Timothy Crump's Ward: A Story of American Life

Jack, aware of his mistake, precipitately retired, and concealed himself under the front stairs, a refuge which his good fortune led him to, for he could see absolutely nothing.

The sleeper, just awakened, was naturally a little confused in his ideas. He had not seen Jack. He had merely heard the noise, and thought he saw the door moving. But of this he was not certain. To make sure, however, he got out of bed, and opening wide the door of his room, called out, “Is anybody there?”

Jack had excellent reasons for not wishing to volunteer an answer to this question. One advantage of the opened door (for there was a small oil lamp burning in the room) was to reveal to him the nature of the mistake he had made, and to show him the front door in which, by rare good fortune, he could discover the key in the lock.

Meanwhile the old man, to make sure that all was right, went up-stairs, far enough to see that the door of the apartment in which Jack had been confined was closed. Had he gone up to the landing he would have seen the aperture in the door, and discovered the hole, but he was sleepy, and anxious to get back to bed, which rendered him less watchful.

“All seems right,” he muttered to himself, and re-entered the bed-chamber, from which Jack could soon hear the deep, regular breathing which indicated sound slumber. Not till then did he creep cautiously from his place of concealment, and advancing stealthily to the front door, turn the key, and step out into the faintly-lighted street. A delightful sensation thrilled our hero, as he felt the pure air fanning his cheek.

“Nobody can tell,” thought he, “what a blessed thing freedom is till he has been cooped up, as I have been, for the last week. Won’t the old man be a little surprised to find, in the morning, that the bird has flown? I’ve a great mind to serve him a little trick.”

So saying, Jack drew the key from its place inside, and locking the door after him, went off with the key in his pocket. First, however, he took care to scratch a little mark on the outside of the door, as he could not see the number, to serve as a means of identification.

This done Jack made his way as well as he could guess to the house of his uncle, the baker. Not having noticed the way by which Peg had led him to the house, he wandered at first from the straight course. At length, however, he came to Chestnut Street. He now knew where he was, and, fifteen minutes later, he was standing before his uncle’s door.

Meanwhile, Abel Crump had been suffering great anxiety on account of Jack’s protracted absence. Several days had now elapsed, and still he was missing. He had been unable to find the slightest trace of him.

“I am afraid of the worst,” he said to his wife, on the afternoon of the day on which Jack made his escape. “I think Jack was probably rash and imprudent, and I fear, poor boy, they may have proved the death of him.”

“Don’t you think there is any hope? He may be confined.”

“It is possible; but, at all events, I don’t think it right to keep it from Timothy any longer. I’ve put off writing as long as I could, hoping Jack would come back, but I don’t feel as if I ought to hold it back any longer. I shall write in the morning, and tell Timothy to come right on. It’ll be a dreadful blow to him.”

“Yes, better wait till morning, Abel. Who knows but we may hear from Jack before that time?”

The baker shook his head.

“If we’d been going to hear, we’d have heard before this time,” he said.

He did not sleep very soundly that night. Anxiety for Jack, and the thought of his brother’s affliction, kept him awake.

About half-past two, he heard a noise at the front door, followed by a knocking. Throwing open the window, he exclaimed, “Who’s there?”

“A friend,” was the answer.

“What friend?” asked the baker, suspiciously. “Friends are not very apt to come at this time of night.”

“Don’t you know me, Uncle Abel?” asked a cheery voice.

“Why, it’s Jack, I verily believe,” said Abel Crump, joyfully, as he hurried down stairs to admit his late visitor.

“Where in the name of wonder have you been, Jack?” he asked, surveying his nephew by the light of the candle.

“I’ve been shut up, uncle,—boarded and lodged for nothing,—by some people who liked my company better than I liked theirs. But to-night I made out to escape, and hero I am. I’ll tell you all about it in the morning. Just now I’m confoundedly hungry, and if there’s anything in the pantry, I’ll ask permission to go in there a few minutes.”

“I guess you’ll find something, Jack. Take the candle with you. Thank God, you’re back alive. We’ve been very anxious about you.”

CHAPTER XXII. MR. JOHN SOMERVILLE

PEG had been thinking.

