"There you are," said the seaman, taking the articles one by

Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England

THE GARRET AND THE GARDEN, BY R.M. BALLANTYNE.

CHAPTER ONE.

THE GARRET AND THE GARDEN OR LOW LIFE HIGH UP.

SUDDEN FRIENDSHIPS.

In the midst of the great wilderness--we might almost say the wilds--of

that comparatively unknown region which lies on the Surrey side of the

Thames, just above London Bridge, there sauntered one fine day a big

bronzed seaman of middle age. He turned into an alley, down which,

nautically speaking, he rolled into a shabby little court. There he

stood still for a few seconds and looked around him as if in quest of

something.

It was a miserable poverty-stricken court, with nothing to commend it to

the visitor save a certain air of partial-cleanliness and

semi-respectability, which did not form a feature of the courts in its

neighbourhood.

"I say, Capting," remarked a juvenile voice close at hand, "you've bin

an sailed into the wrong port."

The sailor glanced in all directions, but was unable to see the owner of

the voice until a slight cough--if not a suppressed laugh--caused him to

look up, when he perceived the sharp, knowing, and dirty face of a small

boy, who calmly contemplated him from a window not more than a foot

above his head. Fun, mischief, intelligence, precocity sat enthroned on

the countenance of that small boy, and suffering wrinkled his young

brow.

"How d'ee know I'm in the wrong port--monkey?" demanded the sailor.

"'Cause there ain't no grog-shop in it--gorilla!" retorted the boy.

There is a mysterious but well-known power of attraction between kindred

spirits which induces them to unite, like globules of quicksilver, at

the first moment of contact. Brief as was this interchange of

politenesses, it sufficed to knit together the souls of the seaman and

the small boy. A mutual smile, nod, and wink sealed, as it were, the

sudden friendship.

"Come now, younker," said the sailor, thrusting his hands into his

coat-pockets, and leaning a little forward with legs well apart, as if

in readiness to counteract the rolling of the court in a heavy sea,

"there's no occasion for you an' me to go beatin' about--off an' on.

Let's come to close quarters at once. I haven't putt in here to look

for no grog-shop--"

"W'ich I didn't say you 'ad," interrupted the boy.

"No more you did, youngster. Well, what I dropped in here for was to

look arter an old woman."

"If you'd said a young 'un, now, I might 'ave b'lieved you," returned

the pert urchin.

"You _may_ believe me, then, for I wants a young 'un too."

"Well, old salt," rejoined the boy, resting his ragged arms on the

window-sill, and looking down on the weather-beaten man with an

expression of patronising interest, "you've come to the right shop,

anyhow, for that keemodity. In Lun'on we've got old women by the

thousand, an' young uns by the million, to say nuffin o' middle-aged uns

an' chicks. Have 'ee got a partikler pattern in yer eye, now, or d'ee

on'y want samples?"

"What's your name, lad?" asked the sailor.

"That depends, old man. If a beak axes me, I've got a wariety o' names,

an' gives 'im the first as comes to 'and. W'en a gen'leman axes me, I'm

more partikler--I makes a s'lection."

"Bein' neither a beak nor a gentleman, lad, what would you say your name

was to _me_?"

"Tommy Splint," replied the boy promptly. "Splint, 'cause w'en I was

picked up, a small babby, at the work'us door, my left leg was broke,

an' they 'ad to putt it up in splints; Tommy, 'cause they said I was

like a he-cat; w'ich was a lie!"

"Is your father alive, Tommy?"

"'Ow should _I_ know? I've got no father nor mother--never had none as

I knows on; an' what's more, I don't want any. I'm a horphing, _I_ am,

an' I prefers it. Fathers an' mothers is often wery aggrawatin';

they're uncommon hard to manage w'en they're bad, an' a cause o' much

wexation an' worry to child'n w'en they're good; so, on the whole, I

think we're better without 'em. Chimleypot Liz is parent enough for

me."

"And who may chimney-pot Liz be?" asked the sailor with sudden interest.

"H'm!" returned the boy with equally sudden caution and hesitancy. "I

didn't say _chimney-pot_ but _chimley-pot_ Liz. W'at is she? W'y,

she's the ugliest old ooman in this great meetropilis, an' she's got the

jolliest old 'art in Lun'on. Her skin is wrinkled equal to the

ry-nossris at the Zoo--I seed that beast once at a Sunday-school treat--

an' her nose has been tryin' for some years past to kiss her chin, w'ich

it would 'ave managed long ago, too, but for a tooth she's got in the

upper jaw. She's on'y got one; but, my, that _is_ a fang! so loose that

you'd expect it to be blowed out every time she coughs. It's a reg'lar

grinder an' cutter an' stabber all in one; an' the way it works--

sometimes in the mouth, sometimes outside the lip, now an' then straight

out like a ship's bowsprit--is most amazin'; an' she drives it about

like a nigger slave. Gives it no rest. I do declare I wouldn't be that

there fang for ten thousand a year. She's got two black eyes, too, has

old Liz, clear an' bright as beads--fit to bore holes through you w'en

she ain't pleased; and er nose is ooked--. But, I say, before I tell

you more about 'er, I wants to know wot you've got to do with 'er? An'

w'at's your name? I've gave you mine. Fair exchange, you know."

"True, Tommy, that's only right an' fair. But I ain't used to lookin'

up when discoorsin'. Couldn't you come down here an' lay alongside?"

