Volume Three – Chapter Twenty.
Beating the Bars
“Now!” exclaimed Richard Pellet, as soon as he and his unwelcome visitor were in the cab, “will you wait patiently, if I take you somewhere, till I can place you where you will see your little one?”
She gazed long and earnestly in his face before answering.
“Will you keep your word?”
“I will!” he said, and she bent her head, when, lowering the front window, Richard gave fresh instructions to the driver, who drew up at the end of a long busy street.
“Where are you taking me?” she asked, suddenly.
“Only where you can stay for a day or two,” said he, preparing to get out. “Sit still for a few minutes till I come back.”
“But you are going to leave me,” she cried, clinging to his arm.
“I tell you I will come back,” he exclaimed, angrily; and, apparently satisfied, she sank back in her seat.
Five – ten minutes elapsed, but the occupant of the cab did not stir. At the end of another five minutes, Richard returned, panting and out of breath, spoke to the driver again, and once more the cab jangled over the stones and drew up at a half-open door.
Richard sprang up and took tight hold of his companion’s arm, but she followed him with alacrity, only starting back as the street-door closed behind her, when she found herself in the presence of Mrs Walls and in her old gaol.
Richard turned to leave, but the cheated woman turned with him, clinging to him tightly, and imploring him not to leave her there in the most piteous manner. He tried to shake her off; he swung her to and fro; he loosened one hand, but only for the other to cling to him more tightly, till, enraged by her persistence, and unable to govern the vile passions that she had roused, he struck her heavily with his clenched fist, so that she fell back half stunned and with a thin stream of blood flowing from her lip.
“Why, you great brute – you cowardly ruffian!” exclaimed Mrs Walls, who had some feeling of compassion yet for the suffering member of her sex. “That wasn’t bargained for.”
“Hold your tongue!” cried Richard, fiercely. “Keep to your engagement, and let her loose this time, and you shall suffer for it, even if I do myself. There is law, recollect, for such as you.”
“I’d suffer it for two pins, so as you should be pulled down too,” muttered the woman, as she wiped the blood from the prisoner’s lips, and then with a scowl Richard turned to go.
“I shall be back in three days at the latest,” he said. Then he paid and dismissed the cabman, walked hastily through a few streets, and then took another cab and drove off.
“Gone!” exclaimed Ellen Pellet, opening her eyes to gaze about her in an anxious manner as she tried to make for the door.
Mrs Walls nodded, and then half led, half pushed her into a back parlour.
“He’ll be back in two days, and then you’re going away from here, and for good, and I’m glad of it,” said the woman, not unkindly, considering that but a day since her prisoner had contrived to escape. “I don’t want you here any more.”
“To take me to her?”
“To be sure,” said Mrs Walls, as she would have spoken to a child. The next minute the door was closed, and the key turned upon the prisoner, who sank down upon a chair, and pressed her hands in a bewildered way to her forehead.
She sat without moving for an hour, and then began to pace round and round the room to find, after trying door and window, that the former was fast and the latter only slid down a few inches at the top, the bottom being of ground-glass, and preventing a view of the outer world unless the occupant of the room stood upon a chair; and even then only the backs of houses and a blackened wall or two were to be seen.
Escape now seemed to be the sole idea in the poor creature’s mind. She recalled in a darkened way a long period of imprisonment, and evidently dreaded its recurrence, for again and again she tried the door, shaking it gently, but it was locked, though the key remained in, so that she could touch the end as it projected about the sixteenth of an inch through the keyhole.
Another hour passed, and another, of torture and dread of treachery.
Could she not get away to her little one? That was the great thought which crushed all others; and as if determining to escape, she began to try with her nails to turn the key, repeating her efforts till the wards hung downward. Then, by means of a wooden splint, one of a dozen upon the chimney-piece, she thrust the key nearly out of the keyhole, where it hung while she listened attentively, then, with one more gentle push, it fell rattling down upon the oilcloth of the passage.
She stood listening, her bosom heaving painfully, but no steps followed the noise – it was evidently not heard, and, sinking upon her knees, she tore up the edge of the tacked-down carpet, till she could pass her worn and bony fingers beneath, and drag it away from the door, leaving the bottom exposed.
There, beneath the door, was the key plainly to be seen, for the light from a staircase window fell upon it; but it was out of reach, and the aperture would not allow the passage of her fingers. She knelt there though, biting her nails for a minute and listening, before taking up the splint that before had been her friend.
