THE MISSING BOY.
Go, when the hunter’s hand hath wrung
From forest caves her shrieking young,
And calm the lonely lioness;
But soothe not, mock not, my distress.—BYRON.
Anna returned to the drawing-room to face the difficulty of her duty to
keep Drusilla ignorant of the real cause of General Lyon’s and Richard
Hammond’s journey to Southampton, and to do this without either telling
or acting a falsehood. She wished to put off the evil hour as long as
possible, so as to have time to perfect her plan of action, and
therefore she kept away from Drusilla’s chamber and remained in the
drawing-room.
Drusilla’s sleep was long and unbroken. It was four o’clock in the
afternoon before she joined Anna. She—Drusilla—looked refreshed and
blooming.
“You have had a good nap,” said Anna.
“Yes,” said Drusilla, smiling, as she sat down, but looking all round as
if in search of some one.
“You are looking for grandpa and Dick?” said Anna.
“Yes, and for little Lenny and Pina,” answered Drusilla.
“Oh, little Lenny is out with his nurse,” said Anna, willingly answering
the easiest part of the observation first.
“And uncle and Dick are sleeping off their last night’s fatigue, I
suppose.”
“No, poor souls! they are incurring more fatigue,” said Anna, smiling,
and trying to give a light and playful turn to the conversation.
“Why, where are they gone?” exclaimed Drusilla, raising her brows in
surprise.
“On a nice little jaunt to Southampton.”
“To Southampton? What is the occasion?”
“Well, you see, one of Dick’s good-for-nothing ‘friends,’ or rather, to
speak the exact truth, one of his former good-for-nothing ‘friends’ has
been getting himself into trouble. Of course poor Dick must needs take
pity on him, and so my poor fellow and my grandfather have both gone
down to Southampton to get _him_—Dick’s old friend—out of it.”
“Ah! and that was the matter with Dick and uncle this morning at
breakfast?”
“Yes. Dick had the subject on his mind, and wished to break it to
grandpa, and grandpa saw that he had something to say to him, and was
both longing and dreading to hear it; for, to tell the truth, I suppose
he was fearing that Dick himself had got into a mess of some sort, and I
dare say you were thinking the same thing, Drusilla.”
“Well, perhaps I was; for our affections make us fearful for those we
love, Anna; and you and Dick are just as dear to me as the dearest
brother and sister could possibly be.”
“Well, darling, I know that, and your love is not lost on us, you may be
sure. Be at ease on our behalf, as it was not Dick but one of his old
friends that got into a scrape.”
“I am both glad and sorry. I am glad it was not Dick, and sorry that I
did him the wrong to think it could have been. But—who was it, then,
Anna, if I may ask?”
“Ah! now, my dear, that would be telling. I assure you Dick would not
have told grandpa if he could have got along without his assistance; and
he would not even have told me, his wife, if he could have helped it. I
am sure he would not like to tell any one else. Now you are not
offended?”
“Offended? Oh dear, no—certainly not, Anna. Of course I see such
delicate difficulties as I suppose this of Dick’s friend to be, should
be kept secret from all except those immediately concerned in settling
them——I wonder why that girl doesn’t bring little Lenny in?” said
Drusilla, suddenly changing the subject, and going to the window to look
out.
“Yes, it is time she did, indeed. I dare say she will be here with him
in a few minutes,” answered Anna, very glad to have weathered the storm
she had so much dreaded.
“Anna, dear, what time did Pina take little Lenny out?” inquired
Drusilla, rather uneasily.
“Immediately before luncheon.”
“What time was that to-day?”
“About two o’clock.”
“And now it is after four; and she has had him out more than two hours,
in the hottest part of the day, too. What _could_ have tempted her to
take the child out at this time of the day?”
“Drusa, dear, this was the way of it: Grandpa and Dick wished to explain
to me the necessity of their immediate departure for Southampton. Little
Lenny and his nurse were in the room. Grandpa and Dick did not want any
other listener than myself, so they told Pina to take the child down to
the sidewalk, thinking, of course, that so careful a nurse would keep
him in the shade. So you see the girl was not to blame for taking the
child out; though certainly I think she _is_ for keeping him out so
long. But still I don’t think you need be uneasy, Drusa. Pina is no
strange nurse. You have known her well for three years, and she has had
the care of your child for two, and has always proved herself worthy of
the trust. I hope you are not uneasy about him?”
“Oh, no! That is, I know I have no reason to be so, for Pina takes as
great care of him as I could myself, only I think mothers are always
uneasy when their infants are out of sight. I _wish_ she would return.”
“Oh, she will be back in a few minutes,” said Anna, cheerfully.
“Listen! there is some one coming up,” said Drusilla.
Steps and voices were indeed heard near the room, and almost immediately
there was a knock at the door.
“Come in,” said Anna.