"No, old salt, I couldn't; but you may come up here if you like. You'll

be the better of a rise in the world, won't you? The gangway lays just

round the corner; but mind your sky-scraper for the port's low. There's

a seat in the winder here. Go ahead; starboard your helm, straight up,

then 'ard-a-port, steady, mind your jib-boom, splice the main-brace,

heave the main-deck overboard, and cast anchor 'longside o' me!"

Following these brief directions as far as was practicable, the sailor

soon found himself on the landing of the stair, where Tommy was seated

on a rickety packing-case awaiting him.

"Now, lad," said the man, seating himself beside his new friend, "from

what you tells me, I think that chimney-pot--"

"Chimley," remarked the boy, correcting.

"Well, then, chimley-pot Liz, from your account of her, must be the very

woman I wants. I've sought for her far an' wide, alow and aloft, an'

bin directed here an' there an' everywhere, except the right where,

'till now. But I'll explain." The man paused a moment as if to

consider, and it became evident to the boy that his friend was labouring

under some degree of excitement, which he erroneously put down to drink.

"My name," continued the sailor, "is Sam Blake--second mate o' the

_Seacow_, not long in from China. I didn't ship as mate. Bein' a

shipwrecked seaman, you see--"

"Shipwrecked!" exclaimed the boy, with much interest expressed in his

sharp countenance.

"Ay, lad, shipwrecked; an' not the first time neither, but I was keen to

get home, havin' bin kep' a prisoner for an awful long spell by

pirates--"

"Pints!" interrupted the boy again, as he gazed in admiration at his

stalwart friend; "but," he added, "I don't believe you. It's all barn.

There ain't no pints now; an' you think you've got hold of a green un."

"Tommy!" said the sailor in a remonstrative tone, "did I ever deceive

you?"

"Never," replied the boy fervently; "leastwise not since we 'come

acquaint 'arf an hour back."

"Look here," said Sam Blake, baring his brawny left arm to the elbow and

displaying sundry deep scars which once must have been painful wounds.

"An' look at this," he added, opening his shirt-front and exposing a

mighty chest that was seamed with similar scars in all directions.

"That's what the pirates did to me an' my mates--torturin' of us afore

killin' us."

"Oh, I say!" exclaimed the urchin, in a tone in which sympathy was

mingled with admiration; "tell us all about it, Sam."

"Not now, my lad; business first--pleasure arterwards."

"I prefers pleasure first an' business arter, Sam. 'Owever, 'ave it yer

own way."

"Well, you see," continued the sailor, turning down his, "w'en I went to

sea _that_ time, I left a wife an' a babby behind me; but soon arter I

got out to China I got a letter tellin' me that my Susan was dead, and

that the babby had bin took charge of by a old nurse in the family where

Susan had been a housemaid. You may be sure my heart was well-nigh

broke by the news, but I comforted myself wi' the thought o' gittin'

home again an' takin' care o' the dear babby--a gal, it was, called

Susan arter its mother. It was at that time I was took by the pirates

in the Malay Seas--now fifteen long years gone by."

"W'at! an' you ain't bin 'ome or seed yer babby for fifteen years?"

exclaimed Tommy Splint.

"Not for fifteen long year," replied his friend. "You see, Tommy, the

pirates made a slave o' me, an' took me up country into the interior of

one o' their biggest islands, where I hadn't a chance of escapin'. But

I did manage to escape at last, through God's blessin', an' got to

Hong-Kong in a small coaster; found a ship--the _Seacow_-about startin'

for England short-handed, an' got a berth on board of her. On the

voyage the second mate was washed overboard in a gale, so, as I was a

handy chap, the cap'en he promoted me, an' now I'm huntin' about for my

dear little one all over London. But it's a big place is London."

"Yes; an' I suspect that you'll find your little un raither a big un too

by this time."

"No doubt," returned the seaman with an absent air; then, looking with

sudden earnestness into his little companion's face, he added, "Well,

Tommy Splint, as I said just now, I've cruised about far an' near after

this old woman as took charge o' my babby without overhaulin' of her,

for she seems to have changed her quarters pretty often; but I keep up

my hopes, for I do feel as if I'd run her down at last--her name was

Lizbeth Morley--"

"Oho!" exclaimed Tommy Splint with a look of sharp intelligence; "so you

think that chimleypot Liz may be your Lizbeth and our Susy your babby!"

"I'm more than half inclined to think that, my boy," returned the

sailor, growing more excited.

"_Is_ the old woman's name Morley?"

"Dun know. Never heard nobody call her nothin' but Liz."

"And how about Susan?"

"That's the babby?" said the boy with a grin.

"Yes--yes," said Sam anxiously.

"Well, that babby's about five fut four now, without 'er boots. You see

'uman creeturs are apt to grow considerable in fifteen years--ain't

they?"

"But is her name Blake?" demanded the seaman. "Not as I knows of.

Susy's wot we all calls 'er--so chimley-pot Liz calls 'er, an' so she

calls 'erself, an' there ain't another Susy like her for five miles

round. But come up, Sam, an' I'll introduce ee--they're both over'ead."

So saying the lively urchin grasped his new friend by the hand and led

him by a rickety staircase to the "rookeries" above.

CHAPTER TWO.

FLOWERS IN THE DESERT.

Beauty and ugliness form a contrast which is presented to us every day

of our lives, though, perhaps, we may not be much impressed by the fact.

And this contrast is presented in ever-varying aspects.

We do not, however, draw the reader's attention to one of the striking

aspects of the contrast--such as is presented by the hippopotamus and

the gazelle, or the pug with the "bashed" nose and the Italian

greyhound. It is to one of the more delicate phases that we would

point--to that phase of the contrast wherein the fight between the two

qualities is seen progressing towards victory, and ugliness is not only

overborne but overwhelmed by beauty.

