Chapter Three.

 A Visitor from the North.

 

How that Lowland Scot came to the rescue just in the nick of time is soon told.

 

“Mither,” said he one evening, striding into his father’s dwelling—a simple cottage on a moor—and sitting down in front of a bright old woman in a black dress, whose head was adorned with that frilled and baggy affair which is called in Scotland a mutch, “I’m gawin’ to Lun’on.”

 

“Hoots! havers, David.”

 

“It’s no’ havers, mither. Times are guid. We’ve saved a pickle siller. Faither can spare me for a wee while—sae I’m aff to Lun’on the morn’s mornin’.”

 

“An’ what for?” demanded Mrs Laidlaw, letting her hands and the sock on which they were engaged drop on her lap, as she looked inquiringly into the grave countenance of her handsome son.

 

“To seek a wife, maybe,” replied the youth, relaxing into that very slight smile with which grave and stern-featured men sometimes betray the presence of latent fun.

 

Mrs Laidlaw resumed her sock and needle with no further remark than “Hoots! ye’re haverin’,” for she knew that her son was only jesting in regard to the wife. Indeed nothing was further from that son’s intention or thoughts at the time than marriage, so, allowing the ripple to pass from his naturally grave and earnest countenance, he continued—

 

“Ye see, mither, I’m twunty-three noo, an’ I wad like to see something o’ the warld afore I grow aulder an’ settle doon to my wark. As I said, faither can spare me a while, so I’ll jist tak’ my fit in my haund an’ awa’ to see the Great Bawbylon.”

 

“Ye speak o’ gaun to see the warld, laddie, as if ’ee was a gentleman.”

 

“Div ’ee think, mother, that the warld was made only for gentlemen to travel in?” demanded the youth, with the gentlest touch of scorn in his tone.

 

To this question the good woman made no reply; indeed her stalwart son evidently expected none, for he rose a few minutes later and proceeded to pack up his slender wardrobe in a shoulder-bag of huge size, which, however, was well suited to his own proportions.

 

Next day David Laidlaw took the road which so many men have taken before him—for good or ill. But, unlike most of his predecessors, he was borne towards it on the wings of steam, and found himself in Great Babylon early the following morning, with his mother’s last caution ringing strangely in his ears.

 

“David,” she had said, “I ken ye was only jokin’, but dinna ye be ower sure o’ yersel’. Although thae English lassies are a kine o’ waux dolls, they have a sort o’ way wi’ them that might be dangerous to lads like you.”

 

“H’m!” David had replied, in that short tone of self-sufficiency which conveys so much more than the syllable would seem to warrant.

 

The Scottish youth had neither kith nor kin in London, but he had one friend, an old school companion, who, several years before, had gone to seek his fortune in the great city, and whose address he knew. To this address he betook himself on the morning of his arrival, but found that his friend had changed his abode. The whole of that day did David spend in going about. He was sent from one place to another, in quest of his friend, and made diligent use of his long legs, but without success. Towards evening he was directed to a street on the Surrey side of the Thames, and it was while on his way thither that he chanced to enter the alley where poor Susan was assaulted.

 

Like most Scotsmen of his class and size David Laidlaw was somewhat leisurely and slow in his movements when not called to vigorous exertion, but when he heard the girl’s shriek, and, a moment later, saw her fall, he sprang to her side with one lithe bound, like that of a Bengal tiger, and aimed a blow at her assailant, which, had it taken effect, would have interrupted for some time—if not terminated for ever—that rascal’s career. But the thief, though drunk, was young, strong, and active. It is also probable that he was a professional pugilist for, instead of attempting to spring back from the blow—which he had not time to do—he merely put his head to one side and let it pass. At the same instant David received a stinging whack on the right eye, which although it failed to arrest his rush, filled his vision with starry coruscations.

 

The thief fell back and the Scot tripped over him. Before he could recover himself the thief was up like an acrobat and gone. At the same moment two policemen, rushing on the scene in answer to the girl’s shriek, seized David by the collar and held him fast.

 

There was Highland as well as Lowland blood in the veins of young Laidlaw. This sanguinary mixture is generally believed to possess effervescing properties when stirred. It probably does. For one moment the strength of Goliath of Gath seemed to tingle in David’s frame, and the vision of two policemen’s heads battered together swam before his eyes—but he thought better of it and restrained himself!

 

“Tak’ yer hands aff me, freens,” he said, suddenly unclosing his fists and relaxing his brows. “Ye’d better see after the puir lassie. An’ dinna fear for me. I’m no gawn to rin awa’!”

 

Perceiving the evident truth of this latter remark, the constables turned their attention to the girl, who was by that time beginning to recover.

 

“Where am I?” asked Susy, gazing into the face of her rescuer with a dazed look.

 

“Yer a’ right, puir bairn. See, tak’ ha’d o’ my airm,” said the Scot.

 

“That’s the way, now, take hold of mine,” said one of the constables in a kindly tone; “come along—you’ll be all right in a minute. The station is close at hand.”