She tried to reach the key, passing the splint beneath the door, but it was not long enough. She took another – sane enough now in her desire to escape – and tearing a strip from her handkerchief, bound two splints tightly together, and tried again.
Yes; they would pass under easily, and she could touch the key and move it. She could hear it glide along the oilcloth for some distance in one direction; so she tried from the other side, and moved it back.
Forwards and backwards she moved that key a score of times, indefatigable in her efforts; but it would come no nearer, for there was an inequality over which it would not pass – the floorcloth at that spot was doubled.
Suddenly she stopped, for she heard steps upon the stairs, and Mrs Walls came by, her dress brushing against the key and slightly altering its position. Then once more all was silent; she had passed by without noticing that it was out of the door, and nothing was heard but the faint sound of the traffic in the street.
The splints again at work – this way, that way, but no sound of grating key upon the oilcloth, and after many trials, the prisoner laid her head upon the floor, and tried to catch sight of the object of her search.
There it was: just the ring visible, but beyond the reach of the splints, for it had been swept along a few inches by the dress. But three splints might do it: so another was tied to the others, and once more the trial was made.
Joy! They touched the key; but they bent and would hardly stir it from the weakness of the wood.
What should she do? How could she get out? Why did she allow herself to be trapped when it seemed to her troubled brain that her little one was calling! But if she stayed, would he let her see her child? Had not he said – had not the tailor said – it was dead. It was a lie – a cruel lie – it could not be dead. They had hidden it away from her where she was never to see it more.
With these thoughts exciting the crushed and patient sufferer, she paced round and round the room, to pause, at last, to tear at the screws that held the lock to her prison door, and only to leave off with bleeding fingers.
A new thought, and she darted to the window, tore down the red worsted blind-cord, and ran back to the door. Down upon her knees with the stiff cord doubled, and a great loop thrust gently under to try and draw the key towards her.
Now it caught, drew it a little way, let it slip, and came through alone; now it thrust it back when the cord was again pushed through. Another trial, and the cord caught, the key grating over the oilcloth, but only to be checked once more by the double fold and lost.
Disappointment upon disappointment, and a great dread upon her mind that her gaoler would return, find out her attempt to escape, and defeat it by bearing away the key.
Another trial, and another, and another, and once more the key caught against that double in the oilcloth; but now a vigorous snatch and it had fallen over it and close to the door, and though the cord came through without, she could now plainly see the wards of the key – touch them with one of the splints – draw them towards her – touch them with a finger – hold the key in her hand – and be at liberty once more.
Her heart beat with excitement, and then seemed to come to a dead stop, for as she stood where she had leaped to her feet, there came once again the sound of footsteps, now descending, and the steps were stayed by the door, where it was evident that some one was listening.
Beat – beat – beat – beat – again her heart throbbed wildly for a few moments. Then again, heavy pulsations that seemed as if they would make her head split with each agonising pang. Then once more her heart seemed to stop.
Would whoever was listening there see that the key was gone, and ask for it? Would she be compelled to give it up, or would they keep watch at the door to see that she did not escape?
“Do you want anything?” said the voice of Mrs Walls.
“No – no!” was the answer, and the last speaker’s heart beat more wildly in dread lest her eagerness should excite suspicion.
No! there was no notice taken: the steps went on along the passage, and seemed to descend to an underground kitchen, while for some minutes the prisoner stood motionless as a statue.
All silent once more but the grating noise as the key was softly pushed into the lock. Then slowly – gradually – by a tremendous effort over self, when she was longing to rush out, the key was turned, creaking loudly in the old worn lock. But now the bolt shot back, the handle was turned, and she stood in the passage, after the door had resented the movement by giving two or three loud cracks.
She stood there ready dressed, just in time to hear a sharp voice that she at once recognised exclaim —
“What’s that?”
Then a chair made a loud scraping noise upon the floor below, as if some one had suddenly risen.
There was not a moment to lose; there were steps already upon the kitchen-stairs as she ran along the passage to the front door. But there was an obstacle here: the door was locked, and a great chain up, whose ring was at the bottom of a spiral.
To turn back the lock was but the work of an instant; and then she seized the chain and tried to raise it from the spiral fastening, with steps coming nearer at every turn: one – two – three – would it never come off? Must she be dragged back again when she was so near to liberty? It was a lifelong task condensed in a few seconds. The last turn – the chain falling with a heavy clang – the door dragged open, as a firm hand grasped her shoulder, and tried to draw her back. Then a wild, despairing shriek rang down Borton Street, as a momentary struggle ensued for liberty.
