No. 375.PARK NATIONAL BANK.Pay to Dan Mordaunt or order One Thousand Dollars.($1,000.)Barton & Rogers.
No. 375.
PARK NATIONAL BANK.Pay to Dan Mordaunt or order One Thousand Dollars.
($1,000.)Barton & Rogers.
Dan took the check, supposing it might be for twenty dollars or so. When he saw the amount, he started in excitement and incredulity.
"One thousand dollars!" he repeated, in bewilderment.
"Yes," said Mr. Rogers, smiling. "It is a large sum for a boy like you, Dan. I hope you will invest it wisely."
"But, sir, you don't mean all this for me?" said Dan.
"Indeed I do. It is less than ten per cent on the money you have saved for us."
"How can I thank you for your kindness, sir?" said Dan, gratefully.
"By continuing to serve us faithfully. By the way, what wages do we pay you?"
"Six dollars a week."
"It is too little. From this time you will draw ten dollars."
"You have made me rich, Mr. Rogers," said Dan, gratefully.
"It is a little better than selling papers in front of the Astor House, isn't it, Dan?"
"A good deal, sir."
"I hope you will continue to prosper. Now, Dan, let me give you two pieces of advice."
"I wish you would, sir."
"First, put this money in a good savings-bank, and don't draw upon it unless you are obliged to. Let it be a nest-egg."
"I mean to do that, sir."
"And next, spend a part of your earnings in improving your education. You have already had unusual advantages for a boy of your age, but youshould still be learning. It may help you, in a business point of view, to understand book-keeping."
"I will learn it, sir."
Dan not only did this, but resumed the study of both French and German, of which he had some elementary knowledge, and advanced rapidly in all.
Several months passed without any incidents worth recording.
Punctually every month Dan received a remittance of sixty dollars through a foreign banker, whose office was near Wall street.
Of this sum it may be remembered that ten dollars were to be appropriated to Althea's dress.
Of the little girl it may be said she was very happy in her new home. She formed a strong attachment for Mrs. Mordaunt, whom she called mamma, while she always looked forward with delight to Dan's return at night.
Mrs. Mordaunt was very happy in the child's companionship, and found the task of teaching her very congenial.
But for the little girl she would have had many lonely hours, since Dan was absent all day on business.
"I don't know what I shall do, Althea, when you go to school," she said one day.
"I don't want to go to school. Let me stay at home with you, mamma."
"For the present I can teach you, my dear, but the time will come when for your own good it will be better to go to school. I cannot teach you as well as the teachers you will find there."
"You know ever so much, mamma. Don't you know everything?"
Mrs. Mordaunt smiled.
"Compared with you, my dear, I seem to know a great deal, but there are others who know much more."
Althea was too young as yet, however, to attend school, and the happy home life continued.
Mrs. Mordaunt and Dan often wondered how long their mysterious ward was to remain with them. Had she a mother living? If so, how could that mother voluntarily forego her child's society?
These were questions they sometimes asked themselves, but no answer suggested itself. They were content to have them remain unanswered, so long as Althea might remain with them.
The increase of Dan's income, and the large sum he had on interest, would have enabled them to live comfortably even without the provision made for their young ward.
As it was they could do better. Dan felt himself justified in indulging in a little extravagance.
"Mother," said he, one evening, "I am thinking of taking a course of lessons in dancing."
"What has put that into your head, Dan?"
"Julia Rogers is to have a birthday party in two or three months, and I think from a hint her father dropped to-day I shall have an invitation. I shall feel awkward if I don't know how to dance. Besides——"
Here Dan hesitated.
"Well, Dan, what besides?"
"Tom Carver will be sure to be there, and if I don't dance, or if I am awkward, he will be sure to sneer at me."
"Will that make you feel bad, Dan?"
"Not exactly, but I don't want to appear at disadvantage when he is around. If I have been a newsboy, I want to show that I can take the part of gentleman as well as he."
"Does the ability to dance make a gentleman, Dan?"
"No, mother, but I should feel awkward without it. I don't want to be a wall-flower. What do you say to my plan, mother?"
"Carry it out by all means, Dan. There is no reason why you shouldn't hold up your head with any ofthem," and Mrs. Mordaunt's eyes rested with pride on the handsome face and manly expression of her son.
"You are a little prejudiced in my favor, mother," said Dan, smiling. "If I were as awkward as a cat in a strange garret, you wouldn't see it."
"I am not quite blind, Dan."
Dan accordingly decided to take lessons in dancing. He selected a fashionable teacher, although the price was high, for he thought it might secure him desirable acquaintances, purchased a handsome suit of clothes, and soon became very much interested in the lessons. He had a quick ear, a good figure, and a natural grace of movement, which soon made him noticeable in the class, and he was quite in demand among the young ladies as a partner.
He was no less a favorite socially, being agreeable as well as good-looking.
"Mr. Mordaunt," said the professor, "I wish all my scholars did me as much credit as you do. You dance beautifully."
"Thank you, sir," said Dan, modestly, but he felt gratified.
By the time the invitation came Dan had no fears as to acquitting himself creditably.
"I hope Tom Carver will be there," he said to his mother, as he was dressing for the party.
Mr. Rogers lived in a handsome brown-stone-front house up town.
