Tattered Tom

CHAPTER XV
GRANNY READS SOMETHING TO HER ADVANTAGE

After her unsuccessful attempt to gain possession of Tom, granny returned home, not only angry but despondent. She had been deeply incensed at Tom’s triumph over her. Besides, she was tired of earning her own living, if begging from door to door can properly be called earning one’s living. At any rate it required exertion, and to this Mrs. Walsh was naturally indisposed. She sighed as she thought of the years when she could stay quietly at home, and send out Tom to beg or earn money for her. She would like, since Tom was not likely to return, to adopt some boy or girl of suitable age, upon whom she could throw the burden of the common support. But such were not easy to be met with, and Mrs. Walsh was dimly aware that no sane child would voluntarily select her as a guardian.

So granny, in rather low spirits, sought her elevated room, and threw herself upon the bed to sleep off her fatigue.

On awaking, granny seated herself at the window, and picked up mechanically the advertising sheet of the “Herald,” in which a loaf of bread had been wrapped that had been given to her the day previous. It was seldom that Mrs. Walsh indulged in reading, not possessing very marked literary tastes; but to-day she was seized with an idle impulse, which she obeyed, without anticipating that she would see anything that concerned her.

In glancing through the advertisements under the head “Personal,” her attention was drawn to the following:—

/# “If Margaret Walsh, who left Philadelphia in the year 1855, will call at No. – Wall Street, Room 8, she will hear of something to her advantage.” #/

“Why, that’s me!” exclaimed granny, letting the paper fall from her lap in surprise. “It’s my name, and I left Philadelphy that year. I wonder what it’s about. Maybe it’s about Tom.”

There were circumstances which led Mrs. Walsh to think it by no means improbable that the inquiries to be made were about Tom, and this made her regret more keenly that she had lost her.

“If it is,” she soliloquized, “I’ll get hold of her somehow.”

There was one part of the advertisement which particularly interested granny,—that in which it was suggested that she would hear something to her advantage. If there was any money to be made, granny was entirely willing to make it. Considering the unpromising state of her prospects, she felt that it was a piece of extraordinary good luck.

Looking at the date of the paper, she found that it was a fortnight old, and was troubled by the thought that it might be too late. At any rate no time was to be lost. So, in spite of the fatigue of her morning expedition, she put on her old cloak and bonnet, and, descending the stairs, sallied out into the street. She made her way down Nassau Street to Wall, and, carefully looking about her, found without difficulty the number mentioned in the advertisement. It was a large building, containing a considerable number of offices. No. 8 was on the third floor. On the door was a tin sign bearing the name:—

“EUGENE SELDEN,

Attorney and Counsellor.”

Mrs. Walsh knocked at the door; but there was no response. She knocked again, after a while, and then tried the door. But it was locked.

“The office closes at three, ma’am,” said a young man, passing by. “You will have to wait till to-morrow.”

Mrs. Walsh was disappointed, being very anxious to ascertain what advantage she was likely to receive. She presented herself the next morning at nine, only to find herself too early. At last she found the lawyer in. He looked up from his desk as she entered.

“Have you business with me?” he asked.

“Are you the man that advertised for Margaret Walsh?” asked granny.

“Yes,” said Mr. Selden, laying down his pen, and regarding her with interest. “Are you she?”

“Yes, your honor,” said granny, thinking her extra politeness might increase the advantage promised.

“Did you ever live in Philadelphia?”

“Yes, your honor.”

“Were you in service?”

Mrs. Walsh answered in the affirmative.

“In what family?”

“In the family of Mrs. Lindsay.”

“What made you leave her?” asked the lawyer, fixing his eyes searchingly upon Margaret.

Granny looked a little uneasy.

“I got tired of staying there,” she said.

“When you left Philadelphia, did you come to New York?”

“Yes, your honor.”

“Did you know that Mrs. Lindsay’s only child disappeared at the time you left the house?” inquired the lawyer.

“If I tell the truth will it harm me?” asked granny, uneasily.

“No; but if you conceal the truth it may.”

“Then I took the child with me.”

“What motive had you for doing this wicked thing? Do you know that Mrs. Lindsay nearly broke her heart at the loss of the child?”

