 | CHAPTER XIII.
A DEN OF INFAMY. Ellen Norbury, or, The adventures of an orphan |  |
13. CHAPTER XIII.
A DEN OF INFAMY.
It was with a sinking heart, as we have said, that poor
little Ellen heard the door close behind her; while the
rattling of bolts and chains, assured her that it was made
fast against egress or ingress. But still, though much
terrified, she did not faint; and presently she felt her
nerves strengthened with a kind of desperation, and a
secret influence for which she could not account. Strange
as it may seem to those who have not made the human system
a study under all the various emotions of hope, joy, grief,
up from beneath its weight of despondency, and become
comparatively light and buoyant, infusing strength and
vigor into her weary body and limbs. In a word, she
began to feel strong and resolute, at a moment when one
might have reasonably expected to see her sinking in dismay
beneath the stroke of a new misfortune.
As soon as the door was bolted, John M'Callan removed
his hand from the mouth of Ellen, and held a hurried conversation,
in a low tone, with the person who had admitted
him. Then taking hold of Ellen's hand, he said:
“Come, my dear—let us go up stairs, and find a pleasanter
place than this here. Don't be afeard—nobody's
going to hurt you.”
“I'm not afraid, sir!” replied Ellen, in a tone that surprised
even herself—it was so severely calm, and cold, and
firm.
“Why, hello!” said John, as she placed her hand in his,
and he discovered that it exhibited not even the slightest
tremor. “Why, if you're not one of the birds, may I be
—!” we will not repeat his oath. “Can't fool this
child! I knowed all the time you was playing possum.
Come along.”
Saying this, he conducted Ellen up a steep flight of
narrow stairs, in the dark, the attendant following close
behind. On reaching the top, they made one or two turns
through a narrow corridor, when a light from an open
door, in which stood three or four figures, peering out, enabled
them to see clearly the rest of their way to the
apartment of revelry.
“Fall back there!” said John, in an authoritative tone;
“and make room for the Queen of Beauty!”
Instantly the figures disappeared; and the next moment
little Ellen, with her hand firmly clasped in the hand of
apartment, which, together with its occupants, we must
pause to describe.
The room was large, but with a low ceiling, and was
lighted by two very respectable chandeliers, which burned
candles instead of gas. The rough walls were gaudily
papered, and disfigured with French prints—some in
frames and some without—many of which were hardly fit
for the modest eye of purity. The floor was without a
carpet, but sanded; and around all sides of the apartment,
leaving a vacancy in the middle, were arranged settees,
chairs, benches and tables. The occupants were about
twenty-five in number, of both sexes, ranging from ten to
five-and-twenty years of age. Some were standing, some
sitting, some lounging, several were smoking, and all had
been drinking—for on every table were tumblers, some
quite empty, and some partly filled with liquors of various
kinds. There was nothing like order or respectability in
the assembled company—which, with few exceptions, appeared
to be of the lowest and most depraved class. The
girls were characterized by a premature oldness of look
and boldness of manner, and were flauntingly dressed in a
style that showed that excessive modesty was not one of
their prominent virtues; while all the youth—some with
coats on and some without—had the hardened looks of
dissipation and vice—with eyes red and bleared, and faces
swollen and weather-beaten. In short, the place was a
kind of juvenile hell; and a fiend, in the shape of an old
crone, wrinkled and toothless, with one foot already in the
grave, presided over the establishment. There had been
a dance, interrupted by the knocking of John M'Callan;
and a negro, perched upon a stool in one corner, was now
thrumming the strings of his violin, and waiting to be
called on to strike up his tune anew.
Such was the scene presented to the view of little Ellen,
as she found herself standing on the threshold of the apartment;
and as she saw so many eyes turned upon her, with
a rude, impudent stare, it required all the nerve which had
recently been given her, to keep her from sinking down in
dismay.
“This here,” said John, in a loud tone, as he held little
Ellen by the hand, “I calls the Queen of Beauty—and I
want you all to pay respect to her.”
