University of Virginia Library

2. CHAPTER II.
NEW ADVENTURES.

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 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.

“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

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

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

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.”

“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?”

“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

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.