This was the substance of her reflections. Ida, whom she had kidnapped for certain purposes of her own, was likely to prove an (sic) incumbrance rather than a source of profit. The child, her suspicions awakened in regard to the character of the money she had been employed to pass off, was no longer available for that purpose. So firmly resolved was she not to do what was wrong, that threats and persuasions were alike unavailing. Added to this was the danger of her encountering some one sent in search of her by the Crumps.

Under these circumstances, Peg bethought herself of the ultimate object which she had proposed to herself in kidnapping Ida—that of extorting money from a man who is now to be introduced to the reader.

John Somerville occupied a suite of apartments in a handsome lodging-house on Walnut Street. A man wanting yet several years of forty, he looked a greater age. Late hours and dissipation, though kept within respectable limits, had left their traces on his face. At twenty-one he inherited a considerable fortune, which, combined with some professional practice (for he was a lawyer, and not without ability), was quite sufficient to support him handsomely, and leave a considerable surplus every year. But, latterly, he had contracted a passion for gaming, and however shrewd he might be naturally, he could hardly be expected to prove a match for the wily habitues of the gaming-table, who had marked him as their prey.

The evening before he is introduced to the reader’s notice he had, passed till a late hour at a fashionable gambling-house, where he had lost heavily. His reflections, on awakening, were not of the pleasantest. For the first time, within fifteen years, he realized the folly and imprudence of the course he had pursued. The evening previous he had lost a thousand dollars, for which he had given his I O U. Where to raise this money, he did not know. He bathed his aching head, and cursed his ill luck, in no measured terms. After making his toilet, he rang the bell, and ordered breakfast.

For this he had but scanty appetite. Scarcely had he finished, and directed the removal of the dishes, than the servant entered to announce a visitor.

“Is it a gentleman?” he inquired, hastily, fearing it might be a creditor. He occasionally had such visitors.

“No, sir.”

“A lady?”

“No, sir.”

“A child? But what could a child want of me?”

“If it’s neither a gentleman, lady, nor child,” said Somerville, somewhat surprised, “will you have the goodness to inform me who it is?”

“It’s a woman, sir,” said the servant, grinning.

“Why didn’t you say so when I asked you?” said his employer, irritably.

“Because you asked if it was a lady, and this isn’t—at least she don’t look like one.”

“You can send her up, whoever she is,” said Mr. Somerville.

A moment afterwards Peg entered the apartment.

John Somerville looked at her without much interest, supposing that she might be a seamstress, or laundress, or some applicant for charity. So many years had passed since he had met with this woman, that she had passed out of his remembrance.

“Do you wish to see me about anything?” he asked, indifferently. “If so, you must be quick, for I am just going out.”

“You don’t seem to recognize me, Mr. Somerville,” said Peg, fixing her keen black eyes upon his face.

“I can’t say I do,” he replied, carelessly. “Perhaps you used to wash for me once.”

“I am not in the habit of acting as laundress,” said the woman, proudly. It is worth noticing that she was not above passing spurious coin, and doing other things which are stamped as disreputable by the laws of the land, but her pride revolted at the imputation that she was a washer-woman.

“In that case,” said Somerville, carelessly, “you will have to tell me who you are, for it is out of my power to conjecture.”

“Perhaps the name of Ida will assist your recollection,” said Peg, composedly.

“Ida!” repeated John Somerville, changing color, and gazing now with attention at the woman’s features.

“Yes.”

“I have known several persons of that name,” he said, evasively. “Of course, I can’t tell which of them you refer to.”

“The Ida I mean was and is a child,” said Peg. “But, Mr. Somerville, there’s no use in beating about the bush, when I can come straight to the point. It is now about eight years since my husband and myself were employed in carrying off a child—a female child of about a year old—named Ida. We placed it, according to your directions, on the door-step of a poor family in New York, and they have since cared for it as their own. I suppose you have not forgotten that.”

John Somerville deliberated. Should he deny it or not? He decided to put a bold face on the matter.

“I remember it,” said he, “and now recall your features. How have you fared since the time I employed you? Have you found your business profitable?”

“Far from it,” answered Peg. “We are not yet able to retire on a competence.”

“One of your youthful appearance,” said Solmerville, banteringly, “ought not to think of retiring under ten years.”

Peg smiled. She knew how to appreciate this speech.

