University of Virginia Library

19. CHAPTER XIX.
THE SUICIDE.

It will be remembered, that we left little Ellen in the
dark, damp vault of that miserable old structure, which we
have just seen the Coroner take possession of, for the purpose
of holding an inquest upon a female body; and it
may naturally be inferred, that the Burglar kept his word
with the guilty Deacon, and earned his money by a bloody
deed. We will therefore now return to our little heroine,
and see whether this inference is correct or not.

It was a horrible night that the poor child passed in
that loathsome place, with only rats, and animals of a still
inferior grade, for companions. She did not lie down on
the piece of old carpet thrown to her by Mulwrack—but
crept half-way up the ladder, and clung there for hours,
terrified and despairing, but continually praying to her
Heavenly Father for deliverance. When daylight came,

although it reached not her rayless prison, Margaret raised
the trap-door, and bade her come up; and Ellen was not
slow to obey this new order—or rather, avail herself of
this permission.

“If you won't try to get away again,” said Margaret,
`and won't make no noise, and will promise to go right
down below and be silent, if anybody comes, we'll let you
stay up here, perhaps all day.”

“Oh! ma'am, I'll promise anything, if you'll only let me
be with you!” said the almost heart-broken little girl, in a
piteous tone.

Margaret gave her a peculiar look—a look which Ellen
knew not how to interpret—and immediately turned away,
to busy herself about the chimney; but Mulwrack, who
was lying awake on the bed, immediately added:

“Well, little gal, it's my opinion you'd best keep pretty
quiet, and do what you're told! Mag, you know I've let
her come up to please you; and I tell you agin, if she gits
away, it'll cost you your life, may be.”

“I'll stake my life against her escape, Jim,” was Margaret's
reply.

“Very well; and as I knows you for a true blue, when
you set out, I'll just roll over and take another nap.”

Accordingly, the robber turned himself over, with his
head to the wall; and soon after, a loud snore announced
that he had fallen asleep.

“Poor child!” whispered Margaret to Ellen; “don't
despair! I'll save you.”

She pointed Ellen to a seat as she spoke, made a sign
for her to keep silent, and then busied herself with kindling
a fire and preparing breakfast.

The sun was an hour or two high, when Mulwrack awoke,
got up, and devoured his morning meal. Margaret handed
Ellen some bread and meat; but she was suffering under

such a burden of sorrow, that she ate only a very small
quantity. Having finished his breakfast, the Burglar had
recourse to the bottle again, and invited Margaret to join
him—but she positively refused to taste a drop of her
favorite beverage.

“Mag,” said Mulwrack, looking her full in the face,
“either you're not well, or else you've got some — plot
in your head.”

“I don't feel exactly well, Jim,” she replied.

“Well, I'm sorry for that,” he returned, with some
show of feeling. “'Spose you lay down awhile!”

“No,” she said, turning away, and hastily brushing a
tear from her eye—“I'll wait till night, Jim, and then may
be I'll sleep well. I think I shall rest then.”

“Why, to-night, you know, we talk of going away,”
pursued the robber.

“I know I'm going away, Jim,” she answered; “but I'd
rather not lie down now.”

“Well, please yourself,” rejoined the other. Then, after
a long pause, during which he seemed to be deeply ruminating,
he called Margaret aside, and said: “Mag, we
must send word to old Pinchbeck, that the gal's found, so
as he can be ready with the tin, when I call on him to-night.
How'll we do it? I can't go out, for fear of the beaks;
and you aint no beauty, jest now, with that there face.”

“Do you intend to call on him yourself to-night?” inquired
Margaret.

“Yes, that's my notion.”

“What time will you go?”

“I'll start out as soon as it gits to be dark.”

“How long will you be away?”

“Well, an hour, may be—may be longer. Why?”

“Nothing—only I want to know what time I'll start on
my journey.”

“Jest arter I git back—'twont take me long to do the
job.”

“Oh! Jim, don't do it!” said Margaret, earnestly.
“Come, Jim—don't!”

“Now stop this fool talk!” replied the Burglar, roughly.
“I won't stand it, Mag!”

