CHAPTER XXVII.A SHOCK.
What is life? ’Tis like the ocean,In its placid hours of rest,—Sleeping calmly, no emotionRising on its tranquil breast.But, too soon, the heavenly skyIs obscured by Nature’s hand;And the whirlwind, passing by,Leaves a wreck upon the strand.—Anonymous.
What is life? ’Tis like the ocean,In its placid hours of rest,—Sleeping calmly, no emotionRising on its tranquil breast.But, too soon, the heavenly skyIs obscured by Nature’s hand;And the whirlwind, passing by,Leaves a wreck upon the strand.—Anonymous.
What is life? ’Tis like the ocean,In its placid hours of rest,—Sleeping calmly, no emotionRising on its tranquil breast.
What is life? ’Tis like the ocean,
In its placid hours of rest,—
Sleeping calmly, no emotion
Rising on its tranquil breast.
But, too soon, the heavenly skyIs obscured by Nature’s hand;And the whirlwind, passing by,Leaves a wreck upon the strand.—Anonymous.
But, too soon, the heavenly sky
Is obscured by Nature’s hand;
And the whirlwind, passing by,
Leaves a wreck upon the strand.—Anonymous.
“A black cloud, that! rising over yonder—we shall have dirty weather to-night,” said the master of the “Flying Foam,” coming to the side of Dick Hammond, as the latter stood leaning over the bulwarks of the yacht and looking out upon the receding town and shores of St. Aubins.
Dick raised his eyes to a long black line just visible above the heights of Noirmont, and then said:
“Yes; I think it looks threatening; but the ‘Flying Foam’ is a sea-worthy little craft, I suppose?”
“Bless you, yes, sir! I’ve seen her ride safely over seas that would have swamped a ship of the line,” answered the master, as he went forward to make ready for the expected “dirty weather.”
And dirty weather it was, though not so “dirty” as to endanger the safety of the yacht.
The cloud arose, and spread, and covered the whole face of the heavens as with a black pall, in strange and terrible contrast to the surface of the sea, now lashed into a white foam. A driving storm of wind and rain came on.
Dick, who much preferred the comfortable to the sublime, left the deck and went below to smoke and read by the light of the cabin lamp. But, after one or two attempts, he found the reading process quite impracticable by the motion of the vessel, and so he gave it up.
After a while, he was joined by the master, who had left the deck in charge of his mate.
“It has turned into a settled rain that will last allnight,” said Captain Wallace, as he took the chair Dick pushed towards him; for Dick, as one of the parties hiring the yacht, was king of the cabin.
“Disagreeable, but not dangerous,” was Dick’s cool comment as he pushed his case of cigars toward his guest.
“Thank you, sir; but, if you don’t mind, I’ll take my pipe,” said Captain Wallace, who soon comprehended that he might take liberties with this good-humored young man who was but too ready to fraternize with the first companion fortune favored him with.
And there the two men sat and smoked through the first hours of the dismal night.
At midnight, they turned in.
Dick slept long and well. It was late in the morning when he awoke. Judging from his previous day’s experience, he thought the yacht must be in port or near it. He dressed himself quickly, and went on deck. He found himself still at sea. A slow, steady rain was falling, and dark clouds closed in the horizon. The dismal night had been followed by a dismal day; and the worst of it was, that he could not sleep through the day as he had slept through the night.
“Good morning to you, sir! a dark sky!” said the master, coming up to his side.
“Yes. Are we near port?”
“Within twenty miles.”
“How fast are we going?”
“How slow, you mean? The wind is against us—we are not making more than four knots an hour.”
“At that rate, we shall not make Southampton in less than five hours. Let me see,” said Dick, consulting his watch,—“it is now ten o’clock. We shall not, at this rate, get in before three.”
“No, sir; but you’ll have some breakfast now?”
“Thanks, yes! it will help to pass the time, at least.”
The master beckoned a boy, and sent a message to the steward.
And, in half an hour afterwards the appetizing breakfast of the yacht was served; and Dick did his usual justice to the meal.
Afterwards he killed the time as well as he could by reading a little, talking a little, and smoking a little.
Affairs also turned out rather better than he had expected. At noon the wind changed, the sky cleared, the sun shone out, and the “Flying Foam,” with all her sails set, skimmed over the seas towards England at the rate of eleven knots an hour.
At one o’clock she dropped anchor at Southampton.
Dick settled his last scores with the master,—who was master afloat, and agent ashore,—and then he inquired:
“Do you know anything about the up train, captain?”
“There is an express train starts at a quarter before two, and there is not another train until five,” answered the master.
“I’ll take that train,” exclaimed Dick.
And he made all his own little preparations, and he hurried the men that were getting out the boat to take him ashore.