“I was mad with her,” said granny, “that’s one reason.”

“Then there was another reason?”

“Yes, your honor.”

“What was it?”

“Young Mr. Lindsay hired me to do it. He offered me a thousand dollars.”

“Are you ready to swear this?”

“Yes,” said granny. “I hope you’ll pay me handsome for tellin’,” she added. “I’m a poor—woman,” she was on the point of saying “widder with five small children;” but it occurred to her that this would injure her in the present instance.

“You shall receive a suitable reward when the child is restored. It is living, I suppose?”

“Yes,” said granny.

“With you?”

“No, your honor. She ran away two months ago; but I saw her this morning.”

“Why should she run away? Didn’t you treat her well?”

“Like as if she was my own child,” said granny. “I’ve often and often gone without anything to eat, so that Tom might have enough. I took great care of her, your honor, and would have brought her up as a leddy if I hadn’t been so poor.”

“I thought it was a girl.”

“So it was, your honor.”

“Then why do you call her Tom?”

“’Cause she was more like a boy than a gal,—as sassy a child as I ever see.”

“So you have lost her?”

“Yes, your honor. She ran away from me two months since.”

“But you said you saw her yesterday. Why did you not take her back?”

“She wouldn’t come. She told the policeman she didn’t know me,—me that have took care of her since she was a little gal,—the ungrateful hussy!”

Granny’s pathos, it will be perceived, terminated in anger.

The lawyer looked thoughtful.

“The child must be got back,” he said. “It is only recently that her mother ascertained the treachery by which she was taken from her, and now she is most anxious to recover her. If you will bring her to me, you shall have a suitable reward.”

“How much?” asked granny, with a cunning look.

“I cannot promise in advance, but it will certainly be two hundred dollars,—perhaps more. Mrs. Lindsay will be generous.”

The old woman’s eyes sparkled. Such a sum promised an unlimited amount of whiskey for a considerable time. The only disagreeable feature in the case was that Tom would benefit by the restoration, since she would obtain a comfortable home, and a parent whose ideas of the parental relation differed somewhat from those of Mrs. Walsh. Still, two hundred dollars were worth the winning, and granny determined to win them. She suggested, however, that, in order to secure the co-operation of the police, she needed to be more respectably dressed; otherwise her claim would be scouted, provided Tom undertook to deny it.

This appeared reasonable, and as the lawyer had authority to incur any expense that he might consider likely to further the successful prosecution of the search, he sent out some one, in whom he had confidence, to purchase a respectable outfit for Mrs. Walsh. He further agreed to allow her three dollars a week for the present, that she might be able to devote all her time to hunting up Tom. This arrangement was very satisfactory to Mrs. Walsh, who felt like a lady in easy circumstances. Her return to the tenement house, in her greatly improved dress, created quite a sensation. She did not deign to enlighten her neighbors upon the cause of her improved fortunes, but dropped hints that she had come into a legacy.

From this time Mrs. Walsh began to frequent the up-town streets, particularly Eighteenth Street, where she had before encountered Tom. But as she still continued to make her rounds in the morning, it was many days before she caught a glimpse of the object of her search. As her expenses were paid in the mean time, she waited patiently, though she anticipated with no little pleasure the moment which should place Tom in her power. She resolved, before restoring her to her mother, to inflict upon her late ward a suitable punishment for her rebellion and flight, for which granny was not likely ever to forgive her.

“I’ll give her something to remember me by,” muttered granny. “See if I don’t!”

CHAPTER XVI
TOM IN TROUBLE

The reader has already obtained some idea of the character of Mary Merton. She was weak, vain, affected, and fond of dress. There was not likely to be much love lost between her and Tom, who was in all respects her opposite. Whatever might have been the defects of her street education, it had at all events secured Tom from such faults as these.

Mary sought the society of such of her companions as were wealthy or fashionable, and was anxious to emulate them in dress. But unfortunately her mother’s income was limited, and she could not gratify her tastes. She was continually teasing Mrs. Merton for this and that article of finery; but, though her mother spent more for her than she could well afford, she was obliged in many cases to disappoint her. So it happened that Mary was led into temptation.

