CHAPTER XXX.

LITTLE LENNY’S ENEMY.

Where the haters meet

In the crowded city’s horrible street.—BROWNING.

Pina was right in her surmises as to the manner of little Lenny’s

abduction. And he really had been carried off by one of the two men whom

she had detected in watching him.

And this necessitates the explanation of some circumstances, which,

however, did not become known until some time afterward.

It not unfrequently happens that the heirs of an estate, or a title long

held in abeyance and supposed to be extinct, are poor and obscure

people, quite ignorant of their connection with, or right in such an

inheritance.

The claim recently confirmed by the House of Lords is a case in point.

The claim to the barony of Killcrichtoun is another.

Alexander Lyon was totally uninformed as to his right to the title and

estate of Killcrichtoun until his visit to England and Scotland, when,

in searching the records of his mother’s family, he discovered the facts

that led to his subsequent action in claiming the barony.

But the investigations that ensued developed other facts, and brought

forward other heirs, or rather one other, who would surely have been the

heir had Alexander been out of existence.

This was a descendant of a younger sister of that ancestress through

whom Alexander Lyon claimed the title.

The name of this man was Clarence Everage. He was that most to be pitied

of all human creatures—a poor gentleman, with more children than means

to support them; more mouths to feed than money to find food; more

intellect than integrity; more refinement than firmness. A man now about

thirty-five years of age, with a long, hopeless life before him; a man

with some beauty of person, dignity of presence, and graciousness of

manner; with sensitive feelings, and delicate tastes, and soft white

hands; a man who loved fragrant baths and fresh linen every day; and

cool, clean, quiet rooms to live in; and well-dressed, soft-speaking

light-stepping people about him; and respect and attention and

observance from all who came in contact with him; one who loving to be

happy and comfortable himself, loved still more to make others happy and

comfortable; one naturally more prone to confer favors than to ask them;

more willing to give than to take; naturally rather vain than proud,

sensitive than irritable, and weak than wicked.

And yet a man who had to live in mean lodgings in a small, dark house,

in a narrow dirty street in the Strand, where in two musty stuffy rooms

he crowded his wife, who was as refined and delicate as himself, and six

little girls, who would have been beautiful had they not suffered so

much from confined air, bad food and scant clothing.

His position really was not at fault. England, and especially London, is

so fearfully overcrowded; the competition in all trades, professions and

occupations is so hopelessly great.

He was an usher in a third-rate London school, and he had an income

barely sufficient to support himself in comfort; and of course it will

be said that he ought not to have married.

Ah! but Nature had fooled him in his youth as she fools so many. And yet

I take that back. I will utter no such blasphemy against Holy Nature. No

doubt Nature is always right, and it is always well that children should

be born, even though they should suffer cruelly and die early, since

they are born for the eternal life, through to which this earthly life

is but a short, rough gateway, soon passed.

But without excusing themselves with any such hypothesis as this, the

young man and young girl had followed Nature, taken the leap in the

dark, and plunged head—no, _heart_ foremost, into their imprudent

marriage. And the natural consequences ensued. The beautiful children

came as unhesitatingly as if they were entering upon a heritage of

wealth, health and happiness, instead of want, illness, and misery; and

every year added to their number.

The wretched father groaned for himself and his wife.

But the gentle mother reminded him that Heaven, in afflicting them with

lighter trials, had always spared them the one great trial that they

never could be able to bear—namely, the loss of their children. Not one

of the little ones had been taken from them. Each and all had fought

valiantly and successfully through measles, whooping-cough, scarlet

fever, and the rest; but whether _because_ of, or in _spite_ of the

cheap quack medicines the impoverished parents poured down their

throats, I cannot say.

It was when they were expecting their seventh child that Clarence

Everage, who had been hunted out by Alexander Lyon and the lawyers, was

suddenly called from his obscurity to bear witness in the investigation

of Mr. Lyon’s claim to the Barony of Killcrichtoun.

It was but a link in the chain of evidence that he was to furnish. But

any information he was expected to be able to give was as nothing

compared to the tremendous revelation that was about to be made to

himself.

He, the poor usher, starving in a miserable third-floor back in

Wellington street, Strand—heir presumptive to a barony!—the ancient

Barony of Killcrichtoun! And but for this intrusive foreigner actually

Baron of Killcrichtoun himself. For be it remembered that Clarence

Everage knew nothing whatever of Alexander Lyon’s wife and child.

The investigation, as you know, terminated in Alexander’s favor.

And this witness and self-styled heir presumptive was liberally

remunerated and sent home to his poor lodgings, pale wife and pining

children, to brood over the vicissitudes of this life—to brood until he,

whose temper had through all his trials been sweet, kind and cheerful,

became soured and embittered and sorely tempted.

What right, he asked himself, had this man—whose branch of the

Killcrichtoun family had been self-expatriated for generations—to come

over here and claim the ancient barony?

He was not a Scotchman, nor even an Englishman, that should he hold it.

And what good did it do him, after all?

Beyond the mere title, the new baron cared little for the inheritance.

He had not even visited Killcrichtoun. While to him the poor usher, what

a god-send, what a treasure, what a paradise it might have been. This

estate which was nothing to the wealthy Virginian, would have been

everything to himself.

_He_, had he possessed it, would have sold one-half the land to get

funds to cultivate the other half. He would have pulled down the most

ruinous parts of the castle to get materials to build up the better part

of it. And he would have employed the starving tenants of the little

hamlet in repairing his dwelling and tilling his ground, and a part of

the wages he paid them would have come back to himself in the form of

rents.

He, the despised usher, oppressed by master and chafed by pupils, would

then be lord of the manor, with servants, and tenantry dependent upon

him.

His poor wife, who was looked down upon by small shopkeepers and snubbed

by her laundress, would be a baroness and “my lady.”

His pale little girls, bleached by the fogs of London, would grow strong

and rosy on the bracing air of the Highlands.

All this would happen, if only he, and not this interloping American,

were Baron of Killcrichtoun.

He brooded too constantly and profoundly over the advantages that must

have accrued to him had he been the fortunate inheritor of

Killcrichtoun, as might have happened had it not been for this

interloping stranger who had no business in the country.

He felt a morbid interest in the foreigner who was so fortunate as to

succeed to the title, and be able to disregard the small estate that

came with it.

He took pains to learn as much as possible of Lord Killcrichtoun’s

history. He was often in his lordship’s company, in streets and shops

and other common ground where they could meet on equal terms. He talked

much _to_ him and of him, and so learned more of his antecedents than

was known to any one else out of the family in London.

He often met Alexander in his well-known haunts, walked with him, sat

with him, and smoked with him. Occasionally, at Alick’s invitation, he

ate and drank with him.

Why not? If Lord Killcrichtoun was unmarried, as he was generally

supposed to be, then Clarence Everage was heir presumptive to the title

and estate.

True, he knew that the present baron was some five or six years younger

than himself, and in that view of the case there was little hope of the

inheritance.

But, on the other hand, Alexander, like the generality of American men,

was tall and lank, thin and sallow, with that appearance of ill-health

which was not real, but which was greatly enhanced by the careworn and

haggard expression of countenance which had characterized his face ever

since his abandonment of Drusilla.

So, upon the whole, Clarence Everage, gazing gloomily upon Lord

Killcrichtoun, thought the chances of his lordship’s death by

consumption, and of his own accession to the title and estate, within a

year or two, were very good.

“If only,” he said to himself, “the fool should not in the meantime

marry and have an heir. That would make the case hopeless indeed.”

This anxiety lest Lord Killcrichtoun should marry and have an heir

before death should claim him, so preyed upon the poor gentleman’s

spirits that he watched over his lordship more carefully, and inquired

about him more anxiously than ever.

In the places where they chanced to meet, he could neither see nor hear

any sign of the misfortunes he dreaded. No one knew whether his lordship

was meditating matrimony or not; no rumor of his contemplating conjugal

life was afloat.

Of course the impoverished gentleman in his threadbare coat, limp linen

and broken gloves, could not go into those circles from which Lord

Killcrichtoun would be likely to select a bride; and so, though Everage

in their mutual resorts learned nothing to alarm him, he was tormented

with uneasiness as to what might be going on out of his sight in places

from which his poverty excluded him.

He went into coffee-rooms, not to partake of the refreshments for which

he could not pay, but to look at the fashionable news, longing to see at

what dinners, dances, or conversaziones, he, who was keeping him out of

his estate, had been seen, and fearing to find, under the head of

“APPROACHING MARRIAGES IN HIGH LIFE,” some announcement of the calamity

he so much dreaded—the impending marriage of the baron. But of course he

never found anything of the sort.

“I hope the fellow has too much sense—yes, and too much conscience, to

think of taking a wife. Men in his wretched state of health should never

marry; for when they do, they always entail their infirmities upon any

children they may happen to have,” said Everage, with virtuous emphasis;

for his wish being father to his thought, he had fully persuaded himself

that Alexander was in a very bad way—a doomed man, rushing with railroad

rapidity to the grave.

“If he will only refrain from marriage for a year or two all will be

well,” said Everage to himself, as visions, not of wealth, rank and

grandeur, but simply of independence, respectability and comfort floated

before his eyes.