As Dan approached, he saw the entire house brilliantly lighted. He passed beneath a canopy, over carpeted steps, to the front door, and rang the bell.
The door was opened by a stylish-looking colored man, whose grand air showed that he felt the importance and dignity of his position.
As Dan passed in he said:
"Gentlemen's dressing-room third floor back."
With a single glance through the open door at the lighted parlors, where several guests were already assembled, Dan followed directions, and went up stairs.
Entering the dressing-room, he saw a boy carefully arranging his hair before the glass.
"That's my friend, Tom Carver," said Dan to himself.
Tom was so busily engaged at his toilet that he didn't at once look at the new guest. When he hadleisure to look up, he seemed surprised, and remarked, superciliously:
"I didn't expect to seeyouhere."
"Why not?" demanded Dan, who understood his meaning.
"Are you engaged to look after this room? If so, just brush me."
"With all my heart, if you'll brush me," answered Dan, partly offended and partly amused.
"What do you mean?" demanded Tom, haughtily.
"Just what I say. One good turn deserves another."
"Our positions are rather different, I think."
"How so? You are a guest of Miss Rogers, and so am I."
"You don't mean to say that you are going down into the parlor?"
"Why not?"
"A boy who sells papers in front of the Astor House is not a suitable guest at a fashionable party."
"That is not your affair," said Dan, coldly. "But it is not true that I sell papers anywhere."
"Oh, I forgot. You're a shop-boy now. You used to sell papers, though."
"And I will again, if necessary," answered Dan, as he took Tom's place in front of the glass and began to arrange his toilet.
Then, for the first time, Tom took notice that Dan was dressed as well as himself, in a style with which the most captious critic could not find fault. Tom was both surprised and disappointed. He would have liked to see Dan in awkward, ill-fitting, or shabby clothes. It seemed to him that an ex-newsboy had no right to dress so well, and he was greatly puzzled to understand how he could afford it.
"Where did you borrow those clothes?" he asked, impudently.
"Where did you borrow yours?" retorted Dan.
"Don't be saucy."
"You set me the example."
"It is not remarkable that I should be well dressed. I can afford it."
"So can I," answered Dan, laconically.
"Do you mean to say that you bought that suit and paid for it?"
"I do."
"It must have taken all your money."
"You are very kind to take so much interest in me. It may relieve your mind to see this."
Dan took a roll of bills from his pocket, and displayed them to the astonished Tom.
"I don't see where you got so much money," said Tom, mystified.
"I've got more in the bank," said Dan. "Imention it to you that you needn't feel bad about my extravagance in buying a party suit."
"I wouldn't have come to this party if I had been you," said Tom, changing his tone.
"Why not?"
"You'll be so awkward, you know. You don't know any one except Miss Rogers, who, of course, invited you out of pity, not expecting you would accept."
"Did she tell you so?" asked Dan, smiling.
"No, but it stands to reason."
"You forget I know you," said Dan, smiling again.
"I beg you won't presume upon our former slight acquaintance," said Tom, hastily. "I shall be so busily occupied that I really can't give you any attention."
"Then I must shift for myself, I suppose," said Dan, good-humoredly. "Shall we go down?"
"Go first, if you like," said Tom, superciliously. "I will follow directly."
"He doesn't want to go down with me," thought Dan. "Perhaps I shall surprise him a little;" and he made his way down stairs.
As Dan entered the parlors he saw the young lady in whose honor the party was given only a few feet distant.
He advanced with perfect ease, and paid his respects.
"I am very glad to see you here this evening, Mr. Mordaunt," said Julia, cordially.
"What a handsome boy he is!" she thought. "I had no idea he would look so well."
Mentally she pronounced him the handsomest young gentleman present.
"Take your partners for a quadrille, young gentlemen," announced the master of ceremonies.
"Are you engaged, Miss Rogers?" asked Dan.
"Not as yet," answered the young lady, smiling.
"Then may I have the honor?"
"Certainly."
So it happened that as Tom Carver entered the room, he beheld, to his intense surprise and disgust, Dan leading the young hostess to her place in the quadrille.
"What a cheek that fellow has!" said Tom to himself. "I suppose he never attempted to dance in his life. It will be fun to watch his awkwardness. I am very much surprised that Julia should condescend to dance with him—a common newsboy."
At first Tom thought he wouldn't dance, but Mrs. Rogers approaching said:
"Tom, there's Jane Sheldon. She has no partner."
Accordingly Tom found himself leading up a little girl of eight.
There was no place except in the quadrille in which Dan and Julia Rogers were to dance. Tom found himself one of the "sides."
"Good-evening, Julia," he said, catching the eye of Miss Rogers.
"Good-evening, Tom. You are late."
"I am too late to be your partner."
"Yes, but you see I am not left a wall-flower," said the young lady, smiling. "Mr. Mordaunt kindly relieved me of that apprehension."
"You are fortunate," said Tom, sneering.
"I leave my partner to thank you for that compliment," said Julia, determined not to gratify Tom by appearing to understand the sneer.
"There's no occasion," said Tom, rudely.
"I am glad of it," said Dan, "for I am so unusedto compliments that I am afraid I should answer awkwardly."
"I can very well believe that," returned Tom, significantly.
Julia did not smile. She looked offended rather for she felt that rudeness to her partner reflected upon herself.
