CHAPTER XXI
TOM FALLS INTO THE ENEMY’S HANDS
Tom found herself the possessor of seven dollars and fifty cents, including the quarter which she owed to Mrs. Murphy for money advanced. It was not yet eleven o’clock. She decided to call on Mrs. Murphy, pay back the loan, and inform her of her good luck.
Mrs. Murphy was seated at her stand, keeping a sharp lookout for customers, when she espied Tom approaching.
“Have you sold your papers, Tom?” she asked.
“Yes, Mrs. Murphy. Here’s the money I borrowed of you.”
“Keep it longer; you’ll maybe nade it. I aint afraid to trust you.”
“I don’t need it. I have been lucky. See there!” and Tom displayed a roll of bills.
“Where’d ye get all them?” asked the apple-woman, in amazement.
“A gentleman paid me a gold piece for a ‘Herald,’ and wouldn’t take any change.”
“Is it truth you’re tellin’, Tom?”
“Of course it is. Do you think I’d tell you a lie?”
“Tell me all about it, Tom.”
Tom did so, to the intense interest of Mrs. Murphy, who, after ejaculations as to Tom’s luck, added, “I wish he’d buy some apples of me, and trate me in the same way. And what are you goin’ to do wid your money, Tom, dear?”
“I’m going to get a square meal pretty soon, Mrs. Murphy. If you’ll come along, I’ll treat you.”
“Thank you, Tom, all the same, but I can’t lave my business. You’d better put it in the savings-bank, where it’ll be safe. Maybe you might lose it.”
“Have you got any money in the savings-bank?”
“No, Tom, dear. It takes all I earn for the rint, and atin’ for the childers.”
“I want to live with you, Mrs. Murphy, if you’ll take me.”
“Shure and I’d be glad to have you, Tom, if you’ll put up wid my poor room.”
“I’d rather be there than at Mrs. Merton’s,” said Tom.
After some negotiation, Mrs. Murphy agreed to take Tom as a boarder, furnishing her with lodging, breakfast and supper, for a dollar and a half a week. It seemed a small sum, but it would be a welcome addition to the apple-woman’s weekly income, while it would take Tom from the streets, and give her a cheerful and social home.
“I’ll pay you now for a week,” said Tom. “Then I’ll be all right even if I lose the money.”
After some persuasion, Mrs. Murphy was induced to accept the payment in advance.
“Now I’ll go and get some dinner,” said Tom.
Tom directed her steps to the Belmont House Restaurant, on Fulton Street. It has two rooms,—one for ladies, the other for gentlemen; and is well-patronized by a very respectable class, chiefly clerks and business men. It was of a higher grade than the restaurants which those in Tom’s line of business were accustomed to frequent. Her dress, however, prevented any surprise being felt at her entrance. She sat down at a table, and looked over a bill of fare. She observed that roast turkey was marked forty cents. This was rather a large price for one in her circumstances to pay. However, she had been in luck, and felt that she could afford an unusual outlay.
“Roast turkey and a cup of coffee!” ordered Tom, as the waiter approached the table.
“All right, miss,” said that functionary.
Soon the turkey was set before her, with a small dish of cranberry sauce, and a plate of bread and butter. Two potatoes and the cup of coffee made up Tom’s dinner. She surveyed it with satisfaction, and set to with an appetite.
“I should like to live this way every day,” thought Tom; “but I can’t afford it.”
The waiter brought a check, and laid it beside her plate. It was marked 45 cents.
Tom walked up to the desk near the door, and paid her bill in an independent manner, as if she were accustomed to dine there every day. In making the payment she had drawn out her whole stock of money, and still held it in her hand as she stood on the sidewalk outside. She little guessed the risk she ran in doing so, or that the enemy she most dreaded was close at hand. For just at the moment Tom stood with her face towards Broadway, granny turned the corner of Nassau and Fulton Streets, and bore down upon her, her eyes sparkling with joy and anticipated triumph. She was not alone. With her was a man of thirty-five, bold and reckless in expression, but otherwise with the dress and appearance of a gentleman.
“There’s the gal now!” said granny, in excitement.
“Where?” said her companion, sharing her excitement.
“There, in front of that eating-house.”
“The one with her back towards us?”