Sitting in his small, stifling room, surrounded by his little pale girls

and his invalid wife, breathing the heavy city air, he thought of

Killcrichtoun that might yet soon be his own. He saw the forests of

fragrant pine and feathery firs; the fields of oats and barley; the

streams full of trout and salmon; the mountains with their game; the old

tower with its cool rooms. He saw his wife and daughters blooming with

health and smiling with happiness; he felt the bracing breezes of the

Highlands fan his brow. Sitting in his stuffy little room, he saw and

felt all this in a vision, and he longed and prayed, oh how earnestly,

that this vision might yet be realized.

But a very great shock was at hand for him.

One day, while Lord Killcrichtoun and himself were walking on Trafalgar

square, they met a nurse and child, with whom his lordship immediately

stopped to speak.

At the very first sight of the child, Everage was struck with its

unmistakable likeness to Lord Killcrichtoun. And when the baron took the

boy in his arms, and hugged and kissed him with effusion, Everage looked

on in surprise and disapprobation, for he thought that he knew his

lordship was unmarried, even while he detected the relationship between

the two.

But Alexander took his son, and, desiring his friend and the child’s

nurse to wait for him there, he crossed over to the Strand, and went

into a toy shop.

Left alone with the girl, Everage was sorely tempted to question her,

but a sense of honor and delicacy prevented his doing so.

After a few minutes, Alexander returned to the spot, leading the little

boy, who had his hands full of toys.

“Take him home to his mother now, nurse. The air is too sultry to keep

him out longer,” he said, kissing his child and delivering him over to

Pina.

When the girl had carried off her charge, the two gentlemen walked on a

little while in silence.

Everage, in his anxiety, was the first to speak.

“That is a very handsome little boy,” he said.

“Yes, he is a fine little fellow,” answered Alick.

“He is very like you,” continued Everage.

“I suppose he must be since even I can see the likeness.”

“And he is very fond of you,” persevered Everage.

“Yes,” answered Alick in a very low tone.

“Your nephew, of course?” inquired Everage, after a little hesitation,

hoping that, after all, such might be the relationship of the baby to

the man.

“No, he is not my nephew. I have not, nor ever had, sister or brother to

give me niece or nephew. I am a lonely man, Everage.”

“Ah!” sighed the other, with a look of sympathy—but he thought in his

heart, “So much the better!”

“But—he is my son, Everage!” said Alick, with emotion.

“Your son?” exclaimed the would-be heir of the barony.

It was what he had at first suspected, even when he thought Lord

Killcrichtoun was unmarried; but yet he was ill-at-ease, and, out of his

anxiety, burst this exclamation:

“I did not know that you had a wife.”

“Nor _have_ I! nor can I _ever_ have—that is the curse of my life! But I

had one once. The subject is a painful one, Everage!”

“I _beg_ your pardon,” said the poor gentleman, with real regret that he

had torn open an unsuspected wound, and real sympathy for the evident

sufferings of the victim, felt amid all the disappointment and dismay

with which he heard of the existence of Lord Killcrichtoun’s son and

heir, and the consequent blasting of all his own hopes of the

inheritance.

The tone and look of sympathy touched Alexander’s lonely heart. He

longed to speak to some one of his sorrows; to some one with whom it

might be discreet and safe to deposit the secret troubles of his life.

To whom could he so well confide them as to this poor gentleman, who

seemed to possess some fine feelings of delicacy and honor, and who was

certainly by circumstances far removed from those circles in which

Alexander would abhor to have his domestic miseries made known.

“There is no offense,” said Alexander, answering the last words of

Everage, “you could not have known the tenderness of the chord you

touched. And I thank you now for the kindness your tones and looks

expressed. Come! shall we hail a hansom, and go to Véry’s to lunch?”

“Thanks,—with pleasure!” said Everage, who always keenly appreciated and

enjoyed the game, the salads, and the wines at Véry’s; but—then he

glanced at his rusty, threadbare coat, his dusty old boots, and his

day-before-yesterday’s clean shirt-bosom.

“Oh, never mind your dress, man! Who the mischief ever dresses to go to

lunch in the morning?—Cab!”

The empty hansom that was passing drew up. The two gentlemen got in to

it, and Alexander gave the order:

“Véry’s, corner of Regent and Oxford streets.”

Arrived at the famous restaurant, Alexander told the cabman to wait, and

led his friend into the saloon.

There curtained off in a snug recess, and seated at a neat table, upon

which was arranged a relishing repast, Alexander, while making a slight

pretense of eating and drinking, told his story, or part of it to

Clarence Everage, who listened attentively, even while doing full

justice to the good things set before him.

“You will understand now,” said Lord Killcrichtoun, in conclusion, “how

it is, that though I am a husband and a father, I have neither wife nor

child.”

“That is very deplorable, if it is really so,” said the poor man, with a

real compassion for sorrows that he was inclined to consider much

heavier than he had been called upon to endure. For what, he asked

himself, were the worst pangs of toil, care and want compared to the

grief that would be his portion should he, in any way, lose his own fond

wife and dear children?—“Very, very lamentable, if it is indeed true!

but let us hope it is not so; that your imagination exaggerates the

circumstance. Let us trust that the quarrel is not irreconcilable; that

the husband has still a wife, the father still a child.”

“No, I have no wife nor ever shall have one; for though Drusilla is

neither dead nor divorced, she is hopelessly estranged from me. I have

no wife, nor ever shall have one.”

“But you have a child. He at least is not estranged from you.”

“No, but he belongs to his mother who bore him in peril of her own life,

and has nurtured him tenderly and loves him fondly, I know. He belongs

to her.”

“But the _law_ gives him to you. You can claim him when you will.”

“But I would cut off my right hand, I would lay down my life, before I

would take him from his mother, or do anything else to give her pain.”

“But, man, he is your heir!”

“Yes, he is my heir, and only child. If he should live, of course he

will inherit Killcrichtoun. If he should not, why the barony will go to

some distant branch of the family, unearthed in the investigation set on

foot by my lawyers, when I laid claim to the title and estates. And—why,

bless my soul, old fellow, it may go to you! May it not?”

“Failing yourself and heirs of your body, it may,” replied the poor

gentleman, gravely. And then he pushed back his chair and showed signs

of impatience to be off.

The usher was allowed but half an hour to take his lunch, and even now

he was due at his schoolroom and in danger of a reprimand from his

principal.

Alexander perceived his uneasiness and rang the hand bell that stood

upon the table.

Everage took out his purse.

“Put that up, if you please, Everage. I invited you here; and you are my

guest,” said Alexander, taking out _his_ purse.

“See here, Killcrichtoun! upon one pretense or another _you always_

contrive to do this thing. Now I am not going to stand it any longer.

Unless you let me foot the bill sometimes, and unless you let me foot it

now, I can never lunch with you again,” said the poor gentleman, with

much dignity; then turning to the waiter who at that instant made his

appearance, he added—“Let me have our bill immediately.”

The mercury vanished to execute the order.

“But, really, Everage——” began Alexander.

“But, really, Killcrichtoun,” interrupted the poor gentleman, “though

this is too small a matter to dispute about, you must let me have my

will.”

Alexander gave way.

The waiter came and put the bill in Everage’s hands and the usher, who

had that day received his second quarter’s salary, amounting to barely

fifteen pounds, paid thirty shillings for their lunch, and bestowed half

a crown on the waiter who served them.

Alexander sighed and groaned in the spirit as he saw this; but he could

do nothing on earth to prevent it, or to remedy it. What in the world is

one to do in such a case with a sensitive, poor gentleman? He would be

alive to all your ruses, and feel hurt by them and defeat them.

Alexander would rather have paid ten times the amount from his own ample

means than seen the usher discharge the bill from his slender stock.

Then they arose from the table and went back to their cab.

And Alick ordered the cabman to drive to the street where the

school-house in which Everage served was situated, and he dropped the

usher.

I declare that up to this day Clarence Everage had entertained no idea

of gaining his ends by evil means.

But the story that he had heard from Alexander was a startling and

curious and interesting one; and he could not help brooding over it and

speculating upon it. Lord Killcrichtoun had a wife and child! The fact

at first view seemed very fatal to Everage’s hopes of ever succeeding to

the title; but upon closer consideration it was not so. Lord

Killcrichtoun was hopelessly estranged from his wife; but he was not

divorced from her, nor free to marry again. He had but one child, his

son and heir; and if anything should happen to this child, Lord

Killcrichtoun, in his peculiar circumstances, could not hope for other

legal offspring, and Everage would be quite secure in his position as

heir presumptive of the barony.

And Alexander really looked paler, thinner, and more cadaverous than

ever! Truly in much worse health than before! Clearly not long for this

world! And if anything should happen to the child before his father’s

death, Everage would not long be kept out of his inheritance!

_If anything should happen to the child!_ Dangerous, speculation! In

monarchies it is treason even to _imagine_ the death of the sovereign.

And it is so with much good reason, since such imaginings often realize

themselves.

It could not be treason; but it was treachery in Clarence Everage even

to imagine the removal of the little child that stood between him and

the inheritance of Killcrichtoun. It was not only wrong but perilous for

him to do so. But it seemed as if he could not help it. Day and night he

brooded over the idea, with a morbid intensity akin to monomania. And

there was his poverty, and the pale faces of his poor wife and little

girls, to goad him on. And there was that painful computation of pounds,

shillings and pence, that agonized straining of his soul to make his

meagre wages meet their merest wants. And now the cruel extravagance

into which his pride and sensitiveness had betrayed him in paying for

that lunch at Véry’s had almost ruined him for this quarter. There was

now no possible way in which he could make the two ends meet for the

time.