“I don’t care for compliments,” said she, “even when they are sincere. As for my youthful appearance, I am old enough to have reached the age of discretion, and not so old as to have fallen into my second childhood.”

“Compliments aside, then, will you proceed to whatever business has brought you here?”

“I want a thousand dollars.”

“A thousand dollars!” repeated John Somerville. “Very likely, I should like that amount myself. You have not come here to tell me that?”

“I have come here to ask that amount of you.”

“Suppose I should say that your husband is the proper person for you to apply to in such a case.”

“I think I am more likely to get it out of you,” answered Peg, coolly. “My husband couldn’t supply me with a thousand cents, even if he were willing, which is not likely.”

“Much as I am flattered by your application,” said Somerville, “since it would seem to place me next in your estimation to your husband, I cannot help suggesting that it is not usual to bestow such a sum on a stranger, or even a friend, without an equivalent rendered.”

“I am ready to give you an equivalent.”

“Of what value?”

“I am willing to be silent.”

“And how can your silence benefit me?”

John Somerville asked this question with an assumption of indifference, but his fingers twitched nervously.

“That you will be best able to estimate,” said Peg.

“Explain yourself.”

“I can do that in a few words. You employed me to kidnap a child. I believe the law has something to say about that. At any rate, the child’s mother may have.”

“What do you know about the child’s mother?” demanded Somerville, hastily.

“All about her!” returned Peg, emphatically.

“How am I to know that? It is easy to claim the knowledge.”

“Shall I tell you all? In the first place she married your cousin, after rejecting you. You never forgave her for this. When a year after marriage her husband died, you renewed your proposals. They were rejected, and you were forbidden to renew the subject on pain of forfeiting her friendship forever. You left her presence, determined to be revenged. With this object you sought Dick and myself, and employed us to kidnap the child. There is the whole story, briefly told.”

John Somerville listened, with compressed lips and pale face.

“Woman, how came this within your knowledge?” he demanded, coarsely.

“That is of no consequence,” said Peg. “It was for my interest to find out, and I did so.”

“Well?”

“I know one thing more—the residence of the child’s mother. I hesitated this morning whether to come here, or carry Ida to her mother, trusting to her to repay from gratitude what I demand from you, because it is your interest to comply with my request.”

“You speak of carrying the child to her mother. She is in New York.”

“You are mistaken,” said Peg, coolly. “She is in Philadelphia.”

“With you?”

“With me.”

“How long has this been?”

“Nearly a fortnight.”

John Somerville paced the room with hurried steps. Peg watched him carelessly. She felt that she had succeeded. He paused after awhile, and stood before her.

“You demand a thousand dollars,” he said.

“I do.”

“I have not that amount with me. I have recently lost a heavy sum, no matter how. But I can probably get it to-day. Call to-morrow at this time,—no, in the afternoon, and I will see what I can do for you.”

“Very well,” said Peg.

Left to himself, John Somerville spent some time in reflection. Difficulties encompassed him—difficulties from which he found it hard to find a way of escape. He knew how impossible it would be to meet this woman’s demand. Something must be done. Gradually his countenance lightened. He had decided what that something should be.

CHAPTER XXIII. THE LAW STEPS IN

WHEN Peg left Mr. John Somerville’s apartment, it was with a high degree of satisfaction at the result of her interview. She looked upon the thousand dollars as sure to be hers. The considerations which she had urged would, she was sure, induce him to make every effort to secure her silence. With a thousand dollars, what might not be done? She would withdraw from the coining-business, for one thing. It was too hazardous. Why might not Dick and she retire to the country, lease a country-inn, and live an honest life hereafter. There were times when she grew tired of the life she lived at present. It would be pleasant to go to some place where she was not known, and enrol herself among the respectable members of the community. She was growing old; she wanted rest and a quiet home. Her early years had been passed in the country. She remembered still the green fields in which she played as a child, and to this woman, old and sin-stained, there came a yearning to have that life return.

It occurred to her to look in upon Jack, whom she had left in captivity four days before. She had a curiosity to see how he bore his confinement.

She knocked at the door, and was admitted by the old man who kept the house. Mr. Foley was looking older and more wrinkled than ever. He had been disturbed of his rest the night previous, he said.

