University of Virginia Library

14. CHAPTER XIV.
THE RECAPTURE.

Little Ellen, who was indirectly the cause of the melee,
as we have shown, had fortunately managed to escape unharmed.
Terrified and half bewildered, she had fled from
the apartment, with several others of her sex, to the narrow
corridor; and had taken occasion, favored by the darkness
here, while the attention of all the rest was occupied by
the fight within, to steal away to the stairs which led down
to the street. Here, dropping upon her knees, she folded
her little hands; and turning her sweet, pretty face, and
tear bedimmed eyes, toward Heaven, prayed earnestly—oh!
so earnestly—that God would send her deliverance from
this awful den of iniquity. She was still here, still kneeling,
and still praying, when there came four heavy knocks
upon the door; and her superstitious nature and excited
state of mind, led her to fancy it an answer to her humble
petition.

Suddenly the idea, that she might now escape, flashed
upon her brain, and fairly made her dizzy with hope; and
springing to her feet, she darted down the steep, narrow
stairs, with the light step of a fairy, and concealed herself
near the door—so that, in the event of its being opened,
she might rush out, and trust the rest to Providence.

In something like a minute from the first summons, four
distinct, heavy knocks were again bestowed upon the door,
by what appeared to be the fist of some one standing with
out—and then little Ellen could hear the gruff voice of a

man, grumbling and cursing. Presently there was a
creaking of the old stairs, as of some one descending; and
then the cracked, tremulous voice of the old woman was
heard asking:

“Who's there, who's there, at this unseasonable hour
of the night, disturbing honest people? and what d'ye
want?”

“It's me, you old she-wolf!” growled the person outside;
“and you'd best open the door, afore I split it
open.”

“Is that you, Jimmy Quiglan?” inquired the old crone.

“Yes, it's me—now unbolt—quick!”

“In a minute, Jimmy—in a minute,” rejoined the old
hag, as she began to fumble away at the fastenings. “Oh!
I'm so glad you've come—the young rascals have been
having such a fight up stairs—dear me!”

“It's a — pity they didn't smash in your old head!”
responded Jimmy, savagely, as the door swung back as far
as the chain would let it, while Mother Grimbsy peered
cautiously out, to be certain that all was right.

Poor little Ellen's chance of escape was now at hand;
and she stole cautiously up behind the old woman, her
little heart almost beating audibly, while she fairly held
her breath, and trembled from head to foot with the contending
emotions of hope and fear.

“Come! down with the chain, you old fool! it's nobody
but me,” growled Jimmy.

The chain was now unfastened, and the door swung half
open, still held by Mother Grimsby; and as Jimmy entered,
little Ellen shot past him, and found herself in the
open air.

“Hello! who're you?” called out the Dwarf, turning
round.

“Who's who?” cried the old woman, nervously, who
chanced not to see Ellen as she escaped.

“Some one's put out, she-wolf,” replied Jimmy.

“He's dreaming, so he is!” said the crone, playfully, as
she closed the door and proceeded to fasten it.

As it is our purpose to follow the little orphan, we shall
consider ourself fastened out with her; and will leave the
vile den, the old woman, and her hopeful guests, to enjoy
themselves in their own peculiar way.

As fast as fear and her limbs could carry her, little
Ellen flew down the alley, not heeding whither she went,
nor caring, so she might put distance between her and the
earthly hell from which she fled. The night was dark and
cloudy, the hour late, and no light gleamed forth in this
miserable quarter to guide her steps. Still she sped on,
breathless with terror, turning from one dark alley or
street into another, till she at last came in sight of a feeble
lamp, which led her to hope she was approaching a less
vile quarter than she had left behind. Suddenly, in
turning another dark corner, she ran against a man, with
so much force as to throw her down.

“Hello!” said a gruff voice—“who're you, little one?
and what are you doing out this time of night, running so
fast?”

A cold shudder passed through the slender frame of the
little orphan, as that voice fell on her ear. She looked up,
and was just able to catch a faint glimpse of that man's
face. It was enough—enough to freeze the hot blood in
her veins. Yes! judge of her feelings—judge of her
horror—when she once more saw herself in the power of
her most terrible enemy—in the power of Mulwrack the
Burglar!

“Come! git up—git up—and travel on! What d'ye

keep down there for? you aint hurt, be you?” pursued the
man of crime.

Hoping to escape, poor little Ellen quickly got upon her
feet; and she was hastening past the robber, when he caught
hold of her, and said:

“Stop! I want to see your face.”

The awful moment had arrived—the moment of detection
by the man she dreaded; and poor little Ellen, during the
scrutiny of the Burglar, experienced all the feelings of
horror of one suspended over a terrible abyss.

“The gal I wanted, by ——!” exclaimed the man of
crime, as he peered into the face of his trembling victim
by the dim light of the distant lamp. “Here's luck!” he
added, with a kind of inward chuckle; “who'd a thought it?
See here, little gal! you got away from where I put you,
and cleared out, didn't you? May be you'll do it agin—
we'll see.”