And he knew, as only the experienced in such matters can know, and he

dreaded as only the proud and sensitive can dread, the troubles that

must follow—the degrading squabbles with his landlady, the humiliating

apologies to the butcher and the baker—nay, the sight of his wife’s

shabby dress and his little daughters’ all but bare feet.

And he thought how different all this would be were he the heir of

Killcrichtoun, as he should be but for Alexander Lyon’s son.

He thus “imagined” the death of the child and the advantages that must

accrue to himself in that event. But would he have “compassed” the death

of the child for any such advantage?

Oh, no! not for Killcrichtoun, or a hundred Killcrichtouns, would he

have committed such a crime. But—he was too prone to consider certain

facts in the statistics of population, life and death; how it was set

down that more than one half the children born, died before they had

attained the age of three years. He supposed little Lenny to be about

two years and a half old. He wondered whether the child had passed

safely through measles, whooping-cough, scarlet fever, and all the other

perilous “ills” to which children’s “flesh is heir,” or whether he had

yet to encounter all or any of them.

He had gathered from Lord Killcrichtoun’s narrative that the child lived

with his mother and her friends at the Morley House, and that he was

often taken by his nurse to walk in Trafalgar square and its vicinity.

And so, morning, noon, and evening, when not engaged in his school

duties or with his family, he prowled about the neighborhood, to waylay

little Lenny and his nurse, and watch over his health.

One day, when no one else was very near, he saw Pina and her charge

together, and accosted them.

“How do you do, my little man?” he inquired, patting Lenny on the head

or rather, the hat.

“Me not man—me itty boy,” answered Lenny, staring.

“Oh, little boy, are you? Well, how do you do, little boy?” smiled

Everage.

“Me very well,—how you?” politely responded Lenny.

“I’m very well too.”

“Me dad you very well too.”

“Thank you.”

“You dot itty boy home?”

“No, I’ve got no little boy at home; but I have got six little girls.”

“Sit itty dirl? Me habben dot itty dirl home.”

“Haven’t you? what a pity!”

“You bin you itty dirl hee me?”

“Yes, I’ll bring my little girls to see you,” said the poor gentleman,

turning away from the child with some emotion, and beginning to talk

with Pina,—who was looking on and smiling with proud delight at the

bright intelligence and gracious manners of her little charge.

“He is a very fine little fellow, nurse,” said Everage.

“Yes, sir, lots of ladies and gentlemen, who stop to speak to him, say

the same,” answered Pina, gazing with satisfaction upon her little

Lenny.

“And he is very like his father,” pursued Everage.

“Well, sir, I never could see the likeness myself, I’m sure,” answered

the girl resentfully, and wondering how this stranger came to know who

was little Lenny’s father.

“He seems to be perfectly healthy?” went on the would-be heir

presumptive.

“Why, he never had any real illness for an hour, sir. Even when he was

teething, he only ailed a little—nothing to speak of at all, sir.”

“Ah, well, he’s like a young bear—all his troubles are before him.”

“Indeed, sir; then I think you are more of a bear, yourself to be

a-saying of such things! Come, master Leonard, let us go home—mamma will

be wanting us.”

“Dood-by! come hee me soon,” said Lenny, holding out his hand to the

stranger.

“Good-by, my little lad!” said Everage, pressing the child’s offered

hand as he turned away.

Little Lenny and his nurse went back to the Morley House, and Everage

bent his steps to the Newton Institute for Young Gentlemen.

“More than one-half the children that are born alive die before they

reach the age of three years, do they? Well—clearly this youngster

belongs to the half that live! Never has had any of those infantile

disorders that slay Infants of ‘two years old and under,’ with a

massacre more terrible than that of Herod of Galilee. Ah! but the little

fellow has them all to meet, for they are sure to come, sooner or later;

yes, but he has a fine constitution with which to fight disease; well,

but still this is certain, that children of robust frames, full-fleshed

and full-blooded, never get over these inflammatory fevers as easily as

do those of thinner and feebler organization. These very healthy

children are exceedingly apt to go off in these acute attacks of

disease. Master Lyon, Master of Killcrichtoun, you will have to take the

risk with the rest.”

Such were the reflections of Everage as he bent his steps that afternoon

to the Newton Institute, and while he sat at his desk examining boys in

their Latin and Greek exercises and algebraic and geometrical problems;

and while he sauntered sorrowfully and wearily home to his gloomy

lodgings.

But he hated himself with a righteous hatred for these evil haunting

thoughts, that he had no moral power to exorcise.

From what he had heard from Lord Killcrichtoun, and from what he had

observed with his own eyes, some things seemed very certain.

As that Lord Killcrichtoun would never be legally divorced from his

first wife, and therefore would never be free to take a second; that he

would never be reconciled to her, and therefore never have another

child; that his lordship was in a very bad way and could not long hold

the barony of Killcrichtoun; and, finally, that little Lenny would be

the future Baron of Killcrichtoun, unless he should very soon die,

or—_disappear_; and, finally, that little Lenny was not inclined to die

to please anybody!

But there was that other alternative:—he might _disappear_—he might

disappear as children had often done before now, he might disappear

forever.

I know not at what precise time this last alternative presented itself

to the poor gentleman’s mind. But it would not be banished, it clung to

him, it tempted him, it nearly crazed him.

He prowled about Trafalgar square, and waylaid little Lenny and his

nurse, and informed himself as to the child’s haunts and habits.

If Pina never spoke of this “poor white herring,” as she disrespectfully

called him, it was because he was only one of several persons who,

passing daily at the hours the nurse would be out with the child, would

stop to notice him, to smile on him, or—when time permitted—to talk to

him, being charmed by his infantile beauty, intelligence, and

graciousness. And, even if the nurse had told the mother of this

stranger’s seeming partiality for the child, the information would not

have surprised her, for to Drusilla it seemed inevitable that every one

who saw her peerless boy must be charmed and delighted with his beauty

and brightness.

So unsuspected and unrestricted, Everage contrived to see a great deal

of little Lenny—a great deal more than even his father saw of him.

But Alexander was entirely ignorant of these interviews, for Pina did

not love little Lenny’s father well enough to gossip with him on that or

any other subject, or indeed to open her mouth to him with one

unnecessary word.

And the poor gentleman, for his part, took good care never to approach

the child while his father happened to be near him.

In fact, of late days, Clarence Everage had seen but little of Lord

Killcrichtoun. From some latent sense of honor or sting of conscience,

the poor gentleman had kept out of the way of the wealthy baron. Since

Everage had been speculating on the chances of the child’s death or the

practicability of his “disappearance,” he could not bring himself to

look that child’s father in the face, much less to eat or drink with

him, as had for a time been his frequent custom.

But Everage brooded over the possibility of little Lenny’s

“disappearance,” as he called it, until, as I said, it tempted, blinded,

crazed him.

The vague dream “_disappearance_” began to shape itself into the very

distinct idea, “ABDUCTION.”

Children had been abducted before now, for less reason and with more

difficulty than could be the case with this child; for how great a

reason, almost how just a cause, he said to himself, had he for

abducting Leonard Lyon; and how easily, in the child’s unguarded walks,

might he be snatched up and carried off; and how completely in crowded

London might he be concealed.

The idea grew and formed itself into a purpose.

CHAPTER XXX.

THE ABDUCTION.

In a jumbled heap of murky building.—KEATS.

There was at this time a wretched old hag who, summer and winter, rain

and shine, sat under the shadow of St. Mary’s le Strand begging—but not

audibly, for to have done so would have broken the municipal laws, and

to have drawn the police upon her and consigned her to the work-house.

On the contrary, she was ostensively peddling in a small way. In her

talon-like hands she held a bundle of matches, which she silently

tendered to every passer-by. The matches were worthless and were not

really intended for sale, but only for a blind to the police and a cloak

for her begging; and everybody understood this as well as she did; for

though she never opened her lips to ask for alms, every fluttering rag

about her was a tongue, and every look a voice.

So occasionally a passer-by would drop a half-penny in the hand that

offered the matches and then go on his way.

But the great stream of people pouring through that crowded thoroughfare

usually passed without noticing her, for the frequency of such sights,

and of much worse sights of misery, in the London streets, and the utter

impossibility of relieving them all, hardens the hearts of the people.

But the poor pity the poor. And our poor gentleman, passing the poor

beggar twice every day, pitied her—pitied her, even though she had once

picked his pocket of his coarse white linen handkerchief, and he knew

the fact beyond a doubt. And almost every day, in passing, he gave her a

half-penny; and once a quarter, when he got paid off, he gave her a

sixpence.

But in all the years in which she had sat there, and in which he had

passed twice a day in going and returning to and from his employment, he

had never happened to see any one else give her anything.

Of course he knew that she must make something by sitting there or she

would not stay; but it was so very little and so very seldom, that he

never knew it from personal observation. And from all this he concluded

that she was deadly poor.

He often wondered where she lived, how she slept, what she ate, with

whom she kept company, and who were her kinsfolks, if she had any.