The door was opened by a waiter, who put in his head and said:
“If you please, my ladies, here is a policeman brought home your
nursemaid almost in fits.”
“Lenny! where is Lenny? Has anything happened to him? Have you brought
home my child?” cried Drusilla, starting up and rushing to the door
before Anna could even answer.
“My child! my child! where is my child?” she cried, clasping her hands
in an agony of terror.
“My lady, from the girl’s ravings I’m afeard she has—well, not to make
it any worse than what it is—mislaid the child some’rs or other,” said
the policeman, coming forward half helping and half dragging Pina, who,
as soon as she saw her mistress, sank with a gasp of mute anguish at her
feet.
“Lenny! Lenny lost! Oh, Father! Oh, Heavenly Father, have mercy!” cried
Drusilla, reeling back into the arms of Anna, who sprang forward to
support her.
“The child missing! What do you mean? It cannot be! Pina, where is
little Lenny?” demanded Anna, scarcely able to control her own terror
and distress, even while she sustained the agonized mother. “Answer me,
Pina, I say! Where is little Lenny?”
But Pina was past answering, past everything but grovelling at their
feet and howling and tearing her hair.
“Has the girl gone suddenly mad and so lost the child? Policeman, where
and under what circumstances did you find her? Waiter, bring forward
that easy-chair.”
The chair was rolled forward and Drusilla was eased into it, where she
sat pale, and mute, every sense on the _qui vive_ to hear the
policeman’s story. Terrified, agonized, yet with a mighty effort holding
herself still and calm, the bereaved young mother sat and listened to
the policeman’s account of his meeting with the nurse, after the loss of
the child.
“If you please, my ladies, I first saw her in the Strand, tearing up and
down the street, running after babies and nurses and bursting into shops
and houses, and going on generally like one raving, distracted, with a
rabble of boys at her heels hooting and jeering. So she being complained
of by certain parties as she annoyed and I, suspecting of her to be a
mad woman broke loose from Bedlam, or leastways making a great
disturbance in the streets, I takes her into custody, and should have
took her off to the station-house and locked her up, only she began to
howl about the child she had lost, and I began to see what had happened
to her and how it was; and I asked her where she lived, and she told me
and I brought her here; and that is all about it, my ladies; but if you
can get more out of her nor I could, I think it would be well you
should, and then maybe we could help you to get the child, my lady,”
said officer E, 48.
“Oh, missus! missus! kill me! kill me! it would be a mercy!” cried Pina,
wringing her hands.
“I think it would be justice, at least,” answered Anna, sternly.
“Where did you lose sight of him, Pina?” inquired the young mother, in a
strangely quiet manner.
“Oh, missus! oh, missus! knock me in the head and put me out of my
misery! do! do! do!” cried Pina, gnashing her teeth and tearing her
hair, rolling on the floor and giving way to all her excess of grief and
despair, with all the utter abandonment of her race.
“Pina!” sternly exclaimed Anna Hammond, “unless you are coherent and
tell us where you lost Lenny, we shall not know where to look for him.
Speak at once! where was it that you first missed him?”
“Oh, ma’am! Oh, Miss Anna! Strike me dead for pity! Oh, do! oh, do!”
cried the girl, growing wilder every moment.
“Yes, ma’am, that was about all I could get out of her either. Begging
and a praying of me to take her up and hang her because she had lost the
boy. To hang her, to hang her, to hang her up by the neck until she was
dead, dead, dead, was all her prayer.”
“Waiter,” said Drusilla, who, though agonized with grief and fear for
her lost child, was now the most self-controlled and thoughtful of the
party—“waiter, go quickly and fetch a glass of wine to this girl. It may
restore her faculties.”
The man sprang to do the lady’s bidding, and soon returned with a bottle
of sherry and a glass.
Drusilla herself filled the glass, and kneeling down beside her, put it
to the lips of the prostrate girl.
“No, no, no!” cried Pina, pushing away the glass, and spilling its
contents—“no, no, no, I won’t take it, I won’t get better, I won’t live!
Somebody ought to smash me for losing little Lenny, and if they don’t
I’ll die myself! I will! I will!”
“Pina! nobody blames you, at least I do not. Nobody wants you to die, or
to be punished. Drink this, Pina, so you may be better able to tell me
about my child,” said Drusilla, gently, as she again offered wine to the
girl.
“Oh, missus! Oh, missus! if it was poison I would take it cheerful, I
would! for it do break my heart to look in your face and to think what I
done!”
“You did nothing wicked, I’m sure. If you feel so much for me, drink
this, for my sake, so that you may be better able to tell me about my
child.”
“I’ll do anything for your sake, missus! goodness knows I will!” said
Pina, as she swallowed the wine.
“Give her another glass, mum. She’ll hardly feel that in her condition,”
advised the experienced policeman.
Drusilla hesitated. But Anna, less scrupulous, took the bottle and glass
from her hand, filled the glass again and put it to Pina’s lips with a
peremptory:
“Drink this at once.”
