CHAPTER XVI
UNEXPECTED QUARTERS
The appearance of the man whom Mrs. Hardwick addressed so familiarly was more picturesque than pleasing, He had a large, broad face, which, not having been shaved for a week, looked like a wilderness of stubble. His nose indicated habitual indulgence in alcoholic beverages. His eyes were bloodshot, and his skin looked coarse and blotched; his coat was thrown aside, displaying a shirt which bore evidence of having been useful in its day and generation. The same remark may apply to his nether integuments, which were ventilated at each knee, indicating a most praiseworthy regard to the laws of health.
Ida thought she had never seen so disgusting a man. She continued to gaze at him, half in astonishment, half in terror, till the object of her attention exclaimed:
"Well, little gal, what you're lookin' at? Hain't you never seen a gentleman before?"
Ida clung the closer to her companion, who, she was surprised to find, did not resent the man's familiarity.
"Well, Dick, how've you got along since I've been gone?" asked the nurse, to Ida's astonishment.
"Oh, so-so."
"Have you felt lonely any?"
"I've had good company."
"Who's been here?"
Dick pointed significantly to a jug.
"That's the best company I know of," he said, "but it's 'most empty. So you've brought along the gal," he continued. "How did you get hold of her?"
There was something in these questions which terrified Ida. It seemed to indicate a degree of complicity between these two which boded no good to her.
"I'll tell you the particulars by and by."
At the same time she began to take off her bonnet.
"You ain't going to stop, are you?" asked Ida, startled.
"Ain't goin' to stop?" repeated the man called Dick. "Why shouldn't she stop, I'd like to know? Ain't she at home?"
"At home!" echoed Ida, apprehensively, opening wide her eyes in astonishment.
"Yes; ask her."
Ida looked inquiringly at Mrs. Hardwick.
"You might as well take off your things," said the latter, grimly. "We ain't going any further to-day."
"And where's the lady you said you were going to see?"
"The one that was interested in you?"
"Yes."
"Well, I'm the one," she answered, with a broad smile and a glance at Dick.
"I don't want to stay here," said Ida, now frightened.
"Well, what are you going to do about it?"
"Will you take me back early to-morrow?" entreated Ida.
"No, I don't intend to take you back at all."
Ida seemed at first stupefied with astonishment and terror. Then, actuated by a sudden, desperate impulse, she ran to the door, and had got it partly open, when the nurse sprang forward, and seizing her by the arm, pulled her violently back.
"Where are you going in such a hurry?" she demanded.
"Back to father and mother," answered Ida, bursting into tears. "Oh, why did you bring me here?"
"I'll tell you why," answered Dick, jocularly. "You see, Ida, we ain't got any little girl to love us, and so we got you."
"But I don't love you, and I never shall," said Ida, indignantly.
"Now don't you go to saying that," said Dick. "You'll break my heart, you naughty girl, and then Peg will be a widow."
To give due effect to this pathetic speech, Dick drew out a tattered red handkerchief, and made a great demonstration of wiping his eyes.
The whole scene was so ludicrous that Ida, despite her fears and disgust, could not help laughing hysterically. She recovered herself instantly, and said imploringly: "Oh, do let me go, and father will pay you."
"You really think he would?" said Dick, in a tantalizing tone.
"Oh, yes; and you'll tell her to take me back, won't you?"
"No, he won't tell me any such thing," said Peg, gruffly; "so you may as well give up all thoughts of that first as last. You're going to stay here; so take off that bonnet of yours, and say no more about it."
Ida made no motion toward obeying this mandate.
"Then I'll do it for you," said Peg.
She roughly untied the bonnet—Ida struggling vainly in opposition—and taking this, with the shawl, carried them to a closet, in which she placed them, and then, locking the door, deliberately put the key in her pocket.
"There," said she, grimly, "I guess you're safe for the present."
"Ain't you ever going to carry me back?"
"Some years hence I may possibly," answered the woman, coolly. "We want you here for the present. Besides, you're not sure that they want you back."
"Not want me back again?"
"That's what I said. How do you know but your father and mother sent you off on purpose? They've been troubled with you long enough, and now they've bound you apprentice to me till you're eighteen."
"It's a lie!" said Ida, firmly. "They didn't send me off, and you're a wicked woman to tell me so."
"Hoity-toity!" said the woman. "Is that the way you dare to speak to me? Have you anything more to say before I whip you?"
"Yes," answered Ida, goaded to desperation. "I shall complain of you to the police, just as soon as I get a chance, and they will put you in jail and send me home. That is what I will do."
