Poor and ragged as he was, the lad's bearing was distinguished by a
bright manliness--even thus early shown--which could scarcely fail to
win favor. The circumstances of his young life were singular, and
deserve, and need, brief mention.
Somewhat less than twelve years before this day on which, in obedience
to Mr. Loveday's summons, he entered the bookseller's shop, Mr.
Loveday turned into Church Alley, after a walk he was in the habit of
taking through the markets of the East where the humble folk make
their purchases for the day of rest. It was therefore Saturday night,
and the hour was a little past midnight. In front of the pawnbroker's
shop, at the corner of Church Alley, stood the pawnbroker himself in a
state of perturbation, taking a few steps this way and a few that in
an uncertain, undecided fashion. His shutters were up, and the day's
business was at an end. He pounced upon Mr. Loveday, whose position
then, as at present, was one of authority among his neighbors, who
tacitly and willingly acknowledged him to be a man of superior stamp.
"Ah, Mr. Loveday," said the pawnbroker, laying his hand on the
bookseller's arm, "did you see a woman running away as you came
along?"
"Not that I noticed," replied Mr. Loveday, observing that something
unusual was agitating the pawnbroker.
"Or a man?" asked the pawnbroker.
"No."
"It is altogether the most extraordinary thing," said the pawnbroker,
scratching his head, "the most ex-tra-or-di-na-ry. I never heard of
anything like it."
"Like what?"
"Would you mind," said the pawnbroker, "stepping inside, and giving me
your advice?"
"Certainly," said Mr. Loveday.
He followed the pawnbroker into the shop, and there upon the counter,
in one of the divisions used by persons who came to pledge their goods
or redeem them, lay an old shawl containing, as was evidenced by a
gentle and regular upheaving, an animate object.
"What do you think of this?" exclaimed the pawnbroker, unfolding the
shawl.
"A very fine baby," said Mr. Loveday, "though I don't pretend to be a
judge--and fast asleep."
"Proving," added the pawnbroker, "that it's been well stuffed."
"Stuffed!"
"Had plenty to drink--got its belly full. That's the artfulness of
it."
"The baby's artfulness?" inquired Mr. Loveday, much mystified.
"No--of the trick that's been played upon me. Put comfortably to
sleep, satisfied, so that it shouldn't excite suspicion by as much as
a whimper."
"But explain," said Mr. Loveday, as much in the dark as ever. "Is it
your baby?"
"No, sir," replied the pawnbroker, energetically, "it is not."
"Then how comes it here?"
"That's what I'd like to know. If you'll believe me, Mr. Loveday, I'll
tell you all about it--no, not all, as much I as know myself."
"Of course I'll believe you," said Mr. Loveday, his interest growing
fast.
"Here am I," commenced the pawnbroker, excitedly, "all alone by myself
in the shop--well, not exactly here where we stand, but in my room at
the back there. Business over an hour ago--close at eleven, you know.
Shutters put up, and my assistant gone home. Front door left ajar,
because it's a hot night, and the gas has been flaring away. My wife
and the children all asleep up-stairs; no one to disturb me. There's a
bit of supper on the table. Mr. Loveday," he said, breaking off
abruptly, "my wife is a most peculiar woman--a most pe-cu-li-ar
woman."
"Go on with your story," said Mr. Loveday, calmly.
"Usually she stops up with me, and we have a bit of supper together,
especially on Saturday nights, the busiest time of the week for me.
But, as luck will have it, she doesn't feel quite the thing to-night,
and she goes to bed early. There I am, then, eating my supper and
making up my accounts. Everything very quiet, nothing wrong, as far as
I can see. I'll take my oath, Mr. Loveday, that when my assistant
wishes me good-night all the parcels are cleared away, and there's
nothing left on the counters, not as much as a pin. Well, sir, I come
to the end of my supper and my accounts, and feel easy in my mind.
Three ha'pence wrong in the reckoning up, but it's on the right side.
I put my money and books in the safe, lock it, pocket the key, fill my
pipe, and get up to come to the door to have a whiff of tobacco and
fresh air. I've got to pass through the shop to get to the street
door, and as I come up to this counter here, this bundle stares me in
the face. 'Hallo?' says I--to myself, you know--'Hallo! here's
something been overlooked;' and I takes hold of the bundle, and starts
back as if I was shot. I feel something moving inside. I come up to it
again, and open it, and there's this baby staring me in the face--no,
not staring me in the face, because it's fast asleep; but there's this
baby. How would you have felt?"
"Very much astonished."
"I was flabbergasted. How did it come here? Who brought it? What's the
meaning of it? While I was sitting in the back room I didn't hear a
sound, but it must have been then that the street door was pushed
softly open, and this--this _thing_ put on my counter. If I caught the
woman who did it I'd make it warm for her."
"Perhaps," suggested Mr. Loveday, "it is done for a joke."
"A joke!" cried the pawnbroker. "A nice joke to play a married
man--and at this time of the night!"
"At all events you have lent nothing on it."
"Find me the pawnbroker," retorted the distressed man, "who _would_
lend money on a baby!"
"Truly," observed Mr. Loveday, with grim suggestiveness, "flesh and
blood is not at a premium in this neighborhood."
"But, Mr. Loveday," implored the pawnbroker, "what am I to do with
it?"