“Must I, missus?” asked Pina, turning to her mistress.
“Yes,” answered Drusilla.
And Pina swallowed the second portion of wine.
“Now,” said the policeman, after a few moments, extending his hand to
Pina, lifting her up and placing her upon a chair—“now, my good girl,
open your mouth and tell us all, how and about the loss of the child.”
“Oh,” cried Pina, bursting into tears afresh, “it was _him_ at the
bottom of it all, I know it was!”
“Who?” inquired E. 48.
“Him, Mr. Alexander, Mr. Lyon, Lord Killchristians, as they call him
over here. Oh, dear! Oh, dear! Oh, me! Oh, little Lenny!”
“His father!” exclaimed Drusilla, in a half suppressed tone. And she
breathed somewhat more freely; for she felt that if Lenny were with his
father, the child was in no immediate personal danger—nay more, that his
detention was but temporary; that he would soon be restored to her
again. She thought that her husband might have ceased to love her, but
she knew that he never would deliberately do the deadly wrong of tearing
her child from her. Still she was intensely anxious to hear the details
of the abduction; but she was also extremely unwilling to admit
strangers to a participation of the intelligence that involved so much
of her private history and domestic sorrows.
All these thoughts and feelings passed rapidly through her mind, while
Pina was giving her answer, so when the policeman would have continued
the examination by asking:
“_Who_ was at the bottom of it, did you say, young woman? did you say a
gentleman and—a lord? How was that? And what lord was it?”
“Lord Killchristians! Mr. Alexander Lyon as used to was, and a notorious
willyun too! and the child’s own——”
Here Drusilla broke into the conversation:
“Officer, these are private matters. I thank you very much for having
brought this poor girl safely home, and I hope you will accept this
trifle in payment,” she added, placing a sovereign in his hand. “You may
leave us now. We will examine this girl, and if we find that your
services should be required in the search, we will send for you; or you
can call here in the course of an hour.”
“Thank you, my lady. I will call and see if I am wanted at the time you
say,” answered the policeman, lifting his hand to his head by way of
salute, and then leaving the room, followed by the waiter.
“Now then, Pina, you say that little Lenny’s father has got him?” said
Drusilla, trembling with excess of emotion, yet still striving to keep
calm.
“Yes, ma’am, I suppose he has by this time,” sobbed the girl.
“You suppose he has by this time? Pina, Pina! that is not what you said
before. Pina, what do you mean? You surely said his father had him!”
“I said Mr. Lyon was at the bottom of it, ma’am—at the bottom of little
Lenny’s being carried off, I mean—and I stand to it, as he was!”
“Oh, Heaven! did not his father carry him off, then?”
“No, ma’am; not with his own hands, but he was at the bottom of it—I say
it, and I stand to it!”
“Merciful Heaven! if his father did not carry him off who then did?
Girl, girl! do you know how you torture me? I thought at first my Lenny
had been lost by straying away from you; then you said his father was
concerned in his disappearance: now you say his father did not take him?
In the name of Mercy, who did? Speak—for the Lord’s sake, speak
quickly?”
“Oh, ma’am, I will—I will tell you all I know, but don’t, don’t look
so—don’t, ma’am, or you’ll kill me!” sobbed Pina.
“TELL WHO TOOK THE CHILD THEN!” said Anna, speaking sternly and stamping
her foot.
“I DON’T KNOW WHO DID!” burst, amid sobs, from Pina’s lips.
Drusilla stifled the shrieks that were ready to burst from her lips.
“You don’t know who did! Why, then, did you accuse Lord Killcrichtoun?”
demanded Anna.
“I didn’t accuse him, ma’am—I said as he was at the bottom of it,” said
Pina, who seemed to be unable to change her phraseology. “I said he was
at the bottom of it, and I stand to it as he was!”
“Oh, Anna, Anna, time flies! If Lenny is not with Alick, where is he?
Oh, where is he? He must be found at once—at once! I cannot live or
breathe till he is found! She must be made to tell how she lost him!”
cried Drusilla, losing all her self-command and starting up in great
excitement,—“He must be sought for, Anna! he must be sought for at
once!”
“Of course he must; but the search must be commenced with this girl who
was the last person with him. Pina, you say you don’t know who took the
child from you?”
“No, ma’am, I don’t—but know his father was at the bottom of it—I know
it, and I’ll stand to it!”
“Why do you think so?”
“Oh, Anna, Anna, you lose time with all this talk!”
“No, I don’t; we must find out from her where and how we are to begin to
search. Now, Pina, why do you think Lord Killcrichtoun was concerned in
this matter?”
“Lor’, ma’am, because it stands to reason as he was. Lenny is his own
son, which also they are very fond of each other—Lenny of he, and him of
Lenny! And so it was nateral he should want to have him. I’m not saying
as it was right or anything like right, but it was so!”
