University of Virginia Library

16. CHAPTER XVI.
SUSPICION IN THE RIGHT QUARTER.

As the reader already knows, the first and second day
of Dr. Stanhope's search for little Ellen, was without avail;
for the first day she was a prisoner at Mulwrack's—the
second day a guest of Mrs. M'Callan—and, we may add,
the third day drew to a close, without the young physician
obtaining any tidings of the poor orphan. Each night he
repaired to Sir Walter's mansion, to make his sad report
to Rosalind; and when he made his appearance there on
the third night, his whole look showed that he was quite
disheartened.

“Alas!” exclaimed Rosalind, who almost flew to meet
him, so eager was she for the news: “Alas! Newton, I see
by your countenance you have again failed!”

“I have,” he replied, sadly. “I can glean no tidings
of her whatever.”

“Oh! depend upon it, she has been murdered!” cried
Rosalind.

“I think not—at least I hope not—but it is very strange
what can have become of her!”

“My poor father!” groaned Rosalind; “this will be sad
news for him!”

“Does he then take her loss so much to heart?”

“Yes, and says it is all his doing.”

“How his doing, Rosalind?” inquired the other, in a
tone of surprise.

“Why, you know he has strange spells and fancies, and

fancies to him are realities. He now fancies that he has
said something harsh to the poor child, in one of his dejected
moods, and that this has troubled her sorely, and
been the main cause of her leaving.”

“And does he think her guilty of the robbery?”

“No! he says she cannot be guilty of that—that she was
too good, and pure, and guileless, to commit such a crime
—but he thinks she may have taken her own clothing
away, supposing it belonged to her; and that in leaving,
she may have left the front door open; and that some other
person, having seen it open, may have entered and robbed
the house.”

“That is certainly not an unreasonable supposition,”
replied young Stanhope, reflectively. “What think you
of it, Rosalind?”

“I know not what to think,” replied Rosalind, in a desponding
tone. “It may be so. I would sooner believe
that something might have induced her to leave me without
a parting word, than that she could have deliberately robbed
those who were her truest friends. Ha!” she added,
with a start of surprise—“here comes father!”

The Baronet had entered the upper end of the drawing-room,
while Rosalind was speaking; and now, with a
feeble, nervous, unsteady step, advanced straight to the
young Doctor, fixing his hollow eyes steadily upon him,
with an anxious, inquiring look. The physician rose to receive
him, and made a graceful inclination of his head.
The Knight caught the hand which the other extended,
and with a wild, searching glance at his face, exclaimed:

“The child? the child? what of her?”

`I deeply regret to say, Mr. Clendennan, that——'

“You failed!” half-shrieked the unhappy Sir Walter,
throwing up his hands, with a nervous jerk. “Yes! yes!
you need not speak. I can see—I can see. Oh, God!

forgive this poor wretch! Holy Redeemer! intercede for
this poor wretch!” and staggering to a seat, he sunk down
upon it, covered his face with his thin, wasted hands, and
moaned and groaned, as one in deep distress of mind.

The young Doctor was about to offer him such feeble
consolation as words can give—but a motion of Rosalind
deterred him; and he quietly reseated himself, and remained
silent. At length Sir Walter withdrew his hands, and said,
sharply:

“You have not looked for her, sir! you know it.”

“Indeed I have, Mr. Clendennan: I—”

“Tut! tut!” interrupted the Knight, almost fiercely;
“don't contradict me, in my own house, sir!”

The features of Stanhope flushed, and he was about to
make an injudicious rejoinder, when a sign from Rosalind
induced him to suppress all show of resentment.

“Where did you look for her, sirrah?” demanded the
Knight, as if speaking to a menial.

“I made inquiries in every direction, Mr. Clendennan,”
replied the Doctor, in a mild, gentlemanly tone; “and
especially did I search for her through that vile quarter, in
which, as I learned from Rosalind, she for a short time
resided, previous to her being brought hither.”

“Umph!” sneered Sir Walter; “at your age I could
have found her.”

“Whether living or dead, I suppose?”

“Dead!” exclaimed the Baronet, with a start. “Dead!
What do you mean by that, sir?”

“It is possible she may not be living now.”

As he said this, Sir Walter's face assumed such an expression
of remorse, agony, and terror combined, that Dr.
Stanhope instantly regretted having made use of the words
he did.

“If she is dead,” almost shrieked the Knight, “then I

killed her—I killed her. I drove her to it. My God!
My God! hoc me libera metu! Oh! when shall I be at
rest!”