“But see here, Jim—couldn't you make as much, or
more, by telling the child what's coming to her, and all
about the Deacon's wicked plot?”

“Why, she haint got no money; and the old feller is
living, and may live ten year; and she can't git a copper
till he's dead; and this, you know, will be right in hand.”

“But, Jim, something bad'll come on't!” said Margaret,
sorrowfully.

“Oh! you're always gitting skeered, Mag; so don't
say no more, or I'll git mad! Come! tell me how I'll git
word to old Pinchbeck. I want it to go to him kind of
mysterious like, so as nobody else won't know nothing
about it.”

“Perhaps I'd better write him a note,” suggested Margaret.

“That's it—that's it—and then you can hire a boy to
take it,” returned Mulwrack. “It takes you, Mag.”

Accordingly, the few words, on a dirty scrap of paper,
which we transcribed in a former chapter, were dictated
by Mulwrack, written by Margaret, and dispatched to
Deacon Pinchbeck by a boy, who found him in his business
office, not far from the Exchange. The effect of that note,
as has already been shown, was to induce the Deacon to
prepare himself to pay in gold for the commission of an
awful crime.

But little was said to Ellen during the remainder of the
day, which seemed for all parties to drag heavily to a
close. Mulwrack occasionally walked about the room, and

stamped his foot with angry impatience; but Margaret
mostly sat in silence, seemingly brooding over something
dark and terrible. As night set in, Mulwrack prepared to
go forth. Just before leaving, he called Margaret to him,
and said, with some feeling:

“Mag, you don't seem in good spirits; but don't mind
this little affair—it's nothing alarming—and as soon as it's
over, we'll bolt, and leave on the first train. We'll git
away—don't you fear.”

“Will nothing change you, Jim?” inquired the other.

“Nothing but the Deacon's backing out; and I aint
much afeard of that—the old rascal's too anxious for
futur wealth.”

“Well, go!” said Margaret, in a voice slightly tremulous;
and impulsively, as she spoke, she threw her arms
around the Burglar's neck, and burst into tears.

“Come, come, Mag,” returned the other, a little affected,
in spite of himself—“you're making a fool of yourself, and
me too. What's come over you all at once? You didn't
use to mind trifles.”

“I know, Jim, I've been a bad woman,” sobbed the
other.

“Poh! nonsense! you haint been no such a thing—don't
think so. There! there! stop now—I can't stand this
— whining.”

“Jim, you've often stole money to keep me from
starving,” said Margaret, with feeling solemnity: “May
God forgive you!”

“Why, Mag, I believe you're going mad!” said the rob
ber, in a tone of surprise: “you'd better turn preacher
and done with it. Now see here!” he continued, somewhat
sternly—“don't go for to let your chicken heart work up
your feelings for this here gal—'cause it's no use. If I

knowed you was going to let her off, I'd take her down
stairs, and strangle her at once.”

“Didn't I say, Jim, I'd stake my life against her security?
and did I ever break my word to you, when I
pledged it that way?”

“No, that's a fact—you never did, Mag—I'll say that
for you.”

“But I've many times been cross to you, Jim; and I
feel so bad just now, I want you to say you forgive me.”

“I reckon I'd better ax that of you,” returned the
Burglar, with a softened expression; “seeing as how I've
beat you so many times.”

“Never mind that, Jim,” rejoined Margaret, quickly;
“but just say you forgive me!”

“In course I do. Why, what the — is the matter
with you to-night?”

“Nothing—nothing. There! I'm all right now.”

“Well, don't let the gal know nothing, Mag—I won't
be long away—and you can be all ready to travel when I
git back.”

With this the Burglar unbolted the door, cast one or two
quick, searching glances around him, and disappeared in
the darkness. His subsequent interview with Deacon
Pinchbeck is already known to the reader.

Margaret stood at the door a few minutes, gazing upon
the spot where the form of the Burglar had disappeared
from her view. Then heaving a long, deep sigh, she
turned back into the room, closed the door, sunk heavily
upon a seat, covered her eyes with her hands, and for some
time remained almost motionless, seemingly in great distress
of mind. Then she got up, and, going to the fire-place,
struck a light, placed it on the table, and turned to
little Ellen, who sat watching her in anxious silence.