One morning she was going downstairs on her way to school. The door of Mr. Holland’s room (who occupied the second floor front) chanced to be open. It occurred to Mary that the large mirror in this room would enable her to survey her figure to advantage, and, being fond of looking in the glass, she entered.

After satisfactorily accomplishing the object of her visit, Mary, in glancing about, caught sight of a pocket-book on the bureau. Curiosity led her to approach and open it. It proved to contain four five-dollar bills and a small amount of change.

“I wish the money was mine,” said Mary to herself.

There was a particular object for which she wanted it. Two of her companions had handsome gold pencils, which they wore suspended by a cord around their necks. Mary had teased her mother to buy her one, but Mrs. Merton had turned a deaf ear to her request. Finally she had given up asking, finding that it would be of no avail.

“If I only had this money, or half of it,” thought Mary, “I could buy a pencil for myself, and tell mother it was given me by one of my friends.”

The temptation, to a vain girl like Mary, was a strong one.

“Shall I take it?” she thought.

The dishonesty of the act did not so much deter her as the fear of detection. But the idea unluckily suggested itself that Tom would be far more likely to be suspected than she.

“Mr. Holland is rich,” she said to herself; “he won’t feel the loss.”

She held the pocket-book irresolutely in her hand, uncertain whether to take a part of the contents or the whole. Finally she opened it, drew out the bills, amounting to twenty dollars, hastily thrust them into her pocket, and, replacing the pocket-book on the bureau, went downstairs.

She met her mother in the lower hall.

“I am afraid you will be late to school, Mary,” she said.

“I couldn’t find my shoes for a long time,” said Mary, flushing a little at the thought of the money in her pocket.

Mr. Holland’s room had already been attended to, and was not again entered until half-past five in the afternoon, when Mr. Holland, who was a clerk in a down-town office, returned home.

He had missed the pocket-book shortly after leaving the house in the morning, but, being expected at the office at a certain hour, had not been able to return for it. He had borrowed money of a fellow-clerk to pay for his lunch.

As he entered the room, he saw his pocket-book lying on the bureau.

“There it is, all safe,” he said to himself, quite relieved; for, though in receipt of a handsome salary, no one would care to lose twenty dollars.

He was about to put the pocket-book into his pocket unexamined, when it occurred to him to open it, and make sure that the contents were untouched. He was startled on finding less than a dollar, where he distinctly remembered that there had been nearly twenty-one dollars.

“Some one has taken it,” he said to himself. “I must see Mrs. Merton about this.”

He did not get an opportunity of speaking to the landlady until after dinner, when he called her aside, and told her of his loss.

“Are you quite sure, Mr. Holland,” she asked, considerably disturbed, “there were twenty dollars in the pocket-book?”

“Yes, Mrs. Merton. I remember distinctly having counted the money this morning, before laying it on the bureau. It must have been taken by some one in the house. Now, who was likely to enter the room? Which of your servants makes the bed?”

“It was Jenny,” said Mrs. Merton, with a sudden conviction that Tom was the guilty party.

“What, that bright little girl that I have seen about the house?”

“Yes, Mr. Holland, I am afraid it is she,” said Mrs. Merton, shaking her head. “She is not exactly a servant, but a child whom my brother took out of the streets, and induced me to take charge of while he is away. She has been very ill-trained, and I am not surprised to find her dishonest. More than once I have regretted taking charge of her.”

“I am sorry,” said Mr. Holland. “I have noticed that she is rather different from most girls. I wish I had not exposed her to the temptation.”

“She must give up the money, or I won’t keep her in the house,” said Mrs. Merton, who had become indignant at Tom’s ingratitude, as she considered it. “My brother can’t expect me to harbor a thief in the house, even for his sake. It would ruin the reputation of my house if such a thing happened again.”

“She will probably give it back when she finds herself detected,” said Mr. Holland.

“I will tax her with it at once,” said the landlady. “Stay here, Mr. Holland, and I will call her.”

Tom was called in. She looked from one to the other, and something in the expression of each led her to see that she was to be blamed for something, though what she could not conceive.

“Jane,” said Mrs. Merton, sternly, “my brother will be very much grieved when he learns how badly you have behaved to-day.”