But here the music struck up, and the quadrille began.
"Now for awkwardness," said Tom to himself, and he watched Dan closely.
But, to his surprise, nothing could be neater or better modulated than Dan's movements. Instead of hopping about, as Tom thought he would, he was thoroughly graceful.
"Where could the fellow have learned to dance?" he asked himself, in disappointment.
Julia was gratified; for, to tell the truth, she too had not been altogether without misgivings on the subject of Dan's dancing, and, being herself an excellent dancer, she would have found it a little disagreeable if Dan had proved awkward.
The quadrille proceeded, and Tom was chagrined that the newsboy, as he mentally termed Dan, had proved a better dancer than himself.
"Oh, well, it's easy to dance in a quadrille," he saidto himself, by way of consolation. "He won't venture on any of the round dances."
But as Dan was leading Julia to her seat he asked her hand in the next polka, and was graciously accepted.
He then bowed and left her, knowing that he ought not to monopolize the young hostess.
Although Tom had told Dan not to expect any attentions from him, he was led by curiosity to accost our hero.
"It seems that newsboys dance," said he.
"Does it?" asked Dan, indifferently.
"But it was not in very good taste for you to engage Miss Rogers for the first dance."
"Why not?"
"It was making yourself too prominent."
"Somebody had to be prominent, or Miss Rogers would have been left to dance by herself."
"There are others who would have made more suitable partners for her."
"Yourself, for instance."
"Yes."
"I am sorry to have stood in your way."
"Oh, you needn't mind. I shall have plenty of opportunities of dancing with her, and you won't. I suppose she took pity on you, as you know no other young lady here."
Just then a pretty girl, beautifully dressed, approached Dan.
"Good-evening, Mr. Mordaunt," she said, offering her hand with a beaming smile.
"Good-evening, Miss Carroll," said Dan. "Are you engaged for the galop?"
Miss Carroll shook her head.
"Then will you give me the pleasure?"
In a minute Dan was whirling round the room with the young lady, greatly to Tom's amazement, for Edith Carroll was from a family of high social standing, living on Murray Hill.
"How in the duse does Dan Mordaunt know that girl?" Tom asked himself, with a frown. "They spoke as if they were acquainted."
To Tom's further disappointment Dan danced as gracefully in the galop as in the quadrille.
When the galop was over, Dan promenaded with another young lady, whose acquaintance he had made at dancing-school, and altogether seemed as much at his ease as if he had been attending parties all his life.
Tom managed to obtain Edith Carroll as a partner.
"I didn't know you were acquainted with Dan Mordaunt," he said.
"Oh, yes, I know him very well. Doesn't he dance charmingly?"
"Humph!" said Tom, not very well pleased. "I thought him rather awkward."
"How can you say so, Mr. Carver? Why I think he dancesbeautifully, and so do all the girls."
"How do the girls know how he dances?"
"Why he goes to our dancing-school. The professor says he is his best pupil. We all like to dance with him."
"That's fortunate for him," said Tom, with a sneer. "Perhaps he may become a dancing-master in time."
"He would make a good one, but I don't think he's very likely to do that."
"It would be a good thing for him. He is poor, you know."
"No, I don't. I am sure he dresses well. He is as well-dressed as any young gentleman here."
This was true, and Tom resented it. He felt that Dan had no right to dress well.
"He ought not to spend so much money on dress when he has his mother to support," he said, provoked.
"It seems to me you take a great deal of interest in Mr. Mordaunt," said the young beauty, pointedly.
"Oh, no; he can do as he likes for all me, but, ofcourse, when a boy in his position dresses as if he were rich one can't help noticing it."
"I am sure he can't be very poor, or he could not attend Dodworth's dancing-school. At any rate I like to dance with him, and I don't care whether he's poor or rich."
Presently Tom saw Dan dancing the polka with Julia Rogers, and with the same grace that he had exhibited in the other dances.
He felt jealous, for he fancied himself a favorite with Julia, because their families being intimate, he saw a good deal of her.
On the whole Tom was not enjoying the party. He did succeed, however, in obtaining the privilege of escorting Julia to supper.
Just in front of him was Dan, escorting a young lady from Fifth avenue.
"Mr. Mordaunt appears to be enjoying himself," said Julia Rogers.
"Yes, he has plenty of cheek," muttered Tom.
"Excuse me, Tom, but do you think such expressions suitable for such an occasion as this?"
"I am sorry you don't like it, but I never saw a more forward or presuming fellow than this Dan Mordaunt."
"I beg you to keep your opinion to yourself," said Julia Rogers, with dignity. "I find he is a greatfavorite with all the young ladies here. I had no idea he knew so many of them."
Tom gave it up. It seemed to him that all the girls were infatuated with a common newsboy, while his vanity was hurt by finding himself quite distanced in the race.
About twelve o'clock the two boys met in the dressing-room.
"You seemed to enjoy yourself," said Tom, coldly.
"Yes, thanks to your kind attentions," answered Dan, with a smile. "It is pleasant to meet old friends, you know. By the way, I suppose we shall meet at Miss Carroll's party."
"Areyouto be invited?" asked Tom, in astonishment.
"So the young lady tells me," answered Dan, smiling.