Most of the company bowed, in a kind of mocking homage,
and then gave way to a hearty laugh.
“She's a mighty little queen!” said one.
“But a — pretty one!” said another.
“Nothing to brag on, though!” put in one of the girls,
tossing her head in disdain.
“Go along, Bess—you're jealous.”
“Not of her—the minx!”
“Where'd she come from?”
“Go it, John!”
“Where'd you pick her up, Mac?”
“Got on silks—whew!”
“I'll put up a quarter agin her, John, and play you a
game of old sledge!”
“I'll stand treat for the first dance with her!”
“And I another for the second!”
“Let's drink to her any how!”
“Bravo! here's your health, Miss Queen!”
“Hurrah for the dance!”
“Go it, old Ebony! come! strike up!”
Such were some of the exclamations and remarks, from
different parties, that greeted the ear of little Ellen, as
John M'Callan led her forward to a seat. Poor child!
she saw she was entrapped into a den of infamy; and she
mentally called on God for protection and deliverance, and
disgusting scene of trial.
“She's a beauty, ain't she? and all beauties is welcome
to my nice home!” said a tremulous, cracked voice, followed
by a fiendish chuckle.
Ellen started at the sound of that voice—it had something
so awful, almost unearthly, in its tones; and on
turning to the speaker, she was startled at the appearance
of the old hag already mentioned, who was the person who
had admitted John and herself into the house, and had followed
and entered behind them, and now stood near her,
stooped and withered, grinning, and blinking her small,
dark, bleared eyes, and looking more like one of the
witches of the heath, who foretold Macbeth his destiny,
than a human being. Ellen felt a thrill of horror run
through her slender frame, as she looked upon that toothless
crone—such a thrill of horror as one would experience
on finding the cold body of a deadly serpent crawling over
the naked flesh; and she turned her gaze away, and strove
to shut out from the mind's eye the repulsive vision. But
it was in vain. The image of the repulsive crone was
stamped upon her young and guileless heart, and it remained
and haunted her for years.
“Come,” said John to Ellen—“there's a-going to be a
first-rate dance, and I'll take you for a partner.”
“I never dance,” replied Ellen, quietly.
“Pshaw! what's the use of your talking that ther' way?
Come along!”
“I never dance,” answered Ellen, more firmly, drawing
back, and secretly shuddering—though she managed to appear
calm and collected.
“But I say you must dance!” returned John, half
angrily, taking hold of her arm, as if to urge her forward.
“I don't know how, sir—I never danced in my life,”
replied Ellen, holding back.
“Well, git up here, and I'll larn ye then—though I
know you're fibbing all the time,” said John.
`Oh! please excuse me, sir! I'd rather not.”
“But I say you shall!” cried John, now really angry;
“and when I say a thing, it's got to be—mind that!” and
again he pulled her by the arm, and this time so roughly,
that poor little Ellen, overcome by her feelings—her
lonely, friendless, unprotected situation—burst into tears.
“Oh yes—cry!” growled John—“that's always the way
with you gals, when us fellers wants you to do something
you don't jest want to.”
“Oh! look at the poor baby!” exclaimed two or three
of the girls, who sat near Ellen, and who naturally felt
jealous of her; and they closed with a mocking, heartless
laugh.
“Shall it have some cake, the deary?” said one.
“Or a bit of sugar candy, for its 'ittle self?” laughed
another.
“Shall it go to its dear mamma?” mocked a third.
At the mention of the sacred name of mother, little
Ellen gave vent to a fresh burst of grief, and cried and
sobbed as if her poor little heart would break.
“Oh, come!” said a tall youth, about the age of John,
and who seemed to be less hardened in vice than his associates—or
perhaps had the germ of something better in his
heart, not all defiled: “come! don't be too hard on her
at first!”