“Do not accuse yourself, Mr. Clendennan,” began the
young physician—but the Baronet hastily and harshly interrupted
him.

“Tut! tut! sir!” he said: “keep your advice for your
patients, and give it with your physic, and put it in the
bill! Youth should respect age, and not think age a fool
and grow meddlesome. So I was taught when I was a boy.
But I forgot. Boys are men now; and men are—Heaven
knows what! Good night, sir!”

With this, without saying a word to Rosalind, first or
last—and, in fact, without even appearing to be aware of
her presence—Sir Walter arose from his seat, and tottered
out of the apartment, through the door by which he had
entered.

“Oh! Newton, forgive his harsh words, for my sake!”
said Rosalind, with tearful eyes, as her father's form disappeared.

“I will,” replied Stanhope, frankly. “Ay,” he added,
with considerable feeling, “for your sake, Rosalind, I
would forgive him even a blow.”

The features of Rosalind instantly became suffused with a
beautiful glow—but she said quickly, as if to turn the conversation:

“So you think there is no hope of finding the poor child?”

“Why, the prospect of doing so, looks rather gloomy
now, I am sorry to say—but still we must not despair.
By-the-by, while searching for her through that miserable
locality, of which I have spoken, I met a well-dressed, benevolent-looking
gentleman, who had just come out of a
miserable groggery, kept by a hideous Dwarf, who makes
his living by dealing out poison, under the names of brandy,

gin, and so forth, to the most degraded and filthy wretches
of both sexes.”

“Why, I do believe that is the very place which Ellen
told me about, with such a feeling of loathing,” exclaimed
Rosalind. “She was decoyed in there by a hunchbackboy,
who told her it was the proper place to get the liquor
for which she had been sent by a drunken mistress. Did
you inquire in there? It is possible some one there may
know of her present whereabouts.”

“No, I made no inquiry in there, for I did not like to
venture into such a den; but I accosted the gentleman who
had just come out—and who, from his appearance in such
a vile quarter, I conjectured to be a Minister of the Gospel
—and put my inquiries to him. He had seen no such little
girl as I described; but said if she were in that part of the
city, he thought it not unlikely he might find her, as he
spent most of his time in going about among those poor,
degraded beings, relieving their physical sufferings when
he could, and talking to them concerning the religion which
saves from eternal death. He had just witnessed a scene
in that groggery, he said, which had made a painful, a
terrible impression upon his mind—an impression that time
could never erase. He had, in derision, been invited by
the Dwarf, to pray with his wife, who was dying of a contagious
fever. He had accepted the invitation, and had
offered up prayers for her soul's salvation; but she had just
died, with bitter curses and blasphemous oaths on her lips,
On my asking if he was a professional minister, he replied
that he was not, but a private citizen, who felt it his duty
to do all that lay in his power to relieve the sufferings of
his fellow beings.”

“Heaven bless him!” exclaimed Rosalind.

“Ay, and Heaven will, Rosalind, if he is sincere, which
I believe. Would to God there were more like him! for

suffering humanity needs the aid of all such philanthropic
hearts. Had I not seen for myself, I would not have believed
it possible to find such awful wretchedness and degradation
in the heart of this great city. After some further
conversation with Mr. Shelden — the gentleman in
question—we exchanged cards and separated—he cheerfully
promising to aid me in my search. I fear our only
hope of success now rests with him.”

“Oh! if he do but find her,” cried Rosalind, “I will
never cease to call on Heaven to bless him. I will do more.
Here, take this purse, and when you see him again, give it
to him, and say it is for the poor.”

She produced a well-filled purse as she spoke, and
handed it to Dr. Stanhope, who promised compliance with
her request.

“How is it,” he said, reflectively, “that there can be
so many starving poor in a city so noted as this for the benevolence
of its citizens?”

“It is, perhaps, because those who have the means to
relieve distress, do not reside in a quarter where it comes
under their notice,” suggested Rosalind.

“Ay, that must be it,” he rejoined. “Yes, it must be
so. I will think so, at all events; for to think otherwise,
is to lose faith in humanity. Ah!” he exclaimed, suddenly—“by-the-by,
you did not tell me the surname of
Ellen; and somehow I have always forgotten to inquire
since I first asked you—it may be of much importance to
Mr. Shelden.”

“As I told you before, Newton, she went by no other
name than Ellen, while with us,” replied Rosalind, with
some embarrassment.

“But, surely, you know her name?” he rejoined, in a
tone of surprise, looking her full in the face.

“I do know her name,” she replied; “but it is a name

that I would not dare to pronounce in the hearing of my
father.”