“Yes. Don’t say a word, and I’ll creep up and get hold of her.”
Tom was about to put back her money in her pocket, when she felt her arm seized in a firm grasp. Turning in startled surprise, she met the triumphant glance of her old granny.
“Let me alone!” said Tom, fiercely, trying to snatch away her arm.
“I’ve got you, have I?” said granny. “I knowed I’d get hold of you at last, you young trollop! Come home with me, right off!”
“I won’t go with you,” said Tom, resolutely. “I don’t want to have anything to do with you. You haven’t got anything to do with me.”
“Haven’t I, I should like to know? Aint I your granny?”
“No, you aint.”
“What do you mean by that?” demanded Mrs. Walsh, rather taken aback.
“You aint any relation of mine. I don’t know where you got hold of me; but I won’t own such an old drunkard for a granny.”
“Come along!” said granny, fiercely. “You’ll pay for this, miss.”
“Help!” exclaimed Tom, finding that she was likely to be carried away against her will, at the same time struggling violently.
“What’s the matter?” asked a gentleman, who had just come out of the restaurant.
“It’s my grand-child, sir,” said Mrs. Walsh, obsequiously. “She run away from me, and now she don’t want to go back.”
“She hasn’t got anything to do with me,” said Tom. “Help!”
This last exclamation was intended to attract the attention of a policeman who was approaching.
“What’s the trouble?” he demanded, authoritatively.
Mrs. Walsh repeated her story.
“What is the child’s name?” asked the policeman.
“Jane,” answered the old woman, who was at first on the point of saying “Tom.”
“How long has she lived with you?”
“Ever since she was born, till a few weeks ago.”
“What do you say to this?” asked the officer.
“I did live with her; but she beat me, so I left her. She says she is my granny, but she isn’t.”
“Where do you live now?”
“With Mrs. Murphy, in Mulberry Street.”
This intelligence rather astonished granny, who heard it for the first time.
“Is the child related to you?” asked the officer.
“She’s my grandchild, but she’s always been a wild, troublesome child. Many’s the time I have kept awake all night thinkin’ of her bad ways,” said granny, virtuously. “It was only yesterday,” she added, with a sudden thought suggested by the sight of the money which she had seen Tom counting, “that she came to my room, and stole some money. She’s got it in her pocket now.”
“Have you taken any money from your grandmother?” demanded the policeman.
“No, I haven’t,” said Tom, boldly.
“I saw her put it in her pocket,” said granny.
“Show me what you have in your pocket.”
“I’ve got some money,” said Tom, feeling in rather a tight place; “but it was given me this morning by a gentleman at Fulton Ferry.”
“Show it,” said the officer, authoritatively.
Tom was reluctantly compelled to draw out the money she had left,—a little over five dollars. Granny’s eyes sparkled as she saw it.
“It’s the money I lost,” said she. “Give it to me;” and she clutched Tom’s hand.
“Not for Joe!” said Tom, emphatically. “It’s mine, and I’ll keep it.”
“Will you make her give it up?” asked granny, appealing to the policeman. “It’s some of my hard earnings, which that wicked girl took from me.”
“That’s a lie!” retorted Tom. “You never saw the money. There was a gentleman down to Fulton Ferry that give it to me this morning.”
“That’s a likely story,” said granny, scornfully.
“If you don’t believe it you can ask him. He’s got an office on Wall Street, No. —, and his name is Mr. Dunbar. Take me round there, and see if he don’t say so.”
“Don’t believe her,” said granny. “She can lie as fast as she can talk.”
“Ask Mrs. Murphy then. She keeps an apple-stand corner of Nassau and Spruce Streets.”
“You are sure she took this money from you?” inquired the policeman.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Walsh. “I put it in my drawer yesterday forenoon, and when I come to look for it it was gone. Mrs. Molloy, that lives on the next floor, told me she saw Tom, I mean Jane, come in about three o’clock, when I was out to work. It was then that she took it.”
If granny had been dressed in her old fashion, she would have inspired less confidence; but it must be remembered that, through money advanced by the lawyer, she was now, in outward appearance, a very respectable old woman; and appearances go a considerable way. The officer was, therefore, disposed to believe her. If he had any doubt on the subject it was settled by the interference of Mr. Lindsay, who had hitherto kept aloof, but who now advanced, saying, “I know this woman, Mr. Officer, and I can assure you that her story is correct. The child has been wild and rebellious, and stolen money. But her grandmother does not wish to have her arrested, as she might rightfully do. She prefers to take her back, and do what she can to redeem her.”