“What have I been doing?” asked Tom, looking up with a fearless glance, not by any means like a girl conscious of theft.

“You have taken twenty dollars belonging to Mr. Holland.”

“Who says I did it?” demanded Tom.

“It is useless to deny it. You cleared up his room this morning. His pocket-book was on the bureau.”

“I know it was,” said Tom. “I saw it there.”

“You opened it, and took out twenty dollars.”

“No, I didn’t,” said Tom. “I didn’t touch it.”

“Do not add falsehood to theft. You must have done it. There was no one else likely to do it.”

“Wasn’t the door unlocked all day?” demanded Tom. “Why couldn’t some one else go in and take it as well as I?”

“I feel sure it was you.”

“Why?” asked Tom, her eyes beginning to flash indignantly.

“I have no doubt you have stolen before. My brother took you from the street. You were brought up by a bad old woman, as you say yourself. I ought not to be surprised at your yielding to temptation. If you will restore the money to Mr. Holland, and promise not to steal again, I will overlook your offence, and allow you to remain in the house, since it was my brother’s wish.”

“Mrs. Merton,” said Tom, proudly, “I didn’t take the money, and I can’t give it back. I might have stolen when I lived with granny, for I didn’t get enough to eat half the time, but I wouldn’t do it now.”

“That sounds well,” said Mrs. Merton; “but somebody must have taken the money.”

“I don’t care who took it,” said Tom, “I didn’t.”

“You are more likely to have taken it than any one else.”

“You may search me if you want to,” said Tom, proudly.

“Perhaps she didn’t take it,” said Mr. Holland, upon whom Tom’s fearless bearing had made an impression.

“I will inquire if any of the servants went into your room,” said Mrs. Merton. “If not, I must conclude that Jane took it.”

Inquiry was made, but it appeared evident that no servant had entered the room. Tom had made the bed and attended to the chamber-work alone. Mrs. Merton was therefore confirmed in her suspicions. She summoned Tom once more, and offered to forgive her if she would make confession and restitution.

“I didn’t steal the money,” said Tom, indignantly. “I’ve told you that before.”

“Unless you give it up, I cannot consent to have you remain longer in my house.”

“All right!” said Tom, defiantly. “I don’t want to stay if that’s what you think of me.”

She turned and left Mrs. Merton. Five minutes later she was in the street, going she knew not whither. She was so angry at the unfounded suspicions which had been cast upon her, that she felt glad to go. But after a while she began to think of the sudden change in her fortunes. For three months she had possessed a comfortable home, been well fed and lodged, and had been rapidly making up the deficiencies in her education. She had really tried to soften the roughness and abruptness of her manners, and become a good girl, hoping to win the approbation of her good friend, the captain, when he should return from his voyage. Now it was all over. She had lost her home, and must again wander about with no home but the inhospitable street.

“It isn’t my fault,” thought Tom, with a sigh. “I couldn’t give back the money when I didn’t take it.”

CHAPTER XVII
THE GOLD PENCIL

Mrs. Merton was taken by surprise when she found that Tom had actually gone. Her conviction remained unshaken that she had stolen Mr. Holland’s money, and she considered that she had been forbearing in not causing her arrest.

“Your uncle cannot blame me,” she said to Mary, “for sending her away. He cannot expect me to keep a thief in my house.”

“To be sure not,” said Mary, promptly. “I am glad she has gone. You couldn’t expect much from a girl that was brought up in the streets.”

“That is true. I don’t see, for my part, what your uncle saw in her.”

“Nor I. She’s a rude, hateful thing.”

“She denied taking the money.”

“Of course,” said Mary. “She wouldn’t mind lying any more than stealing.”

Mary felt very much relieved at the way things had turned out. After taking the money, she had become frightened lest in some way suspicion might be directed towards herself. As she had hoped, her fault had been laid to Tom, and now she felt comparatively safe. She had not yet dared to use the money, but thought she might venture to do so soon.

She went up to her bedroom, and, after locking the door, opened her trunk. The four five-dollar bills were carefully laid away in one corner, underneath a pile of clothes. Mary counted them over with an air of satisfaction. Her conscience did not trouble her much as long as the fear of detection was removed.