“Ellen,” she said, in a low, solemn tone, “I promised to

save you, and I'm going to keep my word. You and I are
going to part now; and we'll never meet again—no! never
—never!”

“What do you mean, ma'am?” inquired little Ellen,
anxiously.

“Hush! don't speak so loud—we might be overheard!”
said Margaret, glancing hastily around. Then drawing
from her bosom a diamond ring and necklace of great value,
she held them to the light, and continued: “Did you ever
see these before, child?”

“Oh! yes, ma'am, I think so,” answered Ellen, quickly.
“At least, Miss Rosalind had just such pretty ornaments.”

“Was she the lady you lived with, when Mr. Mulwrack
found you?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“And would you like to take these back to that good
lady?” inquired Margaret.

“Oh! yes, ma'am—yes!” cried Ellen, clasping her
hands, and looking eagerly, almost wildly, at the other.
“Oh! ma'am, if you will let me go back, I will kneel down
every night, as long as I live, and call on Heaven to bless
you! Oh! ma'am, I do so want to tell dear Rosalind that
I didn't take away her pretty things, after her being so
good to me!” and as she said this, she burst into tears.

“Poor, dear, sweet, innocent little child!” cried Margaret,
impulsively throwing her arms around the gentle
orphan, and straining her to her heart. “Oh! would to
God,” she added, in a tone that betrayed intense emotion:
“would to God, I could be as innocent as you are! Oh!
what a guilty wretch I've been! so wicked, that I know
God won't forgive me!”

“Don't think that, ma'am!” returned Ellen, soothingly.
“My dear mother used to say, God would forgive anybody
that repented and tried to be good.”

“But I can't try to be good—it's too late!” exclaimed
Margaret, bursting into tears.

“Oh, no, ma'am, it's never too late to try,” said little
Ellen, consolingly; “so don't cry, please.”

“But I've been such a bad, bad woman!” sobbed the
other; “and for so many years too! Ah! dear child, you
don't know the wicked things I've done, since I first came
to this awful city! I was once pure and innocent like you
are; but I was persuaded to run away from my happy
home in the country, and begin a new life of wickedness,
and let my parents break their hearts about me; and God
won't surely forgive such a wretch as I am! I first saw
Mr. Mulwrack in the country; we were both young then;
and I loved him, and took his advice, and came with him
to the city. I thought he meant to do well by me, and
marry me—but he didn't. But perhaps I was more to
blame than he,” she continued, sobbingly; “at least I want
to think so now—for I love him still; but I can't see you
murdered—for it was you that made me think again of
old times.”

“Murdered!” cried little Ellen, greatly horrified.
“What do you mean, ma'am?”

“Yes, little innocent, they want to murder you, because
you will one day get a great property, which somebody
else wants to get hold of. Mr. Mulwrack is to have ten
thousand dollars for doing the wicked deed—and he's gone
now to see about it. But don't be afeard! you shan't be
hurt. I told you I'd save you, and I'll do it; and my
saving you will prevent him committing murder—so that
I have a double reason for doing it.”

“Oh! ma'am, I'm so frightened!” said Ellen, trembling.

“And well you may be, poor child!” returned the
other. “But you must fly, and escape while you can.
Here, take these things, and give them to the good lady,

and tell her to pray for my soul! They're all I could save
out of the plunder; but they're worth something; and I
shall feel better to know I've sent something back;” and
she nervously placed the ring and necklace in the trembling
hand of the terrified Ellen. “You won't forget to pray
for me, as you promised, will you?” she inquired, eagerly.

“Oh! no, ma'am—no—never!” cried the half-distracted
child. “I'll pray for you every night, as long as we live.”

“Well, kiss me good-bye—and go now—for there's no
knowing when Mr. Mulwrack may come back.”

Ellen threw her arms around Margaret's neck, and
kissed her swollen lips.

“Here,” added Margaret, thrusting a crumpled paper
into the hand of Ellen; “conceal this in your bosom, and
don't let anybody get hold of it but your friends—it will
tell you all about the fortune. Quick, now, my sweet
child—put on your bonnet, and fly! for I tremble all the
while you stay here. There, now, go! go! stay not
another minute!”