Mr. Lindsay was in outward appearance a gentleman. His manner was quiet, and calculated to inspire confidence.
“That is sufficient,” said the officer, respectfully. “Hark you,” he added, addressing Tom, “you had better go away quietly with your grandmother, or I shall advise her to give you in charge for theft.”
Granny had conquered. Tom saw that further immediate resistance would be unavailing; without a word, therefore, she allowed herself to be led away, mentally resolving, however, that her stay with granny would be brief.
CHAPTER XXII
THE LAWYER AND HIS CLIENT
Mr. Selwyn, the lawyer who has already been introduced to the reader, sat in his office with a pile of papers before him, when a knock was heard at the door. His clerk being absent, he arose and opened it. A lady stood before him.
“Will you enter, madam?” he said.
“Is this Mr. Selwyn?” she asked.
“That is my name, madam.”
“My name will probably be familiar to you. I am Mrs. Lindsay.”
“I am glad to see you, madam. Will you be seated?”
She sat down, and the lawyer regarded with interest the client whom he now saw for the first time. She was still young, less than forty probably, and, though her face bore the impress of sorrow, she was still beautiful.
“I suppose you have no news for me,” she said.
“I am sorry to say that I have as yet no trace of the child. Margaret Walsh is on the lookout for her, and, as you have made it worth her while, I do not doubt that she will eventually find her for you.”
“Do you think my child is still in the city?” asked Mrs. Lindsay, anxiously.
“I have no doubt of it. A child, bred as she has been, does not often leave the city voluntarily, unless in the case of those children who are from time to time carried away to homes in the West, through the agency of the Children’s Aid Society.”
“But may she not be of the number of these?”
“I thought it possible, and have accordingly inquired particularly of the officers of the society whether any child answering to her description has been under their charge, and I am assured that this is not the case. She is probably earning a living for herself somewhere in the streets, though we cannot tell in what way, or in what part of the city. Having run away from Mrs. Walsh, whom I suspect she did not like, she probably keeps out of the way, to avoid falling again into her hands.”
“It is terrible to think that my dear child is compelled to wander about the streets homeless, and no doubt often suffering severe privations,” said Mrs. Lindsay, with a sigh.
“Have good courage, madam,” said the lawyer. “I am convinced that we shall find her very soon.”
“I hope indeed that your anticipations may be realized,” said the mother. “But I have not yet told you what brings me to New York at this time.”
Mr. Selwyn bowed and assumed an air of attention.
“It is not pleasant,” said Mrs. Lindsay, after a slight pause, “to speak ill of a relative; but I am obliged to tell you that the worst foe I have is my brother-in-law, a younger brother of my late husband. It was he who in the first place contrived the abduction of the child, and, though he witnessed my distress, he has never relented, though it was doubtless in his power, at any time, to restore her to me.”
“How lately have you become aware of his connection with the affair?”
“Only a few months since. One day I opened a desk belonging to him, in search of an envelope, when I accidentally came upon a letter from Margaret Walsh, written some years since, giving an account of her arrival in New York with my dear child, and claiming from him a sum of money which it appears he had promised as a compensation for her services. This discovery astounded me. It was the first intimation I had of my brother-in-law’s perfidy. He had always offered me such a delicate and unobtrusive sympathy, and appeared to share so sincerely in my sorrow, that I could scarcely believe the testimony of my senses. I read the letter three times before I could realize his treachery. Of course I did not make known to him the discovery I had made, but, calling on a lawyer, I asked him to recommend to me some trustworthy gentleman in his profession in this city. Your name was suggested, and I at once authorized him to communicate with you, and employ you in the matter.”
“I trust I shall prove worthy of the recommendation,” said the lawyer, inclining his head.
“There is one question which I should like to ask,” he continued. “In what manner would your brother-in-law be likely to derive advantage from your child’s disappearance?”
“My husband left a large property,” said Mrs. Lindsay. “Half of this was bequeathed to me, the remaining half I was to hold in trust for my child. If, however, she should die before reaching her majority, my brother-in-law, Mr. James Lindsay, was to receive my child’s portion.”
