A CRY IN THE DARK.
One more scene in this night's fateful masquerade remains to be
described, and then the seemingly separate threads of our plot unite,
and twine about our central figures a chain of Fate.
While Van Vernet is setting snares for the feet of his rival, and while
that young man of many resources is actively engaged in disentangling
himself therefrom,--while Leslie Warburton, tortured by a secret which
she cannot reveal, and dominated by a power she dare not disobey, steals
away from her stately home--and while Alan Warburton, soured by
suspicion, made unjust by his own false pride, follows like a shadow
behind her--a cloud is descending upon the house of Warburton.
Sitting apart from the mirthful crowd, quite unobserved and seemingly
wholly engrossed in themselves, are little Daisy Warburton and the
quaintly-attired Mother Goose, before mentioned.
It is long past the child's latest bedtime, but her step-mamma has been
so entirely preoccupied, and Millie so carelessly absorbed in watching
the gayeties of the evening, that the little one has been overlooked,
and feels now quite like her own mistress.
"Ha! ha!" she laughs merrily, leaning, much at her ease, upon the knee
of Mother Goose; "ha! ha! what nice funny stories you tell; almost as
nice as my new mamma's stories. Only," looking up with exquisite
frankness, "your voice is not half so nice as my new mamma's."
"Because I'm an old woman, dearie," replies Mother Goose, a shade of
something like disapproval in her tone. "Do you really want to see
Mother Hubbard's dog, little girl?"
"Old Mother Hubbard--she went to the cupboard," sings Daisy gleefully.
"Of course I do, Mrs. Goose. Does Mother Hubbard look like you?"
"A little."
"And--you said Cinderella's coach was down near my papa's gate?"
"So it is, dearie." Then looking cautiously about her, and lowering her
voice to a whisper: "How would you like to ride to see Mother Hubbard in
Cinderella's coach, and come right back, you know, before it turns into
a pumpkin again?"
The fair child clasps two tiny hands, and utters a cry of delight.
"Oh! _could_ we?" she asks, breathlessly.
"Of course we can, if you are very quiet and do as I bid you, and if you
don't get afraid."
"I don't get afraid--not often," replies the child, drawing still closer
to Mother Goose, and speaking with hushed gravity. "When I used to be
afraid at night, my mamma, my new mamma, you know, taught me to say like
this."
Clasping her hands, she sinks upon her knees and lifts her face to that
which, behind its grotesque mask, is distorted by some unpleasant
emotion. And then the childish voice lisps reverently:
"Dear God, please take care of a little girl whose mamma has gone to
Heaven. Keep her from sin, and sickness, and danger. Make the dark as
safe as the day, and don't let her be afraid, for Jesus' sake. Amen."
Something like a smothered imprecation dies away in the throat of the
listener, and then she says, in honeyed accents:
"That's a very nice little prayer, and your new mamma is a very fine
lady. When you come back from your ride in Cinderella's carriage, you
can tell your new mamma all about it."
"Oh! how nice!"
"It will be charming. Come into the conservatory, dearie. I think we can
see Cinderella's lamps from there."
With the confidence born of childish innocence, the little one places
her hand in that of Mother Goose, and is led away.
The conservatory is all aglow with light and color and rich perfume, and
it is almost tenantless. The broad low windows are open, and a narrow
balcony, adorned with tall vases and hung with drooping vines, projects
from them scarce three feet from the ground.
Out upon this balcony, and close to the railing, the child follows the
old woman confidently. Then, as she peers out into the night, she draws
back.
"It's--very--dark," she whispers.
"It's the light inside that makes it seem so dark, dearie. Ah! I see a
glimmer of Cinderella's lamp now; look, child!"
Stooping quickly, she lifts the little one and seats her upon the
railing of the balcony. Then, as the child, shading her eyes with a tiny
hand, attempts to peer out into the darkness, something damp and
sickening is pressed to her face; there is an odor in the air not born
of the flowers within, and Daisy Warburton, limp and unconscious, lies
back in the arms of her enemy.
