The man who had been thus captured by David was one of those wretched forlorn creatures who seem to reach a lower depth of wretchedness and degradation in London than in any other city in the world. Although young and strongly made he was pale, gaunt and haggard, with a look about the eyes and mouth which denoted the habitual drunkard. The meanness of his attire is indescribable.
He trembled—whether from the effects of dissipation or fear we cannot say—as his captor led him under the lamp, with a grip on the collar that almost choked him, but when the light fell full on his haggard face a feeling of intense pity induced the Scot to relax his hold.
“Oh, ye puir meeserable crater!” he said, but stopped abruptly, for the man made a sudden and desperate effort to escape. He might as well have struggled in the grasp of a gorilla!
“Na, na, my man, ye’ll no twust yersel’ oot o’ my grup sae easy! keep quiet noo, an’ I’ll no hurt ’ee. What gars ye gang aboot tryin’ to steal like that?”
“Steal!” explained the man fiercely, “what else can I do? I must live! I’ve just come out of prison, and am flung on the world to be kicked about like a dog and starve. Let me go, or I’ll kill you!”
“Na, ’ee’ll no kill me. I’m no sae easy killed as ’ee think,” returned David, again tightening the grasp of his right hand while he thrust his left into his trousers-pocket.
At that moment the bull’s-eye light of an advancing constable became visible, and the defiant air of the thief gave place to a look of anxious fear. It was evident that the dread of another period of prison life was strong upon the trembling wretch. Drawing out a handful of coppers, David thrust them quickly into the man’s hand, and said—
“Hae, tak’ them, an’ aff ye go! an’ ask the Lord to help ’ee to dae better.”
The strong hand relaxed, another moment and the man, slipping round the corner like an unwholesome spirit, was gone.
“Can ye direck me, polisman,” said the Scot to the constable, as he was about to pass, “t’ Toor Street?”
“Never heard of it,” said the constable brusquely, but civilly enough.
“That’s queer noo. I was telt it was hereaboots—Toor Street.”
“Oh, perhaps you mean Tower Street” said the constable, with a patronising smile.
“Perhaps I div,” returned the Scot, with that touch of cynicism which is occasionally seen in his race. “Can ’ee direck me tilt?”
“Yes, but it is on the other side of the river.”
“Na—it’s on this side o’ the river,” said David quietly yet confidently.
The conversation was here cut short by the bursting on their ears of a sudden noise at some distance. The policeman turned quickly away, and when David advanced into the main street he observed that there was some excitement among its numerous and riotous occupants. The noise continued to increase, and it became evident that the cause of it was rapidly approaching, for the sound changed from a distant rumble into a steady roar, in the midst of which stentorian shouts were heard. Gradually the roar culminated, for in another moment there swept round the end of the street a pair of apparently runaway horses, with two powerful lamps gleaming, or rather glaring, above them. On each side of the driver of the galloping steeds stood a man, shouting like a maniac of the boatswain type. All three were brass-helmeted, like antique charioteers. Other helmets gleamed behind them. Little save the helmets and the glowing lamps could be seen through the dark and smoky atmosphere as the steam fire-engine went thundering by.
Now, if there was one thing more than another that David Laidlaw desired to see, it was a London fire. Often had he read about these fires, for he was a great reader of books, as well as newspapers, and deeply had his enthusiasm been stirred (though not expressed) by accounts of thrilling escapes and heroic deeds among the firemen. His eyes therefore flashed back the flame of the lamps as the engine went past him like a red thunderbolt, and he started off in pursuit of it.
But, as many people know, and all may believe, running in a crowded London street is difficult—even to an expert London thief. Our Scot found that out after a sixty-yards’ run; then he had the wisdom to stop, just as a little boy leaped out of his way exclaiming—
“’Ullo, Goliah! mind w’ere you’re a-goin’ to. I wonder yer mother let you hout all alone!”
“Whar’s the fire, laddie?” demanded David, with some impatience.
“’Ow should I know, Scotty! I ain’t a pleeceman, ham I? that I should be expected to know heverythink!”
As the engine had by that time vanished, no one could tell where the fire was, and as the street had reverted to its normal condition of noise and bustle, David Laidlaw gave up the search for it. He also gave up as hopeless further search for his friend that night, and resolved to avail himself of one of those numerous establishments in the windows of which it was announced that “good beds” were to be had within.
Entering one, the landlord of which had a round jovial countenance, he ordered tea, toast, and sausages, with pen, ink, and paper. Having heartily consumed the former, he devoted himself to the latter and proceeded to write a letter. Here is the epistle:—
“Bawbylon, I dinna ken where.
“5th July 18—.