“That constitutes a very powerful motive,” said the lawyer. “The love of money is the root of all evil, you know.”
“I do not like to suspect my brother-in-law of such baseness,” said Mrs. Lindsay, “but I fear I must.”
“How are his own means? Has he considerable property?”
“He had. Both my husband and himself inherited a large property; but I have reason to think that, at the time I speak of, he had lost large sums by gambling. He had passed two years abroad, and I heard from acquaintances, who met him there, that he played for high stakes at Baden Baden and other German gambling resorts, and lost very heavily. I suspect that he must have reduced his means very much in this way.”
“You are probably correct, and this supplies what we lawyers always seek—the motive. I can quite understand that to a man so situated a hundred thousand dollars must have been a powerful temptation. I must ask you another question. Has Mr. James Lindsay derived any advantage from your child’s property thus far?”
“He has, though it was legally decided that he could not come into absolute possession, since my child’s death was not definitely ascertained; at least, until such time as, if living, she would have attained her majority, it was decreed that the income derived from the property should be paid to him, this payment to cease only in case of Jenny’s restoration.”
“And has this been done?”
“It has.”
“Then Mr. James Lindsay has for the last six years received the income of a hundred thousand dollars.”
Mrs. Lindsay inclined her head.
“And you never suspected his agency in the affair, in spite of all this?”
“Never. I knew James profited by my dear child’s loss, but I was not prepared to suspect him of such baseness.”
“I should have thought of it at once; but then we lawyers see so much of the bad side of human nature that we are prone to suspect evil.”
“Then I should not wish to be a lawyer. It pains me to think ill of others.”
“I respect you for the sentiment, madam, though in my profession I am compelled to repudiate it. May I inquire whether your brother-in-law yet suspects that you have discovered his complicity in the plot against your child?”
“It is that which brings me to see you to-day. I feel sure that in some way he has gained a knowledge of my secret, though I endeavored to conceal it from him.”
“That is not surprising. He might accidentally have seen the advertisement for Margaret Walsh, which, under your directions, I inserted in the leading New York daily papers.”
“He must have found out in this way.”
“He will now doubtless do what he can to prevent your recovering possession of her.”
“I fear he has already commenced. Three days since, he told me that he was about to go to Washington, and possibly further south for a few weeks. He added that, having much business to occupy him, he doubted if he should be able to write often. I supposed this to be true, until yesterday I heard that, instead of taking the cars to Baltimore, he had bought a ticket for New York. This attempt to deceive me convinces me that he has penetrated my secret.”
“Do you know where he is staying in New York?”
“No, I do not. I only reached the city to-day, and came at once to your office to inform you of the new danger which menaced our cause.”
“The information is important, Mrs. Lindsay,” said the lawyer, thoughtfully. “I must endeavor to guard against his machinations. No doubt he will first try to find out Margaret Walsh, and when he has found her will seek to buy her over to his interest. From what I know of the woman, he will have no difficulty in succeeding.”
“What can we do?” asked Mrs. Lindsay, anxiously.
“I don’t care to bid against him, for, having such large interests at stake, he will take care to go as high as we. We must do what we can to keep them apart.”
“Will that be possible?”
“We can at least try. I must have time to think what methods are to be used.”
“When shall you see Margaret?”
“To-morrow, probably. That is the day on which she has been accustomed to come for her weekly allowance, and I must do her the justice to say that she has never yet failed to present herself punctually. You will remain in New York?”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Lindsay. “In my present state of mind I could not be contented away from here.”
“What will be your address?”
“I have not thought.”
“Let me advise you not to stop at a hotel. Your arrival would in that way become known to Mr. James Lindsay, as it would probably be published in the ‘Evening Express.’”
“Can you recommend me a good boarding-house, Mr. Selwyn?”
“I know an excellent one on West Twenty-Fifth Street, where you will have a fine room and every comfort. I will, if you desire it, give you a letter to Mrs. Thurston, with whom I once boarded myself.”
“I shall feel much indebted to you, Mr. Selwyn, if you will do so.”