Mrs. Hardwick was incensed, and somewhat startled at these defiant words. It was clear that Ida was not going to be a meek, submissive child, whom they might ill-treat without apprehension. She was decidedly dangerous, and her insubordination must be nipped in the bud. She seized Ida roughly by the arm, and striding with her to the closet already spoken of, unlocked it, and, rudely pushing her in, locked the door after her.
"Stay there till you know how to behave," she said.
"How did you manage to come it over her family?" inquired Dick.
His wife gave substantially the account with which the reader is already familiar.
"Pretty well done, old woman!" exclaimed Dick, approvingly. "I always said you was a deep un. I always says, if Peg can't find out how a thing is to be done, then it can't be done, nohow."
"How about the counterfeit coin?" she asked.
"We're to be supplied with all we can put off, and we are to have half for our trouble."
"That is good. When the girl, Ida, gets a little tamed down, we'll give her something to do."
"Is it safe? Won't she betray us?"
"We'll manage that, or at least I will. I'll work on her fears, so she won't any more dare to say a word about us than to cut her own head off."
"All right, Peg. I can trust you to do what's right."
Ida sank down on the floor of the closet into which she had been thrust. Utter darkness was around her, and a darkness as black seemed to hang over all her prospects of future happiness. She had been snatched in a moment from parents, or those whom she regarded as such, and from a comfortable and happy, though humble home, to this dismal place. In place of the kindness and indulgence to which she had been accustomed, she was now treated with harshness and cruelty.
CHAPTER XVII
SUSPENSE
"It doesn't, somehow, seem natural," said the cooper, as he took his seat at the tea table, "to sit down without Ida. It seems as if half the family were gone."
"Just what I've said to myself twenty times to-day," remarked his wife. "Nobody can tell how much a child is to them till they lose it."
"Not lose it," corrected Jack.
"I didn't mean to say that."
"When you used that word, mother, it made me feel just as if Ida wasn't coming back."
"I don't know why it is," said Mrs. Harding, thoughtfully, "but I've had that same feeling several times today. I've felt just as if something or other would happen to prevent Ida's coming back."
"That is only because she's never been away before," said the cooper, cheerfully. "It isn't best to borrow trouble, Martha; we shall have enough of it without."
"You never said a truer word, brother," said Rachel, mournfully. "Man is born to trouble as the sparks fly upward. This world is a vale of tears, and a home of misery. Folks may try and try to be happy, but that isn't what they're sent here for."
"You never tried very hard, Aunt Rachel," said Jack.
"It's my fate to be misjudged," said his aunt, with the air of a martyr.
"I don't agree with you in your ideas about life, Rachel," said her brother. "Just as there are more pleasant than stormy days, so I believe there is much more of brightness than shadow in this life of ours, if we would only see it."
"I can't see it," said Rachel.
"It seems to me, Rachel, you take more pains to look at the clouds than the sun."
"Yes," chimed in Jack, "I've noticed whenever Aunt Rachel takes up the newspaper, she always looks first at the deaths, and next at the fatal accidents and steamboat explosions."
"If," retorted Rachel, with severe emphasis, "you should ever be on board a steamboat when it exploded, you wouldn't find much to laugh at."
"Yes, I should," said Jack, "I should laugh—"
"What!" exclaimed Rachel, horrified.
"On the other side of my mouth," concluded Jack. "You didn't wait till I'd finished the sentence."
"I don't think it proper to make light of such serious matters."
"Nor I Aunt Rachel," said Jack, drawing down the corners of his mouth. "I am willing to confess that this is a serious matter. I should feel as they say the cow did, that was thrown three hundred feet up into the air."
"How's that?" inquired his mother.
"Rather discouraged," answered Jack.
All laughed except Aunt Rachel, who preserved the same severe composure, and continued to eat the pie upon her plate with the air of one gulping down medicine.
In the morning all felt more cheerful.
"Ida will be home to-night," said Mrs. Harding, brightly. "What an age it seems since she went away! Who'd think it was only twenty-four hours?"
"We shall know better how to appreciate her when we get her back," said her husband.
"What time do you expect her home, mother? What did Mrs. Hardwick say?"
"Why," said Mrs. Harding, hesitating, "she didn't say as to the hour; but I guess she'll be along in the course of the afternoon."
"If we only knew where she had gone, we could tell better when to expect her."
"But as we don't know," said the cooper, "we must wait patiently till she comes."
"I guess," said Mrs. Harding, with the impulse of a notable housewife, "I'll make some apple turnovers for supper to-night. There's nothing Ida likes so well."
"That's where Ida is right," said Jack, smacking his lips. "Apple turnovers are splendid."