That she consorted with the lowest thieves and vagrants, with the most

desperate men and women ready for any crime, he felt morally certain.

Had she not picked the pocket of her benefactor?

But, still he pitied her and almost justified her; for he knew what

poverty and its bitter temptations were, and besides, while his charity

was large his moral sense was not very clear; and, poor as he was, he

would have lost every pocket-handkerchief he possessed before he would

have prosecuted this miserable old woman, or even withheld from her the

tri-weekly half-penny or the quarterly sixpence.

Now, when the vague idea of “_disappearance_” shaped itself into the

distinct thought of ABDUCTION, and the thought grew into a purpose, and

the purpose strengthened into resolution, he remembered the old woman

under St. Mary’s le Strand, and believed that he could make her

subservient to his use.

One rainy day he went out at noon for the usual recess. It was a day and

an hour when there were comparatively few passengers in the street. He

went in search of the old woman whom he found in her accustomed place,

but backed up close against the wall to secure some partial shelter from

the pelting rain.

“Have you no umbrella—not even an old wreck of one?” were the first

words addressed to her by Everage.

“Umberrelly? Bless the dear gentleman, I never had a umberrelly in my

life! How should the likes of me have a umberrelly? They bees for the

rich people, honey.”

“But your knees are getting quite wet,” said Everage.

“And so they is, dear gentleman, and I shall get the rheumatiz as sure

as sure!” said the woman, taking the cue and beginning to whine.

“I shouldn’t be surprised if you did. Why do you sit out here in this

weather?”

“Good gentleman, hadn’t I better sit here and sell my matches than stay

at home and starve?”

“Sell your matches? Why, that’s the identical box of matches you have

had to sell for Heaven knows how long, and you haven’t sold it yet.”

“That is true; but, dear gentleman, I might sell them to-day—I might

sell them any time! There is no telling when a stroke of luck might

fall.”

Everage knew she was speaking deceitfully; but he not only found excuses

for her, but he found in her words an opening for his proposition.

“Yes,” said he, “you are quite right. There is no telling when a streak

of luck may fall—even this very day.”

“It has come this very day, good gentleman. Sure the sight of your

handsome face is always lucky; and it is worth while to come out and sit

in the rain for the chance of seeing it, if one should get no other

good.”

“The sight of my face may be lucky to others; but the luck is only skin

deep; it never strikes in to do the owner any good,” laughed Everage, as

he dropped a sixpence in the hag’s hand.

“Oh! thanky, sir! Sure you’re the great binifactor of the poor! May the

Lord——” and here she began a great string of blessings to which a

bishop’s benediction would seem a trifle.

“That will do. Now tell me your name. You see as long as I have known

you I have never heard it.”

“Rooter, sir; Margaret Rooter, at your honor’s service; born in lawful

wedlock of honest parients, your worship, and christened in this very

same church as you see before you, Sim-Merrily-Strand,[1] sir, as ever

was.”

Footnote 1:

St. Mary’s le Strand.

“Well, Mother Rooter,” said the poor gentleman, dropping his voice to a

low tone, “would you do a service for me, if it should be to your own

advantage?”

“Is it would I do a service for your honor’s worship?” said the woman,

gazing on the coin in her hand and chuckling, for she readily divined

that the required service was an unlawful one, which must be paid for

handsomely “on the nail,” and ever afterwards in the shape of of

blackmail. “And is it Margaret Rooter as you ask will she do that

service for her binnyfactor, as he has kept her from starving this many

a day? Aye, will I, even if it is to the setting on fire of

Northumberland House, or Sim-Merrily-Strand itself. Marry come up

indeed! What has Northumberland House, or Sim-Merrily-Strand either,

ever done for the likes of me, that I should prefer them before your

honor’s worship, whose bounty have given me many a half ounce of tea and

handful of coal? Sim-Merrily-Strand indeed!”

“But I have no grudge against the church, or the palace either, and wish

them no harm, but all good. The service I require of you is of another

sort, but almost equally dangerous and needing——”

“I don’t care a pen’orth of gin what it needs, nor what it don’t, no,

nor yet for the danger, so as it ain’t killing and hanging matter. I

never could pluck up courage to take a life or to risk the gallows. But

as for the rest—look here, your honor! what has the likes of a poor

creature like me to be afraid of in this world? Is it the police? Is it

the judge? Is it the jail? Lord love your honor, the police treat me

better nor my own brothers, for they never punch my head, nor give me

black eyes! and the judge is a gentleman compared to my landlord, for he

never turned me out into the street, as every one of them is sure to do

sooner or later. And as for the prison, it is a perfect queen’s palace,

compared to the leaky, crowded, filthy garret where I stop. Your honor

must know I have been in both and know the differ! So as I was taking

the liberty to tell your honor, if the service is anything less than a

hanging matter, I’m your woman.”

“Speak lower when you do speak; but do not speak at all when people are

passing by,” said Everage, in a very low tone, as some street passengers

hurried along.

“There, your honor, they have gone now. Now about this service, your

honor?” said the old woman, impatiently.

“Well, it is no hanging matter, nor anything of the sort But it is a

secret service for all that,” replied Everage.

“A secret service, your honor’s worship! Ah, that is what my heart

delights in! Ah, then, I have done more than one secret service for

gentlemen of the highest rank! aye, and for ladies too, bless them! and

got well paid for them besides! enough money to have kept me in clover

all my life, only it always got stole from me by the wretches in the

house.”

“Well, you must take better care of the money which I shall pay you. But

what was the nature of these secret services of which you speak.”

“Ah, your honor’s worship, if I were to tell you that they wouldn’t be a

secret any longer, and neither would you trust such an old blabber as me

with _your_ secrets,” said the old woman, leering wickedly.

“That is so,” said Everage; “and, besides, this is no place for carrying

on a private conversation. Here comes another group of people quite

close.”

The group came and passed.

“Now, then, Mother Rooter, tell me where you live, if you have no

objection, and whether I can find you at home if I come to you this

evening, so that we may arrange this affair,” said Everage, as soon as

the coast was again clear.

“Is it where I live your honor asks me? That’s a good ’un! Do you call

it living? this life I lead. No, your honor, it is not living, it is

lingering.”

“Where, then, do you linger?”

“Well, then, sir, I draws my breath and stretches my bones in the back

attic of No. 9 Blood Alley, Burke Lane, Black Street, Blackfriars Road.

All B’s, your honor. You can remember it by that. The house is Number

Nine. They keep a bone and grease shop in the cellar, and rags and

bottles on the first floor, and all the rest of the house is let to

lodgers, all poor, but I the poorest, your worship.”

“And shall I come to you there?”

“If your worship will do me the honor.”

“But the house, which seems from your description to be a tenement house

of the worst order——”

“Aye, you may say that, your worship,” interrupted the old woman; “but

what is a poor body to do?”

“I was about to observe that the house would be full, crowded, so much

so that perhaps even your own back attic has other tenants.”

“And so it has, your honor’s worship.”

“In which case I do not see how I am to have an opportunity of speaking

to you in private there more than here.”

“Oh, dear gentleman, if you come at nine o’clock, you’ll catch me alone.

Sure they’ll all be out then on their tramps, and they won’t be in much

before morning. And sure your honor’s worship might even trust them,

seeing as they’re all my own family, and would be fast as fast and safe

as safe in any secret service as I might undertake. And your honor knows

best whether you mightn’t want their aid too, in sommut where they might

be of use. I don’t know yet what your service is, your honor. You

haven’t told me yet. But I know I am an ole ’oman, your honor’s worship,

and might want help, in case the service might require strength, like

the breaking into a house and the bringing off of a dockerment or a

young lady.”

“It is none of these things, as you might have judged, else I should not

have come. Yet it is akin to one supposition that you have advanced; and

you really may want help. Who are the people that share your attic room

and your confidence? But, hush! here come some of the other passengers;

wait till they have gone.”

The two conspirators were silent for a moment, and then, when they had

their corner to themselves again, Everage repeated his question, and the

old woman answered:

“Who are they? you ask me, sir. Well, there is, first of all, my two

brothers, as honest, trusty lads——”

“‘As ever scuttled ship, or cut a throat,’” suggested Everage.

“Yes, that they are, sir; and so you’ll find them,” said the old woman,

who did not understand, or, perhaps, did not distinctly hear the

quotation,—“honest and trusty, and true and good.”

“Although they knock your head about?” observed Everage, who had not

forgotten that piece of news.

“Oh, your worship, that was drink; it wasn’t to say _them_.”

“Ay! ‘when the wine’s in the wit’s out,’ I suppose.”

“Just so, your honor; though it’s precious little wine they gets, poor

souls. It’s most in general beer, or, if they’re in luck, gin.”

“Aye, to be sure! Well, if they serve me faithfully, they and you shall

be kept in gin the rest of your lives.”

“Oh, your honor’s worship’s reverence, that would be heavenly,”

exclaimed Mrs. Rooter, with enthusiasm. “They’ll be true to you,

sir—they’ll be true to you till death do you part, and arterwards, sir!

_and arterwards_; for I never could see the good of being true till

death and then turning false to you arter you’re dead, or arter they

are.”

“No, to be sure. But about these brothers of yours,—are they the only

persons, or are there any others who share your attic?”

