THE LONELY STREET.
Afraid lest this strange follower should accost her rudely or even
molest her, Mary took advantage of the shadow in a portion of the
street, to spring into the recess of a doorway, where with
palpitating heart she laid a hand upon the bell, determined to seek
succour at all hazards if he came near. The man evidently missed
her, and while he was gazing about him irresolutely, three fellows of
suspicious aspect, who appeared as suddenly as if they had been shot
up through the pavement, flung themselves simultaneously upon him!
There was a brief--very brief--struggle; a choking sound as of
strangulation, a half-stifled cry in which a shriek from Mary
mingled, and then the ruffians, one of whom she perceived to be tall
and thin, sallow-visaged, with a hooked nose and long moustache,
vanished, leaving their victim on the pavement, partially garrotted
and _minus_ watch, purse, and hat.
It was a common case of cruel assault and robbery by street thieves.
Breathlessly Mary approached the stranger, who lay still and
motionless. She had no fear of death--the dead had lain in her arms
too recently--"a heavier weight than lead," and as she looked down on
the unfortunate man, she could perceive by the light of a gas-lamp
close by that his hair was white and glistening. She thought of her
father's silvery hair, and forgetting how this man had so recently
scared and annoyed her, while stooping down and calling for help, she
endeavoured to loosen his cravat that he might respire more freely.
While she was thus acting the part of a little Samaritan, several
passers by gathered around her, and four officers of police came up
with a man handcuffed and in their custody; the tall sallow man with
the hooked nose.
"I am so glad you have captured this wicked wretch!" said Mary,
tremulous with excitement. "Oh, I saw it all happen--a horrible act
of cruelty!"
"Ah! this is fortunate; then you fully recognise this person as one
of the culprits?" said one who seemed by the difference of his dress
to be an Inspector of police.
"Yes; perfectly."
The prisoner uttered a terrible oath mingled with a threat.
"That is well, ma'am. This fellow, Ben Ginger, _alias_ 'the
Captain,' is an old offender; but we'll have him finally locked up
for this. Your evidence will be necessary, however. What is your
name, Miss?" he added doubtfully, while peering into her face, as
ladies are not wont to be abroad in the streets of London at that
hour afoot, and especially alone.
Mary began to sob, and said--
"My name is Lennox. I shall be so glad if you will direct me; I have
lost myself since this afternoon in the streets, and cannot make my
way----"
"Where to--home?"
"Home!" she repeated in a strange voice, for she felt that she had no
home; and none but the homeless can tell how that little word thrills
through the heart. Even he who composed "Sweet Home," the sweetest
of our ballads, is said to have died without one, a mendicant in the
streets of that great metropolis whose magnitude so terrified our
little wanderer.
"You seem respectable; in mourning, too," resumed the Inspector,
surveying her with the aid of a bull's-eye held up by one of his men.
"Mourning is a common dodge among this ere lot," said one of the
latter, "and respectable gals don't ramble about the streets at this
hour, so we'll just take her along with us, and lock her up till
morning."
"Unless you can show us your house, and give a proper address, I fear
there's nothing else for it," said the Inspector.
"So look lively, little one, and keep up your pecker," said the
captured thief, with a fierce grimace; "you're one of ourselves, you
know, and as you've taken such a precious interest in me and my
doings, you're welcome to a share of my bunk in the lock-up. Any
objection. Inspector Tappleton!"
"Silence, fellow!" said the Inspector; "we are wasting time.
Disperse this gathering crowd; help this poor man to rise, take him
to the nearest surgeon's, and get his name and address. But you must
come with us to the station-house, girl, if you are as you say, and,
as I suspect, a mere wanderer in the streets."
Mary started back with great horror, and, clasping her hands,
exclaimed incoherently--
"Oh, sir, do not take me there--what have I done? Oh, my papa, you
are in your grave, and Harry, my brother, lies in his at
Chillianwallah, but where will mine be?"
"The dissecting-table first, I hope," said the garrotter, with a
bitter grin, while mutterings of commiseration, doubt, and ridicule,
were heard among the listeners.
