University of Virginia Library

12. CHAPTER XII.
STRANGE QUARTERS.

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.”

“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.”

“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

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

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

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,

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

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

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

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

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.”

“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

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!