As soon as he stepped on shore, he ran and called a cab, jumped into it, and, having given his hasty order, was driven rapidly to the station. He was just in time to secure his ticket, spring into a half-empty carriage—and not a moment to spare before the express started.
It was not until the train was in motion and his own hurry was over, that he recollected one or two things that might have been attended to had he chosen to wait a few minutes. First and nearest, he might have taken his change from the cabman, whose fare was half a crown, and to whom he had thrown half a sovereign.
But Dick did not the least regret that neglect.
And then he might have called at the International to see if any letters had been left for him. But neither, upon reflection, did Dick regret this neglect. He considered it was not probable any letters were awaiting there; or, if there were, that they should be of much importance; or, even if so, whether he were not doing the very thing that should be done under such supposatory circumstances, namely, hurrying back to London by the express train. So, upon the whole, Dick was glad he forgot to lose time and miss the express by calling at the International to inquire for letters.
The train flew on with its usual lightning rate of speed and at five o’clock reached its station in London.
He got out upon the platform, carpet-bag in hand, andbegan to look for a cab, when he heard a little voice calling:
“Dit! Dit! oh, Dit! tome here, Dit!”
In great surprise he looked about him, confidently expecting to see little Lenny and Pina, and perhaps Anna and Drusilla, come to the station on the chance of meeting him.
But he saw no one that he knew. And though he plunged into the crowd seeking the owner of the little voice in the direction from which he had heard it, he saw nothing of either little Lenny or his nurse.
At length, thinking that he had been mistaken, he gave up the quest, and took a cab for Trafalgar Square.
Afterwards he recollected, as a dream or a vision, the momentary flitting through the crowd of a ragged woman with a child in her arms.
But at the instant of seeing these, he had not dreamed of connecting them in any way with the voice he had heard. With something of that vague anxiety we all feel in returning home, even after a short absence, Richard Hammond hurried to Trafalgar Square.
As soon as he reached the Morley House, he sprang from the cab, tossed a crown piece to the cabman, and without waiting for the change, ran into the house and up to his apartments.
He went straight to the drawing-room, where he found Anna sitting in the window seat.
She turned, and with an exclamation of pleasure started up to meet him.
“Oh, Dick I am so glad you have come back! What news? How did it all end?” she breathlessly inquired as she threw herself into his arms.
“In two words—not fatally,” he answered as he embraced her.
“Thank Heaven for that! You were in time, then?”
“No, not in time to prevent the meeting. It had taken place a few minutes before our arrival at St. Aubins. By the way, it was not to Guernsey, but to Jersey, that the duelists went. We found out the mistake in the telegram as soon as we reached Southampton. We were fortunate in being able to hire a yacht and pursue them to St. Aubins.”
“But you did not reach there in time to prevent the duel?”
“No, it had already taken place, as I told you.”
“But with what result—with what result? Oh, Dick, why can’t you speak and tell me?”
“My dear, I did tell you,—with no fatal result.”
“But with a serious one. Oh, Dick, what was it? Has poor Alick got himself into trouble by——shooting that Austrian acrobat?”
“No, nonsense! Have more respect for a prince than to call him an acrobat, if he does jump about when he is angered. He was not hurt—he was not touched. Alick was too much excited to aim steadily, I suppose, so his ball went—Heaven knows where. But——”
“But Alick himself,—was he wounded?”
“Alick was wounded in the chest by a ball and in the back of the head by a sharp stone upon which his head struck in falling. Neither of the wounds is considered dangerous. I left him in good hands in the St. Aubins hotel.”
“But my grandfather—where is he? Why doesn’t he come up? Of course he returned with you?”
“No, he remained in St. Aubins to look after Alick.”
“Oh, Dick he remained there! Then he never received our telegram!” said Anna, turning pale.
“Your telegram! No! What telegram? We received none. What has happened, Anna?” demanded Richard Hammond, becoming alarmed.
“Oh, Dick, I thought you knew,” cried Anna dropping into a chair and bursting into tears.
“In the name of Heaven what has happened? You are well. But where is Drusilla? Where is little Lenny? I don’t see either of them!”
“Oh Dick! Dick! little Lenny is—LOST,” replied Anna, uttering the last word with a gasp, and sobbing hysterically.
“Lost! Good Heaven, Anna, little Lenny lost?” repeated Dick, changing color.
“Yes, yes, yes! lost since day before yesterday afternoon—lost since the very day you left. We telegraphed to you the same day. We hoped you would receive the telegram immediately on your arrival at Southampton;and I who knew that you were going further, hoped that at least you would get it on your return. Oh, Dick!”
“Lost since the day before yesterday, and not found yet,” repeated Richard Hammond, in amazement and sorrow.
“Oh, yes, oh, Dick. We have not seen him since—sinceyouyourself saw him last. Oh, Dick, he never returned from that walk you and grandpa sent him to take, to get him and Pina out of the way, you know,” sobbed Anna.