“Well, yes, sir; there’s my grand-darter Meg, as honest and truthful a

gal as ever——”

“Picked a pocket, or told a falsehood.”

“No, sir, she don’t, nor she wouldn’t do nyther the one nor yet the

other—not even in the way of business, as many an honest tradesman do.”

“But that’s rather hard on the honest tradesman, is it not?” smiled

Everage.

“Gurr-r-r!” exclaimed the old woman, grinning and showing her snags of

teeth. “Gurr-r-r! They hunt us poor creatures away from their shops and

stalls, accusing of us of prowling about to see what we can pick up,

when all they theirselves is a doing of the gentlefolks to no end! Don’t

tell me!”

“But about this girl? Is she—your granddaughter—and her uncles, the only

inmates of your attic chamber?”

“Yes, your honor, the onliest ones, and quite to be depended on.”

“Very well, then, I will look in at your place at nine o’clock this

evening.”

“And much good may it do your honor and us, too. The Lord bless you,

sir. But mind and don’t forget, your honor’s reverence, the four B’s and

Number Nine.”

“I will not forget. I have it down in my note-book.”

And then, as another bevy of foot-passengers came hurrying along the

sidewalk, Everage left the crone and went on his way.

At a few minutes past eight, Clarence Everage found himself prowling

down Blackfriars’ Road in search of a street that I have called Black

street; but which, in fact, is very unfavorably known to the police

under another name.

He found it at length; and looking down its cavernous mouth, he thought

of Doré’s picture of the entrance to the infernal regions.

He shuddered as he turned into Black street, and followed its windings

down into a labyrinth of dark and lurid lanes and alleys, from which

sunlight and fresh air must have been almost totally excluded, even at

noonday.

Here every sense and sentiment was shocked and revolted. The streets

were narrow and murky, muddy and filthy. The houses were old and

shattered, and bent forward towards each other till the eaves of the

roofs almost met overhead, shutting out much of the light and the air

that might have visited the accursed place. The sides of the houses were

disfigured by broken and stained window sashes filled up with old rags

and hats, and by foul and dilapidated doorways, occupied, for the most

part, by rum-stupefied men and women, and by neglected and drowsy

children. Those groups were generally in semi-obscurity but here and

there a street lamp from without, or a dim candle from within, lighted

up their misery.

“Heavens and earth!” thought Everage, holding his handkerchief to his

mouth and nose as he threaded his way through the mazes of this Gehenna

in search of Blood Alley and Burke Lane, “these must be the waste pipes

of all London’s crime, disease and miseries; and yes, by my life, this

is the sink!” he added, stopping in the very center of the labyrinth

before Number Nine.

The house was taller, older, dirtier, and more dilapidated than any he

had yet seen. It leaned forward as if ambitious of meeting and saluting

its leaning opposite neighbor, and it looked as if it were in danger of

toppling down in the attempt.

Here also the doorway was foul and broken, and crowded with drunken and

dirty men and women.

Everage inquired of this group if this was Number Nine, and if Mother

Rooter lived here.

They stared at him for a minute without replying, and then all burst out

laughing, while one woman called to some one within the passage:

“Hallo, Meg, come here! Here’s a gentleman a-wanting of Mistress Rooter.

He have come with the queen’s compliments to her.”

A brown-skinned, black-haired, bare-legged gipsy of about fourteen years

old came out of the obscurity, and accosted Everage.

“Be thou the gentleman as grannam was a-looking for?”

“If your grandam is Mrs. Rooter,—yes,” answered Everage scrutinizing the

girl, and recognizing her from the description given by the crone.

“Come along then,” said Meg, leading the way through passages and up

staircases more foul and nauseating to sight and smell than even the

middle of the streets had been—for the streets do sometimes get washed

off by rain, whereas these tenement-house passages seem never to have

that advantage.

Everage followed his guide up four flights of stairs, noticing, as he

passed along the halls of each floor, through the open or half-open

doors, heart-sickening and revolting sights of vice and misery within

the room.

At the top of the last flight of stairs himself and his young guide

reached the attic landing.

She beckoned and led him to a door, which she opened.

He followed her into a back room, with a low, sloping ceiling. It was

wretchedly furnished, or rather bare of furniture,—a bed which was a

mere heap of foul rags, a shaky little wooden table, a rickety chair, a

rusty iron kettle, and a cracked tea-cup and saucer were the only means

and appliances of comfort or necessity there.

The only person in the room was old Mother Rooter, who was squatted on

the only chair, with her elbows on her knees and her head in her hands.

She got up to meet her visitor, and gave him her chair, saying:

“You are very welcome to my poor place, kind gentleman. Sit down, sir.”

And she seated herself on the side of the bed, that he might not

hesitate to take the chair.

He looked at the proffered seat, and took from his pocket a newspaper,

and spread over the bottom of the chair before sitting down on it.

“Ah, sir, I see—you gentlefolks blame us a deal for being dirty, but how

can we help it? We can’t get bread enough to eat; and where are we to

get the extra penny to buy a bit of soap to wash ourselves and our

houses, or the horn-comb to red up our hair, not to say the sixpence to

buy a broom. Ah, sir, you gentlefolks should know what you are a-talking

on before you blame us, poor creatures, for dirt.”

“I am not blaming you,” said Everage.

And then, to change the subject, he remarked:

“You are very high up here; you are high up in the world in one sense,

if you are not in another.”

“Ah, yes, sir! but what am I to do? The garret or the cellar is the

choice us poor creatures has to make. All the house between them is too

dear for the likes of us. And be the same token, there’s little to

choose atween them. It’s hard on an ole ’oman like me to live up here;

and when, of an evening, I’m a-panting up all these stairs,—sir, there’s

ninety on ’em,—steps, I mean—I know it to my sorrow, for I have counted

on ’em often, as I panted up ’em, and stopped on every landing to catch

my breath,—well, sir, I often think it would be better to live in a

cellar. But then, I thinks, as once I _did_ live in a cellar and catch

the rheumatism by it. So on the whole, I says to myself, it is better to

climb and to pant nor to lie flat on my back and groan.”

“And your choice was a very wise one. But listen: if you are faithful to

me in the service you have undertaken to perform, you shall live in a

first-floor front of any such a house as this, until I shall be better

able to provide for you—which I certainly shall be, if you should be

successful and faithful.”

“Bless your honor! I will be faithful as faithful. But you haven’t told

me yet what the service is agoing to be.”

“I came here to-night to tell you, and I will tell you now—but, is the

coast clear?” anxiously inquired Everage, looking around and seeing that

the girl, Meg, at least had disappeared, and that himself and the crone

were alone or seemed to be so.

“Yes,” answered Mrs. Rooter, “the coast is clear. My brothers have not

left the house though, because I hinted to ’em as they might light upon

a job.”

“Where are they, then?”

“Up on the leads. I sent them there to wait your honor’s pleasure. And

there they shall stay till your honor bids me call them down. If so be

you would rather trust the business to me alone, I will, if I can, do it

alone and they shall never know anything of it; but if your honor

chooses to trust ’em, which I make bold to say—they are just trusty as

trusty—why I’ll go call them.”

“Go and call them—I will take a look at them, at all events,” said

Everage.

The beldam went out into the passage, and climbed a ladder leading to

the open trap-door of the roof, and summoned her brothers; and presently

their heavy steps came lumbering down the ladder; and she brought them

into the presence of Everage.

They were two ill-looking fellows enough, somewhere between forty and

fifty years of age.

The elder was tall, sallow, black-haired and black-eyed.

The younger was short and thick-set, with broad shoulders, bull neck and

bullet head covered with a thick shock of red hair.

Both men were in rags.

They came and stood before Everage and pulled their forelocks by way of

salutation.

“Well, my men, are you to be trusted in a service the faithful

performance of which will accrue to your own profit?” inquired Everage,

as he scanned his “tools.”

Now the only ideas the ruffians gained from this speech was that there

were secret services required, for which money was to be paid. So one of

them, the dark one, replied:

“What we undertakes to do, your honor, that we does faithful. But it

depends on what the service is, and how it pays, whether we undertakes

it.”

“But if we undertakes it, we performs it faithful,” added the other, the

red one.

“Then, Mother Rooter, secure the door; and now all gather around me. You

two men, and you, mother, sit upon the bedside, and bend close to me as

I sit upon the chair before you.”

The three arranged themselves as their employer directed.

Then he, stooping towards them, and they towards him, so that all their

mischief-brewing heads were together, began in a low whisper to unfold

his plans. He came immediately to the point.

“It is a child to be carried off,” he said, and then waited for the

effect of his words. He saw that they were rather stunning even to these

reckless villains.

“A child to be carried off, your honor! that’s not over easy nor yet

over safe,” said the dark ruffian.

“Nor are you ever paid handsomely for jobs that are over easy and over

safe! But I can tell you one thing—it is not over difficult nor over

dangerous.”

“Is it from a house, your honor?” inquired the dark ruffian.

“No, from the streets.”

“Carry off a child from the crowded streets of London, your honor? That

seems to be impossible,” put in the red ruffian.

“Hold your tongue, Roger,” said his black brother.

“Now, don’t go quarrel before the gentleman! Manners is manners. If so

be, you’re decent men, behave as sich!” put in the crone.