Ellen looked around in terror, hoping to perceive some
chance passenger, upon whom she could call for aid—but
the hour was late, and the streets deserted. The Burglar
instantly comprehended her design; and drawing a knife
from his bosom, the blade of which Ellen could just perceive
gleaming in the dim light, he said, in a low, savage
tone:

“See here, gal! if you 'spect to git away this time,
you've made a bad mistake. The long and short on't is,
if you dare to scream, or call anybody to help you, I'll
drive this here through your heart—I will, by —!
Come! not a word—me and you is going together decent.”

He took hold of her hand as he spoke, and, half supporting
her, for her little limbs trembled so as to need this
aid, he hurried forward, muttering:

“Well, who'd a thought it? to stumble on to her that
way, arter I'd gin up looking for her high and low.”

Avoiding the gas-light, and selecting the dark, filthy
streets, lanes and alleys, for his route, Mulwrack was not
long in arriving, with his terrified prisoner, at the door of
the very hovel from which she had escaped the night before.
He knocked, replied to the question asked, and soon
gained admittance—pushing Ellen in before him, and shutting
and bolting the door.

“There, Mag,” he said, gruffly—“I've got her agin;
and I rather think as how she won't git away again, of her
own accord.”

Margaret, who, previous to Mulwrack's return, was the
only occupant of that old structure, took hold of Ellen's
hand, and drew her toward the fire-place, in which were a
few dying embers, and then threw herself upon a seat, without
saying a word. Somewhat struck by her peculiar manner,
Ellen looked up in her face; and notwithstanding her
own terror and desolation of heart, could not avoid a start
of surprise at the appearance of the other. That face
was frightfully swollen, and almost black, from the chin
upward, from the effect of blows, which the brutal Burglar,
in the first vent to his rage, for the loss of Ellen, whose
escape he attributed to her carelessness, had inflicted upon
her. The eyes of the poor creature were almost closed by
the livid and swollen flesh around them—her hair was
dishevelled—her dress torn and disordered—and, altogether,
she was an object for pity.

“Come! none of your sulks!” said the Burglar, with a
fierce scowl, as he threw his hat upon the ground, and cast
himself heavily upon a seat, directly opposite his partner
in vice and crime, so that he could look full into her face,
by the dim light of the dying embers. “You know, Mag,
I don't allow none of them things! You see I've got the
gal back agin!”

“I see!” answered Margaret, speaking in a rather hoarse
tone.

“Well, you act as if you wish I hadn't.”

“What do you want me to do?” inquired the other.

“I want you to say something, and not set there moping
in that are kind of a way.”

“How did you find her?”

“Now you're talking sensible. Why, would you believe
it, Mag—jest as I was coming home, arter I'd gin her
clean up, she bounced out of an alley, right agin me.
Queer, wasn't it?”

“Very queer, Jim.”

“I 'spect Providence put her there, Mag;” and the
harsh features of the robber relaxed into a grin, at what
he considered a very facetious rejoinder.

“Likely enough,” said Margaret, turning to the fire,
and poking the embers together with a pair of old tongs.

“Any body been here to-night, Mag?”

“Not a soul, Jim.”

“Beaks is off the scent, I reckon?”

“I think so.”

“Mulwrack indulged in a yawn, and a long stretch of
his muscular limbs.

“Been to bed, Mag?”

“I just laid down a few minutes.”

“How's the liquor?”

“I haven't touched it.”

“Umph! that's odd—for you're ginerally drunk afore
this time of night. Fetch it here, and I'll take a swig.”

Margaret got up, and going to the same old chest, which
we mentioned as serving her for a closet or pantry at her
former lodgings, took out a black bottle, and brought it to
Mulwrack. The robber took it, gave it a hearty shake, uncorked
it, and held it long to his lips.

“That's the stuff, Mag,” he said, with a smack—“try a
little.”

“I would rather not to-night, Jim.”

“Why?”

“I don't feel well.”

“Ah!” said the Burglar, with a slight show of feeling.
“'Taint nothing serious, is it, Mag?”

“Nothing particular.”

“Hum! got any thing to eat?”

“There's some bread and cold meat in the chest.”

“That'll do—fetch 'em on.”

Margaret quietly brought the ruffian his food, of which
he ate heartily, taking now and then a drink from the
bottle.

“There!” he said, when he had finished his lunch—“I
feels better now. Think there's any danger in my sleeping
here, Mag?”

“You should know best, Jim.”

“Well, I'm going to risk it, any how. Jake's got off, I
'spect; and we'll follow, when—”

He stopped, and gave a slight nod toward Ellen, who
had sunk upon a seat, with her face buried in her hands.

“Big haul that!” he continued, mysteriously referring to
the burglary at Clendennan's; “and if it wasn't for this
here deacon affair,” (and again he nodded toward Ellen,)
“me and you would put out, and travel for our healths—
eh! Mag?”