“Well,” said Peg, “and how is our prisoner?”

“Bless my soul,” said Mr. Foley, “I haven’t been to give him his breakfast this morning. He must be hungry. But my head is in such a state. However, I think I’ve secured him.”

“What do you mean?”

“I have asked him to become one of us,—he’s a bold lad,—and he has promised to think of it.”

“He is not to be trusted,” said Peg, hastily.

“You think not?”

“I know it.”

“Well,” said the old man, “I suppose you know him better than I do. But he’s a bold lad.”

“I should like to go up and see him,” said Peg.

“Wait a minute, and I will carry up his breakfast.”

The old man soon reappeared from the basement with some cold meat and bread and butter.

“You may go up first,” he said; “you are younger than I am.”

They reached the landing.

“What’s all this?” demanded Peg, her quick eyes detecting the aperture in the door.

“What’s what?” asked Foley.

“Is this the care you take of your prisoners?” demanded Peg, sharply. “It looks as if he had escaped.”

“Escaped! Impossible!”

“I hope so. Open the door quick.”

The door was opened, and the two hastily entered.

“The bird is flown,” said Peg.

“I—I don’t understand it,” said the old man, turning pale.

“I do. He has cut a hole in the door, slipped back the bolt, and escaped. When could this have happened?”

“I don’t know. Yes, I do remember, now, being disturbed last night by a noise in the entry. I got out of bed, and looked out, but could see no one.”

“Did you come up-stairs?”

“Part way.”

“When was this?”

“Past midnight.”

“No doubt that was the time he escaped.”

“That accounts for the door being locked,” said the old man, thoughtfully.

“What door?”

“The outer door. When I got up this morning, I found the key had disappeared, and the door was locked. Luckily we had an extra key, and so opened it.”

“Probably he carried off the other in his pocket.”

“Ah, he is a bold lad,—a bold lad,” said Foley.

“You may find that out to your cost. He’ll be likely to bring the police about your ears.”

“Do you think so?” said the old man, in alarm.

“I think it more than probable.”

“But he don’t know the house,” said Foley, in a tone of reassurance. “It was dark when he left here, and he will not be apt to find it again.”

“Perhaps not, but he will be likely to know you when he sees you again. I advise you to keep pretty close.”

“I certainly shall,” said the old man, evidently alarmed by this suggestion. “What a pity that such a bold lad shouldn’t be in our business!”

“Perhaps you’ll wish yourself out of it before long,” muttered Peg.

As if in corroboration of her words, there was a sharp ring at the door-bell.

The old man, who was constitutionally timid, turned pale, and looked helplessly at his companion.

“What is it?” he asked, apprehensively.

“Go and see.”

“I don’t dare to.”

“You’re a coward,” said Peg, contemptuously. “Then I’ll go.”

She went down stairs, followed by the old man. She threw open the street door, but even her courage was somewhat daunted by the sight of two police officers, accompanied by Jack.

“That’s the man,” said Jack, pointing out Foley, who tried to conceal himself behind Mrs. Hardwick’s more ample proportions.

“I have a warrant for your arrest,” said one of the officers, advancing to Foley.

“Gentlemen, spare me,” he said, clasping his hands. “What have I done?”

“You are charged with uttering counterfeit coin.

“I am innocent.”

“If you are, that will come out on your trial.”

“Shall I have to be tried?” he asked, piteously.

“Of course. If you are innocent, no harm will come to you.”

Peg had been standing still, irresolute what to do. Determined upon a bold step, she made a movement to pass the officers.

“Stop!” said Jack. “I call upon you to arrest that woman. She is the Mrs. Hardwick against whom you have a warrant.”

“What is all this for?” demanded Peg, haughtily. “What right have you to interfere with me?”

“That will be made known to you in due time. You are suspected of being implicated with this man.”

“I suppose I must yield,” said Peg, sulkily. “But perhaps you, young sir,” turning to Jack, “may not be the gainer by it.”

“Where is Ida?” asked Jack, anxiously.

“She is safe,” said Peg, sententiously.

“You won’t tell me where she is?”

“No. Why should I? I am indebted to you, I suppose, for this arrest. She shall be kept out of your way as long as it is in my power to do so.”

Jack’s countenance fell.

