear you're a little thief—which
I 'spect you is, you minx! So come along, I say, right
quiet now!”
At this moment, poor little Ellen's eye fell upon a man,
coming up the street, at no great distance; and true to her
word, she began to scream for help. John closely and
hurriedly examined the approaching party; and seeing he
was neither a watchman, constable, nor policeman—for all
these functionaries, belonging to that locality, were well
known to him—he retained his hold of the little girl, determined
to brave it out.
“What are you doing with that child? why don't you
let her alone?” inquired the man, a decently dressed individual,
though with a face that indicated a habitual indulger
in strong liquors.
“She's a runaway sister,” replied John, boldly; “and
I'm trying to git her home—her poor mother's most crazy
about her.”
“If that's it, my little girl, my advice to you is, to go
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along peaceably with your brother, or else you'll get into
trouble.”
“That's what I tell her,” said John.
“Oh! sir, it isn't true—don't believe him! I'm not
his sister; and he is trying to drag me away to some bad
place—indeed, indeed he is, sir!” cried little Ellen, greatly
terrified. “Oh! sir—kind sir—please get me away from
him! and I'll go along with you for protection, till I get
away from here.”
“Hear the little liar!” said John. “Oh! you're not
my sister, ain't you, eh? Well, I jest wonder that
ther' lie don't choke you, you bad girl!”
“I don't know which to believe,” said the man, passing
on; “and so I'll leave you to settle the matter between
yourselves.”
Ellen continued to call for help; and her cries soon
attracted several other persons to her side; but as soon
as they heard John's story, they all took part against the
unfortunate little orphan, and no one seemed to give
credence to her assertions—so true it is, that a falsehood
is generally more readily believed than the truth.
John seemed about to have matters all his own way; and
he had begun to drag off poor little Ellen—in spite of her
struggles, appeals, remonstrances, and protestations—when
some one exclaimed:
“Well, I reckon she'll have to go now, or fare worse—
for here comes a constable.”
“Where?” cried John, looking eagerly around.
“There!” replied the other—“Constable Pat Cafferty—
coming across the street.”
Instantly John let go of Ellen; and, darting through the
ring of by-standers, made good his escape.
“What's all the muss here, jist?” demanded the Constable,
in a pompous tone, as he came up to the group,
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speaking in the broad brogue of a low-bred Hibernian.
“What, in the fiend's name, is ye all afther doing here,
jist? disturbing the pace, wid yer infernal hullabaloo?”
The speaker was a mean-looking little man—with a red,
pock-marked face, small eyes, and a short, turned up nose—
who appeared to be highly inflated with the idea of his own
importance.
The person who had first recognized the Constable, now
hastened to explain the whole matter, as he understood it—
adding, that the story of the youth might be all false, as
he had run away the moment he saw the officer approaching.
“Rin away, did he, the spalpeen?” rejoined the great
little man; “why didn't ye stop him? And it's yersilf, is
it, that's the tief of the night now?” he continued, seizing
hold of the trembling little orphan, in a very rough manner.
“It's yersilf, is it, ye tief ye, as is disturbing honest
paples, wid yer hullabaloo? Agh! it's mesilf as will put
the likes of ye now, where ye'll be safe till the morning,
jist—and for some time afther, I'm thinking!”
“Oh! sir, don't take me away—please don't!” cried
little Ellen. “Oh! sir, please let me go! I haven't done
any thing wrong—indeed, indeed I haven't!”
“Whist! ye tief ye! And ye hasn't done ony thing
wrong? Hear that now! Whoop! hear that now! Wid
yer hullabaloo, and the disturbance of the pace! And it's
not wrong is it, jist? Och! ye're a dape one! ye're a
cunning vagabond, now! Nothing wrong is't? Whoop!
but ye're dangerous in society, wid yer contaminations and
lies, now! Troth! it's mesilf as will tak' care o' the likes
of ye, and kape ye from doing wrong! Raising a mob is
nothing wrong, is it? Och! we'll see! we'll let you cipher
that out down below,* jist, ye tief!”
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Then, as this mighty Constable began to drag away his
trembling little captive, he deigned to honor the crowd,
whose numbers were rapidly augmenting, with some very
sage advice.
“Disperse wid ye! disperse wid ye! every one of ye!
and go to your homes now! and kape the pace! and beware
of the law!” And then to Ellen: “Come, ye tief! and trot
your trotters jist! and whist your crying now! It's a beauthiful
buzness ye's been afther doing, ye vagabond! to
raise this mob, to disturb the pace! Och! ye'll land in
the watch-house the night—and the prison the morrow—
and be hanged the next day, it's like—and there's an ind for
ye to tink aboot, ye little vagabond!”
Little Ellen, seeing it was in vain to protest against her
arrest, to such a brute of an officer, now gave up the idea
in despair; and suppressing her agonized emotions as
much as possible, she trotted along by his side, wondering
what new troubles were in store for her, and when they
would have an end.
Having got fairly clear of the Infected District and the
crowd, which had followed him some distance, Pat Cafferty
suddenly entered a drinking house, taking his little prisoner
into the bar-room with him, where she beheld some half-a-dozen
rough-looking fellows, lounging about, with tumblers
in their hands, alternately drinking, and swearing, and
boisterously talking politics. In the bar stood a dirty,
bloated, red-faced Irishman, who seemed to be every way
fitted to serve as a sign that he sold bad liquors and extensively
patronized himself.
“And who've ye got this time, Pat?” inquired the host
of the Constable, as the latter advanced to the bar, and
deposited three cents, as a new investment in his favorite
beverage.
“The fiend's own tief, it's like, Mickey!” answered
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Cafferty, with a mysterious shake of the head. “Och! but
she's a dangerous cratur in society now! and it's a time I
had to arrest her, sure, as little as she looks, the spalpeen!
Ah! Mickey, (emptying his glass,) it's a sorry world this
same—and a sorry life is a constabble's, as gits no credit
for his devotion to the public weal!”
“That's thrue for ye, Pat,” replied the other; “and if
ye had yer desarts, ye'd be Alderman, or Mayor, for yer
vigilance. But what did she do, Pat?”
“I'll tell ye private, as a frind, now, so I will,” replied
the Constable, mysteriously, leaning over the bar, and
speaking in a tone scarcely above a whisper. “Government
sacrets must be kept, d'ye mind, Mickey?”
“Thrue for ye, Pat; and on the honor of the ancient
family of O'Rourke—”
“Troth! and don't I know ye for a frind, Mickey?”
interrupted the other; “and when I knows a man for a
frind, by St. Pathrick's bones! it's mesilf as can trust him,
d'ye see? I'd tak' a drop more, Mickey, my friend—but
divil of a dirthy copper now have I got about me.”
“Niver mind, Pat—ye'll drink wid me now!” said the
worthy landlord, pouring his villainous compound into two
glasses, which were speedily emptied. “And now let's
have the sacret!”
“And sure for ye, and what d'ye say to inciting to riot,
Mickey?”
“Howly mother! and so young, too!”
“Yes, Mickey; and, it's like, mesilf'll git more kicks
than thanks for vinturing my life to tak' her from her supporters.
Och! but it's a sorry life, this same constabbling!”
“By me sowl! ye desarve well of yer adopted counthry!”
said Mickey O'Rourke, enthusiastically; “and I'll do my
indivors, at the next ward-mating, to git ye nominated
Mayor, so I will.”
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“And if I'm elicted, ye shall have ony office ye want,
my frind, besides yer license for nothing, and my patronage!”
returned Pat Cafferty, proudly. “But, by St.
Pathrick! it's mesilf as must go now, and deposit this
vagabond in the watch-house, before the spalpeens come
down for a rescue, jist.”
“And can you vinture with the likes of her alone, Pat,
now? and she so great a vagabond?”
“I must, Mickey—it's my duthy, as the dread constabble
of the law, d'ye mind?”
“Are ye armed thorough now?”
“A shillalah's all.”
“Better tak' a pistol!”
“Divil a bit—it's mesilf as isn't afeard, at all, at all.
She'll go quiet now.”
“Och! but ye're courageous, Pat Cafferty.”
“The same to yersilf, Mickey O'Rourke—and a good
e'en to ye.”
“Ye'll come back and report now?”
“I will that same, 'pon me sowl!”
“Well, good-bye to ye—and tak' care of yersilf, jist!”
With this, Patrick Cafferty and Michael O'Rourke shook
hands, with all the solemnity worthy of such a parting, and
the mighty Constable immediately set off alone with his
dangerous prisoner.
“Och! but ye're fearful in society, so ye is!” said the
Constable to poor little Ellen, as he hurried her along
through the streets. “Inciting to riot, now, and the like!
Tare and ouns! but ye'll be hanged, d'ye mind!”
“I didn't do any thing, sir! indeed I didn't!” sobbed
little Ellen, in reply. “I was going along very quietly, sir,
when John M'Callan caught hold of me, and tried to drag
me away to some bad place.”
“John M'Callan, d'ye say? Agh! thin ye was in bad
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company. I'll say that for him, if I am liking the owld
woman, his mother. Faith! it's a clane case aginst ye! as
plain as the nose on me face; and if the paples had ony
gratithude, for sarvices rindered for their security, sure it's
Pat Cafferty as 'ud be the next Mayor, jist.”
“Oh! sir, please do let me go!” pleaded Ellen, sobbingly.
“I wasn't doing any thing bad, sir—indeed, indeed I
wasn't! John M'Callan stopped me, and wanted to drag
me away, I don't know where; and I was calling for help,
and that drew the crowd around. Oh! sir, I've done nothing.
Please let me go to my kind friends—and I will
bless you, sir, and pray Heaven to bless you too!”
The great man of the law was overwhelmed at the
audacity of his dangerous prisoner, in repeating her request,
and he almost fancied that his ears had deceived
him. What! could she for a moment suppose that any
earthly consideration—or, for that matter, heavenly either—
would induce him to so far forget his duty, as to set at
liberty a prisoner under his charge? and, more especially,
a prisoner guilty of inciting to riot? as she really was, according
to the muddled ideas that crowded his muddled
brain. But most probably his ears had deceived him. He
stopped by a street lamp, where he could get a distinct view
of little Ellen's face, and said:
“What's that? what's that? Will ye be afther repating
it to me, now? Did me siventeen sinses desave me, jist?
or did ye say something aboot my litting ye go!”
“Oh! yes, sir!” replied Ellen: “I said if you would
only let me go to my friends, I would bless you as long as
I lived, and would pray Heaven to bless you too, sir!”
“Tare and ouns!” cried the Constable, holding up both
hands in astonishment; “that me mother's son should iver
live to hear the likes, wid me own ears! To tink of
coaxing mesilf, Pat Cafferty, into a compound felony!
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Whoop! but ye're dangerous! ye'd contaminate a saint,
so ye would! Let ye go now? Whoop! let ye go now?
And to me, too, ye said it! to me, ye spalpeen! to me, the
dread constabble of the law! Och! but this same's a dangerous
world we live in!”
“And won't you let me go, sir?”
“Agin!” gasped the Constable. “Come along wid yer
contaminations! Ye'll be hanged the morrow, jist, and
sarve ye right! Ay! by me sowl! it's trying to vartue,
this same constabbling! and the man that's under Mayor,
can niver be above timptations! So come along wid ye!
and howld yer whist now! It's like to be hanged, ye is!”
With these consoling words, the incorruptible man of office
hurried little Ellen forward; and as she trotted along by his
side, he preached her a regular sermon, upon the heinousness
of the offence of attempting to corrupt one possessed
of such immaculate principles as himself. During this discourse,
which was seasoned with all the peculiar idioms in
Pat Cafferty's vocabulary, little Ellen was taken past the
door of Deacon Absalom Pinchbeck. She recognized the
house with a shudder—for she remembered the scene in
which she had figured within those walls some months before—
and instinct, if not reason, told her that there resided
an enemy of all who might chance to be unfortunate.
Little did she dream, though, how great an enemy to herself,
individually, was the master of that dwelling; and
that to his wicked plots was she indebted for all the troubles
which had recently come upon her.
Passing down Eighth street to Christian, the officer, with
his little charge, turned westward; and pursuing this latter
thoroughfare across Ninth street, at length made a halt
before a large, fine-looking building, which was surmounted
with a cupola, had a lighted clock on its front, and was
entered by a long flight of stone steps, under an
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imposing colonnade. Bright jets of gas, from two street
lamps, threw the building into strong relief against the
dark back-ground of night, and revealed, to the wondering
gaze of the little orphan, the stately, massive structure, on
the opposite side of the way, known as the church of St.
Paul.
To little Ellen, coming from the gloomy locality we have
described, into the bright light, the building nearest her
looked more like a palace than a loathsome prison; but if
she for a moment fancied it was a place for happy hearts
and bright thoughts, she was doomed to be speedily undeceived;
for the officer, after a brief halt, during which he
exchanged a few words, in a low tone, with a rough-looking
individual, again hurried her forward—not up the street,
nor up the stone steps—but to a side door in the rear,
through which she was conducted down into a dark, gloomy,
dismal passage, extending along past damp, filthy, malarious
cells, which, so far from being fit to contain human
beings, were actually not worthy of the very swine that
run at large in the streets. Opening the door of one of
the filthiest of these cells, the Constable rudely thrust
little, Ellen into it, saying:
“There ye'll be safe, ye tief! and in the morning, it's
mesilf as will appear against ye, jist. Whist, now, wid yer
blubbering noise!”
He closed the door, and locked it, leaving the poor little
orphan a prey to new fears and horrors.
The cell in which she was now confined, was small and
close, damp and filthy, and the stench was sickening.
There was nothing to sit upon, and only the moist, slimy
ground, under her feet, upon which to lie; and in this
awful hole, whose last occupant was a ragged, drunken
wretch, she was destined to pass another night of misery—
misery beyond the power of the pen to portray, if not the
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imagination to conceive. While standing here, sobbing, and
leaning against one of the walls, to support her tottering
frame, and wishing she were dead and at rest, the key
turned in the lock, the door opened, and the Constable, with
a glass lantern in his hand, entered, and coolly surveyed her
from head to foot.
“And, sure,” he said, “it's like, now, ye'd best be
tilling me where ye stole the fine clothes from, that ye've
got on?”
“Oh! sir, I didn't steal them!” sobbed little Ellen;
“indeed, indeed I didn't, sir! I'll tell you, sir, where I
got them. I—”
“Whist, now, wid yer lies!” interrupted Constable
Cafferty—“it's mesilf as'll not hear 'em now! And troth,
now, and what else did ye stale? it's that I wants to know.
Out wid it now, ye little tief! what else did ye stale?”
“Nothing, sir—I never stole any thing in my life—I
wouldn't do such a wicked thing, sir—oh! indeed, indeed
I wouldn't!”
“I'll see for mesilf. What's that ye've got in yer fist
there, that ye're howlding so tight, jist? Open, till I see,
ye tief!”
Ellen opened her trembling hand, and displayed, to the
astonished and avaricious gaze of the officer, the splendid
necklace and diamond ring which she had received from
the ill-fated Margaret, to return to her sweet cousin Rosalind.