In another moment, the woman in the garb of Mother Goose has dropped
from the balcony to the ground beneath, and, bearing her still burden in
her arms, disappeared in the darkness.
And as her form vanishes from the balcony, a city clock, far away, tolls
out the hour: _midnight_.
* * * * *
At this same hour, with the same strokes sounding in their ears, a
party of men sally forth from the X--street Police station, and take
their way toward the river.
They are policemen, mostly dressed in plain clothes, and heavily armed,
every man. They move away silently like men obeying the will of one
master, and presently they separate, dropping off by twos and threes
into different by-ways and obscure streets, to meet again at a certain
rendezvous.
It is the Raiding Party on its way to the slums, and, contrary to the
hopes of the Chief of the detectives and the Captain of the police, it
is led, not by Dick Stanhope, but by Van Vernet.
Contrary to all precedent, and greatly to the surprise of all save
Vernet, Richard Stanhope has failed to appear at the time appointed; and
so, after many doubts, much hesitation, and some delay, Van Vernet is
made leader of the expedition.
"I shall send Stanhope as soon as he reports here," the Chief had said
as a last word to Vernet. "His absence to-night is most reprehensible,
but his assistance is too valuable to be dispensed with."
Mentally hoping that Stanhope's coming may be delayed indefinitely, Van
Vernet bites his lip and goes on his way, while the Chief sits down to
speculate as to Stanhope's absence, and to await his coming.
But he waits in vain. The long night passes, and day dawns, and Richard
Stanhope does not appear.
Meanwhile, Van Vernet and the two men who accompany him, arrive first of
the party at their rendezvous.
It is at the mouth or entrance to a dark, narrow street, the beginning
of that labyrinth of crooked by-ways, and blind alleys, from the maze of
which Richard Stanhope had rescued himself and the wounded convict, on
the night previous.
Halting here Van Vernet waits the arrival of his men, and meditates. He
is tolerably familiar with this labyrinth; knows it as well, perhaps, as
most men on such a mission would deem necessary, but he has not given
the locality and its denizens the close study and keen investigation
that Stanhope has considered essential to success. And now, as he peers
down the dark street, thinking of the maze beyond, and the desperate
character of the people who inhabit it, he involuntarily wishes for that
closer knowledge that only Stanhope possesses.
He knows that Stanhope, in various disguises, has passed days and nights
among these haunts of iniquity; that he can thread these intricate
alleys in the darkest night, and identify every rogue by name and
profession.
He thinks of these things, and then shrugs his shoulder with
characteristic inconsequence. He has, and with good reason, unbounded
confidence in himself. He has tact, skill, courage; what man may do,
_he_ can do.
What are these miserable outlaws that they should baffle Van Vernet the
skillful, the successful, the daring?
Some one is coming toward them from out the dark alley. They hear the
fragment of an idiotic street song, trolled out in a maudlin voice, and
then feet running, skipping, seeming now and then to prance and
pirouette absurdly.
"What the--"
The exclamation of the policeman is cut short by the sudden collision of
his stationary figure with a rapidly moving body. Then he grapples with
his unintentional assailant only to release him suddenly, as Van Vernet
throws up the slide of his dark lantern and turns its rays upon the
new-comer.
Involuntarily all three utter sharp exclamations as they gather around
the apparition.
What a figure! Ragged, unkempt, fantastic; the same which a short time
ago we saw descending from a carriage only a few rods distant from this
very spot.
It is the same figure; the same rags and tinsel and dirt; the same
disfigured face, with its black patch and its fringe of frowzy hair; the
same, yet worse to look upon; for now the under jaw is dropped, the
mouth drivels, the eye not concealed by the patch leers stupidly.
Unmistakably, it is the face of an idiot.
"How!" ejaculates this being, peering curiously at the three. "How do?
Where ye goin'?"
Van Vernet gazes curiously for a moment, then utters a sound expressive
of satisfaction. He has heard of a fool that inhabits these alleys;
Stanhope has mentioned him on one or two occasions. "A modernized
Barnaby Rudge," Stanhope had called him. Surely this must be him.