"I supposeyou'llbe giving a fashionable party next," said Tom, with a sneer.
"Consider yourself invited if I do. Good-night, and pleasant dreams."
But Dan's dreams were by no means sweet that night.
When he reached home, it was to hear of a great and startling misfortune.
At half-past twelve Dan ascended the stairs to his mother's room. He had promised to come in and tell her how he had enjoyed himself at the party. He was in excellent spirits on account of the flattering attentions he had received. It was in this frame of mind that he opened the door. What was his surprise, even consternation, when his mother advanced to meet him with tearful eyes and an expression of distress.
"Oh, Dan, I am so glad you have got home!" she ejaculated.
"What is the matter, mother? Are you sick?" asked Dan.
"I am quite well, Dan; but Althea——"
And Mrs. Mordaunt burst into tears.
"What has happened to Althea? Is she sick?" asked Dan, alarmed.
"We have lost her, Dan."
"Lost her! You don't mean she is——"
He couldn't finish the sentence, but his mother divined what he meant.
"Not dead, thank God!" she said, "but she has disappeared—she has been stolen."
"You don't mean it, mother!" exclaimed Dan, startled and grieved. "Tell me about it."
Mrs. Mordaunt told what she knew, but that related only to the particulars of the abduction. We are in a position to tell the reader more, but it will be necessary to go back for a month, and transfer the scene to another continent.
In a spacious and handsomely furnished apartment at the West End of London sat the lady who had placed Althea in charge of the Mordaunts. She was deep in thought, and that not of an agreeable nature.
"I fear," she said to herself, "that trouble awaits me. John Hartley, whom I supposed to be in California, is certainly in London. I cannot be mistaken in his face, and I certainly saw him in Hyde Park to-day. Did he see me? I don't know, but I fear he did. If so, he will not long delay in making his appearance. Then I shall be persecuted, but I must be firm. He shall not learn through me where Althea is. He is her father, it is true, but he has forfeited all claim to her guardianship. A confirmed gambler and drunkard, he would soon waste her fortune, bequeathed her by her poor mother. He can have no possible claim to it; for, apart from his having had no hand inleaving it to her, he was divorced from my poor sister before her death."
At this point there was a knock at the door of the room.
"Come in," said the lady.
There entered a young servant-maid, who courtesied, and said:
"Mrs. Vernon, there is a gentleman who wishes to see you."
"Can it be Hartley?" thought the lady, with quick suspicion.
"Did he give his name?" she asked.
"Yes, mum; he said his name was Bancroft."
"Bancroft! I know no one of that name," mused the lady. "Well, Margaret, you may show him up, and you may remain in the anteroom within call."
Her eyes were fixed upon the door with natural curiosity, when her visitor entered.
Instantly her face flushed, and her eyes sparkled with anger.
"John Hartley!" she exclaimed.
The visitor smiled mockingly.
"I see you know me, Harriet Vernon," he said. "It is some time since we met, is it not? I am charmed, I am sure, to see my sister-in-law looking so well."
He sank into a chair without waiting for an invitation.
"When did you change your name to Bancroft?" demanded the lady, abruptly.
"Oh," he said, showing his teeth, "that was a little ruse. I feared you would have no welcome for John Hartley, notwithstanding our near relationship, and I was forced to sail under false colors."
"It was quite in character," said Mrs. Vernon, coldly; "you were always false. But you need not claim relationship. The slender tie that connected us was broken when my sister obtained a divorce from you."
"You think so, my lady," said the visitor, dropping his tone of mocking badinage, and regarding her in a menacing manner, "but you were never more mistaken. You may flatter yourself that you are rid of me, but you flatter yourself in vain."
"Do you come here to threaten me, John Hartley?"
"I come here to ask for my child. Where is Althea?"
"Where you cannot get at her," answered Mrs. Vernon, coldly.
"Don't think to put me off in that way," he said, fiercely. "I will know where she is."
"Don't think to terrify me, John Hartley," said thelady, contemptuously. "I am not so easily alarmed as your poor wife."
Hartley looked at her as if he would have assaulted her had he dared, but she knew very well that he did not dare. He was a bully, but he was a coward.
"You refuse, then, to tell me what you have done with my child?" he demanded, at length.
"I do."
"Take care, madam! A father has some rights, and the law will not permit his child to be kept from him."
"Does your anxiety to see Althea arise from parental affection?" she asked, in a sarcastic tone.
"Never mind what it springs from. I have a right to the custody of my child."
"I suppose you have a right to waste her fortune also at the gaming-table."
"I have a right to act as my child's guardian," he retorted.
"A fine guardian you would make!" she said, contemptuously.
"Why should I not?" he asked, sulkily.
"Why should you not, John Hartley? Do I need to answer the question? You ill-treated and abused her mother. You wasted half her fortune. Fortunately, she escaped from you before it was all gone. But you shortened her life, and she did not longsurvive the separation. It was her last request that I should care for her child—that I should, above all, keep her out of your clutches. I made that promise, and I mean to keep it."
"You poisoned my wife's mind against me," he said. "But for your cursed interference we should never have separated."
"You are right, perhaps, in your last statement. I certainly did urge my sister to leave you. I obtained her consent to the application for a divorce, but as to poisoning her mind against you, there was no need of that. By your conduct and your treatment you destroyed her love and forfeited her respect, and she saw the propriety of the course which I recommended."