“I only said it was impossible to carry off a child from the streets of

London; and I’ll not deceive the gentleman. I’ll stick to it, as it is,”

persisted Red Roger, who was called thus by his “pals.”

“You will find that it is very easy. I have studied it out and matured a

plan that must be perfectly successful.”

“Let us hear it, your honor,” said the black one.

“Well, listen,” whispered Everage, in a very low voice. “This child is

about two years and a half old. He is the child of foreign parents who

know not much of English life. He is sent out with his nurse, a black

girl who wears a plaid turban instead of a bonnet; you may know her by

that. He is sent out with this girl morning and evening of every fair

day. She is a fool, and she takes him about Trafalgar square and up and

down the street, and to St. Mary le Strand and along Fleet Street. And

they stop and gaze in the shop windows, and stand with the crowd around

every organ-grinder and monkey, and especially around every Punch and

Judy. This is my plan. I will take an opportunity to point out the nurse

and child to Mother Rooter. She can afterwards point them out to you.

Once having seen them, you cannot possibly mistake them. Are you

attending to me?”

“With all our ears, sir,” answered the black villain, while the red one

nodded emphatically.

“Then listen! when you have once seen this nurse and child, you must

watch for them, and arrange something like this manœuvre between you:

One must be the abductor, the other must be the assistant. The one who

is to carry off the child must have in his pocket a bottle of

chloroform. Do you know what that is?”

“Don’t we, sir? It has saved the slitting of many a windpipe!” chuckled

the red wretch.

“Very well. Let the one who is to carry off the child take a bottle of

chloroform, which I will provide; also a dark shawl. Then watch until

you see the child and nurse standing in some crowd around a street show.

Then, the abductor must keep very near the child, having the shawl and

the chloroform at hand. The assistant may then go farther up or down the

street and at the right moment raise the hue and cry of ‘Stop thief!’

and lead the chase up or down the street towards the crowd in which the

child stands. Then let him who is to carry off the child uncork his

chloroform and have it ready, snatch up the child, throw the shawl

quickly over his head, and run with the rest, shouting ‘Stop thief!’ at

the top of his voice; but all the time letting the fumes of the

chloroform escape within the folds of the shawl, so as to overpower the

child and render him incapable of struggling or calling out.”

“But it might kill the baby, and that would be murder and we don’t want

nothink to do with sich at no price,” objected the black scamp.

“Do you think, Bill, as the gentleman would ax us to do murder? I don’t.

True, there might be a accident from chloroform, as there often bees to

the ’ospitals, but that wouldn’t be murder,” said Red Roger.

“You’d find as the jury would bring it in murder,” answered Black Bill.

“There is no sort of danger. I will only put enough of the stuff in the

bottle to quiet the child, and not enough even to make him insensible.

Besides am I not as responsible for the thing as you are?”

“Well, your honor knows best!” said the black scamp.

“And now let me go on. As soon as the child is quiet, leave the rushing

crowd that your brother is still leading with his cry of ‘stop thief;’

leave it leisurely, and take the nearest cut for Blackfriars’ Road and

your mother’s, no, sister’s room, here. Here you may conceal him until I

can take him off your hands. Do you understand this?”

“Yes, your honor. But now, how about the pay?”

“You shall have five pounds each down, as soon as I see the child in

your hands. You shall have all the jewelry that you find on his person,

which, as I have seen pearls and turquoise among them, may amount to as

much more, or twice as much more. And finally, when I shall reap the

advantage that I expect from this child’s disappearance, you shall have

a comfortable income from me for the rest of your lives.”

The men wrangled and haggled with their employer for a higher price for

their crime, and after much dispute obtained their own terms—ten pounds

each down and a crown a week for keeping the child.

After this, Everage left the house, promising to see Mother Rooter at

her stall the next day and every day, until he should have a chance of

pointing out the boy and nurse to her, that she might afterwards show

them to her brothers.

Everage kept his word, and the next morning stopped on his way to his

school, to leave a bottle of chloroform on Mother Rooter’s stand, and to

watch for the possible appearance of little Lenny and his nurse, on

their morning walk.

The demon helped Everage to wonderful luck, for presently came Pina

leading little Lenny, by the hand.

They passed quite close to where the crone squatted and Everage stood.

They seemed to be going up Fleet street, upon some little shopping

errand.

Everage turned his back upon them until they had passed and had their

backs to him. Then he touched the beldam and pointed them out to her.

“There they are. Shall you know them again?”

“Why, I’d know ’em among a hundred! That black gal, with the plaid

turban on her head, isn’t easy forgot, nor yet the beautiful boy, with

all that finery about him! which it’s a world’s wonder I never noticed

of ’em before!” said the beldam.

“You would not have noticed them now, perhaps, if I hadn’t pointed them

out.”

“Well, maybe not, to be sure. I don’t commonly look after children and

nursemaids.”

“But you will remember them now, and take the first opportunity of

pointing them out to your brothers.”

“I’ll bet you! Beg your honor’s pardon. One or t’other on ’em will be

here morning and evening until I gets a chance to show ’em. And be the

same token, here comes Bill now.”

“So he does; well, keep him here till the nurse and child return; they

will have to come back this way; and then you can point them out to him.

And now my time is up,” said the poor gentleman, looking at his gold

repeater, a family heirloom, the sole relic of better days that had not

yet been dedicated to the necessities of his wife and children; but was

destined soon to be sacrificed to raise money to pay the instruments of

his meditated crime.

Everage then hurried away to his school duties, leaving the beldam and

her accomplice to carry out his instructions.

As you, of course, already know, the plot was accomplished.

Little Lenny was carried off in the manner planned by Everage; and

afterwards described by Pina.

He was a brave little fellow, and when he saw a great crowd of people

rushing on and crying, “Stop thief;” and when he felt himself caught up

in the arms of a strange man, and hurried along with the rest, he only

supposed some frolic was afoot, and he laughed and shouted, “Top Teef!”

with all the strength of his baby lungs.

But soon the fumes of the chloroform overpowered him, and his head

dropped on the shoulder of his captor.

Black Bill, keeping the old shawl over the child, taking his way through

the darkened streets and lanes, at length bore his prize safely to

Number Nine, Blood Alley.

He hurried up-stairs to the attic room and placed the still unconscious

child in the arms of the beldam, who was there seated in her only chair.

“There, Peg! uncover him quick and do some’at to bring the life back to

him,” said Black Bill, a little nervously, as he himself with eager

hands helped to relieve the boy of the shawl.

“Meg!” called the crone to her granddaughter, “fetch a cup of water

here. Bill, run and fetch a little rum.”

Meg, who was idling about the place, ran and fetched a cup of water from

the nearest room-neighbor.

Mother Rooter dipped her fingers in the cup and sprinkled it in the

boy’s face. The air had already half revived him, and the water

completed the work. With a gasp and a sneeze the little fellow awoke.

They gathered around him, those wretches, like a pack of wolves around a

lamb.

One tore off his pearl and turquoise necklace; another seized his hat

and feather; another his sash; another his jeweled armlets. What a

prize!

CHAPTER XXXII.

LITTLE LENNY’S ADVENTURES.

Oh! ’tis a peerless boy,

Fearless, ingenuous, courteous, capable:

He’s all the mother’s, from the top to toe.—SHAKESPEARE.

Was little Lenny frightened when he woke up and found himself in that

strange and wretched garret, closely surrounded by new and terrible

faces?

Not at all. Neither by nature nor by training was the baby-boy a coward.

The child of many generations of heroes had inherited no craven fears;

the cherished darling of the household had been taught none.

In a word, he was a plucky little fellow, afraid of neither man, beast

or devil.

And there was still another reason why on this occasion he was not

afraid. For if, as it has been written by the prince of poets, “_music_

hath charms to soothe the savage breast,” how much more hath beautiful

and gracious childhood?

The wretched men and women, gathered around this pretty boy, looked on

him, not with ferocious faces, but with smiles; and not with the

deceitful smiles whose insincerity a child will detect more quickly than

an adult can, but real, heartfelt smiles, called up by seeing among them

“something better than they had known.”

Yes, even while they were wresting from him his little treasures of

finery and jewelry, they did it with an expression of eagerness rather

than of ferocity.

And little Lenny gazed on them, turning his blue eyes from one to

another, not in fear, but in wonder and curiosity. Sometimes he was so

much amused by their excitement that he laughed aloud.

But he was as a little prince, king, or god among these poor creatures,

and he knew it. For when Red Roger unclasped and snatched his elegant

pearl and turquoise necklace from his neck, he suddenly put out his

chubby hand and snatched it back—so suddenly and unexpectedly that he

actually gained possession of it again before the slow and lumbering

brute could prevent him. And after he did so he fixed his eyes

indignantly upon the thief, and said:

“Man! how dare you tate ’hings ’out leave?”

And it was delicious to see the air of authority and confidence with

which the baby-boy put this question.

And why not? Had he not been permitted to rule over his mother and

cousins, and even over his godfather, the veteran General, who was the

greatest man _he_ knew in the world? and should he not rule over these

poor creatures? And besides, I think that Master Leonard Lyon, while

inheriting all the graces and virtues of his ancient house, inherited

some of its faults as well, and among the latter that inordinate pride

of caste which is so very objectionable in this republican age, and that

he looked upon this order of human creatures as rather lower in the

scale of being than well-bred cattle. So, captive and helpless as he

was, he looked around upon them with queerly mixed feelings of wonder,

mirth, pity and disapprobation, but without a particle of fear.