For this purpose we convey the reader to a scene of beauty that might

compare favourably with any of the most romantic spots on this fair

earth--on the Riviera, or among the Brazilian wilds, or, for that

matter, in fairyland itself.

It is a garden--a remarkably small garden to be sure, but one that is

arranged with a degree of taste and a display of fancy that betokens the

gardener a genius. Among roses and mignonette, heliotrope, clematis and

wallflower, chrysanthemums, verbenas and sweet-peas are intertwined, on

rustic trellis-work, the rich green leaves of the ivy and the graceful

Virginia creeper in such a manner that the surroundings of the miniature

garden are completely hidden from view, and nothing but the bright blue

sky is visible, save where one little opening in the foliage reveals the

prospect of a grand glittering river, where leviathans of the deep and

small fry of the shallows, of every shape and size, disport themselves

in the blaze of a summer sun.

Beauty meets the eye wherever turned, but, let the head of the observer

be extended ever so little beyond the charmed circle of that garden, and

nearly all around is ugliness supreme! For this is a garden on the roof

of an old house; the grand river is the Thames, alive with the shipping

of its world-wide commerce, and all around lies that interminable forest

of rookery chimneys, where wild ungainly forms tell of the insane and

vain efforts of man to cope with smoke; where wild beasts--in the form

of cats--hold their nightly revels, imitating the yells of agonised

infants, filling the dreams of sleepers with ideas of internal thunder

or combustion, and driving the sleepless mad!

Susy--our Susy--is the cause of this miracle of beauty in the midst of

misery; this glowing gem in a setting of ugliness. It is her modest

little head that has bent over the boxes of earth, which constitute her

landed property; her pretty little fingers which have trained the stems

and watered the roots and cherished the flowers until the barren

house-top has been made to blossom like the rose. And love, as usual,

has done it all--love to that very ugly old woman, chimney-pot Liz, who

sits on the rustic chair in the midst of the garden enjoying it all.

For Liz has been a mother to that motherless bairn from her earliest

years. She has guarded, fed, and clothed her from infancy; taught her

from God's Book the old, old story of redeeming love, and led her to the

feet of Jesus. It would be strange indeed if Susy did not love the ugly

old woman, until at last she came to regard the wrinkles as veritable

lines of beauty; the nut-cracker nose and chin as emblems of persistent

goodness; the solitary wobbling tooth as a sign of unconquerable

courage; and the dark eyes--well, it required no effort of imagination

to change the character of the old woman's eyes, for they had always

been good, kindly, expressive eyes, and were at that date as bright and

lively as when she was sweet sixteen.

But chimney-pot Liz was poor--desperately poor, else she had not been

there, for if heaven was around and within her, assuredly something very

like pandemonium was underneath her, and it not unfrequently appeared as

if the evil spirits below were surging to and fro in a fierce endeavour

to burst up the whole place, and hurl the old woman with her garden into

the river.

Evil spirits indeed formed the dread foundation of the old woman's

abode; for, although her own court was to some extent free from the

curse, this particular pile of building, of which the garden formed the

apex, had a grog-shop, opening on another court, for its

foundation-stone. From that sink of iniquity, literal and unmitigated--

though not unadulterated--spirits of evil rose like horrid fumes from

the pit, and maddened the human spirits overhead. These, descending to

the foundation-den, soaked themselves in the material spirit and carried

it up, until the whole tenement seemed to reek and reel under its malign

influence.

But, strange to say, the riot did not rise as high as the garden on the

roof--only the echoes reached that little paradise.

Now it is a curious almost unaccountable fact, which no one would ever

guess, that a teapot was the cause of this--at least a secondary cause--

for a teapot was the chief instrument in checking, if not turning, the

tide of evil. Yes, chimney-pot Liz held her castle in the very midst of

the enemy, almost single-handed, with no visible weapon of offence or

defence but a teapot! We say visible, because Liz did indeed possess

other and very powerful weapons which were not quite so obvious--such

as, the Word of God in her memory, the love of God in her heart, and the

Spirit of God in her soul.

To the outside world, however, the teapot was her weapon and shield.

We have read of such a weapon before, somewhere in the glorious annals

of city missions, but just now we are concerned only with the teapot of

our own Liz of chimney-pot notoriety.

Seated, as we have said, in a rustic chair, gazing through the foliage

at the busy Thames, and plying her knitting needles briskly, while the

sun seemed to lick up and clear away the fogs and smoke of the great

city, chimney-pot Liz enjoyed her thoughts until a loud clatter

announced that Susy had knocked over the watering-pot.

"Oh! granny" (thus she styled her), "I'm _so_ sorry! So stupid of me!

Luckily there's no water in it."

"Never mind, dear," said the old woman in a soft voice, and with a smile

which for a moment exposed the waste of gums in which the solitary fang

stood, "I've got no nerves--never had any, and hope I never may have.

By the way, that reminds me--Is the tea done, Susy?"

"Yes, not a particle left," replied the girl, rising from her floral

labours and thereby showing that her graceful figure matched well with

her pretty young face. It was a fair face, with golden hair divided in

the middle and laid smooth over her white brow, not sticking confusedly

out from it like the tangled scrub on a neglected common, or the frontal

locks of a Highland bull.

"That's bad, Susy," remarked old Liz, pushing the fang about with her

tongue for a few seconds. "You see, I had made up my mind to go down

to-night and have a chat with Mrs Rampy, and I wouldn't like to visit

her without my teapot. The dear old woman is so fond of a cup of tea,

and she don't often get it good, poor thing. No, I shouldn't like to go

without my teapot, it would disappoint her, you know--though I've no

doubt she would be glad to see me even empty-handed."