“It would kill my uncle!” exclaimed Richard. “It would kill him! But, good Heaven! how did it all happen? I don’t understand it at all. I can hardly believe it yet. Compose yourself, Anna, if you can, and tell me all about it.”
With many sobs Anna told the story of little Lenny’s abduction, as far as it was known to herself, and also described the measures that had been taken for his recovery, but taken, so far, without effect.
“But his poor young mother,—how does she bear it? and where is she now?” inquired Dick.
“Oh, Dick, poor Drusilla! I do fear for her life, or her reason, in this horrible suspense, worse than death! Nothing but her unwavering faith in Providence has saved her from insanity or death,” wept Anna.
“But where is she now?” repeated Dick. “Can I see her?”
“You cannot see her until her return. She is out looking for her child. She is always out looking for him. She takes a cab at daylight in the morning, and drives out through the narrow streets and lanes of the city, keeping watch all the time from the cab windows, entering into all the houses she is permitted to visit, inquiring of the people about her lost child, offering them heavy rewards for his recovery, pointing them to the posters in which his person is described and the great reward offered and setting as many people as she can at work to search for him. Twenty hours out of the twenty-four she spends in this way.”
“But this will kill her.”
“I think it will. She scarcely eats, drinks or sleeps. She does nothing but look for her child and weep andpray. When she has worn out a cab-horse, she comes back here to get a fresh one; and then I make her drink a little tea or coffee. At twelve or one o’clock in the night, when the houses are all shut up, she comes back here and throws herself down upon the bed to watch and pray, and perhaps to swoon into a sleep of prostration that lasts till morning. Then at four or five o’clock she is up and away upon the search.”
“Poor child! poor child! such a life will certainly soon kill her.”
“I sometimes think the sooner it does so the better for her. Her misery makes my heart bleed. I wonder how any woman can suffer the intense anguish of suspense she endures and live and keep her senses.”
“Anna, why do you not accompany her when she goes out?” inquired Dick, with some surprise.
“Why, don’t you suppose that I do? What do you take me for, Dick? I have always gone with her until this last trip. When we returned home at four o’clock, to get a fresh horse, she took it into her poor head that you and uncle would certainly arrive by the five o’clock train from Southampton, and so she made me stay to receive you.”
“And, you say, Anna, that Alick is suspected of being concerned in this abduction?”
“Yes, but I do not know that Drusilla suspects him very strongly now. Pina first suggested it, and we seized on the idea with eagerness. It was so much more comforting to think that he was safe with his father than in danger anywhere else.”
“But, you see, that is impossible. His father is lying seriously wounded, several hundred miles away.”
“Yes, that is the worst of it; for, if Alick should have employed these men to steal little Lenny from his mother, it is almost fatal to the child’s safety that the father should not have been here to have received him from his abductors.”
“And yet that may be the very case! Alick, in his madness, since he was mad enough for anything, may have engaged these men to abduct the boy for him. If so, he must have forgotten the danger to which the child would be exposed in the event of this abduction beingcompleted during his own absence or after his death. And so he must have gone down to Jersey to fight his duel, leaving little Lenny exposed to all the dangers he had invoked around him. It is dreadful to think of! If Alexander Lyon were not morally insane, he would be a demon!”
“To do such a thing as this? But we are not by any means sure hediddo it, Dick!”
“No, there is a ‘reasonable doubt,’ as the lawyers have it.”
“And Alick should be communicated with immediately, so as to be posted in regard to his son’s danger, whether he has had any hand in it or not. If hehashad anything to do with it, he will certainly, under the circumstances, give us the clue to recover him, for he cannot wish the boy to remain in the hands of such people. If he knows nothing about the abduction, and learns it first from us, still he will render what aid he can in recovering the boy. Wedidtelegraph him to this effect at Southampton, but of course he missedhistelegram as you did yours. But now he must be consulted by letter immediately—write at once, Dick, so as to save this mail,” said Anna, breathlessly.
“My darling, you talk so fast I can’t keep pace with you or even get in a word edgeways,—Alick is not in a condition to receive or understand any sort of communication, and will not probably be so for some days to come. I left him in a state of complete insensibility, resulting from the wound in the back of his head.”
“Good gracious, Dick! and you said he was not fatally, or even dangerously wounded!” cried Anna, aghast.
“And I gave the opinion of the eminent surgeon who is in attendance upon him. A man may be so ill as to be incapable of attending to anything, and yet may not be in any danger at all. But tell me, Anna, have you taken the detectives into your confidence entirely upon this subject, and put them into possession of all the facts of the case and all your suspicions as well? You know you ought to have done it.”