“Won't you come with me, ma'am?” asked Ellen.

“No! no! I must stay here.”

“But Mr. Mulwrack might—”

“I know what you would say,” rejoined the other, as
Ellen paused, for fear of wounding her feelings, and looked
anxiously into Margaret's face. “You think he'll beat me
—may be kill me; but he won't—you needn't fear;” and
she drew a long, deep sigh. “Come!” she cried, starting
up, and half-dragging little Ellen to the door, which she
cautiously opened; “one kiss more; and then, good-bye—
forever!”

The last word was pronounced emphatically, in a tone
of deep, mournful solemnity.

The little orphan required no further urging, to induce
her to hasten her departure from a place, where, as she

had now learned, her life was not safe from one minute
to another; and so, imprinting a farewell kiss upon the
lips of Margaret, she murmured, “God bless you, ma'am!”
and disappeared in the darkness.

For some five minutes, Margaret remained at the door,
motionless as a statue, looking out upon the night. Then,
with another long, deep sigh, she turned back into the
house, and closed the door, but did not bolt it.

“He'd have killed her, and that would have been murder,”
she muttered, walking up and down the room; “he'd
kill me, for letting her go, and that would be murder too;
but if I die before he comes, I'll save him; and I can
never die less guilty than I am now. O God!” she continued,
clasping her hands and looking upward, in an
attitude of supplication; “forgive this wretched being, for
the Redeemer's sake! I'm about to stand in Thy awful
presence, by the last wicked deed I'll ever do; and, O God!
receive my soul, and put it not into eternal torments, for
the Redeemer's sake!”

As she ceased, she drew a small paper from her bosom,
opened it with a trembling hand, and glanced at the white
powder it contained. A cold shudder passed through her
frame.

“It is terrible!” she muttered; “but it must be done;
and if not done at once, I may lose the courage. I'll not
think till too late to escape. Jim, I die for you. O God!
forgive me!”

With a spasmodic movement, she raised the paper to her
lips, and swallowed the contents.

It was that deadly poison known as strychnine.

“Now, then, let me pray, till death comes!” she said,
kneeling upon the ground.

She continued kneeling and praying for about twenty
minutes. Suddenly clasping her temples with both

hands, she cried, “I die! I die!” and fell over upon her
back.

These were her last words. Life continued a few
minutes longer, and then her spirit took its flight to the
eternal world.

Thus died poor Margaret Cassady; died by her own
hand, the death of the suicide; died in the very prime and
vigor of womanhood; died alone—as hundreds and thousands
of wretched beings have died—without one kind, consoling
word, to lift the desolation of her crime-burdened
soul, and cheer it, with a ray of hope, in its dark flight over
the dread abyss which separates time from eternity; died
that another, whom she loved, might not stain his hands
with her own blood, or the blood of the innocent orphan.
Who dare say, in the great summing up of the good and ill
of her mortal life, that the doom of eternal woe shall be
pronounced upon that poor, unfortunate, deeply-erring
woman? Who dare step between her and her God, to give
human judgment?

When, after quitting Deacon Pinchbeck, burdened with
the price of blood, and ready to plunge his dark soul into
the awful crime of murder, James Mulwrack entered that
old hovel, he found the candle burning on the table, and
its feeble, flickering rays falling upon the upturned face of
her who had long been his partner in guilt. With an angry
oath, supposing her intoxicated or asleep, he stooped down
to raise her, and found her dead. Then, like lightning, the
meaning of her mysterious words and actions flashed upon
his dizzy brain; and with a yell of horror—a yell that resounded
through that old hovel, and far out into the night,
like the shrieking of a demon among the damned—he started
to his feet, and turned, and fled; fled as one who fancied
himself pursued by a ghastly phantom—fled into the deep

darkness, which covered him as a pall, and concealed him
from all human eyes.

A woman was the first, after the Burglar, to discover the
corpse of Margaret; and she hastened to inform the Coroner,
who lived not far from the limits of the Infected
District; and this will account for his presence there, at
that hour of the night, and so soon after the commission
of the fatal deed.