Pat Cafferty snatched the jewels from her hand, and
hurriedly examined them by the light of the lantern. It
needed no very long scrutiny, to convince him that they
were genuine; and looking quickly around to the partly
opened door, to be certain that no other human being witnessed
the act, he thrust them into his pocket, and said, in
a low, guarded tone:
“Whist, now, wid ye! Don't spake of the likes to ony
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one—it might hang ye, jist! Och! but it's grateful ye
should be, now, that ye fell into the hands of sich an officer
as mesilf! But don't spake of the trinkets to his honor,
the Alderman, when ye come before him in the morning—
it might be a hanging matter, so it might. It's mesilf
as'll be asy wid ye now, and not bring 'em aginst ye, at
all, at all.”
“But please, sir, give them back to me!” said Ellen.
“They're not mine, sir—they belong to my dear friend,
Rosalind—and were stolen from her by a man, that came
in the night, and took me away with him, and locked me
up in his house. I had just got away from him, and was
trying to find my way back—”
“Ye're lying now, so ye is!” interrupted the Constable;
“and, sure, ye knows it! It's mesilf as knows they was
stolen—and ye're the tief; but don't mintion 'em to his
honor, and I'll not bring 'em aginst ye.”
“If you'll give them back to me, sir,” sobbed little
Ellen, “I'll do as you say, and say nothing about them,
till I see dear Rosalind again.”
“Give 'em back, is't? give 'em back, now? Troth! but
ye're a dape one! wid the cunning of the Owld Sarpint in
ye! See here now—ye'll not git 'em, no ye won't; and
if ye spake of 'em, it's mesilf as'll swear ye stole 'em; and
then it's like ye'll be hanged for your wicked doings. Give'
em back! Whoop! whist wid yer nonsense! And have
ye ony more, jist?”
“No, sir.”
“In yer bosom, it's like, ye have!”
“No, sir, I haven't any more,” sobbed Ellen.
“Well, thin, go to slape till morning—and say nothing
aboot 'em to his honor—and it's like I'll git ye off from
being hanged.”
With this the officer hurried out, and locked the door,
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and little Ellen was again in darkness, and alone, and felt
as if Heaven itself had given her over to the powers of
evil. She wept, till the fountain of her tears became dry;
she stood, till her weak and trembling limbs refused to
support her; and then she sunk down in despair, on the
damp, filthyg round, and moaned in her anguish—in concert
with many other wretched beings, in other cells around
her—till a kind of obliviousness, akin to sleep, sealed up
her senses.
And so past that awful night.
eaf465n6* The phrase, “sending down below,” is often used in Philadelphia,
for confining in the County Prison.
CHAPTER XXI. THE COMMITMENT.
The gray of morning was just beginning to dispel the
deep shadows of night, when little Ellen, partially aroused
from her torpor—it could scarcely be called sleep—strove
to pierce the black gloom which still enveloped her. It
was some time before she could collect her scattered and
half-shattered faculties, so as to comprehend her real condition;
and then she fairly groaned at the thought that
she was still alive.
Oh! how deep must be the anguish, in the heart of one
so young, to make life seem a burden! But there are
thousands, and tens of thousands, in our own broad, Heaven
favored land, to say nothing of other countries, whose
sands have not yet numbered ten solar revolutions of the
earth, who have so bitterly felt the heavy hand of oppression,
that Death, painted as it is in a form the most
terrible, only seems to them a kind of gloomy gateway,
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through which they may pass to a place of eternal rest,
and through which their crushed and weary spirits long to
pass. Ah! deeply do we regret to say, that it is as true
to-day, in the face of Christianity, as when the pen of the
poor peasant-poet Burns recorded it, that
“Man's inhumanity to man,
Makes countless thousands mourn.”
Do you, kind reader—sympathetic reader, shall we say—
whose eye is now lingering upon this page—do you not
know of some poor, neglected, friendless little being, whose
distress you might assuage—whose sorrows you might
alleviate—whose path, now strewed with thorns, a little
exertion on your part might strew with flowers? Do you
know of none so circumstanced? If a dweller in a great
city, they are all around you—every wretched street, alley,
and court will send them forth by scores, if not by hundreds.
Do you know of none? Then do your duty, and
seek them out, and labor for their relief and reformation!
They are young—not yet hardened in vice—more unfortunate
than vicious—and you can, if you will, make them
good and useful citizens—and the next generation will be
one step higher in the great scale of progression. Are you
a Christian—a member of church—a professed follower of
Christ? Then go, and do as your Great Master commanded!
and look for your reward, when He shall say,
“Even as ye did it unto one of the least of these, ye did it
unto me.” Perhaps you are not a member of church—yet
God and humanity do none the less require this duty of
you, as one of the great human family, who have one common
Father in Heaven, and who must be more or less a
partaker of the joys and sorrows around you on earth. For
what do you live? Is this life all? Is there no hereafter?
If this life is all, it is very short at the longest, and you
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should strive to enjoy it, by making it a happy life to such
as now feel it a burden. And you will be amply repaid,
even here—for one good, noble, disinterested deed, will
give you more real enjoyment, than you have ever found
in all the fleeting pleasures you have ever sought. But
this life is not all; it is but the beginning of a life that
will never end; and remember! in the next state of existence,
where all the distinctions of earth will be cast aside
as so much worthless chaff, you will be called upon to
render an account of your stewardship! Happy you, if
your conscience can say: “I did my duty to my God, to
myself, and to my fellow beings!”
Poor little Ellen, as we have said, awakened to a consciousness
of her own desolate condition, now groaned at
the thought that she had yet to live and bear her sorrows—
sorrows which seemed every moment gathering around her
and thickening into a gloom as black and cheerless as the
rayless atmosphere she breathed. And her groan of anguish
seemed to find more than one response in the breasts
of other miserable beings, in other miserable cells adjoining.
And with the moans and groans that came to her
ear, came blasphemous oaths from hoarse voices, mingled
with curses loud and bitter; and she shuddered at the
sounds, and felt as if she were one among the damned.
She got up from the damp, filthy ground, her little limbs
so cold, and stiff, and benumbed, that she could scarcely
stand. And even then, forlorn and hopeless as she was,
she remembered the sweet words of her mother in her
dream, and besought the protection of her Heavenly Father;
and prayed for patience and resignation to endure,
uncomplainingly, all the evils which might beset her, till
the end of life, or the end of affliction should come.
Though no human eye beheld her, it was a beautiful sight
to angels, to see that poor, friendless, almost heart-broken
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little orphan, standing in the place of the criminal, alone,
enveloped in the darkest gloom of earth, appealing, with
the trusting faith of an innocent child, to Him who notes
even the fall of a sparrow. It was a beautiful sight to
angels, because it told them that she was one of the children
of earth, who had secured a glorious place among
their own bright, glorious homes on high!
It was not long, ere the increasing daylight began to
penetrate even the wretched cell in which little Ellen was
confined; and then she began to hear sounds, as of the
unlocking of the different cells around her, and of the
dragging forth of the wretched inmates, mingled with
curses and blasphemies, and many other harsh and brutal
words, passed back and forth between the officers and
those who might with some propriety be termed their victims.
Ellen trembled more than ever; for she knew, from
what the Constable had told her, that it would soon be her
turn to be brought before the mighty Magistrate, whose
mere word, she in her simplicity and ignorance of law
believed, would be sufficient to free her, or consign her to
death.
And true to her expectations, the key was soon heard
turning in the lock of her own wretched cell, the door was
jerked open, and the mean-looking face of little Pat Cafferty,
the great Constable, appeared to the view of the
trembling orphan.
“Come!” he said, seizing her roughly by the arm—
“out of this, ye little tief! and lit his honor sittle yer
buzness, along wid the rest of yer ragamuffin tribe, now!”
Then he whispered in her ear: “If ye spake of the trinkets
ye stole, ye tief, it's mesilf as 'll be the death of ye, so I
will!”
Poor little Ellen, too much terrified to speak, made no
reply; and the officer hurried her along the passage, to a
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little room, partitioned off near the entrance, into which
she was thrust without ceremony. The room was small,
and was well filled with police officers, and wretched beings
of the lowest grade, ragged and filthy in the extreme.
Two of the party were black; while the others might, by
way of distinction, be termed white—though the complexion
of more than one was the color of dirty tan.
Inside of a railing, and perched on a seat, with a kind
of desk in front of him, on which lay writing materials,
was the great Mogul of the occasion. He was a human
biped, who, in his general appearance, had a meaner look
than Pat Cafferty himself—and this is saying a great
deal. He was about forty-five years of age, with a long,
thin, sharp, half-starved face—a sinister-looking mouth—a
snub-nose—a cold, heartless gray eye—beetling brows—a
low, retreating forehead—and dark, matted, uncombed
hair.
He wore an old hat—which, instead of being put on
respectably, seemed rather smashed down on one side of
his head—and between his teeth he held the short stem of
a smoke-black pipe, from which he was very industriously
drawing in, to be as industriously puffed out, the sickening
fumes of the rankest kind of pig-tail tobacco. On this
great man of office, who owed his position to the free suffrage
of drunken beggars, thieves, cut-throats, and all sorts
of scoundrels and villains—for we have too good an opinion
of human nature generally, to believe one honest man ever
voted for him—on this great man of office, we say—who
rejoiced in the euphonious distinction of His Honor, Alderman
Felix McGrabby—little Ellen at once fixed her eyes,
knowing, as it were intuitively, that he was the individual
who had the power to decide her fate. And what that
decision would be, she knew by an instinct not unlike that
which tells the innocent little dove that the soaring hawk
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is its worst enemy. So intent was her scrutiny of that
villainous face, that she had scarcely noticed any of the
other occupants of this vile place, when she felt some one
squeeze her arm; and looking around, she was surprised
to see Nabob Hunchy standing by her side. His features
were swollen and dirty, his cheeks paler than usual, and
his eyes slightly red and bleared—all donoting that he had
very recently been indulging in his favorite pastime of getting
beastly drunk.
“I'm going down below for the twenty-seventh time, for
being found elevated in the gutter,” he whispered, with a
grin. “But what brought you here, my little lady?”
Before Ellen had time to reply, an officer, to show his
importance, rudely jerked the poor Hunchback from her
side, and commanded silence.
“Who's that? who's that? as hasn't the fear of contimpt
of Coort before his eyes?” cried His Honor, Felix McGrabby,
with a proud look of indignation, as he surveyed
the wretched group before him.
“It's Nob Hunchy, so it is, your Honor,” replied the
officer, another bad specimen of Hibernian extraction.
“Agh! I know the rascal—it's the like of him I've saan
here mony times, so I have. What's he up for now,
Pater?”
“Gitting drunk, your Honor.”
“Agh! the baste! down below wid him agin, for a vagabond
vagrant, jist!” He hurriedly scrawled a few words
on a piece of paper, and added: “Here, Pater, tak' him
away—tak' him away—out of me sight, now!”
As the Hunchback was hurried from the august presence,
His Honor inquired:
“Who next now? Come! hurry, ye divils! for it's mesilf
as wants a warm breakfast, jist.”
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“Well, your Honor,”—began a stout, broad, red-faced
Irish woman, who stood near the desk.
“Whist, now!” cried Felix McGrabby. “What's your
name, jist?”
“Biddy O'Shaughnessy, your Honor.”
His Honor wrote it down.
“Well, Biddy,” he said, “what ye got agin yoursilf?”
and he winked his eye to little Pat Cafferty, as much as to
say, “You see how facetious mesilf is.”
Pat Cafferty felt proud, and Biddy O'Shaughnessy
hastened to reply:
“It's not agin mesilf, your Honor—but that wretch
there, Mary Mulholland.”
Mary Mulholland, the wretch alluded to, was a pale,
delicate-looking woman, whose appearance, comparatively
speaking, was tidy, and whose interesting face was the
picture of distress.
“Tak' your oath—tak' your oath, Biddy,” said the Magistrate.
And the oath being administered, he added:
“Now git on wid ye—and be quick aboot it!”
“Well, your Honor,” pursued Biddy; “it's afeard of me
life I is. Mary lives in the same house wid mesilf, in
Baker street; and last night she got out wid me, and
struck me, and said she'd be the death of me.”
“Your Honor,” replied the poor woman, who spoke correctly,
and had evidently seen better days—“it is not true
that I struck her—but she struck me; and then, for fear I
would complain of her, she hurried off and had me
arrested.”
“Ye lie! and ye knows it!” cried Biddy.
“Whist, you owld fool!” exclaimed his Honor. “I'll
make short work here. Mary, ye'll have to find five hundred
dollars bail, to appear before the Coort, to answer for
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an aggravated case of assault and battery, wid intent to
kill, and pay the costs now, or go below wid ye!”
“Oh! don't send me to prison, your Honor! I am a poor
woman, with a sick husband, and three little children depending
on me for support!” cried the wretched mother,
in a piteous tone.
“Fiends tak' your husband and your brats!” returned
Felix McGrabby, savagely. “It's mesilf as has nought to
do wid them same—but wid yoursilf now. Have ye got
ony money now?”
“No, your Honor.”
“And ony one to go bail for ye?”
“No, your Honor.”
“Thin stop your noise, till I make out your commit
ment!”
“Oh! don't, your Honor!”
“Whist! or I'll put ye down below for contimpt of
Coort, so I will.”
In a few minutes, the order for her incarceration in a
gloomy prison was made out, and handed to an officer; and
Mary Mulholland was hurried off to her dreary abode—
leaving her sick husband and children to starve—while her
vile accuser went away rejoicing.*
“Well, you black rascal,” pursued the great Felix, as
his eye chanced to fall upon one of the two negroes—“it's
to be hoped your vartues is whiter than your face, jist.”
This bit of pleasantry of his Honor, was hugely enjoyed
by all but the subject of the joke, who showed the whites
of his eyes, and looked indignant. “What's your name?”
“Robert Carter.”
`What is't agin Robert Carter?”
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“Your Honor,” replied the negro, “I jest come to 'cuse
dat odder nigger.”
“Guess I isn't more nigger nor you'seff,” was the response
of the accused.
“Whist, ye blaggards, in his Honor's prisence!” cried
Constable Cafferty.
“Tak' the oath!” said Felix; “and hurry wid ye! There
now—there now—what is't, jist?”
“Dat dar nigger—” began Robert.
“Stop!” interrupted the Magistrate; “what's his
name?”
“Sam Johnson.”
“Where d'ye live now?”
“In Small street, your Honor.”
“Well, go on—go on wid ye!”
“He stole my coat, dat dar Sam.”
“Who else knows aboot it?” inquired McGrabby.
“I do, your Honor,” said a Constable—“I found the
coat on him.”
“That's enough—whist, now! Five hundred dollars
bail now, Sam. Who'll give security? Nobody, in coorse.
Ye'll come up to Coort, ye will. Here,” (writing the commitment,)
“tak' him down below, jist!”
Thus one after another the cases were summarily disposed
of, by Alderman McGrabby, who kept pulling away
at his old dirty pipe, as if he expected to get that warm
breakfast from it, for which his aldermanic stomach so
ardently longed.
At last it came little Ellen's turn to have her fate decided;
and the thought that the time had come for her to
know the worst, caused her to tremble very much, and her
very teeth to chatter in her head.
“Well, Pat, my frind,” said the great Alderman—
“what brat have you in tow, this fine morning?”
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“Och! sure, your Honor,” replied Pat, scratching his
head, and smoothing down the hair on his forehead—“it's
mesilf as is always doing me duthy to me counthry—though
it's not mesilf as should say the likes, now.”
“Well, git on wid ye—git on wid ye! ye're always
having too much blarney for your worst fault—and it's me
breakfast as'll be gitting cowld the whiles, jist!” rejoined
the mighty Felix, impatiently.