“Oh, Anna, Anna, time flying, and no facts learned yet—only conjectures!
Let me talk to her myself. Pina, where were you when you missed little
Lenny?” inquired Drusilla, distractedly.
“Oh, ma’am! oh, missus, don’t take on so—don’t, and I will tell you! He
was down on the Strand, a-looking in at a toy-shop—oh, dear! oh, me! oh,
poor little Lenny!”
“Oh, for the Lord’s sake, stop crying and tell me more! You were before
a toy-shop you say?” said Drusilla, in extreme anxiety.
“Yes, ma’am, a-looking in at the windows, at the wooden soldiers, and
horses, and ships; and there comes along a man with an organ and a
dancing-monkey. And little Lenny turned away from the window to look at
the monkey. And a crowd collected. They were mostly children. And little
Lenny is fond of children—and so—oh! oh, dear! oh, my heart will break!”
“Compose yourself, and go on, Pina!” said Anna.
“Yes, ma’am. Oh! oh, dear! Yes—well, little Lenny wanted to mix up with
them; but they were mostly ragged and dirty street children, and I was
afeard of fevers, and fleas, and sich, and so I kept him to myself, so I
did. Oh, oh, me! I wish I had always kept him to myself, so I do,”
sobbed Pina.
“Go on,” said Anna.
“And I saw two ill-looking men in the crowd. And indeed I didn’t think
nothing of it at the time, because ill-looking men ain’t no rarity in no
city, and that I knew of my own self. And these men, most of their
ill-looks was in their dirty and ragged clothes, and bruised and firey
faces. And while I was a-takin’ notice of them on the sly, one of ’em
says to the other;
“‘There—that’s the young ’un.’
“And the other says:
“‘Which?’
“And the first one stoops and whispers to the other, so I couldn’t hear.
And then they fell back out of the crowd a little ways, and began to
look into the shop windows unconcerned-like. And indeed, indeed, I had
no notion then as they had been talking about little Lenny, such wilyuns
as they were, though I have thought so since! Oh, Lenny! oh, dear little
Lenny! I wish somebody would knock my brains out, so I do! Oh, dear! oh,
dear! oh——!”
“Pina, stop howling and go on with this statement!” said Anna,
authoritatively, while Drusilla clasped her hands, and listened in an
agony of anxiety.
“Well, ma’am, after the men turned away, little Lenny began to tease me
for pennies to give to the dancing-monkey—and I gave him all I had, and
he ran into the crowd to put them into the hat the monkey was holding
out.”
“You should not have let him do that,” said Anna.
“Ma’am, you know how sudden and self-willed he is! he sprang away from
me before I could stop him. And I ran after him to bring him out. But,
just at that very moment, there came rushing down the sidewalk, and
right through the crowd, a man with his head bare and bloody, followed
by a running crowd, all yelling at the top of their voices:
“‘Stop thief! stop thief!’
“And they overturned the organ man and his dancing-monkey, and carried
off his crowd with them. I ran after them calling for little Lenny, who
was swept out of my sight by the rushing stream of people. I ran with
all my speed and I called with all my voice, but I got knocked from one
side of the walk to the other, and thrown down and run over, and
trampled on, and swore at, and—and that was the way I lost little Lenny.
I was hunting up and down for him when the policeman found me and
fetched me home. Oh, dear! oh, me, that ever I should live to see the
day! Oh, missus! oh, Miss Anna! oh——”
“Now stop. Let us talk calmly for a moment,” said Anna, reflectively.
“Let me see. Lenny could not have been hurried off by those
thief-hunters; because, if he had been, a tender little creature like
himself would have been thrown down, run over, and left behind, and you
would have found him on the ground more or less injured.”
“That was what I was a dreading of every minute, Miss Anna. Oh, little
Lenny! dear little Lenny!”
“Therefore,” continued Anna, “as he was not so run over and left, he
must have been snatched up by some one and carried off under cover of
the confusion. The kidnapper probably darted up one of the side streets
or alleys, and disappeared with his prey in that way.”
“That was what I thought, too, Miss Anna, when I remembered seeing them
bad-looking men and hearing what they said. They was a watching of their
opportunity to seize little Lenny and run away with him; and in course
they must have been set on by his father, who wanted him; else what call
would they have to take the child?—they who don’t look as if they had
overmuch love for children, or for any other creatures, to tell the holy
truth; no, nor likewise did they look as if they was able to keep
themselves from starving, much less a child; so it stands to reason as
they was hired to seize little Lenny by some un who _did_ love him, and
_was_ able to keep him; and who could that have been but his own
father?”
“Pina, I think you are probably right in your conjecture, for I cannot
even imagine what motive two such men as you describe could possibly
have for stealing a child like Lenny. They must have been employed by
his father, and if so, they must have been engaged some days ago, and
have been on the lookout for the boy ever since.”