"I didn't come here to be lectured. You can spare your invectives, Harriet Vernon. What is past is past. I was not a model husband, perhaps, but I was as good as the average."
"If that is the case, Heaven help the woman who marries!"
"Or the man that marries a woman like you!"
"You are welcome to your opinion of me. I am entirely indifferent to your good or bad opinion. Have you any more to say?"
"Any more to say! I have hardly begun. Is my daughter Althea with you?"
"I don't recognize your right to question me on this subject, but I will answer you. She is not with me."
"Is she in London?"
"I will even answer that question. She is not in London."
"Is she in England?"
"That I will not tell you. You have learned enough."
John Hartley did not answer immediately. He appeared to be occupied with some thought. When he spoke it was in a more conciliatory tone.
"I don't doubt that she is in good hands," he said. "I am sure you will treat her kindly. Perhaps you are a better guardian than I. I am willing to leave her in your hands, but I ought to have some compensation."
"What do you mean?"
"Althea has a hundred thousand dollars, yielding at least five thousand dollars income. Probably her expenses are little more than one-tenth of this sum. While my child is rich I am poor. Give me half her income—say three thousand dollars annually—and I will give you and her no further trouble."
"I thought that was the object of your visit," said Mrs. Vernon, coldly. "I was right in giving you no credit for parental affection. In regard to yourproposition, I cannot entertain it. You had one half of my sister's fortune, and you spent it. You have no further claim on her money."
"Is this your final answer?" he demanded, angrily.
"It is."
"Then I swear to you that I will be even with you. I will find the child, and when I do you shall never see her again."
Mrs. Vernon rang the bell.
Margaret entered.
"Margaret," she said, coldly, "will you show this gentleman out?"
John Hartley rose and bowed ironically.
"You are certainly very polite, Harriet Vernon," he said. "You are bold, too, for you are defying me, and that is dangerous. You had better reconsider your determination, before it is too late."
"It will never be too late; I can at any time buy you off," she said, contemptuously. "All you want is money."
"We shall see," he hissed, eying her malignantly.
"Margaret," said Mrs. Vernon, when her visitor had been shown out, "never admit that person again; I am always out to him."
"Yes, mum," said the girl. "I wonder who 'twas," she thought, curiously.
John Hartley, when a young man, had wooed and won Althea's mother. Julia Belmont was a beautiful and accomplished girl, an heiress in her own right, and might have made her choice among at least a dozen suitors. That she should have accepted the hand of John Hartley, a banker's clerk, reputed "fast," was surprising, but a woman's taste in such a case is often hard to explain or justify. Her sister—now Mrs. Vernon—strenuously objected to the match, and by so doing gained the hatred of her future brother-in-law. Opposition proved ineffectual, and Julia Belmont became Mrs. Hartley. Her fortune amounted to two hundred thousand dollars. The trustee and her sister succeeded in obtaining her consent that half of this sum should be settled on herself, and her issue, should she have any.
This proved to be a wise precaution. John Hartley resigned his position immediately after marriage, and declined to enter upon any business.
"Why should I?" he said. "Julia and I haveenough to live upon. If I am out of business I can devote myself more entirely to her."
This reasoning satisfied his young wife, and for a time all went well. But Hartley joined a fashionable club, formed a taste for gambling, indulged in copious libations, not unfrequently staggering home drunk, to the acute sorrow of his wife, and then excesses soon led to ill-treatment. The money, which he could spend in a few years, melted away, and he tried to gain possession of the remainder of his wife's property. But, meanwhile, Althea was born, and a consideration for her child's welfare strengthened the wife in her firm refusal to accede to this unreasonable demand.
"You shall have the income, John," she said—"I will keep none back; but the principal must be kept for Althea."
"You care more for the brat than you do for me," he muttered.
"I care for you both," she answered. "You know how the money would go, John. We should all be left destitute."
"That meddling sister of yours has put you up to this," he said, angrily.
"There was no need of that. It is right, and I have decided for myself."
"Your first duty is to your husband."
"I feel that in refusing I am doing my duty by you."
"It is a strange way—to oppose your husband's wishes. Women ought never to be trusted with money—they don't know how to take care of it."
"You are not the person to say this, John. In five years you have wasted one hundred thousand dollars."
"It was bad luck in investments," he replied.
"I am afraid you are right. Investing money at the gaming-table is not very profitable."
"Do you mean to insult me, madam?" exclaimed Hartley, furiously.
"I am only telling the sad truth, John."
He forgot himself and struck her.
She withdrew, flushed and indignant, for she had spirit enough to resent this outrage, and he left the house in a furious rage.
When Hartley found that there was no hope of carrying his point, all restraint seemed removed. He plunged into worse excesses, and his treatment became so bad that Mrs. Hartley consented to institute proceedings for divorce. It was granted, and the child was given to her. Hartley disappeared for a time. When he returned his wife had died of pneumonia, and her sister—Mrs. Vernon, now a widow—had assumed the care of Althea. An attempt to gain possession of the child induced her to find anotherguardian for the child. This was the way Althea had come into the family of our young hero.
Thus much, that the reader may understand the position of affairs, and follow intelligently the future course of the story.