“Indeed!”

“Nor would I have one of the servants hear it. You
think this strange, Newton, and I cannot explain. But I
will trust you with the name; and you will promise me not
to mention it again in this dwelling, for fear it might reach
my father's ears.”

“Certainly, Rosalind,” he replied, “I will withhold the
name, if it be your desire.”

“It is. Sometime I may be able to satisfy your
curiosity—but not now.” She looked quickly around the
splendid apartment, and added, in a low tone: “Her last
name is Norbury.”

“Norbury?” exclaimed the young physician, half starting
from his seat. “Ellen Norbury?”

“Have you then heard of the name before?” said Rosalind,
quickly, in her turn greatly surprised.

“Speak, Rosalind! was her father an artist?” he demanded,
flushed with excitement.

“Yes.”

“Did he ever reside in Dublin?”

“Yes.”

“Good heavens! how strange! Ah! I fear I see it all!
the worst—the worst! Oh! that I had known this at first!
It may now be too late.”

“You surprise, alarm me, Newton! what is it?” cried
Rosalind.

“Heavens!” exclaimed the other, springing up from his
seat: “I must go at once.”

“Go where! what is it? Oh! I beseech you, tell me,
Newton?” cried Rosalind, also rising in considerable agitation.

“I must be quick, then;” and he looked at his watch.

“You remember when our house was entered by a burglar,
some two or three months ago?”

“Yes! yes!”

“The thief carried off little, thanks to our poverty; but
he broke open my father's escritoir, and, among other
things, took away a certain paper, that may, for aught I
know, have a great bearing upon the mysterious disappearance
of this little girl.”

“How, Newton? speak!” almost gasped Rosalind.

“That paper, forwarded to my father from a friend in
Ireland traced out the descent of the Welden Estate,
through several generations, to the present holder, and
named three heirs presumptive—the first legally claiming
on the death of the holder, the second on the death of
the first, and the third on the death of the first and
second.”

“But what has this to do with Ellen?” cried Rosalind,
anxiously.

“I am hastening to tell you. The present holder of this
estate, is John De Carp Montague, a gentleman well advanced
in years—the first heir presumptive, Ellen Norbury
—the second, the wife of Deacon Pinchbeck—the third,
my mother.”

“Indeed! Well?” gasped Rosalind.

“If Ellen Norbury were out of the way, you perceive,
Pinchbeck's wife would be next in succession.”

“Yes! yes! I understand, Newton—go on!”

“Deacon Pinchbeck, from what I know of him, is not
any too good to put her out of the way, if he dared.”

“Well? well?”

This robber, whoever he was, may have known the old
scoundrel of a deacon—for if he don't consort with thieves,
it is not from being too honest—and may have shown him
this paper.”

“Yes! yes!”

The burglar may have heard or known something of
this child, from her having been in those vile haunts I
have mentioned, and he and the Deacon may have plotted
together to get her in their possession.”

“You horrify me, Newton—but go on!”

“It is possible she may have been traced to this house,
and the burglar have prowled around, watching an opportunity
to kidnap her.”

“Well?”

“That opportunity may have presented itself the night
you were away.”

“Great Heaven! Well?”

“If my surmises are correct, we must prepare ourselves
for the worst.”

“Merciful God!” almost shrieked Rosalind: “you think,
then, she has been murdered?”

“I fear so. But I am now going to ascertain if my
suspicions are well founded.”

“Where are you going?”

“To the house of Deacon Pinchbeck. I will see him—
I will mention her name. If he quail, I will boldly accuse
him. He is too great a coward, and too shallow a villain,
to conceal his crime from me, if criminal he be; and if I
find him guilty, I will see that he swings before a year rolls
around.”

“But it may not be too late, even now!” cried Rosalind,
wringing her hands in her excitement. “If the crime is
contemplated, and not committed, you may save her yet!
Oh! fly! fly! there is not a moment to be lost!”

“So think I. Adieu! You shall soon hear from me
again.”

“Oh! take care of yourself!” cried Rosalind, forgetting,

in her anxiety, how much she was betraying the true state
of her heart.

The young physician turned and caught the glance of
her soft blue eye—saw the generous blood spring upward
to her very temples, as she reflected on her expression—
and, with his own features flushing, and his heart throbbing
with strange emotions, he rejoined:

“Thank you, Rosalind! I will remember.”

The next moment he had gone; and Rosalind, pale and
trembling, and agitated by wild, conflicting feelings, stood
gazing on the door through which he had disappeared.