The words were uttered in a conciliating tone, and in a
tone of sympathy; and as they fell on the ear of little
Ellen, she looked up through her tears, and saw a kindly
expression in the blue eyes of the boy, who was standing in
front of her, and gazing steadily at her.
“Henry Crawford, you'll please mind your own business,
and leave me attend to mine!” said John M'Callan,
almost fiercely.
“Not if you make it your business to abuse that there
little girl, I won't!” returned the other with spirit, his eyes
flashing.
“Who's abused her?” cried John.
“Why don't you let her alone then?”
“'Cause I don't choose to.”
At this juncture the fiddler struck up, and the dance
commenced; but as only a part of the company could occupy
the floor at the same time, most of the others began
to gather around Ellen and the two excited youths, all
anxious to hear and see—for there was a great probability,
from present appearances, that the matter would end in
a fight. To prevent this, the old hag came shuffling in between
young M'Callan and Crawford, and in a whining,
cracked voice, said:
“Come, come, young gentlemen—be easy now—be
easy—no quarrelling; the chick is a nice, good girl—only
give her time to get acquainted like.”
“Old woman, jest mind your business! and get out the
way, will ye?” cried John, savagely; “and what's better,
fetch me some brandy!”
“That's right, my dear!” croaked the crone; “take a
little brandy, and never mind what's been said, my dear.
I'll get it for ye—Mother Grimsby 'll get it for ye, with her
own hands, this very minute, my dear;” and the stooped,
and withered, and toothless old hag shuffled away in haste;
and soon returned with a greenish-looking bottle, which
she declared contained the genuine old Cognac.
John threw down a quarter-dollar, seized the bottle, and
a tumbler that stood on the table by his side, poured out a
third of a glass, and gulped it down; and then setting
friendly to him, to help themselves. Several of both
sexes now advanced to the table, and took a drink, uttering
the while profane and ribald words; but Henry Crawford
and two others stepped back, and held a hurried conversation,
in low tones.
“Why don't you drink?” said John to Ellen; “aint
you friendly to me?”
“Oh! sir, take me away to my friends!” sobbed Ellen;
“remember what your mother told you!”
At this there was a loud laugh of derision from all the
girls near—some five or six in number—and several of
both sexes made comments which we need not repeat.
“I say, young gal,” pursued John, in a savage tone—
“aint you going to drink with me?”
“No, I never drink.”
“Don't drink or dance?” rejoined he, scowling darkly;
“that's a — likely story! You think you can jest do
as you like here, may be—but I'll let you know different,
afore you're much older; and if any body wants to take
it up, there'll be a fight on hand;” and he looked from
under his knitted brows, over to where Crawford was
standing. “Nance,” he said to one of the girls, “jest put
some sugar and water in that ther' glass! There—that'll
do. Now here goes in some brandy,” he continued, pouring
out a small quantity of the vile liquor. “Look you, my
crying beauty—you've got to drink this here decent, or
I'll pour it down your throat! D'ye hear?”
“Oh! sir—remember what your mother told you!” said
Ellen, pleadingly.
“She can jest go to thunder, for an old fool!” rejoined
John, rising and placing himself in front of Ellen, with
the tumbler in his hand. “Come! drink, I say!”
At this moment a loud knock was heard at the outer
stopped in their places, and a deep silence ensued—broken
only at intervals by whispers, or the guarded footsteps of
some of the company, stealing to the door of the apartment
to listen. John placed his tumbler on the table, and quietly
reseated himself—while the old hag hurried away, to answer
the summons for admittance.
A few minutes of anxious suspense ensued; for it sometimes
happened—though we regret to say very rarely—
that the police made a descent upon this house of vile resort,
and arrested all they could find within; and consequently
the parties stood prepared for flight, in case the present
applicant, or applicants, for admission, should prove to be
the dreaded officers of law.
At length those on the watch announced the fact that
all was right; and immediately after, the Hunchback made
his appearance at the door, and was greeted with a mixed
storm of laughter and invectives—during which the fiddler
again struck up, and the dance was resumed.