When John Hartley left the presence of his sister-in-law, he muttered maledictions upon her.
"I'll have the child yet, if only to spite her," he muttered, between his teeth. "I won't allow a jade to stand between me and my own flesh and blood. I must think of some plan to circumvent her."
This was not easy. He had absolutely no clew, and little money to assist him in his quest. But Fortune, which does not always favor the brave, but often helps the undeserving, came unexpectedly to his help.
At an American banker's he ran across an old acquaintance—one who had belonged to the same club as himself in years past.
"What are you doing here, Hartley?" he asked.
"Not much. Luck is against me."
"Sorry to hear it. By the way, I was reminded of you not long since."
"How is that?"
"I saw your child in Union Square, in New York."
"Are you sure of it?" asked Hartley, eagerly. "Are you sure it was my child?"
"Of course; I used to see it often, you know. She is a bright little thing."
"Do you know where she lives?" asked Hartley. "Did you follow her?"
"Don'tyouknow where she lives?"
"No; her aunt is keeping the child from me. I am very anxious to find her."
"That accounts for it. She was with a middle-aged lady, who evidently was suspicious of me, for she did not bring out the child but once more, and was clearly anxious when I took notice of her."
"She was acting according to instructions, no doubt."
"Very probably."
"I wish you had learned more."
"So do I. Why do they keepyouaway from her?"
"Because she has money, and they wish to keep it in their hands," said Hartley, plausibly. "The aunt is a very mercenary woman. She is living here in London, doubtless on my little girl's fortune."
John Hartley knew that this was not true, for Mrs. Vernon was a rich woman; but it suited his purpose to say so, and the statement was believed by his acquaintance.
"This is bad treatment, Hartley," he said, in a tone of sympathy.
"Isn't it?"
"What are you going to do about it?"
"Try to find out where the child is placed, and get possession of her."
"I wish you success."
This information John Hartley felt to be of value. It narrowed his search, and made success much less difficult.
In order to obtain more definite information, he lay in wait for Mrs. Vernon's servant.
Margaret at first repulsed him, but a sovereign judiciously slipped into her hand convinced her that Hartley was quite the gentleman, and he had no difficulty, by the promise of a future douceur, in obtaining her co-operation.
"What is it you want, sir?" she asked. "If it's no harm you mean my missus——"
"Certainly not, but she is keeping my child from me. You can understand a father's wish to see his child, my dear girl."
"Indeed, I think it's cruel to keep her from you, sir."
"Then look over your mistress' papers and try to obtain the street and number where she is boarding in New York. I have a right to know that."
"Of course you have, sir," said the girl, readily.
So it came about that the girl obtained Dan's address, and communicated it to John Hartley.
As soon as possible afterward Hartley sailed for New York.
"I'll secure the child," he said to himself, exultingly, "and then my sweet sister-in-law must pay roundly for her if she wants her back."
All which attested the devoted love of John Hartley for his child.
Arrived in New York, John Hartley lost no time in ascertaining where Dan and his mother lived. In order the better to watch without incurring suspicion, he engaged by the week a room in a house opposite, which, luckily for his purpose, happened to be for rent. It was a front window, and furnished him with a post of observation from which he could see who went in and out of the house opposite.
Hartley soon learned that it would not be so easy as he had anticipated to gain possession of the little girl. She never went out alone, but always accompanied either by Dan or his mother.
Hartley was disappointed. If, now, Althea were attending school, there would be an opportunity to kidnap her. As it was, he was at his wits' end.
At last, however, opportunity favored him.
On the evening of the party Mrs. Mordaunt chanced to need some small article necessary to the work upon which she was engaged. She might indeed wait until the next day, but she was repairing a vest of Dan's,which he would need to wear in the morning, and she did not like to disappoint him.
"My child," she said, "I find I must go out a little while."
"What for, mamma?"
"I want to buy some braid to bind Dan's vest. He will want to wear it in the morning."
"May I go with you, mamma?"
"No, my child. You can be reading your picture-book till I come back. I won't be long."
So Mrs. Mordaunt put on her street dress, and left the house in the direction of Eighth avenue, where there was a cheap store at which she often traded.
No sooner did Hartley see her leave the house, as he could readily do, for the night was light, than he hurried to Union Square, scarcely five minutes distant, and hailed a cab-driver.
"Do you want a job, my man?" he asked.
"Yes, sir."
"Can you hold your tongue?"
"Yes, sir, if necessary."
"It is necessary."
"There is nothing wrong, sir, I hope."
"Certainly not. My child has been kidnapped during my absence in Europe. With your help I mean to recover her."
"All right, sir."
"She is in the custody of some designing persons, who keep possession of her on account of a fortune which she is to inherit. She does not know me to be her father, we have been so long separated; but I feel anxious to take her away from her treacherous guardians."
"You are right, sir. I've got a little girl of my own, and I understand your feelings. Where shall we go?"
Hartley gave the proper address. Fifteen minutes afterward the cab drew up before Mrs. Brown's door, and Hartley, springing from it, rang the bell. It so happened that Mrs. Brown was out, and a servant answered the bell. She looked inquiringly at the visitor.
"A lady lives here with a little girl," he said, quickly.
"Yes, sir; Mrs. Mordaunt."
"Precisely; and the little girl is named Althea."
