_Number Three, Minerva Court, First floor back._
LITTLE TIMOTHY JESSUP ASSUMES PARENTAL RESPONSIBILITIES.
When the snores of the two watchers fell on the stillness of the
death-chamber, with that cheerful regularity that betokens the sleep of
the truly good, a little figure crept out of the bed in the adjoining
room and closed the door noiselessly, but with trembling fingers;
stealing then to the window to look out at the dirty street and the gray
sky over which the first faint streaks of dawn were beginning to creep.
It was little Timothy Jessup (God alone knows whether he had any right
to that special patronymic), but not the very same Tim Jessup who had
kissed the baby Gay in her little crib, and gone to sleep on his own
hard bed in that room, a few hours before. As he stood shivering at the
window, one thin hand hard pressed upon his heart to still its beating,
there was a light of sudden resolve in his eyes, a new-born look of
anxiety on his unchildlike face.
"I will not have Gay protectioned and reliefed, and I will not be taken
away from her and sent to a 'sylum, where I can never find her again!"
and with these defiant words trembling, half spoken, on his lips, he
glanced from the unconscious form in the crib to the terrible door,
which might open at any moment and divide him from his heart's delight,
his darling, his treasure, his only joy, his own, own baby Gay.
But what should he do? Run away: that was the only solution of the
matter, and no very difficult one either. The cruel women were asleep;
the awful Thing that had been Flossy would never speak again; and no one
else in Minerva Court cared enough for them to pursue them very far or
very long.
"And so," thought Timothy swiftly, "I will get things ready, take Gay,
and steal softly out of the back door, and run away to the 'truly'
country, where none of these bad people ever can find us, and where I
can get a mother for Gay; somebody to 'dopt her and love her till I
grow up a man and take her to live with me."
The moment this thought darted into Timothy's mind, it began to shape
itself in definite action.
Gabrielle, or Lady Gay, as Flossy called her, in honor of her favorite
stage heroine, had been tumbled into her crib half dressed the night
before. The only vehicle kept for her use in the family stables was a
clothes-basket, mounted on four wooden wheels and cushioned with a dingy
shawl. A yard of clothes-line was tied on to one end, and in this humble
conveyance the Princess would have to be transported from the Ogre's
castle; for she was scarcely old enough to accompany the Prince on foot,
even if he had dared to risk detection by waking her: so the
clothes-basket must be her chariot, and Timothy her charioteer, as on
many a less fateful expedition.
After he had changed his ragged night-gown for a shabby suit of clothes,
he took Gay's one clean apron out of a rickety bureau drawer ("for I can
never find a mother for her if she's too dirty," he thought), her Sunday
hat from the same receptacle, and last of all a comb, and a faded
Japanese parasol that stood in a corner. These he deposited under the
old shawl that decorated the floor of the chariot. He next groped his
way in the dim light toward a mantelshelf, and took down a
savings-bank,--a florid little structure with "Bank of England" stamped
over the miniature door, into which the jovial gentleman who frequented
the house often slipped pieces of silver for the children, and into
which Flossy dipped only when she was in a state of temporary financial
embarrassment. Timothy did not dare to jingle it; he could only hope
that as Flossy had not been in her usual health of late (though in more
than her usual "spirits"), she had not felt obliged to break the bank.
Now for provisions. There were plenty of "funeral baked meats" in the
kitchen; and he hastily gathered a dozen cookies into a towel, and
stowed them in the coach with the other sinews of war.
So far, well and good; but the worst was to come. With his heart beating
in his bosom like a trip-hammer, and his eyes dilated with fear, he
stepped to the door between the two rooms, and opened it softly. Two
thundering snores, pitched in such different keys that they must have
proceeded from two separate sets of nasal organs, reassured the boy. He
looked out into the alley. "Not a creature was stirring, not even a
mouse." The Minerva Courtiers couldn't be owls and hawks too, and there
was not even the ghost of a sound to be heard. Satisfied that all was
well, Timothy went back to the bedroom, and lifted the battered
clothes-basket, trucks and all, in his slender arms, carried it up the
alley and down the street a little distance, and deposited it on the
pavement beside a vacant lot. This done, he sped back to the house. "How
beautifully they snore!" he thought, as he stood again on the threshold.