“Dear Mither—Here I am, in Lun’on, an’ wow! but it is an awfu’ place! ’Ee’ll no believe me, but I’ve been lost twa or three times a’ready, an’ I’ve had a kine o’ fecht an’ a rescue, an’ been taen to the polis office, an’ made some freens, an’ catched a thief (an’ latten ’im aff wi’ a caution an’ a wheen bawbees), an’ seen a fire-engine that lookit as if it was gawn full gallop to destruction. Ay, wumin, an’ I’ve fawn in a’ready wi’ a waux doll! But dinna ye fear, mither, I’m ower teugh to be gotten the better o’ by the likes o’ them. An’ noo I’m gawn to my bed, sae as to be ready for mair adventurs the mornin’. Ye’ll admit that I’ve done gey ’n’ weel for the first day. At this rate I’ll be able to write a story-buik when I git hame. Respecks to faither. Yer affectionate son, David.
“P.S.—The lan’lord’s just been in, an’ I’ve had a lang crack wi’ him aboot the puir folk an’ the thieves o’ this Great Bawbylon. Wow, but I am wae for them. Seems to me they have na got a chance i’ the battle o’ life. He says he’ll tak’ me to see ane o’ their low lodgin’-hooses the morn. Guid-nicht.”
We turn now to a very different scene—to a West End drawing-room, in which is to be found every appliance, in the way of comfort and luxurious ease, that ingenuity can devise or labour produce. An exceedingly dignified, large, self-possessed yet respectful footman, with magnificent calves in white stockings, has placed a silver tray, with three tiny cups and a tiny teapot thereon, near to the hand of a beautiful middle-aged lady—the mistress of the mansion. She is reading a letter with evident interest. A girl of seventeen, whose style of beauty tells of the closest relationship, sits beside her, eagerly awaiting the news which is evidently contained in the letter.
“Oh, I am so glad, Rosa! they have found traces of her at last.”
“Of who, mother—old nurse?” asked Rosa.
“Yes, your father’s old nurse; indeed I may say mine also, for when I was a little girl I used to pay long visits to your grandfather’s house. And it seems that she is in great poverty—almost destitute. Dear, dear old nurse! you won’t be long in poverty if I can help it!”
As she spoke, a handsome man of middle age and erect carriage entered the room. There was an expression of care and anxiety on his countenance, which, however, partly disappeared when the lady turned towards him with a triumphant look and held up the letter.
“Didn’t I tell you, Jack, that your lawyer would find our old nurse if any one could? He writes me that she has been heard of, living in some very poor district on the south side of the Thames, and hopes to be able to send me her exact address very soon. I felt quite sure that Mr Lockhart would find her, he is such an obliging and amiable man, as well as clever. I declare that I can’t bear to look at all the useless luxury in which we live when I think of the good and true creatures like old nurse who are perishing in absolute destitution.”
“But being disgusted with our luxury and giving it all up would not mend matters, little wife,” returned Jack with a faint smile. “Rich people are not called upon to give up their riches, but to use them—to spend well within their means, so as to have plenty to spare in the way of helping those who are willing to help themselves, and sustaining those who cannot help themselves. The law of supply and demand has many phases, and the profits resulting therefrom are overruled by a Higher Power than the laws of Political Economy. There are righteous rich as well as poor; there are wicked poor as well as rich. What you and I have got to do in this perplexing world is to cut our particular coat according to our cloth.”
“Just so,” said the lady with energy. “Your last remark is to the point, whatever may be the worth of your previous statements, and I intend to cut off the whole of my superfluous skirts in order to clothe old nurse and such as she with them.”
Rosa laughingly approved of this decision, for she was like-minded with her mother, but her father did not respond. The look of care had returned to his brow, and there was cause for it for Colonel Brentwood had just learned from his solicitor that he was a ruined man.
“It is hard to have to bring you such news, darling,” he said, taking his wife’s hand, “especially when you were so happily engaged in devising liberal things for the poor, but God knows what is best for us. He gave us this fortune, when He inclined uncle Richard to leave it to us, and now He has seen fit to take it away.”
“But how—what do you mean by taking it away?” asked poor Mrs Brentwood, perceiving that her husband really had some bad news to tell.
“Listen; I will explain. When uncle Richard Weston died, unexpectedly, leaving to us his estate, we regarded it you know, as a gift from God, and came to England resolving to spend our wealth in His service. Well, yesterday Mr Lockhart informed me that another will has been found, of later date than that which made me uncle Richard’s heir, in which the whole estate is left to a distant connection of whose very existence I had become oblivious.”
“Well, Jack,” returned the lady, with a valiant effort to appear reconciled, “but that is not ruin, you know. Your pay still remains to us.”
“I—I fear not. That is to say, believing the estate to be mine, I have come under obligations which must be met and, besides, I have spent considerable sums which must be refunded—all of which, if I understand the law of the land rightly, means ruin.”
For some moments Mrs Brentwood sat in silent meditation. “Well,” she said at length, with the air of one who has made up her mind, “I don’t understand much about the law of the land. All I know is that my purse is full of gold just now, so I will snap my fingers at the law of the land and go right off to visit and succour our dear old Liz.”
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