"You are right, sir."
"Mrs. Mordaunt has been run over by a street-car, and been carried into my house. She wishes the little girl to come at once to her."
"Is she much hurt?" asked Nancy, anxiously.
"I am afraid her leg is broken; but I can't wait. Will you bring the little girl down at once?"
"Oh, yes, sir. I'll lose no time."
Nancy went up stairs two steps at a time, and broke into Mrs. Mordaunt's room breathless.
"Put on your hat at once, Miss Althea," she said.
"What for?" asked the child, in surprise.
"Your ma has sent for you."
"But she said she was coming right back."
"She's hurt, and she can't come, and she has sent for you. Don't cry, my dear."
"But how shall I know where to go, Nancy?"
"There's a kind gentleman at the door with a carriage. Your ma has been taken to his home."
The little girl began to cry once more.
"Oh! I'm afraid mamma's been killed," she said.
"No, she hasn't, or how could she send for you?"
This argument tended to reassure Althea, and she put on her little shawl and hat, and hurried down stairs.
Hartley was waiting for her impatiently, fearing that Mrs. Mordaunt would come back sooner than was anticipated, and so interfere with the fulfillment of his plans.
"Is mamma very much hurt?" asked Althea, anxiously.
"So she calls this woman mamma," said Hartley to himself.
"Not very badly, but she cannot come hometo-night. Get into the carriage, and I will tell you about it as we are riding to her."
He hurried the little girl into the carriage, and taking a seat beside her, ordered the cabman to drive on.
He had before directed him to drive to the South Ferry.
"How did mamma get hurt?" asked the child.
"She was crossing the street," said Hartley, "when she got in the way of a carriage and was thrown down and run over."
The child began to cry.
"Oh, she will die!" she exclaimed, sobbing.
"No, she will not die. The carriage was not a heavy one, luckily, and she is only badly bruised. She will be all right in a few days."
John Hartley was a trifle inconsistent in his stories, having told the servant that Mrs. Mordaunt had been run over by a street-car; but in truth he had forgotten the details of his first narrative, and had modified it in the second telling. However, Nancy had failed to tell the child precisely how Mrs. Mordaunt had been hurt, and she was not old enough to be suspicious.
"Where is mamma?" was the little girl's next question.
"She is at my house."
"Where is your house?"
"Not far from here," answered Hartley, evasively.
"Then I shall soon see mamma."
"Is she your mamma?" asked Hartley.
"No, not my own mamma, but I call her so. I love her dearly."
"Where is your own mamma?"
"She is dead."
"Do you remember her?"
"A little."
"Have you a papa?"
"My papa is a very bad man. He treated poor mamma very badly."
"Who told you this?" demanded Hartley, frowning. "Was it Mrs. Mordaunt?"
"No; it was auntie."
"I thought this was some of Harriet Vernon's work," said Hartley to himself. "It seems like my amiable sister-in-law. She might have been in better business than poisoning my child's mind against me."
"Who else lives with you?" he asked, partly out of curiosity, but mainly to occupy the child's mind, so that she might not be fully conscious of the lapse of time.
"My brother Dan."
"How old is Dan?"
"I don't know. He is a good deal bigger than me."
"Do you like Dan?"
"Oh, yes; Dan is a nice boy. He buys me candy. He has gone to a party to-night."
"Has he?"
"And he won't be home till late. He told mamma so."
"I am glad of that," thought Hartley. "It is the better for my purpose."
"Dan is a smart boy. He earns lots of money."
"What does he do?"
"I don't know. He goes down town every morning, and he doesn't come home till supper time."
Hartley managed to continue his inquiries about Dan, but at last Althea became restless.
"Are we most there?" she asked.
"Yes, we are almost there."
"I don't see how mamma could have gone so far."
John Hartley looked out.
"I see how it is," he said. "The cab-driver lost the way, and that has delayed us."
This satisfied the child for a time. Meanwhile they reached the South Ferry, and Hartley began to consider in what way he could explain their crossing the water.
After a moment's thought Hartley took a flask from his pocket, into which he had dropped a sleeping potion, and offered it to the child.
"Drink, my dear," he said; "it will do you good."
It was a sweet wine and pleasant to the taste. Althea drank considerable.
"What is it? It tastes good," she said.
"It is a cordial," answered Hartley.
"I like it. I will ask mamma to get some. How long is it? Are we most there?"
"Almost."
"I feel very sleepy," said Althea, drowsily, the potion having already begun to attack her.
"Lean back and shut your eyes. I will tell you when we have arrived."
The innocent and unsuspecting child did as she was directed. Her little head nodded. She struggled against the increasing drowsiness, but in vain. In five minutes she was fast asleep.
"There will be no further trouble," thought Hartley. "When she wakes up it will be morning. My plan has been a complete success."
It might have been supposed that some instinct of parental affection would have made it disagreeable to this man to kidnap his own child by such means, but John Hartley had never been troubled with a heart or natural affections. He was supremely selfish, and surveyed the sleeping child as coolly and indifferently as if he had never before set eyes upon her.
Two miles and a half beyond the South Ferry, in a thinly settled outlying district of Brooklyn, stood a three-story brick house, shabby and neglected in appearance, bearing upon a sign over the door the name
DONOVAN'S
Wines and Liquors.