“Well, your Honor, ye see, as mesilf was coming up
Shippen street, last night, I saan a big crowd aboot to
git into a riot, it's like; and stipping over to 'em, I found
this little vagabond, stirring 'em up to sedition, it's like;
and at the risk of me life, I arrested her, and put her in
the lock-up, for your Honor's wise judgment this morning,
so I did.”
“What's your name?” cried McGrabby, scowling savagely
at the poor little orphan.
“E-E-El-len Nor-bu-bury, sir!” she stammered.
“Whist, ye spalpeen! where's yer manners?” exclaimed
the Constable, giving her a rough shake, and looking very
important and indignant. “Ye're spaking to his Honor
now, as if he was a common gintleman, jist. Whoop!
where's yer manners, ye little tief, now?”
“Wha-wha-what shall I—I—say?” gasped Ellen, more
terrified than ever.
“What'll ye say, ye bother? Och! who iver heerd the
likes! What'll ye say, now? Troth! ye're an ignoramus,
so ye is! What'll ye say, is it? Say `his Honor,' when
ye spakes to the likes of himsilf. Isn't his Honor, Felix
McGrabby, a Alderman? answer me that same!”
“Howld up your blarney, Pat!” cried the great Felix.
“Ye've no feeling now, so ye haven't! Don't I till ye as
it's me breakfast as'll be gitting cowld, if ye kape me here
the day, wid your blather?”
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“Well, your Honor, it's mesilf as'll be dacent the whiles,
now, so I will,” replied the Constable: “only don't hang
her, your Honor!” and he winked familiarly at the great
Felix, who seemed to swell with importance.
“What's your name?” demanded the Magistrate again.
“Ellen Norbury, sir—that is, I mean—”
She paused, and looked appealingly at the Constable,
who gave her a shove, and whispered:
“His Honor, ye spalpeen!”
Ellen did not exactly understand the phrase—but
fearing further reproof, hastened to stammer out:
“His Honor, the spalpeen.”
Great men seldom like to have unpleasant names attached
to them—their greatness being about as much as
they can carry; and such was the case in the present instance,
with His Honor, Alderman Felix McGrabby—who
got very red in the face, very suddenly, and jerked the
dirty pipe from between his teeth, which fortunately fell to
the ground and flew into fragments.
“What's that? what's that? you impertinent scapegallows!”
cried Felix, forgetting for the moment all about
the warm breakfast he was so likely to lose.
“He told me to say it, sir—his Honor, I mean,” said
Ellen, bursting into tears.
“Me? I towld you to call mesilf a spalpeen?” almost
yelled McGrabby.
“No, his Honor, this gentleman,” sobbed Ellen, pointing
to the astounded and indignant Cafferty.
“But I'm his Honor—not the likes of him!” cried
McGrabby.
“She's dape liar, so she is!” rejoined the Constable.
“Well, I'll fix the likes of her! calling mesilf names,
and tilling me I towld her to do it, jist!” roared the infuriated
Magistrate. “Where d'ye live, now?”
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“I don't know where I live, sir,” sobbed the poor child,
not daring to venture again upon the use of the phrase,
“his Honor,” for fear of making another faux pas.
“Tare and ouns! she don't know where she lives!” exclaimed
Pat, holding up both hands in astonishment.
“Och! sure, but your Honor'll be after giving her a place
that she'll know where she slapes o' nights, now!”
“Whist! howld your tongue!” cried his Honor. “I'll
tind to her! I'll fix her, the baste! Ye'll be fined for contimpt
of Coort, now, so ye will!” he continued, addressing
the trembling Ellen, and plying his pen rapidly at the same
time; “and ye'll have big costs to pay; and ye'll go
below for a vagabond; and it's like ye'll come before
another Coort, for a tief—for disturbing the pace—or some
sich unhowly thing, jist!” He finished writing, and
dashed the paper over the desk to Pat Cafferty—adding,
in great wrath: “There! there! tak' her away now—tak'
her away, out of me sight, jist! and may she niver show
her face in me prisence agin!”
To the closing remarks, little Ellen's heart said,
“Amen.”
The sun was up, and shining bright and clear upon the
busy town, as poor little Ellen, in charge of the vile Constable
who had arrested her, took her way through the
streets to the dreary prison—which rears its massive,
solemn walls, and lofty turrets, looking like some grand
old castle of ancient days, upon the southern limits of the
thickly-settled portion of Philadelphia. Pat Cafferty
lectured her for some time, upon the heinous crime of insulting
so great a Magistrate as Felix McGrabby; but
Ellen had deeper sorrows in her heart, with which to occupy
her thoughts; and Pat Cafferty's sage remarks, and
wise counsel, made no impression upon her plastic mind,
because, fortunately, she did not comprehend a word he
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said. She met and passed persons who stared hard at
her—some with looks of mere curiosity, and many with
looks of sympathy—but she took little notice of any, and
no one addressed her.
“It's in there, ye'll tak' lodgings, ye little vagabond!”
exclaimed the Constable, as they came in sight of the
massive prison.
Ellen looked up, and shuddered; and then she turned
her eyes upon the warm, bright sun, and wondered if she
would ever behold it again; and then she thought of dear
Rosalind, and how happy she had been with her in her
splendid home, and wondered if she would ever see her
sweet face again; and then she burst into tears, and wept,
and sobbed, till she reached the wicket-gate of the castellated
prison, in which she was to be immured as in a living
tomb.
She was now transferred to one of the keepers, and
hurried forward, through gloomy passages, and across a
very pretty garden, into the female department, where
she was consigned to a matron, who asked a few brief
questions, and conducted her again through long, stately,
well-ventilated corridors, to an empty cell, which she entered
with a sinking heart, and saw the door close, and
heard the lock turn, and felt every ray of hope shut out
from her innocent heart.
There was a straw mattrass upon the floor; and as poor
little Ellen discovered this, by the dull light which came
in through a high, narrow window, she threw herself
heavily upon it, and uttered one long groan of despair.
eaf465n7* If any one thinks this scene exaggerated, we refer him to the Prison
Records of Wm. J. Mullen, Esq., of Philadelphia.
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CHAPTER XXII. RETRIBUTION.
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We left Deacon Pinchbeck entering the house of death,
to sit as one of the Coroner's jury upon the body of poor
Margaret Cassady. Had there been any suspicion in the
mind of the Coronor of the Deacon's guilty doings, it
would doubtless have received confirmation from the singular
manner in which he at first conducted himself; but
attributing his agitation to some less criminal cause, the
officer merely noticed it, without making any remark.
Nor was the Deacon's apparent agitation of long duration;
for when he saw the corpse was that of a woman,
and not of the child he expected to find, he so far recovered
himself, as to appear outwardly composed—though
the conscience-lighted fires of guilt were burning within,
and every moment threatening an eruption, like the smothered
flames of a charged volcano.
After due deliberation, the verdict was rendered—as
verdicts generally are, in the absence of any material
facts—that the deceased came to her death by some cause,
or causes, unknown to the jury; and being a poor,
drunken wretch, without friends, and the letter of the law
being thus carried out, the Coroner was satisfied, the
jurors were dismissed, and orders were issued to some
hungry undertaker, to have her body decently deposited
in the burying ground appropriated to poor and friendless
strangers.
The Deacon breathed freer when he found himself
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relieved of the unpleasant business in which he had been
compelled to take an active part—but he was still very far
from being a happy man. He had, it seemed to him, only
cleverly got clear of one serious predicament, to find himself
plunged into another. What had become of Ellen
Norbury? Was she living or dead? After all the painful
excitement he had just undergone, he was no wiser now
concerning her fate than he was before. Had the Burglar
really played a trick upon him, and got his money for
nothing? It was a great sum—ten thousand dollars—a
tremendous sum—a sum that, in his usual course of
management, would have made him the fortunate possessor
of several more valuable houses; and as the Deacon
reflected upon it, he groaned at the thought of his loss.
Yes, it was certainly gone, and he would never be benefitted
by it; for if honestly earned, by the commission of
the horrible deed for which he had bargained, then he
himself stood in danger of the gallows; and if not so
earned, then had he been fairly duped by a villain, who
would laugh at him, for an old fool, behind his back, and
spend the money upon himself and his equally villainous
associates. It was a very unpleasant, a very disagreeable,
matter, view it in what light he might; and had the
Deacon been a profane man, he would have indulged in a
few choice oaths, at his own foolish, blundering, criminal
management; but being a worthy church-member, and not
licensed to swear, he merely conned over a few oaths
which he would undoubtedly pronounce, were he only free
to speak his mind like common sinners.
And then that impertinent Dr. Stanhope—that troublesome
meddler in other people's affairs, who should have
been strangled at his birth—he had somehow got the right
clue to his guilty transaction; and he would be round,
punctual to the time, (unwelcome expected visiters are
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always punctual,) to know what had become of the girl!
What should he say to him? how manage to put him off?
and, in short, what would be the end of the whole matter?
Something very disagreeable, to say the least—perhaps
something very terrible; and the Deacon shuddered, and
groaned, and wished he were, for the present, beyond the
laws of civilization and the reach of justice. In fact, law
and justice were not so pleasant to contemplate just now,
as they had been whilom, when compelling some poor,
starving wretch, and his starving family, to vacate some
one of his premises, in the dead of winter, at his lordly
bidding. No! law and justice were decidedly not as
honest in their dealings as they used to be; and he began
to entertain some serious misgivings about the profession
of law being exactly suited to the precocious talents of his
wonderful son Nelson.
This last train of reflection brought up a fact, which the
worthy Deacon, owing to recent matters of weighty consideration,
had for a short time quite overlooked; and his
heart fairly leaped to his throat, as the truth suddenly
flashed across his plotting brain. Poor Nelson was at
home, sick—the domestic had said very sick. Goodness!
what if something should happen to him? what if he
should die? The anxious father now felt his hair rise
with a new horror, and his very skin grew moist and
clammy. Such a thing might be! Yes, it was possible!
Children had been known to die, whose parents were as
pious as those of dear Nelson; and therefore there was a
possibility that Nelson might die; and as the Deacon
very suddenly quickened his steps, which had been all
this time tending homeward, he very earnestly and sincerely
invoked the Lord, with whom he still considered
himself on rather good terms, to avert such a dire calamity
from the house of His poor, humble servant.
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Somewhat consoled with the idea that the Lord would
hear and answer his prayer, the Deacons thoughts now
very naturally reverted to his amiable wife; and he saw
her in imagination, as he had often seen her in reality,
her face swollen and red with a feeling passion—that would
cling till death, unless tooth or nail should give out—and
calling him to a strict account for disobedience of orders,
or a neglect of duty; while a mean-looking shadow, whose
only redeeming quality was its wonderful resemblance to
himself, could be seen sneaking about behind a chair,
table, or sofa, prepared to dodge the quivering bolts just
shot from Cupid's bow, and which, to one not in love, had
very much the appearance of an outraged woman's hand
or fist. This picture, which very naturally and rapidly
formed itself on the sensorium of the Deacon's cranium,
was but little less pleasant to contemplate, than that of
the gloomy prison, with a criminal in the cell—or that of
the bar of justice, with a felon in the dock—or that of the
gallows, with a murderer hanging by a rope—or that of
the dying boy, with a heart-broken father bending over
him; and, in the absence of all these, it was really a fearful
picture, and sufficient of itself to make a man of very
weak nerves very nervous.
It was therefore in no very enviable state of mind, that
Deacon Absalom Pinchbeck, for the second time that
night, reached the steps of his dwelling, on his second
return from the Infected District, and this time at a
rather late hour. Though prepared for something of a
rather serious nature, as we have shown, even supposing
all matters to appear in their most favorable aspect, the
Deacon was certainly not prepared for the awful reality
which awaited him. On reaching the steps of his dwelling,
as already mentioned, his first surprise was to find
the outside door standing wide open; and his second, to
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hear several voices within, all speaking in excited tones,
several feet moving and shuffling about, and the sounds as
of persons running up and down stairs at the same time.
“Goodness! mercy!” thought the Deacon; “what can
be the matter here? what can have happened?”
Pale and agitated by the wildest fears, he stumbled up the
steps, his knees fairly knocking together in terror. At the
door he was met by a neighbor, who was hurrying out.
“Why, is this you, Deacon?” cried the neighbor, in an
excited tone.
“Ye-ye-yes!” gasped Pinchbeck; “wha-what's the matter?”
“Where is the doctor? is he coming?”
“Wha-what doctor?” exclaimed the Deacon, thinking
the other might have reference to young Stanhope.
“Any doctor, my dear sir! Why, have you not been
for a physician? your girl told me so.”
“Wha-what is it? who's sick, Mr. Bentley?”
“Why, your little boy. Heavens! I thought you knew
it!”
“Me! yes—so I did—knew he was ailing; but—but—I
didn't know as it was any thing very serious. I had some
business—I was called away—I—ah—good Lord support
me! is he very sick?”
“He is, Deacon—dangerously—we fear the worst—and
I am hastening to get another physician. Who will you
have?”
“Oh! anybody—anybody!” groaned the Deacon. “Oh!
good Lord! what terrible news! Why didn't some one go
for a doctor sooner?”
“There is one up stairs, a young man, whom one of our
neighbors chanced to see passing, and called in; and we
should have hastened for your family physician, only it
was supposed you had gone for him yourself, and we have
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been expecting your return every moment; but the case
being so bad, the young man advised us not to wait any
longer, but get one of more experience than himself, as
quick as we could. Shall I call Dr. Jennings?”
“Oh! yes—yes—anybody!” cried the Deacon, leaning
against the wall for support.
As Mr. Bentley hurried away, a female voice, from the
top of the stairs, called out:
“Have you arrived, Deacon?”
“Ye-yes, ma'am—I—I—I'm here,” was the reply.
“Please come up, quick, if you wish to see your child
alive!”
The Deacon nerved himself for something awful, and
rushed up stairs like a madman. In the front room of
the second story, he found his wife seated in the middle of
the apartment, with her boy in her arms; and, standing
around her, some half-a-dozen persons, all females except
the physician. The Deacon, taking no notice of any one,
sprung forward to the side of his boy, and gazed upon him,
for a moment, in speechless horror; then staggering back,
he sunk down on a seat, buried his face in his hands, and
groaned out the agony he could not speak.
It was certainly a sight to rend the soul of a parent.
The face of the boy was livid, his features distorted, his
eyes rolled upward, and he was gasping for breath, grasping
at the air and choking and groaning alternately. His
mother held him in her arms, and gazed down upon him
with a tearless, marble face—for so intense was her anguish,
that the fountain of tears was choked, and could not flow
to give her relief. She persisted in holding him, and no
entreaty could induce her to resign him to another. Every
thing had been done for the boy, that any one present had
ever heard of being efficacious in such cases; and as an experiment,
with the consent of the young physican, one of
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the party was now applying a linen cloth, dipped in turpentine,
to his breast and neck—while the others stood
looking on, some of them weeping from pure sympathy.
“O Lord! O Lord!” cried the Deacon, springing up
suddenly—“must he die? must he die?”
He turned a wild, agonized look upon the young physician,
whom he had not before noticed, and felt an electric
shock through his system, as his eyes encountered the
steady gaze of Dr. Newton Stanhope.
“You are surprised to see me here, Deacon Pinchbeck!”
the young man hastened to say; “but I chanced to be
passing your door, on my way to visit a patient, when I
was hailed, and so urgently entreated to enter, that I felt
I must outrage all feelings of humanity not to comply. I
have done what I could for your son; but I fear it will be
of no avail; and as another physician will soon be here, I
trust I may now be permitted to take my leave!”