"I should just think she would!" said Susy with a laugh, as she stooped

to arrange some of the fastenings of her garden, "I should just think

she would. Indeed, I doubt if that _dear_ old woman would be alive now

but for you, granny."

The girl emphasised the "dear" laughingly, for Mrs Rampy was one of

those middle-aged females of the destitute class whose hearts have been

so steeled against their kind by suffering and drink as to render them

callous to most influences. The proverbial "soft spot" in Mrs Rampy's

heart was not reached until an assault had been made on it by

chimney-pot Liz with her teapot. Even then it seemed as if the softness

of the spot were only of the gutta-percha type.

"Perhaps not, perhaps not my dear," returned old Liz, with that pleased

little smile with which she was wont to recognise a philanthropic

success a smile which always had the effect of subduing the tooth, and

rendering the plain face almost beautiful.

Although bordering on the lowest state of destitution--and that is a

remarkably low state in London!--old Liz had an air of refinement about

her tones, words, and manner which was very different from that of the

poor people around her. This was not altogether, though partly, due to

her Christianity. The fact is, the old woman had "seen better days."

For fifty years she had been nurse in an amiable and wealthy family, the

numerous children of which seemed to have been born to bloom for a few

years in the rugged garden of this world, and then be transplanted to

the better land. Only the youngest son survived. He entered the army

and went to India--that deadly maelstrom which has swallowed up so much

of British youth and blood and beauty! When the old couple became

bankrupt and died, the old nurse found herself alone and almost

destitute in the world.

It is not our purpose to detail here the sad steps by which she

descended to the very bottom of the social ladder, taking along with her

Susan, her adopted daughter and the child of a deceased fellow-servant.

We merely tell thus much to account for her position and her partial

refinement--both of which conditions she shared with Susan.

"Now then," said the latter, "I must go, granny. Stickle and Screw are

not the men to overlook faults. If I'm a single minute late I shall

have to pay for it."

"And quite right, Susy, quite right. Why should Stickle and Screw lose

a minute of their people's work? Their people would be angry enough if

they were to be paid a penny short of their wages! Besides, the firm

employs over two hundred hands, and if every one of these was to be late

a minute there would be two hundred minutes gone--nigh four hours, isn't

it? You should be able to count that right off, Susy, havin' been so

long at the Board-school."

"I don't dispute it, granny," said the girl with a light laugh, as she

stood in front of a triangular bit of looking-glass tying on her poor

but neatly made hat. "And I am usually three or four minutes before my

time, but Stickle and Screw are hard on us in other ways, so different

from Samson and Son, where Lily Hewat goes. Now, I'm off. I'll be sure

to be back by half-past nine or soon after."

As the girl spoke, footsteps were heard ascending the creaky wooden

stair. Another moment and Tommy Splint entering with a theatrical air,

announced--

"A wisitor!"

He was closely followed by Sam Blake, who no sooner beheld Susy than he

seemed to become paralysed, for he stood gazing at her as if in eager

but helpless amazement.

Susy was a good deal surprised at this, but feeling that if she were to

wait for the clearing up of the mystery she would infallibly be late in

reaching the shop of the exacting Stickle and Screw, she swept lightly

past the seaman with a short laugh, and ran down-stairs.

Without a word of explanation Sam sprang after her, but, although smart

enough on the shrouds and ladders of shipboard, he failed to accommodate

himself to the stairs of rookeries, and went down, as he afterwards

expressed it, "by the run," coming to an anchor at the bottom in a

sitting posture. Of course the lithe and active Susy escaped him, and

also escaped being too late by only half a minute.

"Never mind, she'll be back again between nine and ten o'clock, unless

they keep her late," said old Liz, after Sam had explained who he was,

and found that Susy was indeed his daughter, and chimney-pot Liz the

nurse who had tended his wife to her dying day, and afterwards adopted

his child.

"I never was took aback so in all my life," said the seaman, sitting

down beside the old woman, and drawing a sigh so long that it might have

been likened to a moderate breeze. "She's the born image o' what her

dear mother was when I first met her. _My_ Susy! Well, it's not every

poor seaman as comes off a long voyage an' finds that he's fallen heir

to a property like _that_!"

"You may well be proud of her," said old Liz, "and you'll be prouder yet

when you come to know her."

"I know it, and I'm proud to shake your hand, mother, an' thankee kindly

for takin' such care o' my helpless lassie. You say she'll be home

about ten?"

"Yes, if she's not kep' late. She always comes home about that time.

Meanwhile you'll have something to eat. Tommy, boy, fetch out the loaf

and the cheese and the teapot. You know where to find 'em. Tommy's an

orphan, Cap'n Blake, that I've lately taken in hand. He's a good boy is

Tommy, but rather wild."

"Wot can you expect of a horphing?" said the boy with a grin, for he had

overheard the latter remark, though it was intended only for the

visitor's ear. "But I say, granny, there ain't no cheese here, 'cept a

bit o' rind that even a mouse would scorn to look at."

"Never mind, bring out the loaf, Tommy."

"An' there ain't no use," continued the boy, "o' bringin' out the

teapot, 'cause there ain't a grain o' tea nowheres."

"Oh! I forgot," returned old Liz, slightly confused; "I've just run out

o' tea, Cap'n Blake, an' I haven't a copper at _present_ to buy any,

but--"

"Never mind that old girl; and I ain't quite captain yet, though

trendin' in that direction. You come out along wi' me, Tommy. I'll

soon putt these matters to rights."

