University of Virginia Library

27. 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.”

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

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,

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.

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

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!