“No! no! no!” cried the Deacon, wildly; “you must
not go, Doctor! you must stay! you must save him!
and you shall have gold—gold, sir—any amount you may
name—only save him!”
“If I could save him, Deacon Pinchbeck,” replied the
other, somewhat sternly, “I would do so, for humanity's
sake—not for your gold—which I do not want, and would
not touch. But, sir, so far as my skill is concerned, my
stay here is needless.”
“Oh! no! no! say not so! say not so! Give me some
hope, Doctor—do! oh! give me some hope! He is my
only son—my only child—do not say he must die!”
“You plead, Deacon, as if his life were in my hands,”
answered the other; “but you should look to God, not to
man, for hope.”
“O Lord, save him! O Lord, save him!” cried the
Deacon, clasping his hands. “Nelson! Nelson! my dear,
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sweet child!” he continued, addressing the sufferer; “don't
you know me, son? don't you know your father?”
The child took no notice of him; but continued to gasp,
and choke, and clutch, and groan, with his eyes rolled upward,
so that little more than the whites were visible;
while the mother sat holding him, and looking down upon
him, her eyes glaring, her features rigid, her lips bloodless,
and her very limbs motionless, save when the boy moved
them in his struggles for breath.
“Ladies,” said Stanhope, addressing the company, “you
will, I trust, excuse me, if I leave now! I have done all
I can here, and I have a patient I must visit immediately.”
Saying this, he bowed himself out—but the Deacon
sprung after him.
“Doctor,” he said, “in Heaven's name! can't you save
my child?”
“I can not—I have already told you so,” was the reply.
“Must he die?”
“I see no hope for him.”
“Oh! this is more than I can bear!”
“The hand of God falls heavy on the worker of iniquity,
because he wants the faith and hope of the Christian to
sustain him!” replied Stanhope, sternly. “Good-night,
Deacon Pinchbeck.”
“Stay! one moment!” exclaimed Pinchbeck. “Do—do
you—you still—still—a—ah—think me guilty, Doctor?”
“Do you dare deny your guilt, with your child lying at
the point of death? Speak!”
“Yes! yes! I'll deny any thing—if the Lord will only
save my poor, dear child!” replied the wretched father,
scarcely conscious of what he was saying. “You say you
are coming to-morrow night,” he continued, “to give me
fresh trouble; but, on my soul! I don't know what has
become of that child, any more than you do.”
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Truth, earnestly spoken, seldom fails to carry conviction;
and the Deacon now spoke the truth; and his words
began to create a doubt in the mind of the young man,
that his suspicions had been properly founded. At all
events, he had the noble feelings of humanity too well
developed, to wish to press home, too heavily, his mere
suspicions, upon a father so deeply afflicted; and so, after
a moment of thoughtful silence, he replied:
“Well, God knows whether you have had any hand in
this dark matter or not! If you are innocent, I would
recall my words, and crave your pardon; but if you are
guilty, beware! for you are as much in the presence of
your God now, as you will be at the Great Day of Judgment,
and can not escape the doom which will be pronounced
upon the workers of iniquity!”
“O Lord! O Lord!” groaned the wretched and guilty
man—“what will become of me? Oh! do—do try and
save that child—my only son—my only hope!”
“I will go back, if you insist upon it; but I tell you,
most seriously, I can do nothing for him—nor do I believe
it is in the power of mortal man to help him!” rejoined
Stanhope, who could not help feeling pity for one so deeply
distressed. At this moment, quick steps were heard in the
entry; and looking down the stairs, the young man hastened
to add: “But here comes a physician of more experience
than myself, and therefore my services will not be
required. Good night!”
He turned away as he spoke, and passed the second
physician and Mr. Bentley on the stairs.
“Quick! quick! Doctor!” called the Deacon to the
new-comer, speaking in a wild, excited tone. “Oh! I'm
so glad you've come! You can save him—you can save
him—yes, you can save him!”
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“Where is he?” asked Dr. Jennings, hurriedly, a man
of venerable appearance.
“This way—this way, Doctor!” and the Deacon darted
before him into the apartment of the dying boy. “There
he is, Doctor—there he is, poor child!”
The moment the glance of the physician fell upon the
strangling boy, he gravely shook his head.
“Well, Doctor?—well? well? well?” cried the nearly
distracted father.
“It is too late!” replied the physician, feeling his pulse.
“No! no! no! don't say so! don't say it's too late!”
almost shrieked the Deacon. “He lives—he breathes yet—
he will, he must, recover!”
The mother still held the child—still kept her eyes
riveted upon him—but spoke not, stirred not, seemed not
to hear what was said.
“You are a man,” said the Doctor to the Deacon, “and
it would be worse than folly for me to hold out any false
hopes to you. Your child is in the last agonies of death—
he can not live an hour.”
“Oh! my God! what will become of me?” groaned
the Deacon, sinking heavily upon a seat.
At this moment, the child gave a loud, piercing shriek,
and became terribly convulsed. In his awful struggles, he
would have fallen to the floor, if one of the females present
had not afforded timely aid. The mother seemed paralyzed.
All gathered around the little sufferer, the father
among the rest. A few more struggles—another shriek,
but not so loud—a quick, shivering spasm—and the poor
boy lay perfectly still.
“He is dead!” said the Doctor, solemnly.
And “He is dead,” like a blast from the trump of woe,
went echoing through all the recesses of Deacon Pinchbeck's
guilty soul; and he sunk down on the ground, and moaned.
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CHAPTER XXIII. DEATH IN LIFE.
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It was long past the hour of midnight, and the form of
the little boy, upon whom two parents had built such fond,
and dazzling, but worldly hopes, lay stretched upon the
bed, white and cold—as white, as cold, as motionless, and
as inanimate as a human figure cut in marble. Beside the
bed, and so disposed that her eyes could rest upon the face
of her lifeless son, sat the mother. She had not spoken,
scarcely moved, since an hour before his spirit's departure.
She had displayed no other emotion than she now displayed—
a fixed, piercing look of utter, blank despair—a despair
which saw no future—no hope in time—no hope in eternity!
They had taken the child from her, and she had
made no resistance, and had followed the form only with
her eyes. They had closed his eyes, wiped the deathdamps
from his face, straightened out his limbs, robed him
in a clean night-garment, and thus prepared him for the
hands of the dresser of the dead. The mother had marked
the whole proceedings, and had only moved to make signs,
that she wished him deposited on the bed, with his face
uncovered, and herself so disposed that her eyes could rest
upon it. This had been done—the gas turned down to a
dim, solemn light—and all had stealthily retired but two
female watchers, who still remained with the living mother
and dead boy, one on either side of the bed, and both
silent. They would have tried to console the mother—but
they knew that was beyond human power; and they were
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strictly following the Doctor's advice—which was, not to
mock her grief with any such vain attempt.
“Her case is very critical,” he had told them; “and
there may be two coffins at one funeral. She may recover
from this shock with a flood of tears, and tears will be a
favorable sign; she may be struck down with apoplexy;
or she may lose her senses altogether, and become a raving
maniac. I can do nothing for her now. Watch her carefully,
and constantly; and if you see any unfavorable
sign, call me at once.”
This was the physician's departing advice; and with
this knowledge of her critical situation, it will readily be
perceived, the hopeless mother was constantly watched,
with feelings of painful anxiety, by those whose unpleasant
duty it was to remain with her and the dead.
Mrs. Pinchbeck, as we have shown, was a woman of violent
passions, very selfish, and possessing but few of the
gentler qualities which render her sex so attractive. She
had, as we have also stated before, been married three
times; and, in every instance, had married from purely
selfish motives. Her first husband soon left her a widow,
with one child, which died young. Two children were the
fruits of her second marriage, both of whom died under
five years of age. Her marriage with Pinchbeck had
resulted in one son—the cold corpse which now lay before
her.
Selfish people, of violent passions, have generally very
few objects to love; but those few objects they love with a
concentrated intensity of feeling, of which none but such
as thoroughly understand all the various operations of the
human heart, have any adequate conception. It is in the
nature of every human being to love something; it is a
law of nature which can not be set aside; and just in the
ratio of the decrease in the ordinary number of
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heartattractions, all things being equal, is the increased intensity
of affection for the favored one or few.
Now Mrs. Pinchbeck really loved but two beings on
earth—her child and herself; and hence the voiceless woe
which she experienced at the loss of her heart's idol. She
had married Pinchbeck for his fortune—detested him at
heart—but loved his child, which was also her own.
And now, while that child lay dead before her, and she
thus sat buried in speechless grief, she felt her bosom
swell with the bitterest hate toward the author of his being,
to whose neglect she laid the charge of his untimely death.
With this little insight into the mysterious workings of one
dark heart, the reader will be the better prepared for what
follows.
For nearly an hour from the time with which this chapter
opens, Mrs. Pinchbeck remained motionless, in the
self-same attitude we presented her to the reader. Then,
with a sudden start, she burst into tears, bowed her head
upon the bed, and wept for half an hour. This was the
favorable sign mentioned by the physician; and the
watchers were rejoiced, that at last she had found a proper
vent to her grief. Until she began to grow calm and composed,
they said nothing to her; but on perceiving this happy
termination to their fears, they began to offer expressions
of sympathy. She listened to them quietly—but for some
time made no reply. At length, she said:
“This is indeed a heavy stroke of affliction, and Heaven
only knows what agonies I have already suffered!”
“Indeed you have!” replied one; “and we have been
deeply pained to witness your sufferings. But bear up,
Mrs. Pinchbeck, and strive not to let your grief again get
the mastery! You are a professing Christian; and in this
stroke, heavy as it is, you should see only the hand of
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Him who chasteneth, and endeavour to be resigned to
His holy will!”
“He was my only son!” sobbed the mother; “and I
have nothing left to love!”
`Say not so—think not so—you still have a kind, affectionate,
and worthy husband!” returned the other.
“Yes, I have a husband,” rejoined Mrs. Pinchbeck,
getting up and glancing quickly about the apartment—“a
dear, devoted husband—where is he?”
There was a singularly wild, unnatural light in her eye,
as she spoke, which was not noticed by the others, or they
might have had some suspicion that all was not as it
should be.
“He left the room, soon after the child breathed its last,
in great distress of mind, and I think he is now below, in
the back-parlor,” was the reply of one of the ladies. “If
you desire it, I will call him—it will be a great relief to
his mind to see you so much better—for we all have feared
the worst.”
“No! no! do not call him!” said Mrs. Pinchbeck,
quickly. “I will go down to him; I would rather see him
alone; there should be no third party present on an occasion
like this.”
She turned to the bed, and, bending over the corpse of
her son, wept violently, for some minutes. Then she dried
her eyes; and going to a bureau, and unlocking one of the
drawers, she took out something, which she hastily concealed
in her bosom.
“Be kind enough to remain here,” she said to the
watchers; “I would be alone with my dear husband;” and
as she spoke, she quitted the apartment, and descended the
stairs.
But we must precede her to the room below.
The grief of Deacon Pinchbeck, immediately succeeding
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the death of his child, displayed itself, for some time, in a
very violent way. He moaned, and groaned, and wrung
his hands, and occasionally ejaculated:
“O Lord, have mercy on me! O Lord, have mercy on
my soul! Oh! good Lord, restore my son to life again, as
Thou didst to them of old! Oh! how wretched I am!
Oh! how miserable I am! No child to love—no son to
succeed me! Oh! oh! oh!”
At last, he became in some degree composed; but the
presence of strangers was not pleasant to his sight; and
he retired to the apartment below, as already mentioned,
that he might be alone. Perhaps he had some feelings of
sympathy for his then speechless wife, whom he certainly
did not wish to lose; but, under the circumstances, he felt
it a wonderful relief, to be free from the taunts and upbraidings—
to say nothing of the more forcible demonstrations
of her sweet disposition—which he knew he would
have to encounter, were she only possessed of her usual
freedom of tongue and limbs; and so that she might be
finally restored to life and health, he thought it rather
Providential, that he was not to be called on, at this particular
time, by the only being he really feared, to give an
account of himself, during the period occupied in his dark
and guilty transactions.
So he retired to his back-parlor, and, throwing himself
upon a sofa, gave way to some very bitter reflections, and
began to have some very serious doubts whether he was on
quite as good terms with the Lord as he had thought.
The death of his child was certainly no evidence that his
prayers were more efficacious than the prayers of others;
and though a Deacon of high standing, in a very high
standing church, he was not quite so sure now, as he once
was, that the recording angel had not made a few suspicious
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looking entries on the debit side of his spiritual account.
It was perfectly natural that he should have some very
serious reflections—reflections which could not but harrow
up his guilty soul. His child, on whom he had so fondly
doted, with all the selfish feelings of a selfish nature—
with all the worldly hopes of a worldly ambition—his child
was dead; and might not his death in some degree be laid
to his own neglect? Had he gone for a physician, when
first informed of his illness, instead of plotting against the
life of another, might not the life of his child have been
saved? He groaned aloud at the very thought, and felt
how terrible is the recoil of a guilty deed, when it comes
back upon the guilty doer in all its native blackness, enveloping
him in a thick cloud of horrors, and shutting out
every heavenly ray of hope and joy. Heaven and hell
are only conditions; and it is not essential that the thread
of mortal life should be clipped, for the overreached man of
crime to feel all the torments of the damned.
For hours the Deacon had rolled to and fro on his now
thorny couch, striving in vain to lose some of his misery in
the forgetfulness of sleep. At last, almost stupefied by the
violence of his grief, a dim, half-conscious, drowsy feeling
began to steal over him—his eyelids drooped and closed—
and his mind began to wander and become filled with unnatural,
hideous images, as in a nightmare-dream. Suddenly
the figure of the little orphan came floating along on
a sea of blood, and, stopping in front of him, seemed to
shoot rays of fire from her eyes, which, by some unaccountable
process, began to burn into his very soul. With a
cry of horror, he started up from his recumbent posture,
stared wildly around, and, to his utter astonishment, beheld
Mrs. Pinchbeck standing before him, and glaring upon him,
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with a fiendish expression of concentrated, malignant hate
and scorn.
“Why, my—my dear—ha-ha-have you recovered?” he
stammered, not yet fully satisfied in his own mind,
whether he was addressing an airy phantom, or a being
of flesh and, blood—and in either case, feeling he had sufficient
cause for alarm.
To this question, Mrs. Pinchbeck did not deign to reply;
and the trembling Deacon, not knowing better what to do,
repeated it.
“Murderer!” she now rather hissed than said, without
removing her glaring eyes from his.
“Wha-wha-what do you mean?” he gasped, sinking
back upon the sofa.
“Murderer!” she repeated, in the same hissing tone.
“I—I—don't know what—you mean—my—my—a—
ah—love!” he whined out, in tremulous, doleful accents.
“Shall I explain?” she demanded, in the same low,
hissing voice of passion.
“If you please—that is—that is—confound the thing—
I mean if you think best, my dear.”
“Who let poor Nelson die? answer me that!” she said,
fairly foaming with suppressed rage.
“He—he—died himself, poor child—Nelson did!” answered
Pinchbeck, cowering beneath the piercing glance
of his conjugal partner, and groaning at the recollection
of the awful death of his son.
“Do you not feel his death weighing down your guilty
soul, Absalom Pinchbeck?” she demanded, advancing a
single step toward her frightened husband.