Old Liz could not have remonstrated even if she had wished to do so, for

her impulsive visitor was gone in a moment followed by his extremely

willing little friend. They returned in quarter of an hour.

"There you are," said the seaman, taking the articles one by one from a

basket carried by Tommy; "a big loaf, pound o' butter, ditto tea, three

pound o' sugar, six eggs, hunk o' cheese, paper o' salt--forgot the

pepper; never mind."

"You've bin an' forgot the sassengers too--but here they are," said

Tommy, plucking the delectable viands from the bottom of the basket with

a look of glee, and laying them on the table.

Chimney-pot Liz did not look surprised; she only smiled and nodded her

head approvingly, for she felt that Sam Blake understood the right thing

to do and did it.

Soon the celebrated teapot was going the round, full swing, while the

air was redolent of fried sausage and cheese mingled with the perfume of

roses and mignonette, for this meal, you must know, was eaten in the

garden in the afternoon sunshine, while the cooking--done in the attic

which opened on the garden--was accomplished by Sam assisted by Tommy.

"Well, you _air_ a trump," said the latter to the former as he sat down,

greasy and glowing, beside the seaman at the small table where old Liz

presided like a humble duchess.

We need hardly say that the conversation was animated, and that it bore

largely on the life-history of the absent Susy.

"You're quite sure that she'll be here by ten?" asked the excited father

for the fiftieth time that afternoon.

"Yes, I'm sure of it--unless she's kep' late," answered Liz.

But Susy did _not_ return at the usual hour, so her impatient father was

forced to conclude that she _had_ been "kep' late"--too late. In his

anxiety he resolved to sally forth under the guidance of Tommy Splint to

inquire for the missing Susy at the well-known establishment of Stickle

and Screw.

Let us anticipate him in that quest. At the usual hour that night the

employes of Stickle and Screw left work and took their several ways home

ward. Susy had the company of her friend Lily Hewat as far as Chancery

Lane. Beyond that point she had to go alone. Being summer-time, the

days were long, and Susy was one of those strong-hearted and

strong-nerved creatures who have a tendency to fear nothing.

She had just passed over London Bridge and turned into a labyrinth of

small streets on the Surrey side of the river, when a drunken man met

her in a darkish and deserted alley through which she had to pass. The

man seized her by the arm. Susy tried to free herself. In the struggle

that ensued she fell with a loud shriek, and struck her head on the

kerb-stone so violently that she was rendered insensible. Seeing this,

the man proceeded to take from her the poor trinkets she had about her,

and would have succeeded in robbing her but for the sudden appearance on

the scene of a lowland Scot clad in a homespun suit of shepherd's

plaid--a strapping ruddy youth of powerful frame, fresh from the braes

of Yarrow.

CHAPTER THREE.

A VISITOR FROM THE NORTH.

How that Lowland Scot came to the rescue just in the nick of time is

soon told.

"Mither," said he one evening, striding into his father's dwelling--a

simple cottage on a moor--and sitting down in front of a bright old

woman in a black dress, whose head was adorned with that frilled and

baggy affair which is called in Scotland a mutch, "I'm gawin' to

Lun'on."

"Hoots! havers, David."

"It's no' havers, mither. Times are guid. We've saved a pickle siller.

Faither can spare me for a wee while--sae I'm aff to Lun'on the morn's

mornin'."

"An' what for?" demanded Mrs Laidlaw, letting her hands and the sock on

which they were engaged drop on her lap, as she looked inquiringly into

the grave countenance of her handsome son.

"To seek a wife, maybe," replied the youth, relaxing into that very

slight smile with which grave and stern-featured men sometimes betray

the presence of latent fun.

Mrs Laidlaw resumed her sock and needle with no further remark than

"Hoots! ye're haverin'," for she knew that her son was only jesting in

regard to the wife. Indeed nothing was further from that son's

intention or thoughts at the time than marriage, so, allowing the ripple

to pass from his naturally grave and earnest countenance, he continued--

"Ye see, mither, I'm twunty-three noo, an' I _wad_ like to see something

o' the warld afore I grow aulder an' settle doon to my wark. As I said,

faither can spare me a while, so I'll jist tak' my fit in my haund an'

awa' to see the Great Bawbylon."

"Ye speak o' gaun to see the warld, laddie, as if 'ee was a gentleman."

"Div 'ee think, mother, that the warld was made only for _gentlemen_ to

travel in?" demanded the youth, with the gentlest touch of scorn in his

tone.

To this question the good woman made no reply; indeed her stalwart son

evidently expected none, for he rose a few minutes later and proceeded

to pack up his slender wardrobe in a shoulder-bag of huge size, which,

however, was well suited to his own proportions.

Next day David Laidlaw took the road which so many men have taken before

him--for good or ill. But, unlike most of his predecessors, he was

borne towards it on the wings of steam, and found himself in Great

Babylon early the following morning, with his mother's last caution

ringing strangely in his ears.

"David," she had said, "I ken ye was only jokin', but dinna ye be ower

sure o' yersel'. Although thae English lassies are a kine o' waux

dolls, they have a sort o' way wi' them that might be dangerous to lads

like you."

"H'm!" David had replied, in that short tone of self-sufficiency which

conveys so much more than the syllable would seem to warrant.

The Scottish youth had neither kith nor kin in London, but he had one

friend, an old school companion, who, several years before, had gone to

seek his fortune in the great city, and whose address he knew. To this

address he betook himself on the morning of his arrival, but found that

his friend had changed his abode. The whole of that day did David spend

in going about. He was sent from one place to another, in quest of his

friend, and made diligent use of his long legs, but without success.

