 | CHAPTER XX.
THE ARREST. Ellen Norbury, or, The adventures of an orphan |  |
20. 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
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
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,
“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,[1]
jist, ye tief!”
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 Cafferty,
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.”
“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
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!
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 imposing
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
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
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,
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.
| CHAPTER XX.
THE ARREST. Ellen Norbury, or, The adventures of an orphan | |