“What did I do, my love?” he whined again, glancing
quickly about him, and evidently preparing himself to beat
a hasty retreat, in case the enemy should endeavor to come
to close quarters.
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“Do? you brute!” rejoined Mrs. Pinchbeck; “you did
nothing—you let him die! Why did you not come when
I sent for you?”
“Why, my angel—I—I had some business—”
“What business?” she interrupted.
“I can't—ex-ex-act-ly—say what!” stammered the Deacon;
“but it was some money business—with a—gentleman—
that I—that I—a—ah—wanted to get through with—
and did get through with, my love.”
“And you could let Nelson die for a mere money transaction,
you sordid wretch!” she cried, choking with anger.
“Oh! how I hate you—despise you—loathe you, from my
very soul!”
“I—I didn't think he was going to—die—or I should
have attended to him at once!” groaned Pinchbeck.
“Don't go on so, my love—don't!” he said, pleadingly.
“Oh! if you only knew how miserable I am!”
“Miserable!” she repeated, with a withering sneer; “you
miserable! I only wish you were—but you haven't soul
enough to be miserable! Why did you go away, and remain
away, till too late? Was that to complete a business
transaction?”
“Why, my love, I just stepped out, for a minute or two,
to see a gentleman; and it so happened that I was summoned
to make up a Coroner's jury, and couldn't get back,”
replied the Deacon.
“I wish the jury had held an inquest on your loathsome
body!” rejoined the other, biting her lips, to keep her
rage within bounds—“and that you never had come back
alive!”
“It costs me an effort to thank you, for your kindness,”
said the Deacon, a little more boldly.
“I wish you were dead!” cried the other, fairly gnashing
her teeth. “So long as Nelson lived, I managed to
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endure your hateful presence; but now I wish you were
dead!”
“So that you could swell out on my money, and wheedle
somebody else into the matrimonial noose, as you wheedled
me, I suppose!” retorted the Deacon, who began to
feel his courage rise with his indignation. “I thought you
were going to die,” he continued; “and I knew if you
did, I'd be rid of your tongue, to say nothing worse; but
disagreeable people, it seems, have as many lives as a cat;
and the Lord permitted patient Job to be very severely
tried.”
On hearing this, Mrs. Pinchbeck could hardly credit
her senses; for the Deacon, though a regular tyrant to
those he could with impunity oppress, had almost invariably
been meekly submissive to his termagant wife, even when
kicks and cuffs had spiced her arguments; and it was not
on record, that, before the present moment, his voice had
been heard in open rebellion but three times, since the
commencement of their honey-moon. It will therefore be
a matter of no surprise to the reader, that Mrs. Pinchbeck,
being previously excited to a degree but little short of
frenzy, should, on hearing this insulting rejoinder of her
usually submissive lord, find herself actually choking with
a rage that could not get vent through the ordinary
channels. She clutched her throat with one hand, and her
forehead and temples with the other; while the blood
rushed up into her face, till it seemed to swell and grow
black, and her small eyes shot fiery gleams of fiendish
malice and implacable hate.
The Deacon, seeing the awful storm of passion he had
raised, began to grow alarmed for the consequences to
himself. And there was really more cause for his alarm,
than he even now supposed; for Mrs. Pinchbeck, on going
to the bureau up stairs, as already mentioned, had actually
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provided herself with a dagger; and had come down with
the intention of taking his life; and her now excessively
violent and overpowering rage, was the only thing that
prevented her design being carried into instant execution.
The Deacon, after looking at her for a moment, thought
it best for him to beat a hasty retreat; and springing from
his seat, he darted past her, and had just gained the door,
when a strange, unearthly sound fell upon his ear, and
caused him to look around. To his surprise—and we may
add, alarm—he beheld his wife in the act of falling. Impulsively
he sprung, forward to catch her—but he was too
late. She fell, with a dull, heavy shock, that jarred the
whole building; and then lay perfectly still and senseless,
apparently dead, her face almost black, and her features
horribly distorted.
One glance was enough to convince the now really terrified
Deacon, that he could render her no assistance; and
springing to the door, he tore it open, and shrieked for
help.
The watchers came down in haste; and the moment their
eyes rested on the senseless form of Mrs. Pinchbeck, one
turned to the Deacon, and said:
“This is what we have been told to fear. “Oh! sir, if
you would save her life, fly for Dr. Jennings! there is not
a moment to be lost!”
The Deacon, to his credit be it spoken, made all haste
to summon the physician; but, what with one delay and
another, it was nearly half an hour before the latter
reached the side of Mrs. Pinchbeck. He found her
stretched upon the bed, in the apartment above stairs,
along side of the corpse of her son, whither she had been
carried by the watchers. Hastening to her side, he seized
her hand, and placed his fingers upon her pulse.
“Well, Doctor?” exclaimed the excited Deacon.
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The physician shook his head gravely; and turning to
the questioner, said, solemnly:
“My friend, may He who `tempers the wind to the
shorn lamb,' enable you to bear your heavy affliction with
Christian fortitude! You are wifeless and childless.”
“Surely, you do not mean, Doctor—
The Deacon paused, and looked the question he could
not utter.
“Yes,” replied the other—“it is true—your wife is
dead. As I feared, a sudden stroke of apoplexy has terminated
her earthly existence.”
And the light of morning streamed in through the darkened
windows, and seemed to rest mournfully upon the
mortal remains of mother and son.
The guilty doer may escape the justice of human laws;
but none ever did, and none ever will, escape the retributive
justice of the eternal, unchangeable laws of God!
CHAPTER XXIV. THE LOVERS.
It was a clear, mild, delightful day in the month of
May; and earth had donned her green robe; and bright
leaves waved in the soft, south breeze; and brighter flowers
exhaled their perfume on the genial air. Among the
flowers of her own little garden, herself the fairest flower
among them, stood Rosalind Clendennan, motionless as a
statue, her features pale and pensive, and her eyes resting
upon the ground. It scarcely needed the long drawn sigh,
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which seemed to rise from the depths of her gentle spirit,
to prove that her heart was not wholly at ease. While
standing thus, she heard steps behind her; and starting
from her reverie, she turned, and perceived her favorite
domestic hastening toward her.
“Well, Kitty?” she exclaimed, quickly.
“Don't be alarmed, Miss Rosa—I'm not the bearer of
bad news,” said the serving-girl, who remarked the expression
of uneasiness on the countenance of her beloved mistress.
“I am glad to hear that, Kitty,” replied Rosalind; “but
I see you have something to communicate. Have you
seen my father this morning?”
“Yes, Miss Rosa, and I bring you a message from him.”
“Well, speak!”
“I was passing his door, a few minutes ago, when he
called to me, and said, `Tell Rosalind to hold herself in
readiness to pay me a visit in exactly two hours.”'
“Did you inquire how he felt?”
“I did; but he shut the door, and wouldn't answer me.”
“Alas!” sighed Rosalind—“I fear he is failing fast;
for he appears every day to grow more strange and eccentric.
I know his health is feeble; I know he needs kind
care—such care as an affectionate daughter might bestow;
but even me, his only child, he treats almost as a stranger.
In his usual health, I could bear this, Kitty, as I have
borne; but now—believing, as I do, that he is gradually
failing—gradually wasting away—and going down, step
by step, to the dark grave—it makes my heart very, very
heavy!” and as she spoke, her soft blue eyes grew dim
with tears, that she strove in vain to repress.
“Don't cry, Miss Rosa!” said Kitty, affectionately:
“I can't bear to see you cry. Perhaps it is not as bad as
you think. Master was always strange—at least ever
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since I knew him—and I don't see any thing very unusual
in his present conduct.”
“He was always strange, Kitty, I know,” said Rosalind;
“that is, he was always different from other persons;
but never, at any period of his life, has he seemed toward
me so very cold as now—now, when I think he most needs
a companion in his sorrow. Oh! if he would only let me
approach him, as an affectionate child should approach an
afflicted parent—instead of shutting off all my sympathy,
and making my own sad heart more desolate,—oh! if he
would only let me nurse him, talk to him, and sing to him,
as I have sometimes done—let me feel as if I were doing
something to render his burden of sorrow less heavy to
bear—methinks I should be comparatively happy!”
“He has never seemed just the same since the loss of
little Ellen,” said Kitty.
“That is true, and I know that loss preys heavily upon
his mind. Poor child! would to Heaven we could get
some tidings of her! But I fear we never may. He took
a deep interest in her; and I think, toward the latter part
of her stay with us, I could discover a change in him for
the better; and even now, her restoration might bring
about a favorable result.”
And then she added, mentally:
“Strange, how mind will operate on mind! He knew
not that she was one who had in her veins the blood of
those he once called friends; and whom (may God forgive
him!) his own hand doomed to sorrow, and himself to
unceasing remorse; and yet he was drawn to her by a
sympathy which to him must have appeared mysterious
indeed. Ah! mind! mind! mind! the most wonderful
attribute of the Almighty! who can comprehend it?
Measuring, weighing, sounding, seeing, and knowing—yet
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itself immeasurable, imponderable, unfathomable, invisible,
incomprehensible, and eternal!”
“I wish little Ellen could be found, for dear master's
sake!” said Kitty.
“Ay!” sighed Rosalind—“for his sake, her sake, and
my own—but I fear it will never be!”
“Have you tried the police, Miss Rosa?”
“No,” replied Rosalind; “but perhaps I had better.”
“I thought so in the first place,” said Kitty, with the
air of one who fancied her own opinion of considerable
importance.
“I will first consult—”
Rosalind paused, and Kitty rejoined, with a sly look:
“If you mean Dr. Stanhope, you can do so at once,
for he is now in the drawing-room.”
Instantly a warm glow suffused the lovely features of
Rosalind; and stooping down, apparently to pluck a
flower, she said, rather hastily:
“Kitty, why did you not tell me this at first?”
“Why, thinking of poor master, put it out of my mind.”
“Did he inquire for me, Kitty?”
“Why, who else could he want to see?” returned
Kitty, very innocently, trying to get a glimpse of the face
of Rosalind, who, just at that moment, was very intently
occupied with a modest little flower at her feet.
“Perhaps he has some intelligence of Ellen!” said
Rosalind, keeping her face averted. “Run in, and say I
will be with him presently.”
Kitty hastened away, and Rosalind lingered not long
in her little garden. She met the young physician with a
pleasant “Good morning,” and without any perceptible
embarrassment; but her features were tinged with a glow
that heightened their beauty.
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“And how is your father this morning?” was the first
kind inquiry of young Stanhope.
“Alas!” sighed Rosalind—“I do not know;” and a
shade of sorrow swept over her lovely countenance, and
left it pale as marble. “It is hard for an only child to
be obliged to answer thus, concerning a beloved father,”
she continued, sadly; “but I have not been permitted to
see and speak to him for several days. I have just
received a message, that I must visit him in a couple of
hours; but I know not whether I shall be received with
affection, or formality—as a child, or as a stranger.”
“His strange moods must be very trying to you, Rosa
lind!” said Stanhope, with much feeling.
“No one knows how trying!” returned Rosalind, a
tear glistening in her eye. “I feel sometimes as if I could
not have it so. Oh! Newton, if we could only find little
Ellen! You get no news of her, I suppose?”
“None, Rosalind—none—and I fear it is vain to hope.
I would that the mystery might be solved—though I no
longer believe that the child herself is among the living.”
“Oh! Newton, do not say thus!” cried Rosalind.
“I do not say it, Rosalind, to add to your sorrows,” rejoined
Stanhope, in a voice of deep emotion; “for, Heaven
knows, I would joyfully relieve you of every depressing
thought, by taking them upon myself; but a painful certainty
can not wear down the mind like hope long deferred.”
“But notwithstanding what we may believe,” replied
Rosalind, “it is, you perceive, a painful uncertainty still,
and therefore still hope deferred. If I knew her fate, even
though the worst, I grant you it would be better for the
mind than its present wearying suspense.”
“There is one who, notwithstanding his protestations of
innocent ignorance, I still believe could tell something
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about her, if he would,” rejoined Newton, compressing his
lips; “for never, in my life, did I see a man exhibit so
much seeming guilt, as he did at the time of my making
the bold accusation.”
“You refer to Deacon Pinchbeck?”
I do; and were it not that he has already undergone a
punishment greater than man could inflict, I think, with
your permission, I would, even now, venture to enter a
complaint against him.”
“But you are not certain that he is guilty, Newton.”
“We are often not certain of the murderer, till after his
trial, Rosalind. But as I have no proof, perhaps I had
better let the matter rest; nor could I find it in my nature,
without positive proof, to proceed against a man so crushed
with grief and misfortune as he is at the present time.
There was a rumor current yesterday, that, by a sudden
fall in stocks, he would lose, at the very least, fifty thousand
dollars; and I learn, this morning, that he has taken
to his bed, and is threatened with a brain fever.”
“Poor man!” said Rosalind.
“Miserable wretch!” ejaculated Stanhope, bitterly.
“He does not deserve pity, Rosalind; for he has wronged,
when he could, every man that has ever been so unfortunate
as to have dealings with him. Besides, he has more
than once turned a poor, starving family into the street, in
the dead of winter, because they could not pay rent; and a
man whose heart is black enough to do that, would murder
for money, were he certain that he could escape detection.
A base, paltry, cowardly scoundrel, without filial affection,
or one noble trait in his character—who uses religion as a
cloak to hide his spiritual deformity! Faugh! the very
mention of such a wretch excites indignant loathing!
Rosalind, what punishment is too great for the villain who
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rolls in wealth, and leaves the mother that bore him to die
in the almshouse?”
“Good heavens! Newton, you do not mean to say—”
“Ay!” interrupted the other, with a flush of honest indignation—
“I do mean to say, that the mother of Deacon
Pinchbeck died in the almshouse, not ten days ago, whither
she had been taken by Mr. Shelden, who found her
sick and destitute, and thus displayed more Christian
charity toward her than her own son.”
“And is it possible that he let her die there among
strangers?”
“It is true she died there among strangers; but it is
said that the good Deacon did not know of her being there,
till after her death. Yet what matters that? he left her
to suffer in poverty, or she would never have been taken
there.”
“Of all wicked things,” said Rosalind, “I know of none
more wicked, than that of a prosperous child neglecting an
aged parent. Oh! would to Heaven, I had a mother to
care for! or that my afflicted father would permit me to
care for him!” She hastily brushed a tear from her eye,
and continued: “But this Mr. Sheldon, Newton—you
know he promised to make every effort to find Ellen!”
“He says he has done so, but without getting the
faintest clue to the mystery of her disappearance.”
“Ah! poor child! poor child!” sighed Rosalind: “I
shall never see her again, I fear. I almost regret that I
did not apply to the police at first. What think you, Newton—
had we not better do so now?”
“It may be as well; we may be better satisfied that we
have done right; though, I am sorry to say, I have not
the least hope that she will be found. Ah! poor little
thing! After passing through so much sorrow, what a
pity that she should have been snatched away, just at the
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moment when a fortune had fallen, as it were, into her very
grasp!”
“You think, then, this immense fortune would really
have come into her possession?”
“I do, most assuredly. As I told you the other day,
John De Carp Montague is dead; and I certainly believe
your little friend, if living, to be the next rightful inheritress;
for, from all you have told me, I am satisfied that
she is the Ellen Norbury alluded to in the paper which
was stolen from my father.”