As for the red-haired ruffian, he was so astonished by the words and

actions of the baby-boy, that he could but open his mouth and eyes and

stare. He did not attempt to recover the necklace; but of course he knew

that the child and his jewels were both in his power all the same.

Lenny, after staring at him for a moment and receiving no answer to his

unanswerable question, turned to the gipsy-looking girl and asked:

“What you name, dirl?”

“Meg,” answered the girl, smiling kindly on the child.

“Met, you tate dis and teep it for Lenny. Me name Lenny,” he said,

handing her the necklace.

Meg looked up in doubt and fear to the face of her red-haired relative,

and meeting his eye, and seeing him nod and wink at her, she slipped the

necklace into her bosom, and answered the child, calling herself by the

name he had given her:

“Yes, pretty! Met will keep it for Lenny. (Yes, and I will, too, if I

can,”) she added, in a lower tone. But she probably knew also that the

jewels must pass back into the custody of the red-haired ruffian before

the night should be over.

But Lenny’s attention was instantly called away to another quarter. In

fact, he needed to be constantly on the alert to prevent himself from

being stripped and skinned by the thieves.

“You ’top, _man_!” he indignantly exclaimed to Black Bill, who was

stealing the pearl and turquoise armlets from his sleeve. “Div Lenny

back, minute!” he cried, making a snatch at the jewels.

Black Bill probably felt safe in relinquishing his prizes, for the time

being; for as soon as he restored them to Lenny, the child passed them

over to the appointed keeper of the jewels, saying:

“Met, teep dem too for Lenny.”

And the girl, with a smile, put them also in her bosom.

But presently this chosen servant seemed turning traitor to her little

lord, for while his attention was for a moment called off elsewhere, he

felt hands at work upon his pretty little blue kid gaiters, with their

gold buttons.

“’Top dat, _Met_! ’Top it! _Met_! What you pull off my hoos for? Me not

do bed. ’Top it, _Met_!” he cried, this time less in anger than in

anguish to see such treachery in a trusted servant.

“Oh! I want ’em so bad! so bad! Won’t you give ’em to me? Won’t Lenny

give ’em to Met?” pleaded the girl, in a wheedling tone.

“You want my hoos?” inquired Lenny, pitifully.

“Yes, so bad! I have got no shoes.”

“You dot no hoos?”

“No.”

“Well, den, me div you mine. Tate off! tate off! Me dot more hoos home.”

The girl took them off. And this must be said in excuse for her, that

she was acting under the orders and under the eyes of her tyrannical and

unscrupulous uncles.

“Now put on _you_ feet! Put on! put on!” insisted Lenny, stooping over

and looking at Meg’s sturdy naked limbs. “But my hoos too ittle for you

feet. You feet so bid,” he added, in astonishment, at the size of Meg’s

“understanding.”

“Never mind, I can change ’em for a bigger pair,” answered the girl.

Before Lenny could reply again, he was accosted by the beldam, who held

him on her lap and who had got possession of his elegant little white

satin hat, with its plume of white marabout feathers fastened with a

cluster of diamonds.

“And may I have this, my pretty, pretty bird?” she asked, holding it up

to view.

“You dot no bonnet?” he inquired compassionately.

“No, my pretty little angel, I’ve got no bonnet.”

“Den you have Lenny hat—Doosa div Lenny more hat. Put on, put on!” he

exclaimed, impatiently seizing his beautiful and costly cap, and trying

to decorate with it the horrible head of the old hag.

He was permitted to complete his purpose, to the unbounded mirth of the

group who all burst into loud laughter at the ludicrous effect produced.

When this ebullition had somewhat subsided, Lenny bestowed his sash upon

Meg, his tiny pocket-handkerchief on one man, and his little gloves on

another; and then he said, with an air of relief:

“Now, dat all—Lenny dot no more div! Now Lenny want do home see Doosa.”

He said this with so much confidence, yet with so much uneasiness and

longing that they all pitied him. The old woman asked:

“Who is Doosa, my little angel?”

“Doosa id Doosa—Lenny Doosa—Lenny pretty Mamma Doosa.”

“His mother,” said one of the men, in a low voice.

And then, for a few moments, nobody knew what to say.

Lenny was the first to speak:

“Tate me home now see Doosa. Met, I do ’id you—you tate me.”

Meg was confounded for a few moments, and then her mother-wit came to

her aid, and she answered:

“But Doosa is coming here herself to take Lenny home.”

“Doosa tome here, tate Lenny home?”

“Yes, and Lenny must be a good boy till Doosa comes.”

“Doosa say so?”

“Yes, Doosa say so.”

“Den Lenny will—” he said, gaping, and adding:

“Lenny so sleepy! me so sleepy!”

“Well, then, lay on its old grannam breast, and go to sleep, my little

angel,” said the old woman, gathering him up to her bosom.

“No, no, no, no! lay on Met lap. Met dit Lenny seep,” he said, wriggling

himself away from the crone, and going up to Meg.

What girl does not doat on little children? What girl, under these

circumstances, would not have met the baby’s advances with delight?

The poor young daughter of thieves and beggars took the child up in her

arms and looked around for a seat.

“Well, then, if you have got to nurse him, I will give you my chair,”

said the old woman, rising and throwing herself down upon the bed.

Meg took the seat and arranged the drowsy child comfortably on her lap.

“Wock me! wock me, Met,” said little Lenny.

There were no rockers on the rickety chair, but Meg moved her body

backwards and forwards, and so gave the baby the best rocking she could.

“Now sin’ to me, Met.”

Meg looked perplexed at this request, for a moment, but soon recovered

herself. Fortunately, Mother Goose’s melodies are the common property of

infant humanity, from the royal palace to the rag-picker’s hut, and Meg

struck up the nursery-classic—

“By, Baby-Bunting!”

She had a very sweet voice, which certainly soothed the child, for he

listened in drowsy delight. He well understood that he himself was the

Baby-Bunting in question. But when she sang the next line:

“Popper’s gone a-hunting.”

He opened his sleepy eyes and said:

“No, no; me dot no popper!”

“Never mind; some Baby-Buntings have—”

“Mommer’s gone a-milking.”

“No, no; Lenny mammer don’t go miltin’! _Dane_ do miltin’, and _Mawy_,

and _Suzy_—down home in tountry. And Lenny do wid ’em too—see milt tow,”

he exclaimed, quite waking up, as the memory of the rural pleasures of

Old Lyon Hall flashed over his mind.

“Well, never mind; some mommers do, you know—”

“Sister’s gone a silking.”

“Lenny ain’t dot no sister—not one,” he said.

“Brother’s gone to get a skin

To wrap my Baby-Bunting in—

A pretty little rabbit skin,

To wrap my Baby-Bunting in.”

“No, no, no; Lenny ain’t dot no brudder. _Dit_ do after yabbits,” said

Lenny, very drowsily.

He was almost asleep, and the girl continued her chanting: but presently

as his eyes were about closing, he suddenly started up:

“Met?”

“What does my pretty want?”

“When Doosa tomes, wate me up.”

“Yes, that I will.”

“Dood night, Met!”

“Good night, little angel!”

“Tiss me first, Met; tiss Lenny dood-night, Met!”

The girl stooped and kissed the child almost passionately, and murmured:

“Who could hurt him, the darling?”

But Lenny’s eyelids were weighed down with sleep, and he was almost gone

again, when, once more he called:

“Met, I fordot to say my p’ayers. Hear me say my p’ayers, Met!”

And heavy with sleep as he was, he slipped off her lap, knelt down at

her knee, and folded his little hands, and bowed his little head, and

opened his baby-mouth, in “the simplest form of words that infant-lips

can try:”

“Now I ’ay me down to s’eep,

P’ay de Lord my soul to teep;

If I die before I wate,

P’ay de Lord my soul to tate.”

This was the little evening prayer that had been taught him, with much

trouble, by his mother.

It was uttered now in a place and among people who had probably never

heard a prayer before.

Yet, perhaps, no purer orisons from priest or prelate arose to the

throne of the Most High that night.

“Now me done. Now me do s’eep,” said Lenny, drowsily, climbing up to

Meg’s lap and putting his arms around her neck and nestling his head

upon her bosom.

“Bless the darling!” said the girl, as she gathered him closer and

supported him comfortably.

And again he was almost asleep, when again he started up and called out

again:

“Met!”

“What is it now, my pretty?”

“Don’t you fordet to wate me up when mamma Doosa tomes.”

“No, I won’t, my pretty.”

“Now I do s’e p, sure ’nough. Dood night, Met.”

“Good night, little angel.”

“More tiss.”

She stooped and pressed her lips to his baby lips again.

He opened his drowsy eyes to look at her and say:

“Lenny love Met.” And with the words in his mouth he fell fast asleep.

And Meg continued to rock him with a gentle motion and sing to him in a

soothing tone.

“Meanwhile the old woman lay resting on her bed, and the two men sat

drinking at the rickety table.

“You’d better take them things to Old Israel and get ’em out’n the way

in case of accident; and mind what he gives you for ’em. Them’s rale

jewels, if _I_ know anythink about rale jewels,” said the old woman from

her bed.