“Hello, Nob!” called out John, who knew something
of the deformed boy's physical strength and desperate
fighting qualities, and was therefore anxious to secure him
on his side, in case there should be a fracas—for John,
like most other bullies of his stamp, was at heart a paltry
coward, and could only be courageous when supported by
numbers against a few: “Hello, Nob! this way, and take
a drink!—here's brandy that'll make you a gentleman—
some of old Grimsby's best.”
“Thank you, Mr. M'Callan!” returned the Hunchback,
approaching with a smile and a bow—“I never refuse a
good offer. I hold brandy to be the life and soul of man—
victuals, drink, lodging, and washing included.”
He took up the bottle as he spoke, and held it up to the
light—as if to see if the liquor were clear, but in reality
tumbler half-full.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, with affected politeness,
looking round upon the laughing spectators, and nodding
to each—“here's my—”
He stopped suddenly, with an expression of surprise
and slowly set down the glass, with its contents untasted.
His eye, in going round the circle, had encountered the
tearful eyes of little Ellen, fixed earnestly and imploringly
upon him.
“Why, how is this?” he said; “how came my little lady
here?”
At this the bystanders laughed, thinking he spoke in derision,
merely to make a joke; but John, who sat facing
him, fancied he saw something in his eye that implied
serious earnest.
“Your little lady?” John repeated; “what d'ye mean
by that ther', Nob?”
“Oh! take me away from here!” cried Ellen, appealing
to the deformed boy—for she, too, saw that in his eye,
which led her to hope he would stand her friend. “Take
me away from here, I beg of you! You promised to see
me to a nice street, and you didn't do it.”
“That was because you ran away, and I couldn't
find you,” returned the Hunchback; while the different
parties began to crowd around, and become more deeply
interested in the curious turn that matters were taking.
Half-a-dozen speakers now asked half-a-dozen different
questions in the same breath; but the Hunchback kept his
dark eyes fixed upon Ellen, and paid no attention to any
of the others.
“I ran away from where you left me,” said little Ellen,
eagerly, “because I thought I saw a man that I was afraid
of; and I ran into John M'Callan's mother's; and she promised
brought me here, and forced me into this house. Oh! do
—do, now—take me away from here, and let me go back
to my friends, and God will reward you for it!”
“I will!” said the deformed boy, resolutely, the tearful
appeal of the friendless little orphan touching his heart—
which, though enclosed in a rough, ungainly casement, unlike
many others of fair exterior, ever beat sympathetically
for the wronged and oppressed—at least when his
brain was clear of the fumes of the poison which was his
favorite beverage. “I will take you to your friends, if
you've got any—and then I'll get jolly on the strength of
one good act, if I never do another. I promised to see
you to a nice street, my little lady—and drunken Nob
Hunchy always keeps his word when he's sober.”
“'Spect you'll ask my leave, afore you do that ther,' Mr.
Nob?” said John, sullenly. “Mighty pretty airs you're
putting on, 'pon my word! to come here and 'spect to take
away a gal that I've fetched here, without asking my consent,
or the consent of them that's here and paid their
reckoning;” and he looked around to see what effect his
words would produce upon the different parties, so as to
be able to judge how many were likely to stand by him,
in the event of his making a forcible resistance to the design
of the Hunchback. He appeared to receive the
encouragement he expected—for he immediately added, in
a bolder tone, with a bullying air: “If she gits out of this
here house to-night, Mr. Nob, there'll be a fight first, I
can tell you. Aint I in the right, Mother Grimsby?” he
concluded, appealing to the mistress of the establishment,
who had drawn near during the conversation.
“I don't want ye to fight—I don't want ye to fight,”
replied the crone, shaking her head. “And I don't want
the pretty, sweet little beauty to go away from me, who'll
what she intended should be a winning smile, but which her
old, wrinkled face converted into a hideous grin.