“And how many stand between her and your mother,
Newton?” inquired Rosalind.
“None, now, Rosalind—Mrs. Pinchbeck did—but she
is in her grave.
“Then, if Ellen be dead, this estate falls to your mother,
Newton?”
“So I now believe; and to myself next, should I outlive
her.”
“It is certainly very noble on your part, Newton,” said
Rosalind, with a kind of proud animation, “to be so
anxious for the discovery of this child, when you know that
she will step between you and a princely fortune!”
“I trust,” returned the other, with a manly glow, “that
I let no sordid feelings sway me in this matter. That I
should like to come into possession of this estate, it were
false in me to deny; but I have looked into my heart, and
I can honestly say, that it would bound with pleasure to
know Ellen Norbury lives. The fortune belongs to her,
and it is but right that she should have it—so much for
mere justice: but as your dear friend, Rosalind—as one
who would bring happiness to you and to your afflicted
father—it would afford me more joy than I can now express,
could I be the means of placing her in your arms.”
“Thanks! my noble friend—thanks!” said Rosalind,
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warmly, with a bright glow suffusing her beautiful features,
and an expression of generous admiration beaming from
her soft blue eyes.
For a moment, the young physician looked at the fair
being before him; and then his eyes slowly sunk to the
ground, a deep crimson hue overspread his own manly features,
and for a short time he seemed greatly embarrassed,
like one who wished to make a communication, but was fearful
it might be considered mal a propos. Rosalind seemed intuitively
to know his thoughts; for the warm glow instantly
deepened into a conscious blush; and she turned her head
away, as if attracted by some object which she did not see.
For a brief time, there was a kind of embarrassing silence;
and then the young man, with a glance at his lovely companion,
ventured to speak.
“Rosalind,” he said; and his voice was low and tremulous,
and the name pronounced was followed by a short
pause, during which he evidently sought to gather courage:
“Rosalind—should I not be so fortunate as to restore this
little girl to you—should it, in fact, be discovered that she
is no longer among the living—in short, should I become
possessed of this immense estate—may I, can I, dare I
hope—that—that one who has so long been my friend—
the friend of my family; one whom I have so long esteemed—
nay, loved—for the heart speaks now, and the truth
must be told; may I hope, I say, that one fair being, whom
I have long secretly, but ardently, loved—loved with a
love that is true and holy, because untainted with a single
feeling that an angel might not harbor in his sinless breast;
may I venture to hope, that this one lovely being, without
whom earth would seem a desert, will share the fortune
with me?”
Gradually, while Stanhope was speaking, the color forsook
the face of the lovely listener, till it became as pale
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as marble; the soft eyes drooped; the lips quivered; the
heart seemed to cease its motion; and when his voice died
away to silence, that silence remained unbroken by one
who seemed rather an exquisite statue, from the hand of a
master sculptor, than a living, sentient being.
“Speak, dear Rosalind!” at length murmured Stanhope,
gently taking her hand, and fairly trembling with emotions
that each moment grew more rapturous with hope: “Speak,
dear Rosalind! but oh! let not your tongue syllable words
that will chill my heart with despair! Remember! I
have only asked you to share my fortune; for though
nothing may increase or lessen my love, yet I know too
well the difference between my present circumstances and
yours, to ask you to share my poverty.”
As he said this, Rosalind started, the warm blood rushed
upward to her very temples, and turning quickly toward
her companion, her gentle eyes beaming a kind of sorrowful
reproach, she said:
“Newton, why so cruel a remark?”
“Forgive me!” he said, quickly; “I meant not to
wound your feelings; but I speak as one who has seen
something of the world, and learned some bitter lessons.”
“What care I for wealth?” pursued Rosalind. “It is
not happiness—it brings not happiness; and though, considered
by itself, it may not, strictly speaking, lessen happiness—
yet I am sometimes led to think, that where much
wealth is given, other blessings are taken away, to make
all equal. How many pass this dwelling, and think of its
owner with feelings of envy! and yet, how very few, of all,
would not lose by the exchange of circumstances! They
might gain in wealth, it is true; but if they lost in happiness—
as I believe they would—it would surely be a loss,
instead of a gain, to them.”
“It is pleasant to hear one noble heart utter sentiments
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so much at variance with the sordid opinions of the greater
number, as regards mere wealth, Rosalind,” replied the
other; “but it grieves me, at the same time, to know that
she who speaks, has been made so bitterly to feel the
aching void which no earthly treasures can fill! Do not
misjudge my heartfelt sentiments, dear Rosalind, in asking
you to share with me a fortune; it was not because I fancied
that mere wealth would give me favor in your sight;
but because my proud nature revolted at the idea, that you
should, even for one brief moment, suppose a sordid motive
influenced me in asking your hand!”
Here he paused, and seemed deeply embarrassed; and
Rosalind looked down, and perceptibly trembled. At
length, in a voice scarcely above a whisper, he continued:
“Rosalind—dear Rosalind—you have not, so far, said
aught, or done aught, to cast a shadow over my brightest
earthly hope; and oh! may I still venture to hope on?—
to hope that you will one day be mine—come weal—come
woe?”
Rosalind trembled more than ever, and her lovely features
flushed and paled alternately. She struggled to
speak; but the words died upon her quivering lips; and
at length her emotions found vent in a flood of tears; and
she wept freely, and long.
“Speak, dearest!” whispered Stanhope, when she had
become somewhat composed, again taking her hand, and
seating himself by her side. “Speak, dear Rosalind—
one word! I have acknowledged my love—and oh! let
me hear, from your own sweet lips, that I have not loved
in vain!”
“My father”—murmured Rosalind—“I cannot leave
him!”
“Nor would I have you, dearest—for filial love and
duty I hold to be sacred. But your father, dear
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Rosalind—do not let me alarm you—your father cannot long
remain with you; and then—”
He paused and sighed.
“And then?” murmured Rosalind.
“You will be alone!” he concluded, in a low, tremulous,
solemn tone.
She raised her soft blue eyes to his—all swimming in
tears, but beaming with love—and the next moment her
head reclined against his manly breast, and she wept
anew.
“Thank God!” fervently exclaimed Stanhope, as he
stole an arm around her gentle form, and drew her closer
to his noble heart, and imprinted upon her sweet lips the
seal of true and holy love: “thank God! my sweet
flower, I am happy once more!”
And a single bright sunbeam, like the brilliant star of
truth, found its way through the open window and parted
curtains, and, resting upon her golden tresses, seemed to
cast around her a halo of purity, peace, and love.
CHAPTER XXV. GLEAMS OF LIGHT.
Feeble, careworn, dejected, and miserable, Sir Walter
Clendennan, with a tottering step, walked up and down his
spacious library, his lips muttering prayers, and his heart
full of the deepest remorse. He was surrounded with the
productions of giant intellects, in every department of
science and literature, and the walls of his apartment were
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adorned with paintings from the hands of old masters, and
busts and statuettes were so disposed as to relieve the eye
and add a picturesque charm to the whole. A tiny jet
of water fell, in silvery beads, with a soft, musical sound,
into a marble vase, and several bright gold-fish disported
themselves in the cool, pelucid element. On a marble table,
in the centre of the apartment, lay books, drawings, music
and manuscripts, overtopped by a pearl-mounted guitar, as
if this were the last thing used to relieve the mind of the
unhappy occupant. A velvet covered lounge was drawn up
by the table, and a hundred other things of taste and
luxury met the eye. To the innocent lover of letters, the
apartment would have seemed a kind of intellectual paradise;
but the unfortunate owner seldom saw aught around
him but the deepest shadows of gloom. Alas! what are
the gorgeous externals of earth, when a dark cloud of sorrow,
remorse, or despair, closes over the heart, and shuts
out the bright sunlight of peace and joy?
“It will soon be over now, sweet spirit!” muttered Sir
Walter, as he stopped to gaze upon the miniature of his departed
wife, which he ever carried next to his heart; “yes,
deeply wronged angel, it will soon be over now; and then I
trust to see thee in reality, as I last night saw thee in my
dream. Oh! why did I doubt thy loyalty, sweet angel?
and by my own rash act bring down upon my head the retributive
justice of Heaven! and fill with woe so many
other kind and noble hearts! and send them, throbbing with
anguish, down the rapid stream of time? Great God,
forgive me! I am a repentant man. I have suffered the
torments of hell for many long, long, weary, burdensome
years—and now, O God! in thy holy mercy, forgive me!
and let me die in the hope of a bright resurrection beyond
the grave! Oh! sweet angel!” he pursued, his eyes growing
dim with tears, as he gazed upon the painted ivory, set
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round with costly gems—“shall I meet thee where there
will be no more parting—no more sorrow—no more anguish—
no more pain? Dare I hope to see thee in the glorious
realms of the blessed ones, clothed in a garb of such dazzling
whiteness and brightness, that our brilliant noon-day sun
would pale beside it? Didst thou breathe such sounds of
holy hope into my spiritual ear, as I last night lay in my
dream?”
He sighed, and pressed his lips to the likeness, and returned
it to its place beside his heart, and resumed his
walk to and fro.
“Ah! little wanderer!” he said at length—“sweet little
pilgrim! from whose pure, innocent face, my sad heart
caught a ray of sunlight—art thou in Heaven, too? and
shall I ever behold thee again? Strange! strange! how
like was she to him who fell by my hand! And Rosalind—
good, sweet Rosalind!” he continued—“thou wilt soon
have no unhappy father to vex and weary thee! How
have I abused thy gentle affection! my heart bleeds to
think of it! Oh! I am a wretch—a very wretch—and
deserve not mercy. Thou wilt grieve when I am gone,
sweet Rosalind! notwithstanding I have been so cold and
harsh to thee. But it is thy pure, unselfish, loving nature
that will cause thee to grieve—not my remembered kindness—
for I have been cold and harsh to thee, sweet daughter!
And what will become of thee when I am gone?
For my sake thou hast buried thyself in seclusion—and
hast made few friends—and among those friends, how few
are friends indeed! There is one,” he mused, “who, if I
have read his noble heart aright, feels more than friendship
for thee; and if, as I believe, thou art blessed with the love
of one such heart as his, thou need'st not mourn the loss
of thy unhappy father!”
As he ended his soliloquy, his long thin fingers nervously
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closed upon a silver-tasselled bell-cord, and he rung for a
servant. In a few moments the door of the library was
softly opened, and the face of Kitty timidly appeared to
his view.
“Where is Rosalind?” inquired the Knight.
“In the drawing-room, sir.”
“Is she alone?”
“No, sir,” hesitated Kitty; “at least, I think not, sir.”
“Who is with her?”
“Why, sir, if anybody, I think, perhaps, it is—it
is—”
Kitty paused, afraid to mention the name that was
already upon her lips—for knowing the peculiarities of the
unhappy Baronet, she was fearful of encountering a sudden
storm of passion.
“Well, speak out,” said Sir Walter, gently; “I will not
be angry, Kitty.”
“Thank you, sir!” returned Kitty, brightening. “I
think it is young Dr. Stanhope, sir.”
“Ha!” returned the Knight, with a slight start, while
a bright gleam of joy passed over his pale, haggard features.
“Bid them both come here at once—both, Kitty—
mind! both.”
“I will, sir!” said Kitty, bounding lightly away, and
wondering to herself what could have caused so favorable
a change in one, who, if kind at heart, was generally harsh
in speech.
The dream of the lovers was broken by the somewhat
abrupt entrance of the domestic, who hurriedly delivered
her master's message.
“Both, Kitty?” exclaimed Rosalind, starting up and
changing color. “Are you sure he said both?”
“Yes, Miss Rosa: he asked who was here, and I was
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obliged to tell him, you know; and then he charged me to
tell you both to come to him at once.”
Rosalind looked at the young Doctor, and said, with some
embarrassment:
“I fear we shall meet with censure; but oh! Newton,
should he be harsh in speech, I pray you be kind in your
answers, and remember not his words against him!”
“When the heart is full of joy, as mine is now, dear
Rosalind,” returned the other, in a low tone, “the lips can
not speak unkindly. I will bear with him, and strive to be
as gentle in my replies as your own sweet self.”
Kitty smiled to herself, as she withdrew, but said
nothing; and the lovers, with anxious hearts, immediately
repaired to the library. Sir Walter was seated on their
entrance; but feebly rose, extended his arms, and said, in
a voice tremulous with emotion:
“Rosalind, my sweet child, come here!”
With a cry of joy, Rosalind threw herself into the arms
of her father, clasped her own around his neck, and burst
into tears; and amid choking sighs and sobs, she faintly
murmured:
“Oh! father—dear, dear father—you make me so
happy!”
“Heaven bless you, my sweet child!” returned the
Knight, hastily brushing the gathering mist from his eyes,
and struggling to keep down his rising emotions: “when
so little can make you happy, I cannot but think what a
selfish wretch I have been, to let you be miserable for so
long a time!”
“Do not say thus, dear father!” cried Rosalind, starting
back, and looking fondly and anxiously upon his pale, careworn
features: “do not reflect upon yourself, dear father,
or I shall be more unhappy than ever!”
“Well, well,” rejoined Sir Walter, “I will say nothing
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to make you unhappy now, dear child! I have been an
erring man all my life; but if repentance—deep, sincere,
heart-felt repentance—can atone for the wrong done, I hope
to be forgiven at last. Dr. Stanhope,” he continued,
turning to the young physician, and extending his hand,
which was cordially taken—“I owe you an apology, sir,
for many harsh words, spoken in moments of severe bodily
pain and mental anguish! Have I your forgiveness?”
“As I hope to be forgiven myself, kind sir, you have!”
returned Stanhope, deeply affected by the whole scene.
“Thank you! thank you, my young friend! you have a
noble heart. Come! I pray you both be seated—I have a
few words to say to you. Here, sit here—there—so;” and
Sir Walter himself sunk down on the lounge, by the table,
with his anxious listeners facing him, and rested his forehead
on his hand.
He paused for a few moments, with his eyes cast down,
seemingly in deep reflection; and then raising his head,
and turning to the young physician, he said:
“Dr. Stanhope, do I count too much upon you, in supposing
you the sincere friend of Rosalind?”
“No, Mr. Clendennan,” replied the young man, coloring
deeply, glancing at Rosalind, and seeming not a little
agitated; “and with your kind permission, dear sir, I trust
I may one day be something more to her than a mere
friend.”
“Ha! is it so?” returned Sir Walter, looking from one
to the other. “It is then as I would have it; and having
no longer need of mortal life, I may go quietly to rest.”
“Father!” exclaimed Rosalind.
“Start not, sweet child! and look not so grieved!”
pursued the Baronet. “Remember, I have long wished to
die, to escape my mortal wretchedness; and now I desire
it more than ever—for a bright hope has sprung up in my
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breast, that I shall meet your angel mother in a better
world. Rosalind, I saw her last night!”
“Saw her, father?” cried Rosalind, with a start.
“Yes, dear child—in a dream; but still a dream so like
reality, that it seemed not a dream. She talked to me
long, and bade me rejoice; told me my prayers had been
heard; that my trials would soon be over; and that my
weary spirit would soon be free to roam with her the
celestial regions of Paradise, where day is eternal and
sorrow unknown. Oh! she looked so bright, and beautiful,
and happy—and spoke so rapturously of her immortal
home—of its golden lights—its balmy airs—its silver
streams—its deep green shades—its clustering flowers—its
thousand scenes of music, beauty, love, that my imprisoned
spirit strove to burst its bars of clay and follow her to
Heaven! Was this a mere dream? Once I might have
thought so—but now, by the fond bright hope I have within
me, I can not think it all a dream.”