"They are very unwholesome," remarked Rachel.
"I shouldn't think so from the way you eat them, Aunt Rachel," retorted Jack. "You ate four the last time we had them for supper."
"I didn't think you'd begrudge me the little I eat," said his aunt, dolefully. "I didn't think you counted the mouthfuls I took."
"Come, Rachel, don't be so unreasonable," said her brother. "Nobody begrudges you what you eat, even if you choose to eat twice as much as you do. I dare say Jack ate more of the turnovers than you did."
"I ate six," said Jack, candidly.
Rachel, construing this into an apology, said no more.
"If it wasn't for you, Aunt Rachel, I should be in danger of getting too jolly, perhaps, and spilling over. It always makes me sober to look at you."
"It's lucky there's something to make you sober and stiddy," said his aunt. "You are too frivolous."
Evening came, but it did not bring Ida. An indefinable sense of apprehension oppressed the minds of all. Martha feared that Ida's mother, finding her so attractive, could not resist the temptation of keeping her.
"I suppose," she said, "that she has the best claim to her, but it would be a terrible thing for us to part with her."
"Don't let us trouble ourselves about that," said Timothy. "It seems to me very natural that her mother should keep her a little longer than she intended. Think how long it is since she saw her. Besides, it is not too late for her to return to-night."
At length there came a knock at the door.
"I guess that is Ida," said Mrs. Harding, joyfully.
Jack seized a candle, and hastening to the door, threw it open. But there was no Ida there. In her place stood Charlie Fitts, the boy who had met Ida in the cars.
"How are you, Charlie?" said Jack, trying not to look disappointed. "Come in and tell us all the news."
"Well," said Charlie, "I don't know of any. I suppose Ida has got home?"
"No," answered Jack; "we expected her to-night, but she hasn't come yet."
"She told me she expected to come back to-day."
"What! have you seen her?" exclaimed all, in chorus.
"Yes; I saw her yesterday noon."
"Where?"
"Why, in the cars," answered Charlie.
"What cars?" asked the cooper.
"Why, the Philadelphia cars. Of course you knew it was there she was going?"
"Philadelphia!" exclaimed all, in surprise.
"Yes, the cars were almost there when I saw her. Who was that with her?"
"Mrs. Hardwick, her old nurse."
"I didn't like her looks."
"That's where we paddle in the same canoe," said Jack.
"She didn't seem to want me to speak to Ida," continued Charlie, "but hurried her off as quick as possible."
"There were reasons for that," said the cooper. "She wanted to keep her destination secret."
"I don't know what it was," said the boy, "but I don't like the woman's looks."
CHAPTER XVIII
HOW IDA FARED
We left Ida confined in a dark closet, with Peg standing guard over her.
After an hour she was released.
"Well," said the nurse, grimly, "how do you feel now?"
"I want to go home," sobbed the child.
"You are at home," said the woman.
"Shall I never see father, and mother, and Jack again?"
"That depends on how you behave yourself."
"Oh, if you will only let me go," pleaded Ida, gathering hope from this remark, "I'll do anything you say."
"Do you mean this, or do you only say it for the sake of getting away?"
"I mean just what I say. Dear, good Mrs. Hardwick, tell me what to do, and I will obey you cheerfully."
"Very well," said Peg, "only you needn't try to come it over me by calling me dear, good Mrs. Hardwick. In the first place, you don't care a cent about me; in the second place, I am not good; and finally, my name isn't Mrs. Hardwick, except in New York."
"What is it, then?" asked Ida.
"It's just Peg, no more and no less. You may call me Aunt Peg."
"I would rather call you Mrs. Hardwick."
"Then you'll have a good many years to call me so. You'd better do as I tell you, if you want any favors. Now what do you say?"
"Yes, Aunt Peg," said Ida, with a strong effort to conceal her repugnance.
"That's well. Now you're not to tell anybody that you came from New York. That is very important; and you're to pay your board by doing whatever I tell you."
"If it isn't wicked."
"Do you suppose I would ask you to do anything wicked?" demanded Peg, frowning.
"You said you wasn't good," mildly suggested Ida.
"I'm good enough to take care of you. Well, what do you say to that? Answer me?"
"Yes."
"There's another thing. You ain't to try to run away."
Ida hung down her head.
"Ha!" exclaimed Peg. "So you've been thinking of it, have you?"
"Yes," answered Ida, boldly, after a moment's hesitation. "I did think I should if I got a good chance."
"Humph!" said the woman, "I see we must understand one another. Unless you promise this, back you go into the dark closet, and I shall keep you there."