“Mr. Holland won’t miss the money,” she thought, “and everybody’ll think Jane took it.”

The thought of her own meanness in depriving Tom of a good home, and sending her out into the street without shelter or money, never suggested itself to the selfish girl. She felt glad to be rid of her, and did not trouble herself about any discomforts or privations that she might experience.

Three days later Mary felt that she might venture to buy the pencil which she had so long coveted. Tom’s disappearance was accepted by all in the house as a confirmation of the charge of theft, and no one else was likely to be suspected. Not knowing how much the pencil was likely to cost, Mary took the entire twenty dollars with her. She stopped on her way from school at a jewelry store only a few blocks distant from her mother’s house. She was unwise in not going farther away, since this increased the chances of her detection.

“Let me look at your gold pencils,” she asked, with an air of importance.

The salesman produced a variety of pencils, varying in price.

Mary finally made choice of one that cost twelve dollars.

She paid over the money with much satisfaction, for the pencil was larger and handsomer than those belonging to her companions, which had excited her envy. She also bought a silk chain, to which she attached it, and then hung it round her neck.

Though Mary was not aware of it, her entrance into the jewelry store had been remarked by Mrs. Carver, a neighbor and acquaintance of her mother’s. Mrs. Carver, like some others of her sex, was gifted with curiosity, and wondered considerably what errand had carried Mary into the jeweller’s.

Bent upon finding out, she entered the store and approached the counter.

“What did that young girl buy?” she asked.

“You mean that one who just went out?”

“Yes.”

“A gold pencil-case.”

“Indeed,” said Mrs. Carver, looking surprised. “How expensive a pencil did she buy?”

“She paid twelve dollars.”

“Will you show me one like it?”

A pencil, precisely similar, was shown Mrs. Carver, the clerk supposing she wished to purchase. But she had obtained all the information she desired.

“I won’t decide to-day,” she said. “I will come in again.”

“There’s some mystery about this,” said Mrs. Carver to herself. “I wonder where Mary got so much money; surely, her mother could not have given it to her. If she did, all I have to say is, that she is very extravagant for a woman that keeps boarders for a living.”

Mrs. Carver was one of those women who feel a very strong interest in the business of others. The friends with whom she was most intimate were most likely to incur her criticism. In the present instance she was determined to fathom the mystery of the gold pencil.

Mary went home with her treasure. Of course she knew that its possession would excite surprise, and she had a story prepared to account for it. She felt a little nervous, but had little doubt that her account would be believed.

As she anticipated, the pencil at once attracted her mother’s attention.

“Whose pencil is that, Mary?” she asked.

“Mine, mother.”

“Yours? Where did you get it?” inquired her mother, in surprise.

“Sue Cameron gave it to me. She’s my bosom friend, you know.”

“Let me see it. It isn’t gold—is it?”

“Yes, it’s solid gold,” said Mary, complacently.

“But I don’t understand her giving you so expensive a present. It must have cost a good deal.”

“So it did. Sue said it cost twelve dollars.”

“Then how came she to give it to you?”

“Oh, her father’s awful rich! Besides, Sue has had another pencil given to her, and she didn’t want but one; so she gave me this.”

“It looks as if it were new.”

“Yes, she has had it only a short time.”

“When did she give it to you?”

“This morning. She promised it to me a week ago,” said Mary, in a matter-of-fact manner which quite deceived her mother.

“She has certainly been very kind to you. She must like you very much.”

“Yes, she does. She likes me better than any of the other girls.”

“Why don’t you invite her to come and see you? You ought to be polite to her, since she is so kind.”

This suggestion was by no means pleasing to Mary. In the first place Sue Cameron was by no means the intimate friend she represented, and in the next, if she called and Mrs. Merton referred to the gift, it would at once let the cat out of the bag, and Mary would be in trouble. Therefore she said, “I’ll invite her, mother, but I don’t think she’ll come.”

“Why not?”

“She lives away up on Fifth Avenue, and is not allowed to make visits without some one of the family. The Camerons are very rich, you know, and stuck up. Only Sue is not.”

“You’d better invite her, however, Mary, since she is such a friend of yours.”

“Yes, I will, only you must not be surprised if she does not come.”