“At least you will tell me whether she is well?”

“I shall answer no questions whatever,” said Mrs. Hardwick.

“Then I will find her,” he said, gaining courage. “She is somewhere in the city, and sooner or later I shall find her.”

Peg was not one to betray her feelings, but this arrest was a great disappointment to her. Apart from the consequences which might result from it, it would prevent her meeting with John Somerville, and obtaining from him the thousand dollars of which she had regarded herself certain. Yet even from her prison-cell she might hold over him in terrorem the threat of making known to Ida’s mother the secret of her child’s existence. All was not lost. She walked quietly to the carriage in waiting, while her companions, in an ecstasy of terror, seemed to have lost the power of locomotion, and had to be supported on either side.

CHAPTER XXIV. “THE FLOWER-GIRL.”

“BY gracious, if that isn’t Ida!” exclaimed Jack, in profound surprise.

He had been sauntering along Chestnut Street, listlessly, troubled by the thought that though he had given Mrs. Hardwick into custody, he was apparently no nearer the discovery of his foster-sister than before. What steps should he take to find her? He could not decide. In his perplexity he came suddenly upon the print of the “Flower-Girl.”

“Yes,” said he, “that is Ida, plain enough. Perhaps they will know in the store where she is to be found.”

He at once entered the store.

“Can you tell me anything about the girl that picture was taken for?” he asked, abruptly of the nearest clerk.

The clerk smiled.

“It is a fancy picture,” he said. “I think it would take you a long time to find the original.”

“It has taken a long time,” said Jack. “But you are mistaken. It is the picture of my sister.”

“Of your sister!” repeated the clerk, with surprise, half incredulous.

There was some reason for his incredulity. Jack was a stout, good-looking boy, with a pleasant face; but Ida’s beauty was of a delicate, refined type, which argued gentle birth,—her skin of a brilliant whiteness, dashed by a tinge of rose,—exhibiting a physical perfection, which it requires several generations of refined habits and exemptions from the coarser burdens of life to produce. The perfection of human development is not wholly a matter of chance, but is dependent, in no small degree, upon outward conditions. We frequently see families who have sprung from poverty to wealth exhibiting, in the younger branches, marked improvement in this respect.

“Yes;” said Jack, “my sister.”

“If it is your sister,” said the clerk, “you ought to know where she is.”

Jack was about to reply, when the attention of both was called by a surprised exclamation from a lady who had paused beside them. Her eyes, also, were fixed upon “The Flower-Girl.”

“Who is this?” she asked, hurriedly. “Is it taken from life?”

“This young man says it is his sister,” said the clerk.

“Your sister!” said the lady, her eyes bent, inquiringly, upon Jack. In her tone, too, there was a slight mingling of surprise, and, as it seemed, disappointment.

“Yes, madam,” said Jack, respectfully.

“Pardon me,” she said, “there is so little family resemblance, I should hardly have supposed it.”

“She is not my own sister,” said Jack, “but I love her just the same.”

“Do you live in (sic) Philadelphia? Could I see her?” asked the lady, eagerly.

“I live in New York, madam,” said Jack; “but Ida was stolen from us nearly a fortnight since, and I have come here in pursuit of her. I have not been able to find her yet.”

“Did you say her name was Ida?” demanded the lady, in strange agitation.

“Yes, madam.”

“My young friend,” said the lady, rapidly, “I have been much interested in the story of your sister. I should like to hear more, but not here. Would you have any objection to coming home with me, and telling me the rest? Then we will, together, concert measures for discovering her.”

“You are very kind, madam,” said Jack, somewhat bashfully; for the lady was elegantly dressed, and it had never been his fortune to converse with many ladies of her rank; “I shall be very much obliged to you for your advice and assistance.”

“Then we will drive home at once.”

Jack followed her to the street, where he saw an elegant carriage, and a coachman in livery.

With natural gallantry, Jack assisted the lady into the carriage, and, at her bidding, got in himself.

“Home, Thomas!” she directed the driver; “and drive as fast as possible.”

“Yes, madam.”

“How old was your sister when your parents adopted her?” asked Mrs. Clifton. Jack afterwards ascertained that this was her name.

“About a year old, madam.”

“And how long since was it?” asked the lady, bending forward with breathless interest.