“Oh, Anna, Anna, do you really think he is with his father? If I thought
so, one-half this terrible anxiety would be quieted. Oh, Anna, do you
truly think Lenny is with Alick?” cried Drusilla, clasping her hands.
“I have little doubt that Alexander employed these men to get little
Lenny. I have little doubt but that, for the sake of gain, they will
faithfully perform their part of the compact. My only wonder is that
Alick should have employed such very disreputable instruments.”
“Pina, is that all? Do you know no more?” anxiously inquired Drusilla.
“It is all, missus—every bit. I have told you not only all that
happened, but all I seed and heard and even thought.”
“Now then for action,” said the young mother, rising with a new-born
resolution and ringing the bell.
The waiter answered it.
“Order a cab for me immediately, and come and let me know when it is at
the door,” she said.
And when the man went away to do her bidding she turned to Pina and
said:
“Stop crying and do as I direct you. Go to my room and bring me here my
bonnet, gloves and mantle.”
Pina, still sobbing, went to obey.
“And now, Anna, if you wish to accompany me, go and get ready quickly. I
have something to do in the meanwhile.”
“Where are you going, Drusilla?” inquired Mrs. Hammond, wondering to see
the agonized young mother take the direction of affairs with so much
firmness.
“I am going to institute a search for little Lenny. I must find him
before I sleep. Use your pleasure, Anna dear, in going with me, or
staying at home.”
“I shall go with you most certainly,” said Mrs. Hammond, leaving the
room to prepare for her ride.
Meanwhile Drusilla sat down to her writing desk, and wrote off rapidly
disjointed paragraphs on several sheets of paper.
Anna returned ready for her drive, and found Drusilla thus occupied.
“What in the world are you doing, my dear?” inquired Mrs. Hammond.
“Preparing slips of paper that may, or may not, be wanted; for no time
must be lost. See, here is a telegram to be sent to uncle at
Southampton, if necessary. Here are a dozen copies of an advertisement,
descriptive of little Lenny’s person and dress, and of the circumstances
of his disappearance, and the reward offered for his restoration, to be
put, if required, into to-morrow’s papers. Still I hope that none of
these things need be done. We must drive first to Mivart’s where
Alexander stops, or did stop, and see if he is still there, and if he
has the child in his possession. If we find that Lenny is safe with his
father, then it will be all right, for I feel sure that my boy will be
amused and happy for a little while, and then he will want to come home
to me, and Alick will never be so cruel as to keep him from his mother.
But if we do not find him with Alick, then we must send this telegram
immediately to Southampton to summon uncle back to town; and we must
have this advertisement inserted in all the papers, and posted all over
London; and we must employ the whole detective police force, or as many
of it as we can procure, to prosecute the search——It is time the cab
were here. I wish it would come,” said Drusilla, touching the bell.
“Good Heaven, Drusilla! how you do astonish me! Who would have believed
that you—a young and delicate woman, a doting and anxious mother—could
have displayed so much coolness and resolution in such an hour of trial
and suffering,” exclaimed Anna, in genuine admiration.
“Ah, Anna! if experience has disciplined me in anything, it has
disciplined me in self-control.”
At this moment the door opened, and the waiter appeared and announced:
“Your cab waits, madam.”
“Come then,” said Drusilla.
And followed by Anna and attended by Pina, she hurried down-stairs.
They entered the cab, gave the order, and were driven rapidly towards
Mivart’s hotel.
The drive was accomplished in almost perfect silence. Drusilla sat pale
and still, suffering inexpressible anguish, yet controlling herself by a
mighty effort.
Anna was occupied by her own anxious thoughts. Of course _she_ knew the
mission to Mivart’s in search of Alick to be quite vain, and worse than
vain since it involved loss of time where time was of vital importance;
yet she dared not enlighten Drusilla by explaining the absence of
Alexander, for she feared by doing so to add to the terrible anxiety
that was already oppressing the young wife and mother. And, also, Anna
suspected that Alexander really was concerned in the abduction of little
Lenny; that he had hired these men to carry him off; and had most
probably instructed them to bring him to Mivart’s. Therefore, although
she knew there was no chance of finding Alexander, she cherished some
hope of hearing of little Lenny. The men who abducted him might have
carried him there, not knowing of their employer’s absence. If so,
little Lenny might be recovered before the day was over.
Amid all her grave anxieties, Anna felt some little curiosity upon one
point: Drusilla had grown so sensitive and timid in regard to her
beloved but truant husband that she had shrunk even from the casual
glance of his eye in public; and now she was going to Mivart’s in quest
of him; after all that had passed, she was voluntarily seeking him;
true, it was to find the child; true, also, she could not see her
husband; but—would she ask to see Alexander? Could she endure to see
him? What were her thoughts and feelings on that subject? Anna would
ask.
“Drusilla,” she said, “when we reach Mivart’s shall you send in your
card to Alexander?”