The lawyer turned to his desk, and wrote a brief note, which he handed to his client. She took it, and rose from her seat, saying, “May I hope to see you this evening, Mr. Selwyn? I am sorry to trespass upon your time to such an extent, but you will appreciate a mother’s anxiety.”
“I can and I do,” said the lawyer; “and you may rest assured that my best energies shall be devoted to your service.”
Within two hours Mrs. Lindsay found herself installed in a handsome apartment at Mrs. Thurston’s boarding-house.
“I shall feel better,” she reflected, “now that I am in the city where my child in all probability is leading a life of poverty and privation. God grant that she may be restored to me, and that I may be able to make up to her the care of which she has so cruelly been deprived for six long years!”
CHAPTER XXIII
HOW GRANNY AND TOM BECAME SEPARATED
It will be understood why Mr. Lindsay had visited New York, and opened communication with Margaret Walsh. The knowledge that his sister-in-law had discovered his agency in the disappearance of her child, and the fear that she might recover her, and so deprive him of the large property for which he had intrigued, alarmed him, and led him to exert himself to frustrate, if possible, his sister’s plans.
Only two days after reaching the city, he had met Margaret in the street. He recognized her at once, and discovered without much difficulty the steps Mrs. Lindsay had this far taken. He at once offered Margaret double the reward if she would serve his interests; and granny consented, nothing loth. The first object was still to get possession of Tom. How that was effected has already been told. We will now resume our story where we left it at the end of the twenty-first chapter.
Tom walked quietly away with granny, feeling that there was no chance of immediate escape. She meant to bide her time, and break away as soon as she could. Mr. Lindsay walked on the other side of granny until they reached the Astor House.
“Stop here a minute,” he said, “I will go in and inquire when the next train starts on the Erie Road.”
The old woman did as directed. Tom could not help wondering how there should be an acquaintance between granny and a well-dressed gentleman like Mr. Lindsay. It seemed strange, yet there was an evident understanding between them.
Mr. Lindsay came out in less than five minutes.
“A train starts in an hour,” he said. “We had better go to the depot at once.”
Granny made some objection to the short notice, but he overruled it.
“It must be done,” he said, decidedly. “It is the only safe way.”
“I aint used to travellin’,” said Margaret.
“You’ve got a tongue in your head,” he said roughly. “All you’ve got to do is to inquire when you are in doubt. I will go to the depot with you, and buy your tickets.”
Mrs. Walsh made no further objection, and they took their way to the depot.
“I wonder what’s up,” thought Tom.
They reached the depot and went into the reception-room. Mr. Lindsay went out, and returned shortly with two strips of tickets, which he gave to granny, explaining in what way they would be called for. He then took out a roll of bills, and gave her. Then ensued a whispered conversation, of which Tom only heard detached words, from which she was unable to gather a definite idea. Then they entered the cars, and Mr. Lindsay left them, with a last injunction, “Mind she don’t escape.”
“I’ll take care,” nodded granny.
Soon the cars were on their way. It was the first time within her remembrance that Tom had ridden in the cars, and she looked out of the window with great interest, enjoying the rapid motion and the changing views. At last, yielding to curiosity, she turned and addressed the old woman.
“Where are we goin’, granny?”
“Never you mind!” said granny.
“But I do mind. Are we goin’ far?”
“None of your business!”
“Who was that man that gave you money? Has he got anything to do with me?”
“No,” said granny.
“Why did he give you money?”
“Because he’s a relation of mine,” said granny. “He’s my nephew.”
Tom was not in the least deceived. She knew that, if granny had a nephew, he would be a far different man from Mr. Lindsay. However, she had a curiosity to hear what granny would say, and continued asking questions.
“Then he’s a relation of mine,” said Tom.
“No he isn’t,” said granny, sharply.
“Why isn’t he? Aint you my granny?”
Mrs. Walsh could not gainsay this argument. “He’s a little of a relation to you,” she said. “He’s give me some money, so I can live with you out West. You won’t have to sweep streets no longer.”
The mystery seemed to deepen. What truth there might be in granny’s representations Tom could not tell. One thing was clear, however. Relation or not, this man had given granny money, and would probably give her more. Probably, if Tom remained with her, she would not fare as hard as formerly; but this she did not intend to do. She had come to dislike granny, who, she felt instinctively, was not really her relation, and still cherished the intention of running away as soon as there was a good opportunity.