Ida shuddered at this fearful threat—terrible to a child of but eight years.
"Do you promise?"
"Yes," said Ida, faintly.
"For fear you might be tempted to break your promise, I have something to show you."
Mrs. Hardwick went to the closet, and took down a large pistol.
"There," she said, "do you see that?"
"Yes, Aunt Peg."
"Do you know what it is for?"
"To shoot people with," answered the child.
"Yes," said the nurse; "I see you understand. Well, now, do you know what I would do if you should tell anybody where you came from, or attempt to run away? Can you guess, now?"
"Would you shoot me?" asked Ida, terror-stricken.
"Yes, I would," said Peg, with fierce emphasis. "That's just what I'd do. And what's more even if you got away, and got back to your family in New York, I would follow you, and shoot you dead in the street."
"You wouldn't be so wicked!" exclaimed Ida.
"Wouldn't I, though?" repeated Peg, significantly. "If you don't believe I would, just try it. Do you think you would like to try it?" she asked, fiercely.
"No," answered Ida, with a shudder.
"Well, that's the most sensible thing you've said yet. Now that you are a little more reasonable, I'll tell you what I am going to do with you."
Ida looked eagerly up into her face.
"I am going to keep you with me for a year. I want the services of a little girl for that time. If you serve me faithfully, I will then send you back to New York."
"Will you?" asked Ida, hopefully.
"Yes, but you must mind and do what I tell you."
"Oh, yes," said Ida, joyfully.
This was so much better than she had been led to fear, that the prospect of returning home at all, even though she had to wait a year, encouraged her.
"What do you want me to do?" she asked.
"You may take the broom and sweep the room."
"Yes, Aunt Peg."
"And then you may wash the dishes."
"Yes, Aunt Peg."
"And after that, I will find something else for you to do."
Mrs. Hardwick threw herself into a rocking-chair, and watched with grim satisfaction the little handmaiden, as she moved quickly about.
"I took the right course with her," she said to herself. "She won't any more dare to run away than to chop her hands off. She thinks I'll shoot her."
And the unprincipled woman chuckled to herself.
Ida heard her indistinctly, and asked, timidly:
"Did you speak, Aunt Peg?"
"No, I didn't; just attend to your work and don't mind me. Did your mother make you work?"
"No; I went to school."
"Time you learned. I'll make a smart woman of you."
The next morning Ida was asked if she would like to go out into the street.
"I am going to let you do a little shopping. There are various things we want. Go and get your hat."
"It's in the closet," said Ida.
"Oh, yes, I put it there. That was before I could trust you."
She went to the closet and returned with the child's hat and shawl. As soon as the two were ready they emerged into the street.
"This is a little better than being shut up in the closet, isn't it?" asked her companion.
"Oh, yes, ever so much."
"You see you'll have a very good time of it, if you do as I bid you. I don't want to do you any harm."
So they walked along together until Peg, suddenly pausing, laid her hands on Ida's arm, and pointing to a shop near by, said to her: "Do you see that shop?"
"Yes," said Ida.
"I want you to go in and ask for a couple of rolls. They come to three cents apiece. Here's some money to pay for them. It is a new dollar. You will give this to the man that stands behind the counter, and he will give you back ninety-four cents. Do you understand?"
"Yes," said Ida, nodding her head. "I think I do."
"And if the man asks if you have anything smaller, you will say no."
"Yes, Aunt Peg."
"I will stay just outside. I want you to go in alone, so you will learn to manage without me."
Ida entered the shop. The baker, a pleasant-looking man, stood behind the counter.
"Well, my dear, what is it?" he asked.
"I should like a couple of rolls."
"For your mother, I suppose?" said the baker.
"No," answered Ida, "for the woman I board with."
"Ha! a dollar bill, and a new one, too," said the baker, as Ida tendered it in payment. "I shall have to save that for my little girl."
Ida left the shop with the two rolls and the silver change.
"Did he say anything about the money?" asked Peg.
"He said he should save it for his little girl."
"Good!" said the woman. "You've done well."
CHAPTER XIX
BAD MONEY
The baker introduced in the foregoing chapter was named Harding. Singularly, Abel Harding was a brother of Timothy Harding, the cooper.
In many respects he resembled his brother. He was an excellent man, exemplary in all the relations of life, and had a good heart. He was in very comfortable circumstances, having accumulated a little property by diligent attention to his business. Like his brother, Abel Harding had married, and had one child. She had received the name of Ellen.
When the baker closed his shop for the night, he did not forget the new dollar, which he had received, or the disposal he told Ida he would make of it.