The young mother started. She had been in a deep reverie about the
present condition of her child, and had not heard her distinctly.
Anna repeated her question.
“Yes; I shall send in my card,” she said.
“And shall you see him?”
“That shall be as he pleases. Here is the card that I have prepared to
send in to him,” she continued, taking from her gold case a small
envelope directed to Lord Killcrichtoun, and drawing from it her card,
bearing the name, “MRS. ALEXANDER LYON,” and the pencilled lines, “_Only
tell me little Lenny is with you and is safe and I will thank and bless
you_.” “I shall send that up. He can reply to it by a pencilled line, or
a verbal message, or he can come down and see me, as he wills,” said
Drusilla.
“Drusa, you have thought of everything; you have prepared for every
emergency. But maternal love is a great sharpener of the wits, I
suppose,” said Anna.
“It confers a sixth sense I sometimes think, Anna,” she replied.
When they reached the splendid palace in the West End known as Mivart’s
Hotel, the ladies alighted, and were shown into an elegant reception
room, where they sat down.
Drusilla then called a hall waiter, gave him her enveloped card, and
directed him to take it at once to Lord Killcrichtoun.
“Lord Killcrichtoun is not in town, madam,” replied the man.
“Not in town!” exclaimed Drusilla, disappointment and terror seizing her
heart and blanching her face. “I thought he was in town! I saw him last
night at the American Embassy. Does he not stop here?”
“Yes, madam; my lord has apartments here, but he left suddenly this
morning by the early train for Southampton.”
“For Southampton!” echoed Drusilla, in surprise and dismay, and with the
vague fear that his journey thither was in some fatal way the occasion
of General Lyon’s and Dick’s sudden departure for that port.
“Yes, madam,” answered the imperturbable waiter, “my lord left by the
eight o’clock train, taking his servants with him.”
“When will he return?”
“Can’t possibly say, madam. My lord set no day for his return. But if
you will excuse me, I will make so bold as to say I do not think he will
be gone long. He took nothing but a small portmanteau with him.”
Drusilla reflected a moment and then sealing her envelope, and handing
it to the waiter with a crown piece she said:
“Will you be so kind as to send this to his address at Southampton?”
“Why, madam, if you would not mind risking the note, I might send it at
a venture to the Dolphin Tavern at Southampton, where it might chance to
meet my lord, as that is the house he usually has his letters and papers
sent to when down there. But I am not quite certain now about his
address, seeing that he never left any orders this time where to send
his letters. But if this is not very valuable you might run the risk of
sending it to the Dolphin.”
“I thank you, send it immediately to the Dolphin. It is not of itself of
any worth, except as a message to Lord Killcrichtoun. If it does not
find him it might as well be lost,” said Drusilla, rising to go.
But Anna had also something to say to the waiter. Laying her hand upon
Drusilla’s arm, she pressed her back into her seat, and then turning to
the man, she inquired:
“Has any one beside ourselves been here to inquire for Lord
Killcrichtoun?”
“Yes, madam, many persons.”
“Gentlemen or ladies?”
“No ladies, madam. Three gentlemen were in to see him very early this
morning, before he went away.”
“Ah, but I mean since he went away.”
“Oh, yes, madam, quite a number.”
“Again, gentlemen or ladies?”
“Neither one nor the other, madam; _men_.”
“Men! Ah! what sort of men?”
“Common roughs, madam.”
“Yes! yes! did any of these men have a child with them?”
“Beg pardon, madam?”
“I ask you if either of these rough-looking men had a child with him, a
fair-haired, blue-eyed little boy, of about two years old.”
“No, madam, certainly not.”
“You are sure?”
“Perfectly sure, madam.”
“Well, waiter, attend to me. We have lost a child—and have some reason
to suppose that the child was brought to this house this afternoon.”
“It has not, madam, I can assure you.”
“We have cause to believe, then, that he will be brought here—Drusilla,
dear, give me one of your cards and one of these advertisements—Now
here, waiter, is a description of the child; and here is our address. If
such a child should be brought here, I desire that you will detain him,
and those who bring him, and send for us. Do this and you shall be
richly rewarded.”
“I will do it, ma’am, if the little boy should be brought here,” said
the man.
And then, as time was precious, Drusilla and Anna arose and re-entered
their cab.
“Where now, Drusilla?” inquired Anna, as they seated themselves.
Instead of answering her cousin immediately, Drusilla beckoned the
cabman to approach, and said:
“Drive to the nearest Telegraph Office, and drive fast.”
The man touched his hat, shut the door, mounted his box and started his
horses.
Then Drusilla turned to her cousin and explained:
“My dear Alick may, or may not have employed those men to carry off
little Lenny. If he has done so, he could not have expected them to do
his errand to-day, else certainly he would not have left town with the
chance of leaving the child in such hands. In that view of the case I
left my card with the penciled lines for the waiter to send to him, to
let him know that Lenny is in the hands of his agents, supposing that
they _are_ his, and in any case to let him know the child is missing.”