“Which you don’t. Not the least. But them’s rale, sure enough; because

it ain’t possible as a rich lady, rolling in gold, would go for to put

her onliest child into imitation trash,” said Black Bill.

“Well then you had better go and make sure on ’em. There’ll be a hue and

cry next.”

“There is a hue and a cry now, I shouldn’t wonder; only it won’t come

down our way.”

“Well, anyhow, why don’t you go and take the things to the Jew?”

“Because we must wait here for the gentleman. I saw him on the Strand

arter Bill carried off the child. He said he was coming to settle

to-night,” said Roger.

“One of you can stay here to see him and the other can go and sell the

jewels.”

“Not if we know it,” laughed both the brothers, speaking at once.

“We want to stay here together to see the gentleman and get the money,”

said Red Roger.

“So we can have fair play and diwide it, equal, share and share alike,”

added Black Bill.

“And then we wants to go together to Israel’s to sell the jewels and get

the price,” pursued Red Roger.

“So we can diwide the same fair and equal,” added Black Bill.

By this it will seem that there was no “honor among thieves” in this

case. Neither would trust the other.

“Here he is now,” said Roger as a step was heard upon the stairs.

A few moments after, there was a rap at the door.

Black Bill opened it and admitted Everage.

“You have got the child?” he eagerly demanded.

But before any one could reply, his eyes fell upon little Lenny sleeping

on the girl Meg’s lap.

“Yes, as your honor sees, we’ve got him fast enough,” answered Roger.

Everage approached the sleeping child and gazed in his tranquil face.

“Did he cry much?” he inquired, in a subdued tone.

“Cry?” laughed Black Bill. “‘Cry?’—Lord love you, sir, no! He thought it

was a frolic, and he whooped ‘stop thief’ with the lustiest on ’em till

the clooryfum quieted of him.”

“But when he was brought here?”

“Oh, he was asleep then.”

“Good Heaven!” exclaimed Everage, fairly jumping off his feet with

fright, “has he been in that state ever since?”

“Lord bless your honor, no, sir! He woke up bright as a skylark the

minute we flung water in his face.”

“And _then_ was he frightened? Did he cry for his mother?”

“Lord love you, no, sir! Never see such a plucky little cove. He scolded

us men, and he petted Meg, and he put his precious little cap on the old

woman’s head. Such a figure it made of her—ha! ha! ha!—ho! ho! ho!”

laughed both brothers.

“Then he was not terrified or distressed?”

“_He_ terrified or distressed! You ought to have heard how he ordered us

all around until he got sleepy, and then he insisted on Meg’s rocking

him to sleep. And she did it.”

“Has he had his supper?”

“No, your honor. He didn’t ask for no supper. Why, sir, his hands were

full of buns when I snatched him up and run off with him,” said Black

Bill.

“But if he wakes up hungry, what have you got to give him?”

“Well, unless the poor woman has a bit of bread and a lump of cheese, I

don’t know as there’s anything else.”

“I thought so. I must go out and buy him some milk. Where can I find any

hereabouts?”

“Well, sir, there’s a shop at the corner of the next street where they

sells it. But, master, how about the pay?”

“Oh, you shall have it,” said Everage, taking out his old portmonnaie

and drawing from its interior three ten pound notes, the price of his

valuable jeweled gold watch and chain, his own seal ring, a costly

microscope that had once been his delight, and other sacred treasures

spared from sacrifice till now.

“I promised you ten pounds each, I think. Here they are.” And he handed

a note to each of his confederates.

“And now,” he said, “I must go and get some milk for the child.”

“I will go, your worship,” said Roger.

“Very well. I shall thank you. Here is a sixpence,” said Everage.

“If your honor pleases, I must buy a mug or summit to fetch it in.”

“Here is another sixpence. And now make haste. I want to see the child

comfortable before I leave him to-night.”

“All right, your honor; I’ll be back in no time,” said Roger, starting

out of the room.

“But—where are you going to lay him?” inquired Everage, glancing at the

old woman’s foul bed with a visible shudder.

“Oh, your honor, it’s all right. He shall sleep with me,” said the

crone.

“No, I would rather he should not. Can’t he sleep with the girl?”

“But she shares my bed, your honor.”

“Have you no other bedding?” he inquired, glancing around the room.

“Lord love you, sir, where would the likes of us get it? No, your honor,

you see all we have.”

“Where do the men sleep?”

“La, sir, anywheres or nowheres! most in general nowheres! If so be they

happen to be at home a night they just fling themselves down onto the

floor.”

“Well,” sighed the poor gentleman, “I suppose there in no help for it

to-night, and he must sleep as he can, but to-morrow I must get some

clean bedding for his use. I wish you to take good care of the little

fellow for the few hours or days he will be with you; but I must get him

out of the country as soon as possible.”

With Everage “as soon as possible” meant as soon as by any means he

could raise the money to do so.

“If you please, sir——” began Meg, in a timid voice.

“Well, my girl, what is it?” inquired Everage, turning and looking at

her, and thinking what a fine frank face was hers, notwithstanding that

she was the child and companion of thieves and outcasts.

“If you please, sir, I would not lay him on that bed. He ain’t hardened

to it, and he could not sleep, sir. It is full of bugs,” said Meg.

“But what’s to be done? You can’t hold him in your arms all night.”

“’Deed I’d sooner do it, sir, than see him eat up alive. But please,

sir, if so be I might make so bold——”

“Yes, yes, to be sure. Go on.”

—“The shops is all open yet, sir, and if so be as you could send out and

buy him a little clean blanket—a coarse one would do—I could make him a

pallet in the corner of the room and cover him over with his own little

mantle,” said Meg.

“Well thought of, my girl. How much will it take to buy?” required

Everage, for his funds were very, very low.

“A crown would do it—maybe less.”

“Can you do this errand for me, my man?” inquired Everage, turning to

Black Bill.

“If your honor wills; but it will take seven shillings at the least,”

said the ruffian.

Everage produced the required amount and handed it ever to the man, who

arose and lounged out of the room.

“And now I must not forget this,” said Everage, picking up a bundle he

had brought in with him, unrolling it, and displaying a full suit of

baby’s clothing, including the night gown, all of the cheapest and

plainest material, faded and patched, but perfectly clean: for it

belonged to his own little two-year-old Clara, and had been privately

taken from his wife’s bureau drawer. “He must not remain in his fine

clothes lest he should be accidentally seen. Put this night-gown on him

to-night, and to-morrow dress him in this suit; and be sure to hide away

or destroy the others. Do you understand?” he inquired, as he passed the

bundle over to Meg.

“Yes, please, sir.”

The door opened and the two brothers came in together—Black Bill, with a

small, coarse, cradle-blanket on his arm; and Red Roger, with a mug in

his hand.

Everage himself took the purchases from them, and gave them into the

keeping of the girl, whom he trusted more than all the rest of the gang.

Then he waited until he saw Meg undress the child and put it in his

clean, patched night-gown, while little Lenny slept heavily the sleep of

fatigue through the whole process.

“Now, if you will hold him on your knees half a minute, I’ll spread his

pallet,” said the girl, laying the child on the lap of Everage.

As soon as his pallet was prepared, she took him, still sleeping, and

laid him on it, covering him over with his own little mantle.

“And you’d better keep the milk handy so as to give it to him to drink

if he should wake hungry or thirsty,” said Everage.

“Yes, sir, I will. I will just fling myself down on the floor by his

pallet, and take care of him, sir,” replied Meg.

“And you shall not go unrewarded for your care of him,” said the poor

gentleman loftily.

And then, having given his confederates an extra caution in regard to

the child, and promised, or rather threatened, to look in the next

night, Everage left the house and bent his steps homeward.

Surely little Lenny’s guardian angel inspired poor Meg that night. She

laid herself down on the bare boards beside his pallet, and resting her

head upon her bent arm, with her face towards the child, watched him

until she became too drowsy to keep her eyes open; and even then she

slept like a watch dog, on the alert, and at the slightest motion of her

charge she would wake up to see if he wanted water, or milk, or to

spread the mantle over him.

But Lenny slept soundly until morning.

At his usual time of waking, a little after sunrise, he opened his eyes.

At first he stared around himself in utter bewilderment. Then he saw Meg

bending over him, and he recognized her face, and he remembered the

incidents of the preceding night.

“Why didn’t you, Met?” he inquired, looking reproachfully in her face.

“Why didn’t I do what, my pretty?” smiled the girl.

“Wate me up when Doosa tomed.”

“But Doosa didn’t come, my pretty bird.”

“Doosa didn’t tome?”

“No, pretty.”

“But Doosa say she tome.”

“So she did; but then she said she couldn’t, and now she says she will

come to-day.”

“Tome to-day?”

“Yes.”

“Tome soon?”

“Yes.”

Lenny smiled, and then all out of season, he remembered a certain

matutinal formula that he had forgotten under his unusual circumstances,

and he suddenly said:

“Dood mornin’, Met!”

Meg, taken all aback by this unexpected salutation, did not respond.

“Dood mornin’, Met. Why don’t you say dood mornin’ to me?”

“Good morning, pretty bird.”

“Me not pretty bird—me ’ittle boy.”

“Good morning, little boy.”

“Tiss dood mornin’, Met.”

The girl caught him up in her arms and kissed him enthusiastically.