ROSE KIDNAPPED.
"So I've found you at last," said James Martin, looking grimly at Rose,
bending over so that the fumes of his breath, tainted with liquor,
seemed to scorch her innocent cheek.
"Let me go," said Rose, terrified and ready to cry.
"Let you go!" repeated Martin, with a sneer. "Is that all the welcome
you've got for me, after I've taken the pains to come clear over from
Brooklyn to find you? No, I can't let you go; I'm your father, and you
must go with me."
"I can't, indeed I can't," said Rose, in distress "I want to stay with
Rufie and Miss Manning."
"I can't allow it. I'm your father, and I'm responsible for you. Your
brother aint fit to have charge of you. Come along."
He seized her by the shoulder, and began to push her along.
"I don't want to go," said Rose, crying. "I don't want to leave Rufie."
"I don't care what you want," said Martin, roughly."You've got to come
with me, anyhow. As for your brother, I don't want him. He'd be trying
to kidnap you again. I might have put him in prison for it; but I'll let
him go this time, if you don't make any fuss."
"What is the matter?" asked a policeman, who came up as Rose was
struggling weakly in the grasp of her stepfather. "What are you pulling
along the little girl for?"
"Because she won't come without," said Martin. "She ran away from home
with her brother a few weeks ago, and I've just found her."
"Is she your child?"
"Yes."
"Is that true?" asked the policeman, not particularly prepossessed in
Martin's favor by his personal appearance, his face being unusually
inflamed by his morning potations. His question was of course directed
to Rose.
"No, I aint his child now," said Rose. "Rufie has the care of me."
"And who is Rufie?"
"He is my brother."
"He's a young rascal," said Martin, "up to all sorts of mischief. He'll
lie and steal, and anything else that's bad. He aint fit to have charge
of Rose."
"It isn't true," said the little girl, indignantly. "He doesn't lie nor
steal. He's the best boy that ever lived."
"I haven't anything to do with that," said the policeman. "The question
is, is this your father?"
"He was mother's husband," said Rose, reluctantly.
"Then he is your stepfather."
"Don't let him take me away," said Rose, imploringly.
"If he's your stepfather, I can't stop him. But, hark you, my man, I
advise you to be kind to the little girl. If you are not, I hope she'll
run away from you. You look as if you'd been drinking pretty hard this
morning."
"It's the trouble I've had about her that made me drink," said Martin,
apologetically. "I was afraid she wasn't taken good care of. Come along
now, Rose. He says you must go."
"Let me go and speak to Miss Manning first," entreated Rose. "I've got a
spool of cotton I've just bought for her."
"I'm not such a fool as that," said Martin. "I've looked for you long
enough, and now I've got you I mean to hold on to you."
"But Miss Manning won't know where I am," pleaded Rose.
"It's none of her business where you are. She aint no relation of
yours."
"But she's been very kind to me."
"She was kind enough to keep you away from me, she hasn't anything to do
with you, and I don't mean she shall ever see you again."
Poor Rose! the thought that she was to be forever separated from her
kind friend, Miss Manning, smote her with a sharp sorrow, and she began
to cry bitterly.
"Stop your whimpering," said Martin, roughly, "or I'll give you
something to cry about."
But, even with this threat hanging over her, Rose could not check the
flow of her tears. Those persons whom they met looked with sympathy at
the pretty little girl, who was roughly pulled along by the red-faced,
rough-looking man; and more than one would have been glad to interfere
if he had felt authorized to do so.
James Martin did not relish the public attention drawn to them by Rose's
tears, for he knew instinctively that the sympathy would be with her,
and not with himself. As soon as possible he got the child on board a
horse-car bound for the South Ferry. This was something of an
improvement, for he was no longer obliged to drag her along. But even in
the cars her tears continued to flow.
"What's the matter with your little girl?" asked a kind,
motherly-looking woman, who had a daughter at home about Rose's age, and
whose sympathies were therefore more readily excited by the appearance
of distress in the child's face.
"She's been behaving badly, ma'am," said Martin.
"She doesn't look like a bad child," said the good woman, kindly.
"You can't tell by her looks," said Martin. "Maybe you'd think, to look
at her, that she was one of the best children out; but she's very
troublesome."
"I'm sorry to hear that. You should try to be good, my dear," said the
woman, gently.
Rose didn't reply, but continued to shed tears.
"She's got a brother that's a regular bad one," continued Mr. Martin.