 

Thus supported the girl was led to the nearest police station, where David Laidlaw gave a minute account of what had occurred to the rather suspicious inspector on duty. While he was talking, Susan, who had been provided with a seat and a glass of water, gazed at him with profound interest. She had by that time recovered sufficiently to give her account of the affair, and, as there was no reason for further investigation of the matter, she was asked if her home was far off, and a constable was ordered to see her safely there.

 

“Ye needna fash,” said David carelessly, “I’m gawn that way mysel’, an’ if the puir lassie has nae objection I’ll be glad to—”

 

The abrupt stoppage in the youth’s speech was caused by his turning to Susy and looking full and attentively in her face, which, now that the colour was restored and the dishevelled hair rearranged, had a very peculiar effect on him. His mother’s idea of a “waux doll” instantly recurred to his mind, but the interest and intelligence in Susy’s pretty face was very far indeed removed from the vacant imbecility which usually characterises that fancy article of juvenile luxury.

 

“Of course if the girl wishes you to see her home,” said the inspector, “I have no objection, but I’ll send a constable to help you to take care of her.”

 

“Help me to tak’ care o’ her!” exclaimed David, whose pride was sorely hurt by the distrust implied in these words; “man, I could putt her in my pooch an’ you alang wi’ her.”

 

Of this remark Mr Inspector, who had resumed his pen, took no notice whatever, but went on writing while one of the constables prepared to obey his superior’s orders. In his indignation the young Scot resolved to fling out of the office and leave the police to do as they pleased in the matter, but, glancing at Susy as he turned round, he again met the gaze of her soft blue eyes.

 

“C’way, lassie, I wull gang wi’ ye,” he said, advancing quickly and offering his arm.

 

Being weak from the effects of her fall, Susy accepted the offer willingly, and was supported on the other side by a policeman.

 

In a short time the trio ascended the rookery stair and presented themselves to the party in the garret-garden just as Sam Blake and Tommy Splint were about to leave it.

 

It is impossible to describe adequately the scene that ensued—the anxiety of the poor seaman to be recognised by his long lost “babby,” the curious but not unnatural hesitancy of that “babby” to admit that he was her father, though earnestly assured of the fact by chimney-pot Liz; the surprise of David Laidlaw, and even of the policeman, at being suddenly called to witness so interesting a domestic scene, and the gleeful ecstasy of Tommy Splint over the whole affair—flavoured as it was with the smell and memory of recent “sassengers.”

 

When the constable at last bid them good-night and descended the stair, the young Scot turned to go, feeling, with intuitive delicacy, that he was in the way, but once again he met the soft blue eyes of Susy, and hesitated.

 

“Hallo, young man!” cried Sam Blake, on observing his intention, “you ain’t agoin’ to leave us—arter saving my gal’s life, p’raps—anywise her property. No, no; you’ll stop here all night an’—”

 

He paused: “Well, I do declare I forgot I wasn’t aboard my own ship, but—” again he paused and looked at old Liz.

 

“I’ve no room for any of you in the garret,” said that uncompromising woman, “there ain’t more than one compartment in it, and that’s not too big for me an’ Susy; but you’re welcome, both of you, to sleep in the garden if you choose. Tommy sleeps there, under a big box, and a clever sea-farin’ man like you could—”

 

“All right, old lady,” cried the seaman heartily. “I’ll stop, an’ thankee; we’ll soon rig up a couple o’ bunks. So you will stop too, young man—by the way, you—you didn’t give us your name yet.”

 

“My name is David Laidlaw; but I won’t stop, thankee,” replied the Scot with unexpected decision of manner. “Ye see, I’ve been lookin’ a’ this day for an auld freen’ an’ I must find him afore the morn’s mornin’, if I should seek him a’ nicht. But, but—maybe I’ll come an’ speer for ’ee in a day or twa—if I may.”

 

“If you mean that you will come and call, Mr Laidlaw,” said old Liz, “we will be delighted to see you at any time. Don’t forget the address.”

 

“Nae fear—I’ll putt it i’ my note-buik,” said David, drawing a substantial volume from his breast pocket and entering the address—‘Mrs Morley, Cherub Court’—therein.

 

Having shaken hands all round he descended the stair with a firm tread and compressed lips until he came out on the main thoroughfare, when he muttered to himself sternly:

 

“Waux dolls, indeed! there’s nane o’ thae dolls’ll git the better o’ me. H’m! a bonny wee face, nae doot but what div I care for bonny faces if the hairt’s no’ richt?”

 

“But suppose that the heart is right?”

 

Who could have whispered that question? David Laidlaw could not stop to inquire, but began to hum—

 

    “Oh, this is no my ain lassie,

 

    Kind though the lassie be,—”

 

In a subdued tone, as he sauntered along the crowded street, which by that time was blazing with gas-light in the shop-windows and oil-lamps on the hucksters’ barrows.

 

The song, however, died on his lips, and he moved slowly along, stopping now and then to observe the busy and to him novel scene, till he reached a comparatively quiet turning, which was dimly lighted by only one lamp. Here he felt a slight twitch at the bag which contained his little all. Like lightning he turned and seized by the wrist a man who had already opened the bag and laid hold of some of its contents. Grasping the poor wretch by the neck with his other hand he held him in a grip of iron.