“Better let that go, Jim, and go now—something bad'll
come on't,” responded Margaret, also nodding toward the
poor orphan.

“You're a fool!” growled Mulwrack. “Think I'd go
and leave them ten thousand the old rascal promised?
Arter all, it was a good thing, that are running away—for
old skin-flint got skeared, for fear he'd lose the chance;

and if I got her agin, (once more nodding toward Ellen,) he
swore he'd plank.”

“But you can get the tin, and not hurt any body,” said
Margaret, alluding in this way to the contemplated murder
of Ellen, which had been previously discussed between the
two.

“See here, Mag!” rejoined Mulwrack, with offended
dignity,—“d'ye think I'm such a — knave as to git a
man's shiners for a job I don't do? You ought to know
me better'n that by this time, old gal!”

Such was a murderer's idea of honor! He could beat
his poor female partner almost to death, to gratify his
savage passions; he could break into an honest man's
house, and rob it, without a scruple of conscience; he
could kill that innocent little girl for a certain sum; but
the mere suggestion of taking a brother villain's money
for a wicked deed, with the intention of cheating him, by
not fulfilling his bloody contract, was highly repugnant to
his sense of right and honor. Have we not others among
us, moving in what are considered high circles, whose ideas
of honor are about as just as those of the Burglar? How
many are there among us, who would not scruple to cheat
an honest tradesman of honest dues, to pay a gambling
debt? How many are there among us, who would not
hesitate to stake a life against a life, because of a trifling
difference of opinion, and yet would feel a pride in being
the author of some confiding female's ruin?

“What are you going to do with her for the present?”
inquired Margaret, pursuing the conversation.

“Why, she'll go below this time—she'll keep there, I
reckon.” Then addressing Ellen, he continued: “See here,
little gal! I'm a going to turn in, and I want to put you
where you'll be safe.”

Little Ellen looked up, pale and agitated.

“Mag, raise a glim!” continued the robber. “I'm
going down to see them quarters myself.”

Margaret lighted a candle, and handed it to the Bur
glar—who immediately got up, and removing the chest from
where it stood, raised a small trap-door, and descended an
old ladder, into a damp, disagreeable cellar, or vault, about
ten feet square, which was walled in on every side, without
any means for ventilation or the admission of light, and
which could only be entered and left through the trap
door just mentioned. The moment the Burglar had fairly
disappeared, Margaret turned to Ellen, seized her hand,
pressed it warmly, and looking quickly around, in a
startled manner, put her finger to her lips, as a sign of
caution, and said, in a hurried whisper:

“Don't despair, poor child! I'll be your friend—though
it may cost me my life.”

She turned away, and tried to hum the air of a popular
tune, in order to appear indifferent, and excite no suspicion
—while little Ellen labored hard to force back the tears
that involuntarily sprung into her eyes. The next moment
the robber called from below:

“Come down here, little gal!”

“Yes, go down,” said Margaret; “and we'll see if
you'll escape again!”

Her voice was harsh and unfeeling; but she turned to
Ellen, caught her hand, and pressed it nervously; and in
this silent manner made known to the poor little orphan
how deeply she sympathised with her.

Ellen seized Margaret's arm convulsively, but clung to it
only a moment; and then, without saying a word, rather
staggered than walked to the mouth of what seemed to
her a horrible pit, and nervously descended the ladder.

“This here's not a very nice place,” said Mulwrack, who
stood at the bottom, speaking in a less harsh tone, as he

held the light to her pale, agitated countenance; “but
you've got nobody to blame except yourself for't—for if
you hadn't run away, I'd a let you staid up stairs.”

“Oh! sir, don't leave me alone, in this awful place!”
pleaded little Ellen, as she glanced tremblingly around
upon the damp, massive, mildewed walls. “Oh! sir, please
don't!”

“Must do it!” said the Burglar, firmly. “I want to
keep you awhile—and you'll be safer here than anywheres
else. I'll throw you down something to lie on—'taint cold,
and you'll do well enough; and besides, you won't have to
stay here long.”

As he said this, he began to ascend the ladder, taking
the light with him, and leaving the poor child at the bottom,
shuddering with terror, and only sustained against
giving away to utter despair, by the kind and mysterious
words which Margaret had whispered in her ear. As soon
as the Burglar had got upon the floor above, he seized a
piece of old carpet, and threw it down, saying:

“There! that'll do you to lie on; and my advice to you
is, to lie down and go to sleep. No whining now! 'cause
we can't have none of them things.”

With this he shut the trap-door, drew the heavy chest
upon it, and little Ellen found herself in total darkness.

Soon after this, the man of crime threw himself upon
the bed in the room, without undressing, and fell asleep.
But in his sleep he tossed his arms about, rolled uneasily
to and fro, grated his teeth, and muttered deep and savage
curses. Oh! the conscience of the guilty! that ever present,
continual, eternal hell!

Margaret laid down, but did not sleep: her mind was
striving to pierce the vail of the awful Future which lay
before her!