“Oh, Drusilla! how clearly you speak, and yet how wretchedly you look!
Heaven help you, poor, young mother!” said Mrs. Hammond, as the tears
rushed to her eyes.
“Oh, Anna! don’t, don’t, dear! don’t pity me! don’t say anything to
weaken me! I have need of all my strength!” cried Drusilla, through her
white and quivering lips.
Anna, with heaving bosom and overflowing eyes, turned her head away from
her and looked out of the window.
“You asked me just now where we were going next. You heard me tell the
cabman to drive to the Telegraph Office. I must send off two telegrams
to Southampton. I cannot wait the slow motions of the mails. One I shall
send to Alick, directed at a venture to the ‘Dolphin.’ The other I must
send to uncle; but you must tell me where to direct that, as I do not
know his address,” said Drusilla.
“Dick told me, in any sudden emergency that might require his or
grandpa’s presence, to direct to them at the ‘International,’” replied
Anna.
“Very well; we will telegraph there.”
At this moment the cab stopped before the Telegraph Office.
The office of course was full of people, and Anna and Drusilla had to
wait their turn.
While standing at the counter, Drusilla borrowed pen, ink and paper from
one of the clerks, and wrote her two messages. The first, addressed to
her husband, ran thus:
“_Little Lenny was stolen from his nurse, by two men, this afternoon,
in the Strand, and has not yet been recovered._
DRUSILLA.”
She submitted this to the examination of Anna, saying:
“That is quite enough and not too much to send. If he is concerned in
the abduction, he will hasten at once to London to take the child from
the dangerous hands he is in. If he is not so, still I think he will
hurry hither to help in the search.”
“You reason rightly, dear,” said Anna.
Drusilla then wrote a second message, to be sent to General Lyon. It was
couched in these terms:
“_Little Lenny is missing since this afternoon. Come to London by the
first train. If in the interim you have time to do so, seek Alexander
at the Dolphin and tell him._”
This also she showed to Anna, saying:
“You see I had to modify my message since learning that Alexander was
also in Southampton; and so also I had to destroy the slip I wrote at
the Morley House and prepare this. Now I see it is my turn to be
served,” she said, taking her two messages and carrying them to the
operator. She paid for them and then inquired:
“How soon will these go?”
“This instant, mum,” answered the bothered operator, so brusquely that
Drusilla did not venture to ask another question, but merely left her
address and a request that if an answer came to either of her telegrams
it might be forwarded immediately.
“Now, my dear, what next?” inquired Anna, as they re-entered their
carriage.
“To the ‘Times’ office, and from there to all the newspaper offices in
turn. It may not be really necessary to advertise; and I hope that it is
not; but still I must lose no time and miss no chance,” said Drusilla.
And having given her order to the cabman, she was driven rapidly to the
head-quarters of the great thunderer.
She got out and left her advertisement. And then returning to her
carriage, ordered it to the office of the “Post.”
And so in succession she visited the offices of the “Chronicle,”
“Express,” “Dispatch,” “Leader,” “News,” “Bulletin,” and, in short, of
every daily paper in London.
In each of the offices she also, in addition to giving in her
advertisement for the paper, ordered posters of the lost child to be
printed, and engaged bill-stickers to paste them up.
Next she drove to the lodgings of the Seymour family, to tell the
colonel of the loss of little Lenny, and to ask him to assist her in the
search for the child.
But here she was informed that Colonel Seymour and the ladies were gone
to the theater; but that the servants did not know what particular
theater.
So Drusilla wrote a note and left it for the colonel.
It was now nine o’clock, and quite dark; and having done all she could
possibly do towards the recovery of her child, she ordered the cabman to
drive back to the hotel, to meet the horrors of her lonely night and
forced inaction.
And, oh! the awful sense of bereavement, of loneliness, of vacancy, in
entering again her apartments, in which little Lenny was no longer to be
found! The heart-rending pang of terror in conjecturing where he might
be!
While she had been busily, actively engaged in taking measures for his
recovery, her thoughts had been somewhat distracted from concentrating
themselves upon his present condition.
But now, when she had done all that she could possibly do towards
finding him, now that she had come home to the old familiar rooms, made
desolate by his loss, and was obliged to abide in inactivity within
them,—now that she missed him everywhere and every moment,—the reaction
from courage to despair was so sudden and overwhelming that her very
brain reeled, her reason for the moment seemed imperiled. With a
half-stifled cry, she sank upon her chair, muttering with gasping
breath:
“It is not possible! it cannot be! Lenny gone, and not know where he is!
WAKE ME! WAKE ME! I have the nightmare!”
Anna sprang to her side, and put her arms around her saying:
“Drusilla, Drusilla! my darling, courageous girl! collect your
powers—control yourself!”