Volume Three – Chapter Twenty One.
Tim Ruggles Sets Himself Right
“Mr Pellet, sir,” said Tim Ruggles, “I ran out of Mr Purkis’s shop, sir, like a madman. Yesterday, sir, I think it was: no, it wasn’t, it was the day before, or some other time, I don’t know when, for my head’s all in a wuzzle, sir, and I hardly know what’s what. But I ran out of his shop, sir, after he had whispered two words in my ear, and them two words, sir, were – ‘Mrs Ruggles.’”
“There!” interrupted Mrs Pellet; “that’s all a part of the past now, so let it be forgotten. But sit down.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Tim, standing in his old position by the chimney-piece; “it’s all a part of the past, but if you’ll let me set myself right with your family, I shall be glad.”
“Right! set yourself right! why, you are right,” said Jared, warmly. “You don’t suppose we ever thought that you knew?”
“No, sir,” said Tim, still standing; “perhaps not, sir; but I should like to tell you all about it, sir. It will ease my mind, like, so let me be obstinate for once in a way. You see, sir, I was stunned like that morning, and hardly knew what to make of things. Your good lady had partly told me the misfortune, as you may recollect, perhaps, when you came and stopped her, sir – when I rushed off to Mr Purkis’s; and then, after a long talk with him, feeling worse than ever, I ran all the way to Carnaby Street, sending the people right and left, sir, for I wouldn’t believe it true; and being a married man, sir, which makes two one, it seemed to me that I was in it, and had been the cause of it all, and ungrateful to you, as is the best friend I ever had. No, sir, I wouldn’t believe, though young Ichabod Gunnis had told me, and Mrs Pellet had quietly said the same, and then beadle Purkis; but when I rushed up into my room in Carnaby Street – first-floor back, first bell, two pulls – I knew it was all true then, for there was a letter on the table, as I afterwards found was written to Mrs Ruggles’ relations to say she was coming. And there she was, sir, trembling in the middle of the room, dressed and ready to go, sir; Sunday things on, and three or four big bundles about, with all the best of everything we had got packed up; and there was the four teaspoons, and my first wife’s brooch. When I saw all this, I recollected as there was a cab standing at the door when I came in; and then, without her dropping the bundle she was a-tying up, and busting out a-cryin’, I knew it all in a moment, that it was all true as true, and that she was going off that morning with everything she could lay her hands on, even to my poor wife’s silk dress, only I came back just in time to stop her.”
Tim Ruggles covered his face with his hands for a moment, and then went on.
“I’m only little, sir, and poor and weak, and I don’t know whether I feel the same as other people do, sir, when they are in trouble; but I couldn’t be in a violent rage, and storm and swear and abuse her, sir and ma’am” – and, probably due to the fact of Tim’s head being all in a “wuzzle,” he looked at Mrs Jared when he said “sir,” and at Jared himself when he said “ma’am;” – “No, I couldn’t do it, sir; for there was a strange sort of feeling came over me of our having broken the same bread together for years, she being my wife, and this seemed to stop me; though the nearest point I come to was – but I’m getting wuzzled. I wasn’t frightened, sir, not a bit: I was hurt, and cut, and sore, to think that a honest man’s wife should have done such a crime; and then made it ten times worse by getting you suspected, because she had a spite against you and Mrs Pellet here, sir, for taking so much notice of my poor Pine, and saying that she was not properly used, for I once let it out that you had said so. Partly that, and partly, you know, because it would clear her; for there was a deal of notice being taken of it all then, so she put the little key in your music-box, sir.
“Put the little key in your music-box, sir,” continued Tim; “it’s all true, sir, for she went down upon her knees, sir, and confessed to it all; and how she had had pounds and pounds, and that you caught her that night in the dark, when she had gone to put back a half-crown or two that was marked, and she was afraid it was found out then; but it was a letter from the vicar which settled it all. And oh! sir, if I had only known of all this, I’d never have asked you to speak up for her to be pew-opener. Yes, sir, it was a letter from the vicar had done it all, telling her never to go near the church again, and giving her what we poor journeymen tailors call the bullet.