Towards evening he was directed to a street on the Surrey side of the

Thames, and it was while on his way thither that he chanced to enter the

alley where poor Susan was assaulted.

Like most Scotsmen of his class and size David Laidlaw was somewhat

leisurely and slow in his movements when not called to vigorous

exertion, but when he heard the girl's shriek, and, a moment later, saw

her fall, he sprang to her side with one lithe bound, like that of a

Bengal tiger, and aimed a blow at her assailant, which, had it taken

effect, would have interrupted for some time--if not terminated for

ever--that rascal's career. But the thief, though drunk, was young,

strong, and active. It is also probable that he was a professional

pugilist for, instead of attempting to spring back from the blow--which

he had not time to do--he merely put his head to one side and let it

pass. At the same instant David received a stinging whack on the right

eye, which although it failed to arrest his rush, filled his vision with

starry coruscations.

The thief fell back and the Scot tripped over him. Before he could

recover himself the thief was up like an acrobat and gone. At the same

moment two policemen, rushing on the scene in answer to the girl's

shriek, seized David by the collar and held him fast.

There was Highland as well as Lowland blood in the veins of young

Laidlaw. This sanguinary mixture is generally believed to possess

effervescing properties when stirred. It probably does. For one moment

the strength of Goliath of Gath seemed to tingle in David's frame, and

the vision of two policemen's heads battered together swam before his

eyes--but he thought better of it and restrained himself!

"Tak' yer hands aff me, freens," he said, suddenly unclosing his fists

and relaxing his brows. "Ye'd better see after the puir lassie. An'

dinna fear for me. I'm no gawn to rin awa'!"

Perceiving the evident truth of this latter remark, the constables

turned their attention to the girl, who was by that time beginning to

recover.

"Where am I?" asked Susy, gazing into the face of her rescuer with a

dazed look.

"Yer a' right, puir bairn. See, tak' ha'd o' my airm," said the Scot.

"That's the way, now, take hold of mine," said one of the constables in

a kindly tone; "come along--you'll be all right in a minute. The

station is close at hand."

Thus supported the girl was led to the nearest police station, where

David Laidlaw gave a minute account of what had occurred to the rather

suspicious inspector on duty. While he was talking, Susan, who had been

provided with a seat and a glass of water, gazed at him with profound

interest. She had by that time recovered sufficiently to give her

account of the affair, and, as there was no reason for further

investigation of the matter, she was asked if her home was far off, and

a constable was ordered to see her safely there.

"Ye needna fash," said David carelessly, "I'm gawn that way mysel', an'

if the puir lassie has nae objection I'll be glad to--"

The abrupt stoppage in the youth's speech was caused by his turning to

Susy and looking full and attentively in her face, which, now that the

colour was restored and the dishevelled hair rearranged, had a very

peculiar effect on him. His mother's idea of a "waux doll" instantly

recurred to his mind, but the interest and intelligence in Susy's pretty

face was very far indeed removed from the vacant imbecility which

usually characterises that fancy article of juvenile luxury.

"Of course if the girl wishes you to see her home," said the inspector,

"I have no objection, but I'll send a constable to help you to take care

of her."

"Help _me_ to tak' care o' her!" exclaimed David, whose pride was sorely

hurt by the distrust implied in these words; "man, I could putt her in

my pooch an' _you_ alang wi' her."

Of this remark Mr Inspector, who had resumed his pen, took no notice

whatever, but went on writing while one of the constables prepared to

obey his superior's orders. In his indignation the young Scot resolved

to fling out of the office and leave the police to do as they pleased in

the matter, but, glancing at Susy as he turned round, he again met the

gaze of her soft blue eyes.

"C'way, lassie, I _wull_ gang wi' ye," he said, advancing quickly and

offering his arm.

Being weak from the effects of her fall, Susy accepted the offer

willingly, and was supported on the other side by a policeman.

In a short time the trio ascended the rookery stair and presented

themselves to the party in the garret-garden just as Sam Blake and Tommy

Splint were about to leave it.

It is impossible to describe adequately the scene that ensued--the

anxiety of the poor seaman to be recognised by his long lost "babby,"

the curious but not unnatural hesitancy of that "babby" to admit that he

_was_ her father, though earnestly assured of the fact by chimney-pot

Liz; the surprise of David Laidlaw, and even of the policeman, at being

suddenly called to witness so interesting a domestic scene, and the

gleeful ecstasy of Tommy Splint over the whole affair--flavoured as it

was with the smell and memory of recent "sassengers."

When the constable at last bid them good-night and descended the stair,

the young Scot turned to go, feeling, with intuitive delicacy, that he

was in the way, but once again he met the soft blue eyes of Susy, and

hesitated.

"Hallo, young man!" cried Sam Blake, on observing his intention, "you

ain't agoin' to leave us--arter saving my gal's life, p'raps--anywise

her property. No, no; you'll stop here all night an'--"

He paused: "Well, I do declare I forgot I wasn't aboard my own ship,

but--" again he paused and looked at old Liz.

"I've no room for any of you in the garret," said that uncompromising

woman, "there ain't more than one compartment in it, and that's not too

big for me an' Susy; but you're welcome, both of you, to sleep in the

garden if you choose. Tommy sleeps there, under a big box, and a clever

sea-farin' man like you could--"

"All right, old lady," cried the seaman heartily. "I'll stop, an'

thankee; we'll soon rig up a couple o' bunks. So you will stop too,

young man--by the way, you--you didn't give us your name yet."