"He's a little scamp, if there ever was one. Would you believe it,
ma'am, he induced his sister to run away from home some weeks ago, and
ever since I've been hunting all around to find her?"
"Is it possible?" exclaimed the other, interested. "Where did you find
her, if I may be allowed to ask?"
"In a low place, in the western part of the city," said Mr. Martin. "It
wasn't a fit place for a child like her. Her brother carried her away
from a good home, just out of spite, because he got angry with me."
"It must have made you feel very anxious."
"Yes," said Mr. Martin, pathetically. "It worried me so I couldn't sleep
nights. I've been hunting night and day for her ever since, but it's
only to-day that I got track of her. She's crying now because she didn't
want to leave the woman her brother placed her with."
"I'm sorry to hear it. My dear, you will be better off at home than
among strangers. Don't you think you will?"
"No, I shan't," said Rose. "Miss Manning was a good woman, and was very
kind to me."
"She isn't old enough to judge," said Martin, shrugging his shoulders.
"No, of course not. Where do you live?"
"In Brooklyn."
"Well, good-by; I get out here."
"Good-by, ma'am. I hope you won't have so much trouble with your
children as I have."
"I am sure your little girl will be better when she gets home."
"I hope so, ma'am."
Rose did not speak. She was too much distressed, and, child as she was,
she had an instinctive feeling that her stepfather was false and
hypocritical, and she did not feel spirit enough to contradict his
assertions about herself and Rufus.
At length they reached the ferry, and embarked on the ferry-boat.
Rose no longer tried to get away. In the first place, she was now so far
away from home that she would not have known her way back. Besides, she
saw that Mr. Martin was determined to carry her with him, and that
resistance would be quite useless, so in silent misery she submitted
herself to what it seemed impossible to escape.
They got into the cars on the other side, and the trip passed without
incident.
"We get out here," said Mr. Martin, when they had been riding about half
an hour.
Rose meekly obeyed his summons, and followed him out of the car.
"Now, young lady," said Mr. Martin, sternly, "I am going to give you a
piece of advice. Are you listening?"
"Yes," said Rose, dispiritedly.
"Then you had better give up snivelling at once. It aint going to do you
any good. Maybe, if you behave well, I'll let your brother see you after
a while, but if you kick up a fuss you'll never see him again in the
world. Do you understand?"
"Yes."
"I hope you do. Anyway, you'd better. I live over here now. I've took
board for you and myself in the house of a woman that's got a girl about
as big as you. If you aint foolish you'll have a good time playing with
her."
"I want to see Rufie," moaned Rose.
"Well, you can't, and the sooner you make up your mind to that the
better. Here we are."
He opened the front door of the shabby boarding house, and said to the
servant whom he met in the entry, "Where's Mrs. Waters?"
"I'll call her directly, if you'd like to see her."
"Yes, I want to see her."
Mrs. Waters shortly appeared, her face red with heat, from the kitchen.
"I've brought my little girl along, as I told you," said Martin.
"So this is your little girl, is it? She's a nice child," said Mrs.
Waters, rather surprised to find that a man of Mr. Martin's unpromising
exterior had so attractive a child.
"No, she isn't," said Martin, shaking his head. "She's very badly
behaved. I've let her stay in New York with some relations, and she
didn't want to come back and see father. She's been making a great fuss
about it."
"She'll feel better to-morrow," said Mrs. Waters. "How old is she?"
"Seven years old."
"Just the age of my Fanny."
"You said you could let her occupy the same bed with your little girl."
"Yes, they can sleep together. Fanny will like to have a girl of her own
age to play with. Wait a minute,—I'll call her."
Fanny Waters was a short, dumpy little girl, of extreme plainness. Rose
looked at her, but didn't appear to feel much attracted.
"You can go out into the back yard together and play," said Mrs. Waters;
"only mind and don't get into any mischief."
"Wait a minute," said Mr. Martin, calling Rose aside, "I want to speak
to her a minute. If," he continued, addressing the child, "you try to
run away, I'll go over to New York, and shoot your brother through the
head with a pistol. So mind what you're about."
Rose listened in silent terror, for she thought her stepfather might
really do as he threatened, and it had a greater effect upon her than if
he had threatened harm to herself.
James Martin witnessed with satisfaction the effect produced in the
pale, scared face of the child, and he said to himself, "I don't think
she'll run away in a hurry."