The next afternoon Mrs. Carver dropped in for a call. While she was talking with Mrs. Merton, Mary came into the room. Her gold pencil was ostentatiously displayed.

“How do you do, Mary?” said the visitor. “What a handsome pencil-case you have!”

“One of her school friends gave it to her,” explained Mrs. Merton.

“Indeed!” returned Mrs. Carver, with an emphasis which bespoke surprise.

“Yes,” continued Mrs. Merton, unconsciously. “It was a Miss Cameron, whose father lives on Fifth Avenue. Her father is very rich, and she is very fond of Mary.”

“I should think she was—uncommonly,” remarked Mrs. Carver.

“There’s some secret here,” she thought. “I must find it out.”

“Mary, my dear,” she said, aloud, “come here, and let me look at your pencil.”

Mary advanced reluctantly. There was something in the visitor’s tone that made her feel uncomfortable. It was evident that Mrs. Carver did not accept the account she had given as readily as her mother.

“It is a very handsome pencil,” said Mrs. Carver, after examination. “You are certainly very lucky, Mary. My Grace is not so fortunate. So this Mrs. Cameron lives on Fifth Avenue?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And her father sends her to a public school. That’s rather singular,—isn’t it?”

“So it is,” said Mrs. Merton. “I didn’t think of that. And the family is very proud too, you say, Mary?”

Mary by this time was quite willing to leave the subject, but Mrs. Carver was not disposed to do so.

“I don’t know why it is,” said Mary. “I suppose they think she will learn more at public schools.”

“Now I think of it,” said Mrs. Carver, meditatively, “this pencil looks very much like one I saw at Bennett’s the other day.”

The color rushed to Mary’s face in alarm. Her mother did not observe it, but Mrs. Carver did. But she quickly recovered herself.

“Perhaps it was bought there,—I don’t know,” she said.

“She carries it off well,” thought Mrs. Carver. “Never mind, I’ll find out some time.”

Mary made some excuse for leaving the room, and the visitor asked:—

“How is that girl getting along whom your brother left with you?”

Mrs. Merton shook her head.

“She’s turned out badly,” she said.

“What has she done?”

“She stole twenty dollars from Mr. Holland’s room. He left his pocket-book on the bureau, and she took out the money.”

“Did she confess it?”

“No, she stoutly denied it. I told her, if she would confess, I would forgive her, and let her stay in the house. But she remained obstinate, and went away.”

“Are you convinced that she took it?” asked Mrs. Carver, who now suspected where the gold pencil came from.

“It could have been no one else. She was in the room, making the beds, and sweeping, in the morning.

“Still, she may have been innocent.”

“Then who could have taken the money?”

“Somebody that wanted a gold pencil,” returned Mrs. Carver, nodding significantly.

“What!” exclaimed Mrs. Merton, aghast. “You don’t mean to hint that Mary took it?”

“I mean this, that she bought the pencil herself at Bennett’s, as I happen to know. Where she got the money from, you can tell better than I can.”

“I can’t believe it,” said Mrs. Merton, very much perturbed.

“Didn’t you see how she flushed up when I said I had seen a pencil like it at Bennett’s? However, you can ask her.”

Mrs. Merton could not rest now till she had ascertained the truth. Mary was called, and, after an attempt at denial, finally made confession in a flood of tears.

“How could you let me send Jane away on account of your fault?” asked her mother, much disturbed.

“I didn’t dare to own it. You won’t tell, mother?”

“I must return the money to Mr. Holland.”

“You can tell him that it was accidentally found.”

This Mrs. Merton finally agreed to do, not wishing to expose her own child. She was really a kind-hearted woman, and was very sorry for her injustice to Tom.

“What will your uncle say?” she inquired, after Mrs. Carver had gone.

“Don’t tell him,” said Mary. “It’s better for Jane to go, or he would be making her his heiress. Now I shall stand some chance. You can tell him that Jane went away of her own accord.”

Mrs. Merton was human. She thought it only fair that one of her daughters should inherit their uncle’s money in preference to a girl taken from the streets, and silently acquiesced. So the money was restored to Mr. Holland, and he was led to think that Tom had left it behind her, while the real perpetrator of the theft retained her gold pencil, and escaped exposure.