"My name is David Laidlaw; but I won't stop, thankee," replied the Scot

with unexpected decision of manner. "Ye see, I've been lookin' a' this

day for an auld freen' an' I _must_ find him afore the morn's mornin',

if I should seek him a' nicht. But, but--maybe I'll come an' speer for

'ee in a day or twa--if I may."

"If you mean that you will come and call, Mr Laidlaw," said old Liz,

"we will be delighted to see you at any time. Don't forget the

address."

"Nae fear--I'll putt it i' my note-buik," said David, drawing a

substantial volume from his breast pocket and entering the

address--`Mrs Morley, Cherub Court'--therein.

Having shaken hands all round he descended the stair with a firm tread

and compressed lips until he came out on the main thoroughfare, when he

muttered to himself sternly:

"Waux dolls, indeed! there's nane o' thae dolls'll git the better o' me.

H'm! a bonny wee face, nae doot but what div _I_ care for bonny faces

if the hairt's no' richt?"

"But suppose that the heart _is_ right?"

Who could have whispered that question? David Laidlaw could not stop to

inquire, but began to hum--

"Oh, this is no my ain lassie,

Kind though the lassie be,--"

In a subdued tone, as he sauntered along the crowded street, which by

that time was blazing with gas-light in the shop-windows and oil-lamps

on the hucksters' barrows.

The song, however, died on his lips, and he moved slowly along, stopping

now and then to observe the busy and to him novel scene, till he reached

a comparatively quiet turning, which was dimly lighted by only one lamp.

Here he felt a slight twitch at the bag which contained his little all.

Like lightning he turned and seized by the wrist a man who had already

opened the bag and laid hold of some of its contents. Grasping the poor

wretch by the neck with his other hand he held him in a grip of iron.

CHAPTER FOUR.

DANGERS THREATEN.

The man who had been thus captured by David was one of those wretched

forlorn creatures who seem to reach a lower depth of wretchedness and

degradation in London than in any other city in the world. Although

young and strongly made he was pale, gaunt and haggard, with a look

about the eyes and mouth which denoted the habitual drunkard. The

meanness of his attire is indescribable.

He trembled--whether from the effects of dissipation or fear we cannot

say--as his captor led him under the lamp, with a grip on the collar

that almost choked him, but when the light fell full on his haggard face

a feeling of intense pity induced the Scot to relax his hold.

"Oh, ye puir meeserable crater!" he said, but stopped abruptly, for the

man made a sudden and desperate effort to escape. He might as well have

struggled in the grasp of a gorilla!

"Na, na, my man, ye'll no twust yersel' oot o' my grup sae easy! keep

quiet noo, an' I'll no hurt 'ee. What gars ye gang aboot tryin' to

steal like that?"

"Steal!" explained the man fiercely, "what else can I do? I _must_

live! I've just come out of prison, and am flung on the world to be

kicked about like a dog and starve. Let me go, or I'll kill you!"

"Na, 'ee'll no kill me. I'm no sae easy killed as 'ee think," returned

David, again tightening the grasp of his right hand while he thrust his

left into his trousers-pocket.

At that moment the bull's-eye light of an advancing constable became

visible, and the defiant air of the thief gave place to a look of

anxious fear. It was evident that the dread of another period of prison

life was strong upon the trembling wretch. Drawing out a handful of

coppers, David thrust them quickly into the man's hand, and said--

"Hae, tak' them, an' aff ye go! an' ask the Lord to help 'ee to dae

better."

The strong hand relaxed, another moment and the man, slipping round the

corner like an unwholesome spirit, was gone.

"Can ye direck me, polisman," said the Scot to the constable, as he was

about to pass, "t' Toor Street?"

"Never heard of it," said the constable brusquely, but civilly enough.

"That's queer noo. I was telt it was hereaboots--Toor Street."

"Oh, perhaps you mean _Tower_ Street" said the constable, with a

patronising smile.

"Perhaps I div," returned the Scot, with that touch of cynicism which is

occasionally seen in his race. "Can 'ee direck me tilt?"

"Yes, but it is on the other side of the river."

"Na--it's on _this_ side o' the river," said David quietly yet

confidently.

The conversation was here cut short by the bursting on their ears of a

sudden noise at some distance. The policeman turned quickly away, and

when David advanced into the main street he observed that there was some

excitement among its numerous and riotous occupants. The noise

continued to increase, and it became evident that the cause of it was

rapidly approaching, for the sound changed from a distant rumble into a

steady roar, in the midst of which stentorian shouts were heard.

Gradually the roar culminated, for in another moment there swept round

the end of the street a pair of apparently runaway horses, with two

powerful lamps gleaming, or rather glaring, above them. On each side of

the driver of the galloping steeds stood a man, shouting like a maniac

of the boatswain type. All three were brass-helmeted, like antique

charioteers. Other helmets gleamed behind them. Little save the

helmets and the glowing lamps could be seen through the dark and smoky

atmosphere as the steam fire-engine went thundering by.

Now, if there was one thing more than another that David Laidlaw desired

to see, it was a London fire. Often had he read about these fires, for

he was a great reader of books, as well as newspapers, and deeply had

his enthusiasm been stirred (though not expressed) by accounts of

thrilling escapes and heroic deeds among the firemen. His eyes

therefore flashed back the flame of the lamps as the engine went past

him like a red thunderbolt, and he started off in pursuit of it.

But, as many people know, and all may believe, running in a crowded

London street is difficult--even to an expert London thief. Our Scot

found that out after a sixty-yards' run; then he had the wisdom to stop,

just as a little boy leaped out of his way exclaiming--

"'Ullo, Goliah! mind w'ere you're a-goin' to. I wonder yer mother let

you hout all alone!"