Ellen ran to meet her father as he entered the house.
"What do you think I have brought you, Ellen?" he said, with a smile.
"Do tell me quick," said the child, eagerly.
"What if I should tell you it was a new dollar?"
"Oh, papa, thank you!" and Ellen ran to show it to her mother.
"Yes," said the baker, "I received it from a little girl about the size of Ellen, and I suppose it was that that gave me the idea of bringing it home to her."
This was all that passed concerning Ida at that time. The thought of her would have passed from the baker's mind, if it had not been recalled by circumstances.
Ellen, like most girls of her age, when in possession of money, could not be easy until she had spent it. Her mother advised her to deposit it in some savings bank; but Ellen preferred present gratification.
Accordingly, one afternoon, when walking out with her mother, she persuaded her to go into a toy shop, and price a doll which she saw in the window. The price was seventy-five cents. Ellen concluded to buy it, and her mother tendered the dollar in payment.
The shopman took it in his hand, glanced at it carelessly at first, then scrutinized it with increased attention.
"What is the matter?" inquired Mrs. Harding. "It is good, isn't it?"
"That is what I am doubtful of," was the reply.
"It is new."
"And that is against it. If it were old, it would be more likely to be genuine."
"But you wouldn't condemn a bill because it is new?"
"Certainly not; but the fact is, there have been lately many cases where counterfeit bills have been passed, and I suspect this is one of them. However, I can soon ascertain."
"I wish you would," said the baker's wife. "My husband took it at his shop, and will be likely to take more unless he is put on his guard."
The shopman sent it to the bank where it was pronounced counterfeit.
Mr. Harding was much surprised at his wife's story.
"Really!" he said. "I had no suspicion of this. Can it be possible that such a young and beautiful child could be guilty of such an offense?"
"Perhaps not," answered his wife. "She may be as innocent in the matter as Ellen or myself."
"I hope so," said the baker; "it would be a pity that so young a child should be given to wickedness. However, I shall find out before long."
"How?"
"She will undoubtedly come again sometime."
The baker watched daily for the coming of Ida. He waited some days in vain. It was not Peg's policy to send the child too often to the same place, as that would increase the chances of detection.
One day, however, Ida entered the shop as before.
"Good-morning," said the baker; "what will you have to-day?"
"You may give me a sheet of gingerbread, sir."
The baker placed it in her hand.
"How much will it be?"
"Twelve cents."
Ida offered him another new bill.
As if to make change, he stepped from behind the counter and placed himself between Ida and the door.
"What is your name, my child?" he asked.
"Ida, sir."
"Ida? But what is your other name?"
Ida hesitated a moment, because Peg had forbidden her to use the name of Harding, and had told her, if ever the inquiry were made, she must answer Hardwick.
She answered reluctantly: "Ida Hardwick."
The baker observed her hesitation, and this increased his suspicion.
"Hardwick!" he repeated, musingly, endeavoring to draw from the child as much information as possible before allowing her to perceive that he suspected her. "And where do you live?"
Ida was a child of spirit, and did not understand why she should be questioned so closely.
She said, with some impatience: "I am in a hurry, sir, and would like to have the change as soon as you can."
"I have no doubt of it," said the baker, his manner suddenly changing, "but you cannot go just yet."
"Why not?" asked Ida.
"Because you have been trying to deceive me."
"I trying to deceive you!" exclaimed Ida.
"Really," thought Mr. Harding, "she does it well; but no doubt she is trained to it. It is perfectly shocking, such artful depravity in a child."
"Don't you remember buying something here a week ago?" he asked, in as stern a tone as his good nature would allow him to employ.
"Yes," answered Ida, promptly; "I bought two rolls, at three cents apiece."
"And what did you offer me in payment?"
"I handed you a dollar bill."
"Like this?" asked the baker, holding up the one she had just offered him.
"Yes, sir."
"And do you mean to say," demanded the baker, sternly, "that you didn't know it was bad when you offered it to me?"
"Bad!" gasped Ida.
"Yes, spurious. Not as good as blank paper."
"Indeed, sir, I didn't know anything about it," said Ida, earnestly; "I hope you'll believe me when I say that I thought it was good."
"I don't know what to think," said the baker, perplexed. "Who gave you the money?"
"The woman I board with."
"Of course I can't give you the gingerbread. Some men, in my place, would deliver you up to the police. But I will let you go, if you will make me one promise."
"Oh, I will promise anything, sir," said Ida.
"You have given me a bad dollar. Will you promise to bring me a good one to-morrow?"
Ida made the required promise, and was allowed to go.