University of Virginia Library

9. 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 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:

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 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

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

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,

“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?”[1]

“We must be sure and clear the beaks.”[2]

“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;

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[3] all right, Jake?”

“Yes.”

“And your rib-digger?”[4]

“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

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

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

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

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 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:

“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.

“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.

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.