THE RESCUE.
“This is going too far,” said Adele, as she came forward again
and stood in sight of the room where the child lay in its
fearfully-unnatural sleep, after Mrs. Fordham had gone down to the
parlors to join Mrs. Weir and her companions. Slowly, listening almost
breathlessly, and with silent footsteps, she descended the stairs, and,
approaching the chamber, laid her hand upon the door-knob and turned
and pressed against it. To her disappointment, she found that Mrs.
Fordham had locked her prisoner in and withdrawn the key.
For a little while Adele stood by the door, her face shadowed with
perplexity. She then moved silently away, and, going into her own room,
sat down, with a sober face, to think. The right thought was soon
suggested. Starting up with a sudden impulse, she went to the door of
her own apartment and quickly withdrew the key. It fitted the lock, as
she had hoped, and in less than ten seconds she was in the room where
the child lay in its deathlike slumber. Carefully shutting the door,
she crossed to the bed. The child had not stirred since Mrs. Fordham
left the chamber. Stooping down, Adele gazed upon the pure young face,
until tears blinded her eyes. Then, laying a hand upon her, she shook
her gently. But not a sign of life, beyond the feeble respiration,
appeared.
An expression half surprise, half fear, came into the young girl’s
countenance; and she stood quite still for an instant. Then, laying her
hand again upon the child, she shook her violently, putting at the same
time her mouth to her ear, and saying, in a low but eager voice, “Wake!
wake up! Come!”
But she might as well have spoken to the dead. The sleeper’s senses
were locked by a key that was not in her possession; and so she could
neither find the wards nor spring the bolt.
For a little while Adele remained bewildered and irresolute. Then she
made a more violent effort to break the spell that shut the doors of
conscious life. It was in vain.
“Time flies. It must be done now, or the opportunity may pass forever.
Poor child! Poor lamb in the wolf’s grasp! I must, I will, save you!”
Turning from the bed, as she thus spoke with herself, Adele left
the room, and, going to her own chamber, hurriedly put on a bonnet
and shawl, and then, coming back, lifted the sleeper resolutely in
her arms, and, bearing her from the apartment, locked the door and
withdrew the key. For a few moments she stood at the top of the stairs,
irresolute as to her next step. Then, laying her burden upon the floor,
she went down the first flight and listened. The sound of muffled
voices from the parlor was distinct enough to warn her that one of
the doors at least was open, and that it would be folly to attempt to
leave the house by the front way. There was an outlet back, by means
of a narrow alley leading past a row of small houses into a court, and
thence to a street running parallel with the one on which Mrs. Weir
lived. But, to reach the yard so as to gain this outlet, Adele must
descend the stairway, the foot of which was near the back-parlor, and
pass out by a door opening within a few feet of the parlor-window. This
mode of egress was, therefore, almost as impossible as the first, for
the window she knew was open.
For a little while the excited girl was in despair; and the words, “It
is hopeless,” were on her lips, when she thought of a low shed out
upon which she could climb from one of the second-story windows of the
back-building. To think was to act. Hurriedly lifting the child, she
passed into the small room over the kitchen, closing the door behind
her, so as not to be seen by any one who might happen to come up the
stairway. The window was raised: a glance at the shed below showed the
distance to be not less than three feet from the window-sill. There
was a low table in the room: on this she laid her burden carefully,
and then drew it to the window. A quick but searching examination of
all the windows overlooking the position she occupied told her that
she was free from observation. Next she dropped down lightly upon the
shed, and from thence sprung like an antelope to the yard, full six
feet below, her form disappearing beyond the edge of the slanting shed.
Fortunately, there was an old table in the yard, which Adele drew up to
the side of the outbuilding, and, mounting thereon, without an instant
of hesitation, clambered to the roof, and gained the window, just
inside of which the child still lay as motionless as if she were dead.
It was only the work of an instant to draw her forth and carry her to
the eaves of the shed, where Adele laid her carefully and then leaped
down upon the table below. Then she took her in her arms and lifted
her from the shed, and then jumped to the pavement, bearing the heavy
burden still in her arms. Almost like a spirit she vanished through
the gate, shutting it noiselessly behind her. Hurrying down the long
alley-way and through the court, Adele emerged upon the open street. An
omnibus was passing at the moment, and she signed the driver to stop.
It so happened that no passengers had yet entered the vehicle, and
this made her and her insensible companion the sole occupants when it
moved on again. Taking the extreme upper end of the seat, she placed
the child in an upright position, so as not to attract the attention of
those who might come in, and supported her with one arm.
The stage moved on for two squares before gaining any accession to the
number of its passengers. Then two ladies came in. They looked hard at
Adele; also at the child whose face was hidden among her garments. Two
men came in next; and then a woman with a little girl. After that, an
elderly man entered. He kept looking up and down the cross-streets,
and glancing at the passengers on the sidewalks, in a curious, anxious
kind of way, as if in search of some one. At last he fixed his eyes on
Adele with a gaze so penetrating that it brought the color to her face.
From her he looked to the child crouching down in the corner of the
seat, and kept gazing at the half-hidden form until Adele by a slight
movement threw her body farther forward, so as to conceal it still
more from observation.
Where was Adele going with the rescued child? That question the girl
could not herself answer. Escape was the first thing, and flight
the second. The passing omnibus had given the second stage in the
proceeding. All beyond was still in doubt.
One passenger after another left, until only Adele with her charge,
and the old gentleman, remained. The curiosity of the latter, it was
plain to the girl, had become strongly excited, and she began to feel
certain that he would not leave the omnibus, nor permit her to do
so, without penetrating the mystery of her sleeping companion. With
stealthy glances she examined his face, in order to gain such limited
knowledge of his character as was possible under the circumstances. Her
impression was favorable.
At last the stage reached the Exchange, and Adele was yet undetermined
what to do or which way to go. The possession of an insensible child
in such a public place would at once attract notice, and probably draw
around her an excited and misjudging crowd. Fear was intruding upon her
heart.
The old gentleman stepped forward to pay his fare, and stood just
above her, looking down upon her face and at the child.
“Is that little girl asleep?” he asked. The voice was kind, and the
tones assured the heart of Adele.
“Yes, sir,” she answered, timidly.
The old man stooped and laid his hand upon the child. Adele bent
forward as if to prevent the closer scrutiny he evidently wished to
make; but he grasped the sleeper firmly and turned her face to the
light. An exclamation of surprise fell from his lips, and he sat down,
drawing, as he did so, with resolute hands, the child from Adele’s arms.
“Girl, how came this child in your possession?” he said, sternly.
“Oh, sir!” exclaimed Adele, with eagerness, “do you know to whom she
belongs?”
“Maddy! Maddy! Wake up, dear! Wake up!” said the old man, turning from
the girl without replying. “What ails her? What is the meaning of this
strange sleep?” He addressed Adele again.
“If she belongs to you or yours,” said Adele, “take her home as
quickly as possible. I have done my part in rescuing the dove from the
hawk,—the lamb from the wolf.”
Uncle John Fleetwood, whom the reader has recognised, needed no further
prompting. He had a carriage called quietly, and, taking into it both
Adele and his recovered niece, was driven rapidly to the residence of
Mr. Dainty. On the way he gained such information as Adele permitted
him to glean. It was not by any means satisfactory.