“Well, she aint a-going to go away!” rejoined John,
looking fiercely at the Hunchback, whose black eyes began
to gleam with that fiery, sullen light, which should always
be noted as a warning that the possessor is resolved to
conquer or die.
“See here, Nob,” said the old hag, turning to him; “if
I'd a known you was coming in here to raise a fracas,
you'd have staid outside.”
“And if I had,” answered the deformed boy, quietly,
“before this time to-morrow night, the beaks would have
been down on your infernal den!”
“Hear him! hear him!” croaked the old she-fiend, turning
pale with anger and fear.
“Yes, and hear this too!” pursued the Hunchback: “if
this little girl is not allowed to depart with me quietly, I'll
break up this hell of yours, Mother Grimsby, if it costs
me my life!”
“And if you dare to blow on this here place, by —!
it shall cost you your life!” cried John, fiercely, while
several of the others began to grow much excited.
“Look you, John M'Callan!” returned the Hunchback,
fixing his dark eye, with a keen, penetrating glance, upon
the cowardly ruffian, and speaking in that calm, determined
tone, which never fails to produce a marked impression:
“Look you, John! I know you well, and you know me;
and if you dare to lift a hand against me, you shall rue it
to the end of your miserable life!”
On hearing this, John turned pale, and began to grow
nervous; but he had already gone too far to retreat, without
subjecting himself to the raillery of his companions;
and he also felt his drooping courage revive, by the exclamations
around him.
“He's a traitor!” said one.
“A — villain!” cried another.
“Let's break his head, and pitch him into the street!”
vociferated a third.
But the deformed boy stood firm, glancing quickly from
one to the other of the different parties, not one of whom
seemed inclined to be the first to molest him.
“If you let me take that little girl away quietly,” he
said at length, “you'll have no occasion to consider me a
traitor; and I'll save you the trouble of breaking my head
and pitching me into the street—for I'll leave at once, and
never come here again.”
“She can't go with you!” said John, loudly, getting up
and pushing back the cuffs of his sleeves, as if preparing
for a fight. “I've said it, and I'll stick to it!”
The Hunchback made no reply to this; but while he
kept his eyes warily about him, he said to Ellen:
“Come, my little lady—I don't think these boys are so
bad as they pretend—and I can't see why they should
harm you, who have never harmed them.”
As he spoke, he motioned to Ellen to approach him; and
as she tremblingly arose, and attempted to do so, John
M'Callan pushed her rudely back upon the bench, exclaiming:
“Don't you dare to stir, without my leave!”
Scarcely were the words spoken, when, bounding forward
like a ball, the Hunchback struck him in the pit of the
stomach with his head, and sent him clean from the floor
against the wall, where he struck with a dull, heavy sound,
and then fell to the ground like a log. This was done
almost with the quickness of thought; and as the gallant
boy recoiled from the blow he had himself given, he struck
manner, laying him out on the floor—while with his active
fists he knocked in two of the front teeth of a third.
The dance now broke up with the cry of “A fight!” and
several of John's friends made a rush upon Ellen's champion.
But they met with an opposition they did not expect—for
young Crawford, and two or three others, came
to his assistance, and soon the fight became general. The
girls screamed and ran away, with the exception of a few
of the more vicious, who remained to take a part in the
contest. And brutal, bloody, and disgusting it was.
Bottles, tumblers, and every sort of missile that could be
laid hold hold of, were hurled by one combatant at the head
of another—and chairs and tables were broken, and the
fragments freely used.
At length, to stop the melee, some two or three of the
oldest girls—who, along with the frightened old hag, had
fled to the corridor for safety—dashed boldly in and put
out the lights; but still the enraged combatants fought on
in the darkness. At last, a heavy knock, on the outer door,
resounded through the gloomy vacancies of the old building;
and almost immediately the uproarious tumult was
succeeded by a deep silence.
| CHAPTER XIII.
A DEN OF INFAMY. Ellen Norbury, or, The adventures of an orphan | |