It was the nightly resort of a set of rough and lawless men, many of them thieves and social outlaws, who drank and smoked as they sat at small tables in the sand-strewn bar-room.
Hugh Donovan himself had served a term at Sing Sing for burglary, and was suspected to be indirectly interested in the ventures of others engaged in similar offenses, though he managed to avoid arrest.
John Hartley ordered the hackman to stop. He sprang from the carriage, and unceremoniously entered the bar-room. Donovan, a short, thickset man with reddish whiskers, a beard of a week's growth, and but one serviceable eye, sat in a wooden arm-chair, smoking a clay pipe. There were two other men in the room, and a newsboy sat dozing on a settee.
Donovan looked up, and his face assumed a look of surprise as he met the glance of the visitor, whom he appeared to know.
"Where did you come from, Mr. Hartley?" he asked, taking the pipe from his mouth.
"Hist! Come out here," said Hartley.
Donovan obeyed directions.
"Is your wife at home, Hugh?" asked Hartley.
"Yes, Mr. Hartley. She's up stairs."
"I have a job for her and for you."
"What is it now?"
"I have a child in that carriage. I want her taken care of for a few days or weeks."
"Shure, the old woman isn't a very good protector for a gal. She's drunk half the time."
"I can't help it. There are reasons—imperative reasons—why the girl should be concealed for a time, and I can think of no other place than this."
"Who is the girl?"
"It is my own child."
Donovan whistled.
"I see you are surprised. I have little time for explanation, but I may tell you that she has been kept from me by my enemies, who wanted to get hold of her money."
"Has she got money?" asked Donovan, with curiosity.
"She will have, sometime. She is her mother's heiress."
"Did the old lady leave it all away from you, then? Shure, it's hard."
"Of course it is. The least I can expect is to be made guardian of my own child. But we are wasting time. Is there no way of getting up stairs except by passing through the bar-room?"
"Yes, Mr. Hartley, we can go up the back way. Just take the child and follow me."
Hartley did so. At the rear of the house was a stair-way, up which he clambered, bearing the sleeping child in his arms.
Donovan pushed the door open, and disclosed a dirty room, with his better-half—a tall, gaunt woman—reclining in a rocking-chair, evidently partially under the influence of liquor, as might be guessed from a black bottle on a wooden table near by.
She stared in astonishment at her husband's companions.
"Shure, Hugh, who is it you're bringin' here?"
"It's a child, old woman, that you're to have the care of."
"Divil a bit do I want a child to worrit me."
"You'll be well paid, Mrs. Donovan," said John Hartley.
"Will I get the money, or Hugh?" asked the Celtic lady.
"You shall have half, Bridget," said her husband.
"Will you shwar it?" asked the lady, cautiously.
"Yes, I'll swear it."
"And how much will it be?"
"I will pay ten dollars a week—half to you, and half to your husband," said Hartley. "Here's a week's pay in advance," and he took out two five-dollar bills, one of which was eagerly clutched by Mrs. Donovan.
"I'll take care of her," said she, readily. "What's her name?"
"Althea."
"Shure that's a quare name. I niver heard the like."
"You needn't call her that. You can call her any name you like," said Hartley, indifferently. "Perhaps you had better call her Katy, as there maybe a hue and cry after her, and that may divert suspicion."
"How old is the crathur?"
"Five or six—I forget which. Where shall I put her?"
"Put her in here," said Mrs. Donovan, and she opened the door of a small room, in which was a single untidy bed.
"She won't wake up till morning. I gave her a sleeping potion—otherwise she might have made a fuss, for she doesn't know me to be her father."
"Shure ye knew what to do."
"Now, Mrs. Donovan, I depend upon your keeping her safe. It will not do to let her escape, for she might find her way back to the people from whom I have taken her."
"I'll see to that, Mr. Hartley," said Donovan.
"Say nothing about me in connection with the matter, Donovan. I will communicate with you from time to time. If the police are put on the track, I depend on your sending her away to some other place of security."
"All right, sir."
"And now good-night. I shall go back to New York at once. I must leave you to pacify her as well as you can when she awakes. She is sure to make a fuss."
"I'll trate her like my own child," said Mrs. Donovan.
Had Hartley been a devoted father, this assurance from the coarse, red-faced woman would have been satisfactory, but he cared only for the child as a means of replenishing his pockets, and gave himself no trouble.
The hackman was still waiting at the door.
"It's a queer place to leave a child," thought he, as his experienced eye took in the features of the place. "It appears to be a liquor saloon. The gentleman can't be very particular. However, it is none of my business. I suppose it is all right."
"Driver, I am ready," said Hartley. "I'll go back with you."
"All right, sir."
"Go over Fulton Ferry, and leave me at your stand in Union Square."
The ride was a long one. Hartley threw himself back on the seat, and gave himself up to pleasant self-congratulation.
"I think this will bring Harriet Vernon to terms," he said. "She will find that she can't stand between me and my child. If she will make it worth my while, she shall have the child back, but I propose to see that my interests are secured."
The next morning Hartley stepped into an up-townhotel, and wrote a letter to his sister-in-law in London, demanding that four thousand dollars be sent him yearly, in quarterly payments, in consideration of which he agreed to give up the child, and abstain from further molestation.