"At Chillianwallah?" said a constable, coming forward, and Mary's
quick eye saw the Indian ribbon on his breast. "What was his
regiment?"
"The **th Lancers."
"And did you say your name was Lennox?" said the official with
increased interest.
"Yes."
"Lor, Miss, I know'd your brother well; I was in his troop, and, more
than that, Miss, I was his own servant through all the campaign in
Central India; and a kind master he was to me. A Captain Wedderburn
of the Fusileers, and I, rolled him in a horserug and buried him with
our own hands, the same day he was killed in the charge."
"My good man, I thank you," said Mary, almost choked in tears. "He
was my only brother. Are you the John Finnis of whom he used to
write?"
"Yes, Miss; the very same."
"I have no time to listen to all this," said the Inspector,
impatiently.
"Beg pardon, for one moment," urged the constable. "Did you come
from Scotland t'other day by the morning train?"
"Yes; to King's Cross."
"Then I'm sure you are the young lady I told Tom Gubbs, the guard, to
take care of."
"I am; and he took me to Mrs. Primer's, near the Strand."
"Oh, sir," said Finnis the constable, turning to the Inspector, "this
young lady's respectability is unquestionable. I shall find her in
the morning when wanted; but, in the meantime, how is she to get
home?"
"Call a cab, and take her with you," replied the Inspector, while
making by gaslight a brief memorandum of Mary's full name and present
address (not an aristocratic one) in his notebook; and saying that
she would certainly be required in the morning, or next day at
latest, he proceeded to take care of the garrotted man.
"Come along with me, Miss Lennox, please," said Finnis the ex-Lancer,
conducting her into the next street. "Cab!"
"Here you are; fust cab! But what lark is this? A gal and a
blue-bottle," exclaimed a strange and tattered-looking being, who
seemed to spring out of the gutter, and placed his hand on the door
of a hansom.
"Get in, Miss, please. Norfolk Street, Strand."
"Bah! only a couple o' bobs' worth," said the driver, surlily, as he
whipped up his lean Rosinante, and away they went.
Mary felt her heart full of gratitude, and so pleased at her escape,
that she would have driven in the hansom with Finnis through the
streets at noonday perhaps, without thinking of the incongruity of
the situation; but, after a time, it did occur to her.
"Oh, Heaven!" she thought, "has it come to this with me, that I am
grateful for the countenance and the protection of people so humble
as these? and when my money is gone, what shall then be my fate?"
Her new ally treated her with the utmost deference, and expatiated at
great length on the kindness, the bravery, and high spirit of his
late captain, her brother; and he was still full of this subject when
the hansom drew up at the door of Mrs. Long Primer's house, to the
infinite relief in one way, and terror in another, of that little
woman, who had a wholesome dread of "the Perlice," as she named them.
A few words rapidly explained all; but Mary had no sooner reached her
room than she fainted, and for a few minutes was quite insensible.
She was comparatively safe now; but that episode in the street by
night was only the beginning of Mary's most serious sorrows, and with
morning came the terror and repugnance of having to appear as a
witness against the captured culprit. In her dreams the live-long
night had the past and the future haunted her, and if for a few
minutes she dropped off to sleep, she awoke with a convulsive start.
She saw the struggle, the robbery, the hook-nosed ruffian, and cries
for aid rang in her ear, or left her lips mechanically.
Her trunk, with her little all, had never been heard of, so she was
compelled to abandon all hope so far as concerned it. The next day
passed, and she heard nothing of the affair of the robbery in which
she was the chief, or only witness, so she spent a little time in
writing to Lady Wedderburn; it was so pleasant now amid the black
desperation of her situation to write to the mother of Cyril, and to
cast herself upon her for protection, telling of her sad
disappointment concerning Lady Wetherall, and asking if she would
kindly give her another letter of introduction to any friend in
London; and with a sigh of longing, and a prayer of hope, she had the
letter posted in the nearest post-office, and her soul went with it
back to the Lammermuirs!
There came a kind and motherly answer in due course; but poor Mary
Lennox was not at Norfolk Street to receive it.
Dark horror had closed over her by that time!