Witch Winnie: The Story of a "King's Daughter"

by Elizabeth W. Champney

"Rickett's Court!" exclaimed Mr. Armstrong, in horror.

"Yes, sir; it is not the best quarter of the city, but many of the respectable poor live there; and you must remember, sir, that your wife must necessarily have had a hard struggle to support herself and your little son, alone and friendless, in this great city."

Mr. Armstrong groaned aloud. Rickett's Court had not seemed so bad to him for other men's children and wives, but that his child, his wife, should live in such vile surroundings was horrible. He sprang to his feet, seized his hat, and with a hasty "I will see you again, Doctor," hurried in the same direction which Stephen Trimble had taken not a half-hour before. It was only a short distance, but it seemed miles to him. Just as he came in sight of the building every window in its front was illuminated with a sudden flash, and a heavy detonation shook the earth. Then smoke poured from the broken panes, and the air was filled with flying splinters and débris, while shrieks from within, and shouts of "Fire! fire!" from without, added to the confusion.

The smoke cleared in a moment, and people were seen at the windows dropping down the fire-escape. Only a few minutes later a fire-engine came tearing around the corner, and the hoarse voice of a fireman was heard dominating the tumult and giving orders, but before this Alexander Armstrong, possessed of but one idea—that his wife and child were somewhere within—had rushed into the burning building. One glance showed him that this was hopeless. The staircase had been torn out by the explosion, and the flames were roaring up the space which it had occupied, as through a chimney. He was dragged back to the court by the fireman, who exclaimed, "Man alive! can't you see that the staircase has gone, and that they are coming down the fire-escape? There wouldn't have been the ghost of a chance for them but for that. Bless the man who had it put there!"

The words gave him a little heart, and he stood at the foot, helping the women and catching the children handed to him, hoping in vain to recognize his wife. They stopped coming. "Are all out?" he shouted. "There's some one in the fourth story," said a woman, and before the fireman could lay his hand on the fire-escape Mr. Armstrong was half-way up. The façade still stood, but the entire interior of the building was in flames, and blinding smoke and scorching sparks poured from the windows. At the fourth story a man had staggered to the window and lay with his arm outside, holding on to the sill. Mr. Armstrong uttered a cry when he saw that it was a man, but, none the less, he lifted him tenderly out, and into the arms of the fireman following close behind them. Then drawing his coat over his mouth and nostrils, he entered the room. Another man lay at a little distance, or a body that had been a man, terribly torn and shattered by the explosion. It was the anarchist who had been the principal in the plot; the other had escaped. Mr. Armstrong descended, looking into every apartment as he came down to be sure no living thing was left inside that furnace.

"You are a hero, sir! will you give me your name? I represent ——." It was the omnipresent reporter on hand for an item. Mr. Armstrong turned from him, without reply, to the man whom he had rescued, Stephen Trimble, who lay with a foot torn from the ankle, and a broken arm. A hospital surgeon knelt at his side bandaging deftly. A policeman had sent the call when Mr. Armstrong started up the fire-escape, and the ambulance, a more conclusive "Evidence of Christianity" than that dear old Dr. Hopkins or any other theologian ever wrote; nobler exponent of civilization than the fire department even, since that is the rich man's provision for saving his own property, while the ambulance is the rich man's provision for saving the poor man's life—the ambulance, with surgeon on the back seat coolly feeling for his instruments, and bare-headed driver clanging the gong, and lashing his already galloping horses, had torn like mad down Broadway. And as it came, aristocratic carriages hurrying with ladies just a little late for a grand dinner, and an expectant bridegroom on his way to Grace Church, halted and waited for it to pass; express and telegraph agents, and rushing men of business, gave it the right of way as it bounded on its errand of mercy.

Alexander Armstrong spoke for a moment with the surgeon, long enough to learn that Stephen Trimble's injuries were probably not mortal, and to urge every attention possible. Then he caught sight of Solomon Meyer bowing and cringing at a little distance, and he sprang upon him like a panther on his prey. Solomon, greatly surprised, could only imagine that the loss of the property had driven him insane, and gasped, "Ze insurance bolicy is all right," whereat the ex-landlord gave his agent such a shaking that his teeth rattled in his head, only pausing to inquire if he knew anything of a tenant by the name of Mrs. Halsey. Solomon Meyer assured him that Mrs. Halsey had long since quitted the building, but this only partially reassured him, for he placed very little reliance on the man's word. His wife, almost found, was lost to him again. He could not believe that she perished in the burning building; still, there was this horrible possibility.

There was no one to tell him that she had just gone to Narragansett Pier at his daughter's bidding, and was occupying the very cottage where so many of her happier years were passed; and he threw himself more unreservedly into his business projects, not, however, forgetting the poor inventor at the hospital, whom he visited frequently, and cared for as tenderly as though he had been his brother. After the excitement of the fire was over, he remembered that the law had an account to settle with Solomon Meyer, but he was not then to be found. His guilty conscience had taken the alarm, and the subtle magnetism which draws bad people together had caused him to form a partnership with the anarchist who had escaped the explosion, and but for Miss Prillwitz's timely recognition they would have fled to Canada. Mr. Armstrong found them, as we know, in the Greenfield jail, and had no difficulty in identifying them, and in having them brought to justice.

As the time approached for the trial of Solomon Meyer and the Russian anarchist, Mr. Armstrong was troubled with the fear that Stephen Trimble might not be able to testify in court. He visited him frequently at the hospital, and whenever he approached the subject of his dealings with the anarchists he became excited and confused.