“Oh! I was cut, sir, after all you had done for us, sir, and the customer you had been to me, for it never seemed like coming out to work a day here, sir; I was always at home, and treated like a friend; and what with the thoughts of that, and the kind way you had noticed little Pine, and the cruel manner she had treated that poor little dead angel, I worked myself up at last, sir, and I actually said and wished then, that the vicar had not promised that he wouldn’t prosecute her; for she deserved it, sir, if ever a woman did. Yes, sir, I was worked up, and in my rage, I seized the iron, sir, and she shrieked out, and though it was only cold, I thought it wouldn’t be manly to hit her with that, so I put it down, and caught up the sleeve-board, and stood over her with it, quite furious, while she told all, and begged for mercy over and over again. And then, sir, I was that mad that I stamped about the room, and she was frightened of me, hard a woman as she was.
“‘Mind my eyes – mind my eyes!’ she kept on cryin’, as I stood over her, and made her own to all her treachery; while at times, sir, I didn’t know whether to be mad or to cry with shame, sir; and to hear her telling all, and then to think of her black-heartedness after it was all found out – going to rob me, sir, and taking even my poor wife’s brooch. It was cruel – cruel – cruel!
“But then,” continued Tim, “I held up, sir, though I could have broken down a score of times, and I spurred myself on by thinking of the way she used to treat poor little Pine, till, seeing me flourish the sleeve-board about in that mad way, sir, the wicked creature was frightened for her life, and, jumping up, and giving me a push, she darted out of the room, and before I got over my surprise, sir, she was gone. And perhaps it was best, sir, or in my rage I might so far have forgotten myself as to have struck her, when, you know, sir, I should never after have forgiven myself – never, so sure as my name is Tim Ruggles.”
“It’s very sad,” said Mrs Jared, for Tim had paused; “but, of course, after the fright is over, she will come back.”
“Never, ma’am, never,” said Tim. “She has opened a gulf between us, ma’am, that there would be no bridging over – authority for saying so. I’m now, ma’am, what I ought always to have been since my poor wife was taken from me – a widower, and I mean to keep so. No, ma’am, I’m not sorry she’s gone; for though a wonderful woman, ma’am, a most strong-minded woman, ma’am, she was not happy in her ways; and since she has left me, I’ve been thinking things over, and seeing them a little clearer than I used to, and I’m afraid I didn’t do my duty by some one who is passed away and gone. But I’m sorry, sir and ma’am, and what more can I say? being only a weak man, and thinking I was doing all for the best; though I don’t mind saying to you, sir, that what some one else said was quite right: Mrs Ruggles did marry me. But it’s all over now, sir: she has gone, and I didn’t strike her, sir; for I never should have forgiven myself if I’d struck a woman, bad as she might be.”
“Well,” said Jared, kindly; “and now suppose we say, let all this be forgotten, and sit down.”
“No, sir, not yet,” said Tim, “not yet. I’m not done, sir, I’ve something else to tell you, but perhaps it would be best that Miss Patty should not stay, and you can tell her yourselves afterwards.”
Patty rose and left the room.
“You see,” said Tim, “I had a visit only yesterday from a decent-looking lady who came with a little quiet knock; and at first I thought she was making a mistake and had come to the wrong room. But no, she knew me well enough, though I did not remember her pale worn face for a minute, until I knew her all at once as little Pine’s mother, when, ma’am, I could have run away if I’d had a chance. It did seem so hard to tell her, when she came almost in a threatening way like to ask me for her child, and when I told her it was dead and gone, it was heartbreaking to see how she took on, and said I’d killed it at first; but the next moment she turned wild and strange, and said the child was not dead, but that I had joined with Mr Richard Pellet to keep her little one from her. And then I was quite frightened, for she told me she was mad, and that she was Mrs Richard Pellet, and that little Pine was her own dear child; and what with wondering whether what she said was true, and puzzling how it could be that my darling was yours too, I got wuzzled; but I told her all I could, and begged of her to listen, but the poor thing seemed quite frantic with her sorrow, and I had to let her go, believing me a cheat and a liar, and that I had been cruel to poor little Pine.
“But there,” said Tim, after a pause, “I could only pity her, poor thing, and hope that Time would make all things come right, as I hope he will, sir. But he seems a terrible long while about it, and I’m afraid it won’t be in my day; at least I can’t seem to see it.”
Then Tim found out that he must go, and he hurried away as if not a moment were to be lost, satisfied now, he said, that he had set himself right, while Jared and his wife stood together thoughtful and silent, the latter with tears in her eyes reproaching herself for not seeing through the mystery sooner.
“For, O Jared!” she said, “if we had only had the poor little thing here, who can tell but its life might have been saved!”