“Is it TRUE, Anna? Oh, say it is not—not true! Lenny is NOT LOST!” she
exclaimed, wildly gazing into Anna’s eyes.
“We hope that he is safe wherever he is,” said Anna wishingly.
“Wherever he is! Oh, my Heaven, yes, it is so! He is lost, and we do not
know where to find him!” she exclaimed, distractedly starting up and
walking the floor, and wringing and twisting her hands. “Where is he?
where is he to-night? Oh, in all this great crowded city, where is my
little child—my poor, little two-year old child, who cannot help
himself? He is frightened to death wherever he is—I know it! He is
calling for me, he is crying for me, at this very moment! Oh, my Lenny,
my Lenny! I would go to you through fire if I knew where to find you in
this great Babylon! I would, my little one, I would! But I do not know
where in this wilderness to look for you to-night, and you must cry for
me in vain, my little child, you must! Oh, what a horrible night! I
cannot, I cannot live through it! I cannot breathe in this house! I must
go out and look for him again! I must! I must!”
Her head was thrown back, her arms raised, and her hands clasped upon
her throbbing temples, and she reeled as she walked to and fro in the
room.
Anna, who bad kept near her, seeing her about to fall, caught her and
made her sit down, while she said:
“Drusa, dearest, be reasonable! be yourself!”
“I must go out and look for my little child! I must, Anna! I must! I
cannot live through this horrible night if I stay in this house!” she
cried.
“Drusa, consider! you can do no good by going out to-night, but much
harm. You could not find little Lenny, but you would lose yourself. You
have already done all that you possibly could do for his recovery.
Having done so, leave the result to Heaven.”
“Oh, if we could only know where he is!”
“We shall find out to-morrow, no doubt. The advertisements will be read;
the posters will be seen; the large reward offered will stimulate
inquiry; the detective police will be on the alert; and, in, all human
probability, before this time to-morrow little Lenny will be in your
arms! and grandpa, and Dick, and who knows but Alick, too, will all be
here rejoicing with you in your child’s restoration! Drusilla, this
cloud may have a silver lining; this transient trial may bring about a
great happiness,” said Anna, speaking with perhaps more cheerful
confidence than she really felt.
“Heaven grant it! Oh, Heaven in its mercy grant it! But till then! But
to-night! Oh, how shall I live through this horrible night! How will my
little child endure it? my tender little child, who was never away from
me before! And, oh, in what wretchedness he may be! in what terror! in
what danger! crying for his mother to come and take him, and she knows
not where to find him!”
“Drusilla! Drusilla! use your own excellent judgment. Is it likely at
all that the child should be in danger to-night, or even in terror?
Children live and thrive in the lowest haunts of London. The men who
stole him for his father will of course take the best possible care of
him in order to deliver him in the best condition and to get their
money; so he will be in no danger; and as for his being in terror,
little Lenny is a ‘game boy,’ afraid of nothing on earth, neither of
‘thunder nor horses,’ as he once told me, much less of men; and as to
crying for you, he is probably by this time fast asleep, and well
watched, for his abductors know that he is a treasure that will bring
money to their ragged pockets.”
“Oh, if I could think so!—oh, if I could think so. Oh, if I could only
know where he is—know where I might lay my hand on him to-night, or
to-morrow, I might be at something like peace; but oh, Anna, it is
distracting, it is maddening to feel that in all this huge, crowded city
I do not know where he is!”
“Drusilla,” said Anna, laying her hand upon the young mother’s shoulder,
looking in her eyes, speaking sweetly and solemnly, and appealing to the
deepest feelings of the young Christian’s soul. “Drusilla, if _we_ do
not know where little Lenny is to-night, _his Heavenly Father does_. He
sees him, watches over him, protects him. What would _your_ knowledge of
his whereabouts, or _your_ power to protect him, be to that of his
Heavenly Father, whose eyes are over all his works, who is as
all-merciful as he is all-mighty. Take this faith home to your heart and
let it comfort you.”
“Oh, Anna, that does comfort me. To think that the Lord knows where he
is, though I do not; the _Lord_ can take care of him, though I cannot.
Oh, I thought no one but the thieves could know where little Lenny is
to-night; but behold the Lord knows! And I feared that I could do
nothing more for him to-night; but behold I can pray to the Lord for
him. I will spend the night in praying for him!” said the bereaved
mother, growing somewhat more composed.
But there was no going to bed in the ladies’ apartments that night.
As they had not broken their fast since morning, Anna ordered tea to be
served in the drawing-room. Consumed by the feverish thirst brought on
by mental distress, they drank some tea, but would eat nothing.
When the service was removed, both went to Anna’s room, for Drusilla did
not dare to trust herself within her own desolated chamber, and they
changed their carriage dresses for loose wrappers, and they spent the
night in vigil and in prayer.