A NE'ER DO WELL.
At half-past twelve Dan ascended the stairs to his mother's room. He had
promised to come in and tell her how he had enjoyed himself at the
party. He was in excellent spirits on account of the flattering
attentions he had received. It was in this frame of mind that he opened
the door. What was his surprise, even consternation, when his mother
advanced to meet him with tearful eyes and an expression of distress.
"Oh, Dan, I am so glad you have got home!" she ejaculated.
"What is the matter, mother? Are you sick?" asked Dan.
"I am quite well, Dan; but Althea----"
And Mrs. Mordaunt burst into tears.
"What has happened to Althea? Is she sick?" asked Dan, alarmed.
"We have lost her, Dan."
"Lost her! You don't mean she is----"
He couldn't finish the sentence, but his mother divined what he meant.
"Not dead, thank God!" she said, "but she has disappeared--she has been
stolen."
"You don't mean it, mother!" exclaimed Dan, startled and grieved. "Tell
me about it."
Mrs. Mordaunt told what she knew, but that related only to the
particulars of the abduction. We are in a position to tell the reader
more, but it will be necessary to go back for a month, and transfer the
scene to another continent.
In a spacious and handsomely furnished apartment at the West End of
London sat the lady who had placed Althea in charge of the Mordaunts.
She was deep in thought, and that not of an agreeable nature.
"I fear," she said to herself, "that trouble awaits me. John Hartley,
whom I supposed to be in California, is certainly in London. I cannot be
mistaken in his face, and I certainly saw him in Hyde Park to-day. Did
he see me? I don't know, but I fear he did. If so, he will not long
delay in making his appearance. Then I shall be persecuted, but I must
be firm. He shall not learn through me where Althea is. He is her
father, it is true, but he has forfeited all claim to her guardianship.
A confirmed gambler and drunkard, he would soon waste her fortune,
bequeathed her by her poor mother. He can have no possible claim to it;
for, apart from his having had no hand in leaving it to her, he was
divorced from my poor sister before her death."
At this point there was a knock at the door of the room.
"Come in," said the lady.
There entered a young servant-maid, who courtesied, and said:
"Mrs. Vernon, there is a gentleman who wishes to see you."
"Can it be Hartley?" thought the lady, with quick suspicion.
"Did he give his name?" she asked.
"Yes, mum; he said his name was Bancroft."
"Bancroft! I know no one of that name," mused the lady. "Well, Margaret,
you may show him up, and you may remain in the anteroom within call."
Her eyes were fixed upon the door with natural curiosity, when her
visitor entered.
Instantly her face flushed, and her eyes sparkled with anger.
"John Hartley!" she exclaimed.
The visitor smiled mockingly.
"I see you know me, Harriet Vernon," he said. "It is some time since we
met, is it not? I am charmed, I am sure, to see my sister-in-law looking
so well."
He sank into a chair without waiting for an invitation.
"When did you change your name to Bancroft?" demanded the lady,
abruptly.
"Oh," he said, showing his teeth, "that was a little ruse. I feared you
would have no welcome for John Hartley, notwithstanding our near
relationship, and I was forced to sail under false colors."
"It was quite in character," said Mrs. Vernon, coldly; "you were always
false. But you need not claim relationship. The slender tie that
connected us was broken when my sister obtained a divorce from you."
"You think so, my lady," said the visitor, dropping his tone of mocking
badinage, and regarding her in a menacing manner, "but you were never
more mistaken. You may flatter yourself that you are rid of me, but you
flatter yourself in vain."
"Do you come here to threaten me, John Hartley?"
"I come here to ask for my child. Where is Althea?"
"Where you cannot get at her," answered Mrs. Vernon, coldly.
"Don't think to put me off in that way," he said, fiercely. "I will know
where she is."
"Don't think to terrify me, John Hartley," said the lady,
contemptuously. "I am not so easily alarmed as your poor wife."
Hartley looked at her as if he would have assaulted her had he dared,
but she knew very well that he did not dare. He was a bully, but he was
a coward.
"You refuse, then, to tell me what you have done with my child?" he
demanded, at length.
"I do."
"Take care, madam! A father has some rights, and the law will not permit
his child to be kept from him."
"Does your anxiety to see Althea arise from parental affection?" she
asked, in a sarcastic tone.
"Never mind what it springs from. I have a right to the custody of my
child."
"I suppose you have a right to waste her fortune also at the
gaming-table."
"I have a right to act as my child's guardian," he retorted.
"A fine guardian you would make!" she said, contemptuously.
"Why should I not?" he asked, sulkily.
"Why should you not, John Hartley? Do I need to answer the question? You
ill-treated and abused her mother. You wasted half her fortune.
Fortunately, she escaped from you before it was all gone. But you
shortened her life, and she did not long survive the separation. It was
her last request that I should care for her child--that I should, above
all, keep her out of your clutches. I made that promise, and I mean to
keep it."
"You poisoned my wife's mind against me," he said. "But for your cursed
interference we should never have separated."
"You are right, perhaps, in your last statement. I certainly did urge my
sister to leave you. I obtained her consent to the application for a
divorce, but as to poisoning her mind against you, there was no need of
that. By your conduct and your treatment you destroyed her love and
forfeited her respect, and she saw the propriety of the course which I
recommended."
"I didn't come here to be lectured. You can spare your invectives,
Harriet Vernon. What is past is past. I was not a model husband,
perhaps, but I was as good as the average."
"If that is the case, Heaven help the woman who marries!"
"Or the man that marries a woman like you!"
"You are welcome to your opinion of me. I am entirely indifferent to
your good or bad opinion. Have you any more to say?"
"Any more to say! I have hardly begun. Is my daughter Althea with you?"
"I don't recognize your right to question me on this subject, but I
will answer you. She is not with me."
"Is she in London?"
"I will even answer that question. She is not in London."
"Is she in England?"
"That I will not tell you. You have learned enough."
John Hartley did not answer immediately. He appeared to be occupied with
some thought. When he spoke it was in a more conciliatory tone.
"I don't doubt that she is in good hands," he said. "I am sure you will
treat her kindly. Perhaps you are a better guardian than I. I am willing
to leave her in your hands, but I ought to have some compensation."
"What do you mean?"
"Althea has a hundred thousand dollars, yielding at least five thousand
dollars income. Probably her expenses are little more than one-tenth of
this sum. While my child is rich I am poor. Give me half her income--say
three thousand dollars annually--and I will give you and her no further
trouble."
"I thought that was the object of your visit," said Mrs. Vernon, coldly.
"I was right in giving you no credit for parental affection. In regard
to your proposition, I cannot entertain it. You had one half of my
sister's fortune, and you spent it. You have no further claim on her
money."
"Is this your final answer?" he demanded, angrily.
"It is."
"Then I swear to you that I will be even with you. I will find the
child, and when I do you shall never see her again."
Mrs. Vernon rang the bell.
Margaret entered.
"Margaret," she said, coldly, "will you show this gentleman out?"
John Hartley rose and bowed ironically.
"You are certainly very polite, Harriet Vernon," he said. "You are bold,
too, for you are defying me, and that is dangerous. You had better
reconsider your determination, before it is too late."
"It will never be too late; I can at any time buy you off," she said,
contemptuously. "All you want is money."
"We shall see," he hissed, eying her malignantly.
"Margaret," said Mrs. Vernon, when her visitor had been shown out,
"never admit that person again; I am always out to him."
"Yes, mum," said the girl. "I wonder who 'twas," she thought, curiously.