"Shall I leave 'em a letter?... P'raps I better ... and then they won't
follow us and bring us back." So he scribbled a line on a bit of torn
paper bag, and pinned it on the enemies' door.
"A kind Lady is goin to Adopt us it is
a Grate ways off so do not Hunt good by. TIM."
Now all was ready. No; one thing more. Timothy had been met in the
street by a pretty young girl a few weeks before. The love of God was
smiling in her heart, the love of children shining in her eyes; and she
led him, a willing captive, into a mission Sunday-school near by. And so
much in earnest was the sweet little teacher, and so hungry for any sort
of good tidings was the starved little pupil, that Timothy "got
religion" then and there, as simply and naturally as a child takes its
mother's milk. He was probably in a state of crass ignorance regarding
the Thirty-nine Articles; but it was the "engrafted word," of which the
Bible speaks, that had blossomed in Timothy's heart; the living seed had
always been there, waiting for some beneficent fostering influence; for
he was what dear Charles Lamb would have called a natural
"kingdom-of-heavenite." Thinking, therefore, of Miss Dora's injunction
to pray over all the extra-ordinary affairs of life and as many of the
ordinary ones as possible, he hung his tattered straw hat on the
bedpost, and knelt beside Gay's crib with this whispered prayer:--
"_Our Father who art in heaven, please help me to find a mother for Gay,
one that she can call Mamma, and another one for me, if there's enough,
but not unless. Please excuse me for taking away the clothes-basket,
which does not exactly belong to us; but if I do not take it, dear
heavenly Father, how will I get Gay to the railroad? And if I don't take
the Japanese umbrella she will get freckled, and nobody will adopt her.
No more at present, as I am in a great hurry. Amen._"
He put on his hat, stooped over the sleeping baby, and took her in his
faithful arms,--arms that had never failed her yet. She half opened her
eyes, and seeing that she was safe on her beloved Timothy's shoulder,
clasped her dimpled arms tight about his neck, and with a long sigh
drifted off again into the land of dreams. Bending beneath her weight,
he stepped for the last time across the threshold, not even daring to
close the door behind him.
Up the alley and round the corner he sped, as fast as his trembling legs
could carry him. Just as he was within sight of the goal of his
ambition, that is, the chariot aforesaid, he fancied he heard the sound
of hurrying feet behind him. To his fevered imagination the tread was
like that of an avenging army on the track of the foe. He did not dare
to look behind. On! for the clothes-basket and liberty! He would
relinquish the Japanese umbrella, the cookies, the comb, and the
apron,--all the booty, in fact,--as an inducement for the enemy to
retreat, but he would never give up the prisoner.
On the feet hurried, faster and faster. He stooped to put Gay in the
basket, and turned in despair to meet his pursuers, when a little,
grimy, rough-coated, lop-eared, split-tailed thing, like an animated
rag-bag, leaped upon his knees; whimpering with joy, and imploring, with
every grace that his simple doggish heart could suggest, to be one of
the eloping party.
Rags had followed them!
Timothy was so glad to find it no worse that he wasted a moment in
embracing the dog, whose delirious joy at the prospect of this probably
dinnerless and supperless expedition was ludicrously exaggerated. Then
he took up the rope and trundled the chariot gently down a side street
leading to the station.
Everything worked to a charm. They met only an occasional milk (and
water) man, starting on his matutinal rounds, for it was now after four
o'clock, and one or two cavaliers of uncertain gait, just returning to
their homes, several hours too late for their own good; but these
gentlemen were in no condition of mind to be over-interested, and the
little fugitives were troubled with no questions as to their intentions.
And so they went out into the world together, these three: Timothy
Jessup (if it was Jessup), brave little knight, nameless nobleman,
tracing his descent back to God, the Father of us all, and bearing
the Divine likeness more than most of us; the little Lady
Gay,--somebody--nobody--anybody,--from nobody knows where,--destination
equally uncertain; and Rags, of pedigree most doubtful, scutcheon quite
obscured by blots, but a perfect gentleman, true-hearted and loyal to
the core,--in fact, an angel in fur. These three, with the
clothes-basket as personal property and the Bank of England as security,
went out to seek their fortune; and, unlike Lot's wife, without daring
to look behind, shook the dust of Minerva Court from off their feet
forever and forever.