Meanwhile the cars sped on till seventy-five miles separated them from the city. Broad fields extended on either side the railway track. To Tom, who was a true child of the city, who had rarely seen green grass, since the round of her life had been spent within a short distance of City Hall Park, it seemed strange. She wondered how it would seem to live in the country, and rather thought she should not like it.
At length they came to a station where supper was to be obtained. Granny was hungry and rose with alacrity.
“Shall I go with you?” asked Tom.
“No,” said Mrs. Walsh, “set right here. I’ll go and buy something for you.”
They were so far away from the city now that granny had no fear of Tom’s escaping, particularly as she had no money.
Tom retained her seat, therefore, and granny entered the station-house, where some of her fellow-passengers were already hurrying down their suppers.
She stepped up to the counter, and soon was engaged in a similar way.
“Will you have a cup of coffee, ma’am?” inquired the waiter.
“Haven’t you got some whiskey?” inquired the old woman.
“No, we don’t keep it.”
Granny looked disappointed. She was very fond of whiskey, and, having plenty of money, saw no reason why she should be deprived of her favorite beverage.
“Aint there any to be got near by?” she asked.
“There’s a saloon a few rods up the road,” was the reply.
“Could I find it easy?”
“Yes, there’s a sign outside. It’s a small one-story building. You can’t miss it.”
Mrs. Walsh hastily bought a couple of cakes for Tom, and hurried out of the building. There stood the cars, liable to start at any time. It was the part of prudence to get in, and granny hesitated. But the desire for a dram was strong within her, and she thought she could run over and get a glass, and be back in time. The train stopped ten minutes for refreshments, and she had not consumed more than five. The temptation proved too strong for her to resist.
She reached the saloon, and, entering, said, “Give me a glass of whiskey, quick. I’m going right off in the train.”
The whiskey was poured out, and granny drank it with a sense of exquisite enjoyment.
“Give me another,” she said.
Another was poured out, and she had half drunk it, when the whistle was heard. This recalled the old woman to the risk she incurred of being left by the train. Setting down the glass hastily, she was hurrying out of the saloon, when she was stopped by the bar-tender.
“You haven’t paid for your drinks, ma’am,” he said bluntly.
Granny saw the train just beginning to move.
“I can’t stop,” she said desperately. “I shall be left.”
“That don’t go down!” said the bar-tender, roughly; “you must pay for your drinks.”
“I’ll send it to you,” said granny, trying to break away.
“That trick won’t work,” said the man, and he clutched the old woman by the arm.
“I’ve got a gal aboard,” screamed granny, desperately, trying at the same time to break away.
“I don’t care if you’ve got forty gals aboard, you must pay.”
Mrs. Walsh drew a bill from her pocket, and, throwing it down, rushed for the train without waiting for the change. But too much time had already been lost. The cars were now speeding along at a rate which made it quite impossible for her to catch them, and get aboard.
“Stop!” she shrieked frantically, running with a degree of speed of which she would have been thought incapable. “I’ve got a gal aboard. I shall lose her.”
Some of the passengers saw her from the windows, and were inclined to laugh rather than sympathize with her evident distress.
“Serves her right!” said a grouty old fellow. “Why didn’t she come back in time?”
“There’s a woman left behind,” said another passenger to the conductor.
He shrugged his shoulders, and said, indifferently, “That’s her lookout. If she didn’t choose to come to time, she must take the consequences.”
“Couldn’t you stop the train?” asked a kind-hearted little woman.
“No ma’am. Quite impossible. We’re behind time already.”
So the train sped on, leaving granny frantic and despairing, waving her arms and screaming hoarsely, “Stop! I’ve got a gal aboard!”
“What would Mr. Lindsay say?” she could not help thinking. Only four hours had passed since Tom had been placed in her charge, and they were separated. She cared little or nothing for Tom, or her welfare, but for her own interests, which were likely to be seriously affected, she cared a great deal. She was to have a comfortable annuity as long as she kept Tom safe in custody, and that was at an end unless she could manage to get her back.
She went into the station-house, and inquired when the next train would leave. She learned that several hours must elapse. Having plenty of time, therefore, she went back to the saloon, and recovered the change due her, taking an additional glass of whiskey, to drown her chagrin and disappointment.