A Little World

“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!”

Volume Three – Chapter Twenty Two.

In Chase

“Five o’clock,” said Harry Clayton, as the clerk came in to lay a couple of letters upon the table of his employer’s private office. “How long have I been waiting this time?”

“Better than an hour, sir,” said the clerk.

“What time do you close?” inquired Harry.

“Five o’clock, sir,” said the clerk; “he won’t come here now.”

“S’pose not,” said Harry. “I’ll run down to Norwood. Hardly like going without an invite though, now. It won’t seem like home,” he muttered; and then he looked at the door, as much surprised as the clerk, for there stood the figure of poor Ellen.

“That’s the lady he went out with,” said the clerk, in an undertone.

“Has he not come back?” said Ellen, hoarsely. “Has not Mr Richard Pellet returned?”

“No,” said Harry, quietly. “I am waiting for him.”

“Who are you?” said his companion, abruptly.

“Who am I?” said Harry, smiling good-humouredly. “My name is Clayton.”

“Her son?” she exclaimed.

“The late Mrs Clayton’s son, if that is what you mean; and Mr Pellet is my stepfather!”

“I thought so; and where is she?”

“In heaven, I trust,” said Harry, reverently.

“Dead! dead! And did he kill her, as he killed me, to marry some one else?”

“Hush!” said Harry. “Perhaps you had better go,” he said to the clerk, who was feasting, open-mouthed, upon the gossip banquet before him, but immediately left the room.

“Where is he now?” she said, eagerly.

“At Norwood, I expect,” said Harry. “But, may I ask, who are you?”

“Me! – me!” she exclaimed, passionately. “I am the woman who has been his slave through life – the woman he drove mad, and then kept hidden away that he might marry money. I’m mad, I know, but only sometimes – only sometimes. And now – and now, he has robbed me of my child – his child! – no, no! my child – my own darling; and they try to cheat me; they say it is dead. But no, it could not die; it is well and happy, and,” she continued, in an undertone, “I have half maddened him. I was here this morning and told him I would have my little one. I would not leave him, but he contrived to evade me.” Then, catching Harry’s wrist, she whispered a few words in his ear which made him turn pale with horror.

“Nonsense! No, no! not so bad as that,” he said, hoarsely.

“Yes, yes, I fear it is. Take me with you now – at once.”

Harry stood for a moment thinking, and half confused, at times, too, doubting the wisdom of taking such a companion; then, evidently having formed his plans, he said hurriedly, “Come then!” and in a few minutes they had secured a cab, and were rattling over London Bridge.

A train due in five minutes, but it seemed to them five hours before it came. Off at last, though; and very soon after leaving the station their footsteps were crunching over the gravel sweep that led to the front door of Richard Pellet’s place, when, as soon almost as they reached the porch, the door flew open, and a burst of warm light greeted them, their approach having been heralded by a bell from the lodge.

“Mr Pellet in?” said Harry to one of the gentlemen in drab and coach-lace.

“Not been gone out ten minutes, sir.”

“Do you know where to?” said Harry.

The gentleman in coach-lace looked at his fellow, and then back at Harry, to answer —

“Station, sir; carriage not come back yet. Came ’ome and had early dinner, and ordered carriage at five.”

“No idea where he is gone?” said Harry, anxiously.

The gentleman in coach-lace looked at his fellow once again, before answering, while Ellen whispered to Harry, as she tightly clutched his arm, “Ask him again – again,” but there was no need.

“Paris, I think, sir,” said the man. “I shouldn’t tell any one, sir; but it can’t be wrong to tell you. Glad to see you here again, sir. Like dinner d’reckly?”

“No, no,” said Harry, hesitating. “Did you notice anything particular? – but what makes you say Paris?”

“Because he told me to look what times trains run from London Bridge to Newhaven, sir; and what time the Dieppe boat started. His hand shook so, sir, he couldn’t find out for himself.”

“Was he ill? Did you see anything particular in him?” said Harry, anxiously.

“Didn’t seem himself at all, sir; and did nothing hardly at dinner but drink wine, sir.”

“There, there!” whispered Mrs Richard, “I told you so; he is wild, and you must stop him, or he will – ”

Harry shuddered, and turned away to snatch his portmonnaie from his pocket and count its contents.

“You had better stay here,” he said.

“No, no! I must go with you. I want – I want to be with you. If anything were to happen – if he committed any rash act, I should feel that his blood was upon my head. Come!” she said, eagerly, and with a strange look in her eyes. “Come! there is no time to lose. I want – I want to be on the way.”

By consulting Bradshaw, Harry found that they might reach Newhaven before the boat started; perhaps catch the very train by which Richard Pellet travelled, though the probability was that they would find him to have an hour’s start of them, but by a slow train – that is, if he had gone at all, which Harry was sometimes disposed to doubt. But then he had taken luggage, and had written a direction, so the man said; and in corroboration he brought a blotting-pad, and part of a book of adhesive luggage labels, one of which was written upon; but, perhaps from want of legibility, smeared hastily over. But there, plain enough to read, was the address – “R. Pellet, Hotel Laroche, R – .”

That was all. Where would “R” be? Some Rue in Paris, Harry thought; when his eyes fell upon the blotting-pad – one that had hardly been used, but upon which, in reverse, he could now make out the same address, left by another label that had been blotted upon it. “R. Pellet” was perfectly plain; and then, with a little puzzling, he made out the rest, – “Hotel Laroche, Rouen.”

“Can we have the brougham?” said Harry, for he was now satisfied.

“D’reckly, sir,” answered the man. But “d’reckly” proved to be a full half-hour afterwards, when, just as Harry was about to set off on foot for the station, the brougham came round to the door, and they stepped in.

“Station – quick!” said Harry.

The man drove quickly; but they were only in time to see one train glide away through the darkness, leaving them waiting impatiently for the next.

Fortunately for the travellers, the trains succeeded each other very rapidly, and getting out at London Bridge, they had just time to cross over and reach the express as the last bell rang, hurrying into a carriage and giving vent to a sigh of relief as they felt it glide away into the outer darkness.