Turning to one of his men he says, in an undertone:
"If I'm not mistaken this fellow is a fool who grew up in these slums,
and knows them by heart. 'Silly Charlie,' I think, they call him. I
believe we can make him useful."
Then turning to the intruder he says suavely:
"How are you, my man? How are you?"
But a change has come over the mood of the seeming idiot. Striking his
breast majestically, and pointing to a huge tin star which decorates it,
he waves his hand toward them, and says with absurd dignity:
"G'way--_g'way!_ Charlie big p'liceman. Gittin' late; _g'way_."
[Illustration: "G'way--_g'way!_ Charlie big p'liceman. Gittin' late;
_g'way_!"--page 110.]
"We must humor him, boys," says Vernet aside. Then to Charlie--"So
you're a policeman? Well, so am I; look."
And turning back the lapel of his coat he displays, on the inner side,
the badge of an officer.
Silly Charlie comes close, peers eagerly at the badge, fingers it
curiously, then, grasping it firmly, gives a tug at the lapel, saying:
"Gimme it. Gimme it."
Van Vernet laughs good-naturedly.
"Don't pull so hard, Charlie, or you'll have off my entire uniform. Do
you want to do a little police duty to-night?"
Silly Charlie nods violently.
"And you want my star, or one like it?"
"_Um hum!_" with sudden emphasis.
Van Vernet lays a hand on the shoulder of the idiot, and then says:
"Listen, Charlie. I want you to help me to-night. Wait," for Charlie has
doubled himself up in a convulsion of laughter. "Now, if you'll stand
right by me, and tell me what I want to know, you and I will do some
splendid work, and both get promoted. You will get a new star, big and
bright, and a uniform all covered with bright buttons. Hold on," for
Charlie is dancing in an ecstasy of delight. "What do you say? Will you
come with me, and work for your star and uniform?"
Charlie's enthusiastic gestures testify to his delight at this
proposition.
"Um hum," he cries gleefully; "Charlie go; Charlie be big p'liceman."
And as if suddenly realizing the dignity of his new employment, he
ceases his antics and struts sedately up and down before Vernet and his
assistants. Then turning to the detective, with a doleful whine, he
extends his hand, saying;
"Gimme star _now_."
"Not now, Charlie; you must earn it first. I had to earn mine. Do you
know the way to Devil's alley?"
"Um hum!"
"Good: do you know where Black Nathan lives!"
"Um hum!"
"Can you take me to Nancy Kaiser's lushing ken?"
"Um hum; Charlie knows."
"Then, Charlie, you shall have that star soon."
And Vernet turns to his men. "I will take this fellow for guide, and
look up these places: they are most important," he says rapidly. "I
shall be less noticed in company with this fellow than if alone. Riley,
I leave you in command until I return. Remain here, and keep the fellows
all together; some of them are coming now."
Riley's quick ear detects the approach of stealthy feet, and as Vernet
shuts his lantern, and utters a low "Come, Charlie," the first
installment of the Raiders appears, a few paces away.
Seizing Vernet by the arm, Silly Charlie lowers his head and glides down
the alley, as stealthily as an Indian.
"Charlie," whispers Vernet, imperatively, "you must be very cautious. I
want you to take me first to where Black Nathan lives."
"Hoop la!" replies Charlie in subdued staccato; "I'm takin' ye;
commalong."
Cautiously they wend their way down the dark, narrow street, into a
filthy alley, and through it to an open space laid bare by some recent
fire.
Here they halt for a moment, Charlie peering curiously around him, and
stooping to search for something among the loose stones.
Suddenly a shriek pierces the silence about them--a woman's shriek,
thrice repeated, its tones fraught with agony and terror!
Silly Charlie lifts himself suddenly erect, and turns his face toward a
dark building just across the open space. Then, as the third cry sounds
upon the air, both men, as by one humane instinct, bound across the
waste regardless of stones and bruises, Silly Charlie flying on before,
as if acquainted with every inch of the ground, straight toward the dark
and isolated building.