“I fear it was not all a dream, dear father!” said Rosalind,
solemnly. “It seems rather like one of those visions
which the spirit sometimes has on the verge of the eternal
world!”
“So let me hope—God grant it true!” rejoined the
Knight, with deep feeling. “And I have begun to set my
house in order for my last journey!” he continued; “and
ere I go forth, never to return, I would know how I leave
you, my daughter! Speak freely, both, and frankly! Is it
settled that you are to be united?”
“Such is my brightest hope, dear sir!” responded Stanhope.
“'Tis frankly said; and pardon a father for adding, you
will never regret your choice. Yet there is one thing!” he
pursued, after a brief pause, looking steadily at Rosalind,
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while a deep shade of gloom gradually settled on his features.
“Does he know all, my child?”
Rosalind blanched and trembled and gasped for breath.
“No, dear father,” she made out to articulate: “I had
forgotten—I did not think—I—”
“She is falling!” cried the knight.
Stanhope sprung from his seat, and caught her in his
arms; and it was several minutes before she sufficiently recovered
to dispense with his assistance; and then, upon her
pale, sad, lovely features, rested an expression of painful,
hopeless anguish.
“Oh! omnibus modis miser sum!” groaned Sir Walter,
wringing his hands. “See, my friend, what it is to be
guilty of a crime! see how retribution reaches us, even
through those we love!”
“What do you mean, Mr. Clendennan?” inquired the
young Doctor, with a look of startled surprise.
“It is painful to tell you!” answered the Baronet, with
a gloomy brow and quivering lip; “but, under the circumstances,
I feel you have a right to know. Rosalind, my
dear child—had you not better retire, while I communicate
this terrible secret?”
“No, dear father—no—I would remain!” she feebly replied,
burying her face in her handkerchief, while Stanhope
looked from one to the other in amazement.
“Be it so, then!” said the Knight, averting his face from
the inquiring glance of his wondering guest.
A few moments of breathless silence ensued, during which
Sir Walter seemed struggling to fortify his mind for the
painful disclosure. Then, in an unsteady voice, he resumed:
“Dr. Stanhope, I am about to tell you a tale that
has not passed my lips for years; I am about to mention
names that have long been forbidden to my ears; in short,
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I am about to make a confession, that may cause you to
shrink from me with abhorrence; but in mercy, I pray
you, bring not my own guilty acts to bear upon that gentle
being by your side! who is as pure as truth, and as innocent
of the wrong as the angels in Heaven.”
“Be your deeds what they may, Mr. Clendennan, no
wrong that you have done, shall weigh against the love I
bear your noble daughter!” said Stanhope, with a kind of
proud enthusiasm.
“God bless you, for those words!” exclaimed Sir Walter.
“Look up, sweet Rosalind! be not cast down!” whispered
the lover, throwing an arm around her slender and
graceful form. “Remember, dearest,” he continued, “we
are pledged to each other, for weal or for woe!”
She trembled, and wept, but did not reply, and the
Knight continued:
“In the first place, it is proper I should inform you, of
what probably you are ignorant, that I am of noble birth,
and still hold the title of Baronet.”
Stanhope gave a start of surprise.
“But I am no better for that,” pursued the wretched
man, “and have long since cast aside the hollow honor. In
this glorious land of freedom, you may thank your God,
every honest man is noble, and needs no long descent from
a blood-stained favorite of some grasping, semi-barbarous
monarch, to give him equal rank among the proudest of
those who rule the state and govern one of the mightiest
nations of earth! No man, sir, is the better for a title;
and since I came to this country, I have disused mine. By
his heart and his intellect should every man be known and
judged, and not by that which comes from an ancestor,
however worthy that ancestor may have been. It was
wise in the framers of your constitution, aiming as they
did at liberty and equal rights, to sweep away the
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worthless, though gilded fabric, which supports monarchy—
namely: hollow titles and hereditary possessions. It belongs
to the march of progress, for every man to regard
every man as his equal, and no man as his superior; and
it is this true principle, instilled into the youth of this
country, which makes each generation a generation of freemen,
and worthy successors of those who have passed
away; and it is this proud feeling of independence and
equal rights, united with a general education of the masses,
which will perpetuate the liberties of this mighty country,
till thrones, monarchs, and titles, shall be known as things
which were, and as belonging to an age of comparative
barbarism and physical rule. Sir! America has the proud
distinction of giving to the world the first true liberty
which mankind has ever enjoyed; and the time is coming—
I may not live to see it, nor you—but the time is surely
coming, when she will give benign laws to the down-trodden
of the old world, as she now gives hope; and when to say,
`I am an American,' will be a greater honour, than to
say, `I am an Emperor!' ”
The Knight paused, and for a moment a kind of enthusiastic
glow rested on his care-worn, haggard features;
but this was quickly succeeded by a shade of gloom; and
he added, in an altered tone:
“Ah me! I have digressed, and must return to a painful
subject.”
He then went on to detail to the young physician those
terrible events, already known to the reader, which had so
embittered the closing years of his life, and which were
now, through deep, unceasing remorse, dragging him down,
step by step, to the cold and silent tomb. Stanhope
listened, with painful interest, without interruption or
reply, till Sir Walter had concluded his sad tale. Once,
when the Knight first mentioned the name of Norbury,
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he gave a start of surprise; and his lips parted as if about
to speak; but he bethought himself in the same instant,
and made no remark.
“And now, sir, that you know my secret,” said the
Baronet, in conclusion; “now that you know, from my own
lips, what a wretch I have been and am; now that you
know the source of my misery, and the unhappiness of my
sweet daughter—who has, may Heaven bless her! ever
clung to me with the most unselfish affection, and striven
to lift the desolation from my guilt-burdened soul; now
that you know all—what say you now? Are your feelings
still unchanged toward my gentle Rosalind!”
“No, dear sir!” replied Newton, with a manly glow,
as he turned to the trembling Rosalind, and gently took,
her hand—“my feelings are not unchanged—for now do I
love her more than ever; and it shall be the study of my
life, not only to make her happy, but, if possible, to cause
her to forget she has ever known sorrow!”
“God bless you!” returned the Knight, with a moist eye
and quivering lip; and he turned aside his face, to conceal
his emotion.
At this moment, pale with excitement, Mrs. Wyndham
burst into the room.
“At last,” she cried, “we have a clue to the robbery!”
and to the utter astonishment of all, she displayed the
missing necklace of Rosalind.
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CHAPTER XXVI. BEGINNING OF THE END.
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With an exclamation of surprise, both Newton and
Rosalind instantly started to their feet; while Sir Walter,
convulsively clutching the jewels which Mrs. Wyndham extended
to him, exclaimed:
“Speak! explain!”
“I found this in the box of a Jew pedlar, who was showing
his wares to the servants,” replied the Governess.
“Bring him here! bring him here!” cried the Knight,
fairly breathless with excitement.
“Quick! quick! show him to me!” exclaimed Stanhope.
“This way, then!” rejoined the Governess; and she
darted from the room, followed by the excited lover.
In a few minutes, Dr. Stanhope returned, fairly dragging
into the library the terrified pedlar. He was a
small man, about thirty years of age, with black eyes, hair,
and beard, and a very dark complexion. He hastily
glanced at the Knight, Rosalind, Mrs. Wyndham, and Stanhope,
and then at the servants, who now filled the doorway,
and an expression of cowardly despair settled upon his
features, as one who felt convinced that his last hour had
come.
“Speak, Jew!” said the Baronet, holding up the necklace—
“where got you this?”
“I puyed it—so helps me Fader Abr'ams!” answered the
pedlar.
“Who sold it to you?” demanded the Knight.
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“Vell, it vash a mans—so helps me Moses!”
“Are you sure you did not steal it?” cried Stanhope.
“Yaas—I knows I paid monish for it.”
“Let me explain!” said Sir Walter, who saw how
frightened the pedlar really was, and thought he might the
sooner arrive at the truth, by letting the Jew know what
had occurred, and what was really required of him.
“A few weeks ago,” he went on, “my house was robbed
in the night, of many valuable articles, of which this is
one; and a little girl, living with us at the time, was
taken away, and has never since been heard of. We fear
she has been murdered, and we are anxious to trace out the
burglar and homicide. If you bought this, as you say,
you must tell of whom you purchased it, or we shall be
compelled to hand you over to the police. Now make a
clean breast of all you know; and if you are innocent, you
shall not be harmed.”
“I ish innocents ash de pabes as vash never porns!” replied
the Jew.
“Well, speak!” cried Stanhope, impatiently; “and to
the point! Do you know where you got that necklace?”
“Yaas—I knows de mans himshelf—he ish a constaples.”
“Who is he? where is he? can you show him to me?”
demanded Stanhope.
“Yaas—you comes mit me, and I shows him.”
“Quick, then—let us begone!” rejoined the young
physician.
“Take the carriage, Doctor,” cried the Knight—“and
let not the Jew escape! Quick, John, (to the coachman,
who was standing at the door,) put to the horses! And,
Stanhope, drive first to a Magistrate's, and get out a warrant,
and take along an officer, for the apprehension of
the guilty party. Oh!” he continued, rising in great
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excitement—“at last we may unravel this awful mystery!
I would willingly give half my fortune to see that child returned!”
“If in human power, and Ellen Norbury lives, you shall
see her restored to you!” cried Stanhope.
“Who? who did you say?” fairly shrieked Sir Walter.
In the excitement of the moment, the surname of the
little orphan had passed the unguarded lips of Newton, and
he now trembled for the consequences.
“I mean little Ellen,” he hastened to reply, first turning
pale with alarm, and then flushing with confusion.
“But you said Ellen Norbury, sir!” cried the Baronet,
catching hold of his daughter, to support his tottering
frame, and looking wildly from one to another of those
present. “Did he not? did he not? did he not?” he
hastily demanded, appealing to each in turn.
“Pray, dear father, be calm!” said Rosalind, gently.
“I was thinking of Norbury, sir!” rejoined Stanhope—
“for you had yourself so recently mentioned the name.”
“Don't try to deceive me, sir!” cried the Baronet,
almost wild with excitement. “And you are trying to do
so now, sir! I can see it in your tell-tale face. Speak!
is her last name Norbury?”
Newton glanced despairingly at Rosalind, who hastened
to answer:
“Dear, dear father, be calm; try and be composed,
and I will answer.”
“Well then—well then—speak!”
“Her last name is Norbury.”
“The daughter of William?”
“Yes, dear father.”
“The niece of the murdered James!” shrieked the
Knight. “Oh! great God! how wonderful are thy mysterious
workings! Ah! I saw it, but did not know it—I
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felt it, but did not know it;” and staggering back, he
sunk down on the lounge, and groaned. “Why did you
not tell me this when she was with us?” he asked, after a
short but painful silence.
“Because I was afraid it would be too great a shock for
you, dear father!” answered Rosalind; “and you know
you had forbidden the mention of the name of Norbury in
your hearing.”
“I am to blame for all this!” said Stanhope, with deep
self-reproach.
“No, sir!” returned the Baronet, quickly; “the blame
is not with you, but with me—the crime was not with you,
but with me. Rosalind, do you think I did any thing to
drive her away from me?”
“No, dear father—no—I know you did not.”
“Oh, God! restore her to me!” he ejaculated; “and
let me make some atonement to the living for the wrongs
done to the dead! Go, Newton Stanhope; and spare
neither time nor money, to clear up this terrible mystery!
Here, take this necklace—it may be of service. If she
be among the living, and you bring her not, then never
hope to look upon my face again.”
And as Stanhope hurried from the library, with the
pedlar, the Knight added, in a feeble tone:
“This is a strange secret I have learned, and it affects
me much, Rosalind. I feel weak—very weak. Help me
to bed.”
Rosalind, with a sad heart—for she trembled at the probable
result of so severe a shock to her father's nervous
system—assisted him into an adjoining room; and the
moment he touched the bed, he said:
“Now go, my daughter—I would be alone, till Dr. Stanhope
returns.”
“But, dear father, you are far from well,” replied
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Rosalind; “will you not permit me to visit you, every hour,
to learn how you feel?”
“Yes, Rosalind, to please you, I will.”
“Thank you, dear, dear father!” returned the noble
daughter; and throwing her arms around his neck, she
kissed him, and retired.
“Heaven bless her!” murmured the Knight, as she
disappeared.
Dr. Stanhope paced the court impatiently, till the carriage
was ready; when he hurried the pedlar into it, and
sprung in after him. The driver now received his instructions,
and drove with all speed to the office of a
Magistrate, where Newton lodged his complaint, and, on
the affidavit of the Jew, got a warrant issued for the apprehension
of Patrick Cafferty. An officer to serve it was
readily procured, and the parties were rapidly driven to
the residence of the guilty Constable. It was not far
from the hour of noon; and it so chanced that Pat, having
nothing better to do, had just come home to get his dinner.
The officer, leaving Stanhope and the Jew in the carriage,
knocked at the door, and Pat himself opened it, looking as
innocent as it was in the nature of things for so mean a
little man to look. He recognised the officer with a smile;
for the presence of one of his profession, so far from giving
him the least alarm, excited some brilliant anticipations of
a clever undertaking, in which he himself might probably
figure as the “dread constabble of the law.”
“The top of the morning to ye, Misther Barlow, if it's
not too late for that same!” he said. “And, sure, it's
tak'ng a ride ye is, in style, jist!” he added, glancing at
the carriage.
“Yes, and a fine day for a ride it is, Mr. Cafferty,”
replied Barlow. “I would like you to come with me.”
“Arrah, now! and it's mesilf as was t'inking that same,
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so I was. It's wanting me sarvices, ye is, Misther Barlow?”
and he winked knowingly.
“Exactly so.”
“It's me dinner time, so it is; but it's mesilf as'll not
mind that now. I'll git me hat, jist; and lave the owld
woman and childers to spile the praties, so I will.”
He hastened for his hat; and the next minute entered
the carriage, followed by Officer Barlow.
“Agh!” said Pat, as his eye fell on the Jew pedlar;
“so it's yersilf, is it, that's the tief now? Och! sure, and
wasn't it knowing, I was, ye'd come to this at last, ye
vagabond!”
“You ish more tiefs ash me!” replied the pedlar, indignantly.
“Shut up now, ye spalpeen!” cried Pat, savagely.
“Sure, and it's down below ye'll be afther going, for yer
insults to mesilf, the dread constabble of the law, whilst
doing me duthy to me counthry, so ye will!”
“Stop!” said Barlow: “I will have no quarrelling here.
We shall soon see who is the thief.”
Pat Cafferty leaned proudly back on his seat, and looked
triumphantly at the pedlar, as much as to say:
“D'ye hear that now, ye spalpeen?”
Arrived at the Magistrate's office, the whole party entered
the little room together, Pat Cafferty evidently
swelling with importance.
“Good day to your Honor!” he said, making what he
considered a very dignified bow.
“Good day, Patrick!” replied the Alderman. And
then immediately added: “This is a very serious charge
against you, sir!”
“Aginst me, your Honor?” exclaimed the Constable, in
astonishment. “It's aginst the Jew, it's like, your Honor
manes, now?”