"Whar's the fire, laddie?" demanded David, with some impatience.

"'Ow should _I_ know, Scotty! I ain't a pleeceman, ham I? that I should

be expected to know heverythink!"

As the engine had by that time vanished, no one could tell where the

fire was, and as the street had reverted to its normal condition of

noise and bustle, David Laidlaw gave up the search for it. He also gave

up as hopeless further search for his friend that night, and resolved to

avail himself of one of those numerous establishments in the windows of

which it was announced that "good beds" were to be had within.

Entering one, the landlord of which had a round jovial countenance, he

ordered tea, toast, and sausages, with pen, ink, and paper. Having

heartily consumed the former, he devoted himself to the latter and

proceeded to write a letter. Here is the epistle:--

"BAWBYLON, I dinna ken where.

"_5th July_ 18--.

"DEAR MITHER--Here I am, in Lun'on, an' wow! but it _is_ an awfu' place!

'Ee'll no believe me, but I've been lost twa or three times a'ready,

an' I've had a kine o' fecht an' a rescue, an' been taen to the polis

office, an' made some freens, an' catched a thief (an' latten 'im aff

wi' a caution an' a wheen bawbees), an' seen a fire-engine that lookit

as if it was gawn full gallop to destruction. Ay, wumin, an' I've fawn

in a'ready wi' a waux doll! But dinna ye fear, mither, I'm ower teugh

to be gotten the better o' by the likes o' them. An' noo I'm gawn to my

bed, sae as to be ready for mair adventurs the mornin'. Ye'll admit

that I've done gey 'n' weel for the first day. At this rate I'll be

able to write a story-buik when I git hame. Respecks to faither. Yer

affectionate son, DAVID.

"_P.S._--The lan'lord's just been in, an' I've had a lang crack wi' him

aboot the puir folk an' the thieves o' this Great Bawbylon. Wow, but I

_am_ wae for them. Seems to me they have na got a chance i' the battle

o' life. He says he'll tak' me to see ane o' their low lodgin'-hooses

the morn. Guid-nicht."

------------------------------------------------------------------------

We turn now to a very different scene--to a West End drawing-room, in

which is to be found every appliance, in the way of comfort and

luxurious ease, that ingenuity can devise or labour produce. An

exceedingly dignified, large, self-possessed yet respectful footman,

with magnificent calves in white stockings, has placed a silver tray,

with three tiny cups and a tiny teapot thereon, near to the hand of a

beautiful middle-aged lady--the mistress of the mansion. She is reading

a letter with evident interest. A girl of seventeen, whose style of

beauty tells of the closest relationship, sits beside her, eagerly

awaiting the news which is evidently contained in the letter.

"Oh, I am _so_ glad, Rosa! they have found traces of her at last."

"Of who, mother--old nurse?" asked Rosa.

"Yes, your father's old nurse; indeed I may say mine also, for when I

was a little girl I used to pay long visits to your grandfather's house.

And it seems that she is in great poverty--almost destitute. Dear,

_dear_ old nurse! you won't be long in poverty if I can help it!"

As she spoke, a handsome man of middle age and erect carriage entered

the room. There was an expression of care and anxiety on his

countenance, which, however, partly disappeared when the lady turned

towards him with a triumphant look and held up the letter.

"Didn't I tell you, Jack, that your lawyer would find our old nurse if

any one could? He writes me that she has been heard of, living in some

very poor district on the south side of the Thames, and hopes to be able

to send me her exact address very soon. I felt quite sure that Mr

Lockhart would find her, he is such an obliging and amiable man, as well

as clever. I declare that I can't bear to look at all the useless

luxury in which we live when I think of the good and true creatures like

old nurse who are perishing in absolute destitution."

"But being disgusted with our luxury and giving it all up would not mend

matters, little wife," returned Jack with a faint smile. "Rich people

are not called upon to give up their riches, but to _use_ them--to spend

well within their means, so as to have plenty to spare in the way of

helping those who are willing to help themselves, and sustaining those

who cannot help themselves. The law of supply and demand has many

phases, and the profits resulting therefrom are overruled by a Higher

Power than the laws of Political Economy. There are righteous rich as

well as poor; there are wicked poor as well as rich. What you and I

have got to do in this perplexing world is to cut our particular coat

according to our cloth."

"Just so," said the lady with energy. "Your last remark is to the

point, whatever may be the worth of your previous statements, and I

intend to cut off the whole of my superfluous skirts in order to clothe

old nurse and such as she with them."

Rosa laughingly approved of this decision, for she was like-minded with

her mother, but her father did not respond. The look of care had

returned to his brow, and there was cause for it for Colonel Brentwood

had just learned from his solicitor that he was a ruined man.

"It is hard to have to bring you such news, darling," he said, taking

his wife's hand, "especially when you were so happily engaged in

devising liberal things for the poor, but God knows what is best for us.

He gave us this fortune, when He inclined uncle Richard to leave it to

us, and now He has seen fit to take it away."

"But how--what do you mean by taking it away?" asked poor Mrs

Brentwood, perceiving that her husband really had some bad news to tell.

"Listen; I will explain. When uncle Richard Weston died, unexpectedly,

leaving to us his estate, we regarded it you know, as a gift from God,

and came to England resolving to spend our wealth in His service. Well,

yesterday Mr Lockhart informed me that another will has been found, of

later date than that which made me uncle Richard's heir, in which the

whole estate is left to a distant connection of whose very existence I

had become oblivious."