"I can hardly advise you. You can't very well put it among your other
pledges, and you can't very well throw it into the streets."
In his heart of hearts the pawnbroker, although not in the main an
ill-natured man, was for the moment mad with himself for having taken
Mr. Loveday into his confidence. If he had kept the matter to himself,
he might, failing all other ways of getting rid of the encumbrance,
have deposited it on a doorstep in such a manner and at such a time
that it could not fail to come under the notice of a policeman, who,
in the exercise of his duty, could not have allowed it to remain
there. It was a warm night, the child was strong and healthy, and was
sleeping comfortably; it could scarcely have taken cold. But this
proceeding was not open to him now that Mr. Loveday was in possession
of the particulars.
"They wouldn't take it in at the workhouse," said Mr. Loveday.
"Why not? They've a better right to it than I have."
"It would have to be proved that it belonged to the parish. It is such
a queer story, you see."
"Do you mean to say it wouldn't be believed?"
"I can't hazard an opinion. Suppose you call your wife down, and ask
her to take care of it till you find out something about it."
"What!" cried the unhappy pawnbroker, "I should have the house pulled
over my ears."
Mr. Loveday shrugged his shoulders. Not that he was indifferent; the
adventure was so novel that it interested him; but he could not
exactly tell what could be done.
"After all," he said, "it may be as I suggested, a joke. The person who
left it here will probably call for it presently. Wait awhile."
"I must, I suppose, but I shall go crazy if I'm left alone with it. Do
a charity, and smoke a pipe with me."
"I don't smoke, but I'll keep you company for half an hour. Before
that time the mystery may be solved."
But though they waited up till two o'clock there were no further
developments. There they sat, for the most part in silence, and there
lay the baby in his shawl, sleeping soundly and placidly.
At length Mr. Loveday rose and said he must go. The pawnbroker began
to implore again.
"You're a single man; you've got no one to take care of but yourself;
I've got six children of my own to look after. Take it home with you
and give it a bed."
"No, no," said Mr. Loveday, laughing, "I couldn't think of such a
thing. If I were a woman--perhaps; or if I had a female housekeeper in
my house. The child needs a woman's care, and your wife is at hand."
The pawnbroker groaned. He heard a policeman's footsteps outside, and
in his despair he called him in and repeated his story.
The policeman listened gravely, threw the light of his dark lantern on
the sleeping child.
"I don't see what I can do," he said.
"I give it into custody," cried the pawnbroker.
"What's the charge?" asked the policeman.
The pawnbroker wrung his hands. Finally the policeman departed,
recommending the pawnbroker, before he left, to follow Mr. Loveday's
advice and call down his wife. Mr. Loveday also went home, and the
pawnbroker was left alone with his new and startling responsibility.
"I'll call in the morning," said Mr. Loveday, "to see how you've got
along with it."
When he called he learned that nothing further had been discovered.
The pawnbroker had passed a disturbed and sleepless night; the
pawnbroker's wife was in the worst of tempers, and declared that
either she or the baby would have to leave the house. Mr. Loveday
calmed her down, and then entered into a sensible consideration of the
case.
"So many hours have passed," he said, "since the child was left here,
that it seems more than likely that the person who placed it on your
counter has no intention of redeeming the pledge. In a few days, or
weeks, the matter may be traced; in the meantime something must be
done. I suggest that a woman be sought who, for three or four
shillings a week, will undertake the care of the child. I don't mind
bearing half the expense if you will bear the other half."
The benevolent offer was eagerly accepted by the pawnbroker, whose
only anxiety now was to get the baby out of his house. Before the
evening a poor woman was found who consented to take charge of the
helpless bundle of humanity. Having come into the neighborhood by a
mysterious chance, the child was called Chance, to which, when or how
could not afterwards be recalled, the Christian name of Timothy was
prefixed. Endeavors were made to solve the mystery of his birth, but,
in the absence of the slightest clew, nothing was discovered. For four
years Mr. Loveday and the pawnbroker paid the expenses of the child's
bringing up between them; then, somehow or other, Timothy Chance began
to take care of himself, nursing babies bigger than himself for
mothers whose quivers were too full, and getting a bit of straw to
sleep on and a crust of bread to keep life in him. He was full of
health and strength, and willingness, and even in those early days he
developed a surprising independence which served him in good stead. As
he grew in years the task of looking after himself and obtaining
shelter and food became less difficult; he throve where others would
have starved; if he could not get crumb he put up with crust; if he
could not get straw to lie upon he put up with boards, if not boards
the earth, if not a roof the sky. From time to time he disappeared
from the neighborhood, went hopping in the season, attaching himself
to some family bent on the same errand, took service with a tinker and
went about the country, and did anything and everything to keep body
and soul together. He succeeded in a good and worthy way, and the
partnership of his boyish frame with a cheerful, willing spirit, was a
passport wherever he went, and would have carried him all over the
world. He did well for others, and better for himself, as will be
seen, although he was penniless nine days out of ten. This did not
trouble him; he was healthy, strong, and happy, and had ideas--in the
germ at present, and not by himself understood; but there they were,
working in his fertile, healthy brain, to ripen and bear fruit one day
perhaps. Such, imperfectly limned, was Timothy Chance as he stood
before Mr. Loveday the bookseller.