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“No, sir, against yourself!” rejoined the Alderman,
sternly. “And the more shame to you, if the charge be
true; for it always makes me blush for human depravity,
when I see a man, authorized to execute the laws, breaking
them himself! The poor, starving wretch, who steals
bread to appease the hunger of himself and family, I can
excuse in my heart, even when obliged, by the law, to
commit him to prison; but I can find no excuse, and no
sympathy, for a man in your position, who commits a
felony.”
Pat turned pale, and looked inquiringly at Barlow.
“You are under arrest,” said that officer, “and here is
the warrant for your apprehension.”
“You are accused,” pursued the Magistrate, “of felonously
taking these jewels from the house of Walter Clendennan;”
and he displayed, to the astonished gaze of Pat
Cafferty, the necklace of Rosalind.
“And sure, your Honor, who accuses mesilf of that
same?” faltered Pat, beginning to grow much alarmed.
This gentleman—Dr. Stanhope—has made oath, that
this necklace, with much other valuable property, was
felonously taken, in the night, from the house of the person
named; and Mr. Isaacs, here, a pedlar, has also made oath,
that he purchased it from you, some three weeks ago.”
“He's a Jew, your Honor, and a dape liar, so he is!”
rejoined Pat, with a half resolve to brave it out.
“That may be,” said the Alderman; “but his testimony
is good for the present; and in the meantime I must hold
you to answer to the charge.”
“Will your Honor permit me to say a few words to Mr.
Cafferty?” now inquired Stanhope.
“Certainly, sir—certainly.”
“Mr. Cafferty,” said the physician, addressing the
Constable, “I do not know whether you are guilty or not;
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but one thing is certain—these valuable jewels were felonously
taken from the house of Mr. Clendennan, as his
Honor has informed you; and I will add, what his Honor
has not told you, that a little girl, some ten or eleven years
of age, who was living with the family at the time, has
ever since been missing, and it is supposed she has been
murdered; and as these jewels may lead to the detection
of a burglar, if not a homicide, and also to the clearing up
of a terrible mystery, you see how important it is that we
should trace them to the hand which took them. Now, if
you, which is not unreasonable to suppose, received them
from some person, not knowing them to be stolen property,
you will probably clear yourself, and further the ends of
justice, by stating from whom you got them. Do not
think,” he added, as he saw the Constable hesitate, “that
this affair will blow over lightly; for it involves the fate
of a child who has wealthy friends; and now that we are
on the right track, no time nor money will be spared, in
the investigation of the mystery, until her fate shall be
known.”
“And sure, and what's her name, jist?” inquired Pat,
scratching his head, and looking a good deal perplexed.
“Ellen Norbury,” answered Stanhope.
“Och! sure, and she's the tief hersilf, jist!” cried Pat,
thrown off his guard.
“Impossible!” said Stanhope.
“Troth! and it's thrue, now, so it is!”
“How do you know?”
“Agh! and wasn't it mesilf as arristed the likes of her,
I'm axing? and didn't I tak her down below, now?”
“Is she alive, and in prison?” cried Stanhope, breathless
with excitement.
“Sure, and she is that same.”
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“Thank God! ejaculated the other, fervently: “at last
the poor child is found.”
“Then I suppose you received the necklace from the
child in question?” said the Alderman, addressing the
Constable.
Pat, seeing himself caught on his own confession, turned
all sorts of colors—or rather, all shades of one color—and
after looking as much meaner than Pat Cafferty in general,
as Pat Cafferty in general looked meaner than an honest
man, he stammered:
“Sure, your Honor—she—she gave it to—to mesilf—to
lit let her go, jist.”
“Which you were too conscientious to do?”
“Yis, your Honor—that's it, your Honor.”
“But you were not too conscientious to receive the
property, believing it to be stolen, and dispose of it for
your own benefit!” pursued the Magistrate, sternly.
“Patrick Cafferty, this is a shameful business, and you are
a disgrace to your office! I shall hold you in two thousand
dollars bail, to answer at court.”
“Is it possible, your Honor, for me to get this child
out of prison at once?” inquired the young physician,
anxiously.
“What was the charge against her, Patrick?” demanded
the Alderman of the Constable.
“She was put down for a vagrant, jist, I'm t'inking,”
answered Pat, dolefully.
“It will be an easy matter, then, to get her released,”
said the magistrate to Stanhope; and he was about to give
him instructions how to proceed, when Mr. Shelden entered
the office.
“Ah! Mr. Shelden,” cried the Doctor, joyfully—“you
are the very man I want to see.”
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“Allow me to return the compliment,” said Shelden,
with a quiet smile.
“At last I have news of Ellen Norbury.”
“Indeed!”
“She is in the Moyamensing Prison.”
“I know it.”
“You have heard, then?”
“I saw her yesterday.”
“You did not tell me!”
“I have not seen you since, and I intended an agreeable
surprise for you.”
“How shall we get her out?”
“I have her discharge in my hand.”
“Explain!”
In visiting the prison yesterday, I came across a sweet
little creature; and you may judge of my surprise, on
learning that she was the very one for whom we have been
so anxiously searching! This morning, I waited upon the
villainous Alderman—who committed her for no other
crime than poverty—and by paying him his extortions,
have obtained her discharge. I am now on my way to set
her free.”
“Quick, then—let us go—I have a carriage at the
door.”
“In a moment.”
Mr. Shelden now addressed a few words to the Alderman;
who answered, “Certainly, certainly, sir!” and immediately
placed his signature to a paper which the other
handed him.
“Now then, Dr. Stanhope, I am at your service,” said
Shelden; and both hurried from the office.
The Jew was required to find five hundred dollars bail,
to appear against Cafferty; which he very readily procured,
and went about his business. But the miserable Con
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[figure description] Page 303.[end figure description]
stable was not so fortunate. He wrote to his best friend,
Alderman McGrabby, telling him how he was situated, and
imploring him to come to his release. The Alderman came,
but not to his release; for on learning the whole particulars,
he not only refused to enter the required security, but
gave vent to his outraged feelings in a long strain of the
most virtuous indignation—enough, in fact, to have lasted
any ordinarily moral individual a life-time.
The truth was, Pat Cafferty, in the opinion of Felix
McGrabby, had been guilty of a most enormous crime—not
in stealing the necklace from little Ellen—for that, in his
view, was all right and proper for a Constable to do—but
in stealing, and keeping, and selling it, without making a
fair division of the spoil. For this crime of ingratitude,
Pat soon found himself snugly confined in a snug little cell
of the County Prison; where, for several days, he was left
to ruminate upon his chances of ultimately becoming one
of the chief functionaries of the District of Moyamensing.*
But unfortunately for the public good, the vile Constable
was bailed out all too soon, by McGrabby himself—who,
being guilty of some nefarious transactions, thought it the
better policy to be friends with one who might possibly take
it into his head to turn state's evidence. We may add in
this connection, that, what between scoundrels in office and
out, colinked in the common cause of party, Patrick
Cafferty was never brought to trial for the larceny of the
necklace; but being one night detected in a daring burglary,
of his own planning, he was arrested, committed, tried, and
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[figure description] Page 304.[end figure description]
convicted, and is now, we are happy to state, serving out
his time in the Eastern Penitentiary, where there is still
room for a few more of the same stamp. He narrowly
escaped being pardoned by a notorious Governor, whose
term of office fortunately expired the day before his conviction.
Felix McGrabby still lives, outside the walls of a
prison; but eagle eyes are upon him, and the voice of an
outraged public has startled him into a show of propriety.
Let him beware! for another misstep may plunge him down
a dark abyss.
eaf465n8* At the date of our story, the County of Philadelphia was divided
into numerous districts and towns, each having its own municipal regulations,
while the city proper itself occupied a very limited space. The
uniting of all these now constitutes what is termed the Consolidated
City—which is probably, in its area of ground, the largest city in the
world.
CHAPTER XXVII. THE CURTAIN FALLS.
Swiftly round turned the wheels of the carriage, that
bore the benevolent Marcus Shelden, and the eager Newton
Stanhope, to the rescue of the bitterly wronged and innocent
little orphan.
“There is one thing that grieves me,” said the Doctor
to his companion, as they rode along. “If this child is
innocent, how came she to be arrested, with the stolen
necklace in her possession?”
Shelden smiled, as he replied:
“If you knew, my friend, how many drones of officers
are prowling about, seeking for victims to fleece, you would
hardly be surprised, to find as many innocent as guilty
persons in their clutches. But rest easy concerning your
little friend! I have heard her story; and it is enough
for me to say, I would stake my life on her truth, purity,
and innocence.”
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Arrived at the prison, the great gates were thrown open,
and the carriage slowly entered within the high, massive
walls.
“Here are discharges for Ellen Norbury, Nabob Hunchy,
and two others,” said Mr. Shelden to one of the prison
officers, as he descended from the carriage, and handed
several papers to a gentleman standing near. “This way,
Doctor,” he continued: “I know you are anxious to behold
the little prisoner.”
They hurried from the building they were in, across an
open garden of beautiful flowers, and entering the female
department, soon stood beside the little orphan. She was
seated outside her cell, on one of the long corridors, with
some needle-work in her hand, upon which, at her own
request, she was employing her time, for the benefit of the
kind Matron who had charge of her. So busily was she
engaged, and so abstracted in thought, that Shelden, Stanhope,
and the Matron drew close to her side, before she
perceived them. She looked up with a start; and the
moment her eyes rested upon the pleasant features of
Shelden, she dropped her work, and sprung to her feet,
with an exclamation of joy. She looked pale and care-worn;
but her face and hands were clean, her hair neatly
arranged, and her dress was tidy.
“Ellen,” said Mr. Shelden, in a kind, gentle tone,
taking her hand in his, “I have succeeded in doing what I
said I would. You are now free; and this gentleman has
come to take you to your friends, who are very anxious to
see you.”
“Oh! sir,” faltered the little orphan, trembling all over
with newly awakened hope and joy—“am I to go and see
dear Rosalind?”
“Yes, my dear child!” replied Stanhope, quickly; “and
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you will find her eager to clasp you in her arms, and to
her heart.”
Overcome with joy, little Ellen sunk down on her seat,
and burst into tears; and it was several minutes before she
could recover sufficient composure to prepare for her departure.
“Good bye, and God bless you!” said the Matron, with
tears in her eyes, as she bestowed an affectionate parting
kiss. “If you win all hearts, as you have won mine, a
happy future awaits you.”
“Heaven bless you!” said Stanhope to Shelden, as they
separated at the carriage.
“I feel it does, sir, in every good act I perform!” was
the characteristic reply of one who still lives and still
labors for the good of his fellow-beings.
Ellen leaned back in the carriage, as it whirled through
the streets, and rolled over the pavements, bearing her
from a prison to a palace—from the dark abodes of crime
and misery, to the bright abodes of innocence and happiness.
She sat as one in a trance—speechless, motionless,
and pale as a lily. Was she in a dream? Would she
awake to new sufferings—new horrors?
We pray, nevermore!
The carriage stopped in the court of Sir Walter's mansion.
The door opened, and the beautiful face of Rosalind,
like the beautiful face of some angel in a vision, appeared to
the view of the sweet little orphan. There was a cry of joy—
perhaps more than one—and little Ellen was in the arms
of Rosalind—sweet Rosalind—Cousin Rosalind—and she
was sobbing on her breast—and their tears were mingling.
And the dream went on.
Hours passed—hours which seemed but minutes—
and somehow the once poor, friendless, and persecuted
little orphan, found herself seated upon Sir Walter's knee,
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and relating her own sad tale; and the Knight was weeping;
and Rosalind was weeping; and there were others
around weeping; and little Ellen was weeping—though
she scarcely knew why, for she felt very, very happy.
And all the tears were tears which brought more joy
than sorrow to the sympathizing hearts who wept; and
there was sunlight in the room.
And still the dream went on.
Days passed—days which seemed but different scenes in
the same bright, beautiful dream—days which seemed but
links in the same bright chain of happiness; and soft
southern breezes kissed the brows of some who had known
sorrows; and the bright sun shed beams of joy; and the
bright leaves waved; and the bright flowers bloomed;
and the sweet birds sung.
And still the dream went on.
Weeks passed—weeks which seemed but days.
And still the dream went on.
Months passed—but months brought a change. The
breezes blew cold from the north; and the sun hid his face
behind clouds; and the leaves withered; and the flowers died;
and the birds departed; and Sir Walter Clendennan “slept
with his fathers.” Rosalind was now an orphan; but not
a lonely orphan—not a friendless orphan. The death-bed
of a father was the bridal altar of a daughter; and the
Knight died happy, blessing his children.
And still the dream went on.
Months passed—and months brought still another
change. There was a voyage across mighty waters; and
a view of great cities; and strange sights and strange
faces—strange manners and strange customs—strange
countries and strange languages—gorgeous scenes and
gloomy—and a gladsome return.
And still the dream went on.
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Months passed—and months brought still another
change. And now the poor, despised little orphan was the
acknowledged heiress of a princely fortune; and proud
mothers bent to kiss her; and proud daughters sought her
company; and the fastidious praised her beauty; and the
good loved her; and the poor of two countries remembered
her in their prayers; for now she held a golden talisman,
and could find her way to all hearts.
And still the dream went on—bright and beautiful in
the main—darkening a little at times—but with brilliant
lights rising over shadows.
Years passed—and years bring us to the present. Ellen
Norbury still lives, in the bloom of girlhood—a bright,
lovely, angelic being. Her home is still with her beloved
Cousin Rosalind; and Dr. Stanhope, now eminent in his
profession, calls her sister; and little Ellen Stanhope—a
bright little girl, with blue eyes and sunny curls—always
smiles at her coming, and looks sad at her going forth.
Neither time, nor fortune, nor circumstances, have made
any change in her gentle disposition; and night and morning
sweet orisons arise, from her grateful and happy heart,
to the Throne of Grace. Sunlight falls around her steps—
God keep her from shadows!
And so the dream goes on.
And now, what shall we say of those who have played
dark parts in our drama of life? It was but the other
day, in company with Mr. Shelden and a distinguished
friend from a distant city, we paid a visit to the Infected
District, and saw the vile groggery of Jimmy Quiglan
closed. We traced the Dwarf to an awful den, and
entered, and found the monster still living. If the inner
man is no better than the outer man appears, then Heaven
have mercy on his soul! He was surrounded by the most
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cut-throat-looking gang we ever beheld; and we left with
a shudder, and breathed freer when we reached the open
air. We entered a Mission-House—a rough, dark, and
gloomy place, with low ceiling and many benches—and
learned that the Gospel was here preached to the poor,
without distinction of dress or color, age or sex; and we
thanked God, that we had found Christian hearts laboring
in so dark a field, and obeying the commands of their
Great Master. We learned, on inquiry, that the Hunchback
had recently left the city, on a vessel bound for a
southern clime. What the fate of the poor boy will be,
Heaven only knows. Of Mulwrack, we know nothing beyond
what we have stated. John M'Callan is in prison,
accused of a dark crime; and his mother sits in sorrow,
and most bitterly deplores her too free indulgence to his
youthful passions. The old hag, Mother Grimsby, is
dead; and her vile den is now occupied by three poor
families, who try to earn an honest living. And last,
though not least, Deacon Pinchbeck is now struggling with
poverty—a poor, forlorn, miserable old wretch—wifeless
and childless—accursed of Heaven—despised of man.
Surely, the way of the transgressor is hard!
And now, kind reader, adieu. Our picture has been
one of light and shade; but the light falls brightly on
those who have done well—on those who are worthy of
love—and there may it linger forever!
THE END.