“And wehavedone it! For a short time, Drusilla shrank terribly from breathing a suspicion that her husband was probably concerned in the taking off of herchild; but, when it became evident that little Lenny’s recovery depended upon the detectives having the full knowledge of all the circumstances attending it, she commissioned me to tell them as much as was really necessary, but entreated me to spare Alick even if I did it at her expense. So I told the detectives everything—everything! They know as much about it as you do; for, in Drusilla’s and little Lenny’s cause, I would not have spared Alick, to have saved his soul, much less his character.”
“And did these skilful and experienced officers share in your suspicions of the father’s complicity in the abduction?”
“No, strangely enough, they did not. These people have a noble respect for a lord—Heaven save the mark! They think Lord Killcrichtoun would never have stooped to such an under-handed act, when he might have taken the boy with the high hand of the law.”
“Humph! Did they suggest anything themselves? Having told you whatdidn’tbecome of the boy, did they suggest whatdid?”
“Yes, they really did! they suspected—just imagine it,—that the child had been stolen for the sake of his clothes, just as a dog is sometimes stolen for the sake of his collar!”
“Ah, Anna, I pin my faith on the experienced officers. I am inclined now fully to exonerate Alick and be guided by the detectives. Now I begin to see light—now I understand what occurred to me at the railway station!” said Dick, significantly.
“‘What occurred to you at the railroad station,’ Dick? Oh, Dick! what was that? Anything that concerned little Lenny?” eagerly inquired Anna.
“I should think it did concern little Lenny. As truly as I live, Anna, when I reached town this afternoon and stepped out upon the platform, and while I was looking around for a cab, I heard little Lenny’s voice calling me!”
“Oh, Dick! You didn’t!”
“As I live I did! He called me as he was accustomed to call me—‘Dit! Dit! Oh, Dit, tome here!’”
“Oh! whydidn’tyou answer him? Whydidn’tyou go after him and rescue him and bring him home?—Perhaps you did! Perhaps you have only been playingignorance to tease me! Oh, Dick, don’t do it! If you have got little Lenny, tell me so!” said Anna, earnestly, clasping her hands.
“My poor wife, I wish for your sake and his unhappy mother’s, that I had the boy here; but I have not. Listen to me——”
“Butwhyhaven’t you got him here! If you heard his dear little tongue calling you, Dick, why in the world didn’t you fly to him and seize him and bring him home to his almost distracted mother!Why didn’tyou, Dick?” demanded Anna, ready to cry with an accession of vexation.
“My darling Anna, listen to me, will you? In the first place not having received your telegram, I had no suspicion whatever that Lenny was lost, else of course I should have been on thequi viveto find him, and should have followed the voice until I should have got possession of him. But when I first heard him calling me in his strong, cheerful, peremptory little tones, I looked around, fully expecting to see you, Drusilla, the boy and his nurse all come out in force to meet me at the station. But when I failed to see little Lenny or any of you, I considered myself the victim of an auricular illusion.”
“But you do not now?”
“No, indeed. I feel sure it was Lenny whom I heard calling me. And since you have told me of the abduction and of the detective policeman’s theory of it, I recall to mind the figure of a disreputable looking woman with a child in her arms hurrying out of sight in among the crowd. I remember that the woman’s back was towards me and that a shawl was thrown over the child’s head. I had but a glimpse of them as they slipped into the crowd.”
“Oh, Dick! Dick! if you had but known! What a fatality!”
“It was indeed. But now I must go and give this information into Scotland Yard, that the detectives may institute a thorough search in the neighborhood of the railway station where I saw him.”
“Shall I tell Drusilla?”
“Well, let me see:—No, not just yet. I must think about it first. It might increase her anxiety.”
“But it would assure her that her child is alive and well and in the city.”
“Yes; that is true. Yet you better not tell her until my return. She would be consumed with anxiety to see the one who had really seen and heard little Lenny, and to hear from him all about it. Don’t you understand?”
“Of course; but don’t be gone long, Dick. Hurry back as fast as you can, and perhaps you may get here as soon as she does.”
“I will lose no time.”
“But you are just off a journey. Won’t you take something before you go?”
“No, Anna; I will wait until I get back,” answered Richard Hammond, as he arose and left the room.
Leaving Anna pacing the floor in great excitement and impatience, he went down to the street, threw himself into a hansom and drove immediately to Scotland Yard.
There he made his report, and offered from his own means an additional reward to accelerate the motions of the officers.
He hurried back to the Morley House and up to the drawing-room, where he found Anna still pacing the floor.
She turned suddenly around to meet him.
“I have started them on the new scent, dear,” he said, throwing himself wearily into a chair.
“And you are here, as I hoped, before Drusilla has returned; so she will not have to wait for her news.”
As Anna spoke there was the sound of a cab drawing up before the house. A few minutes after Drusilla entered the room. Her face was deadly white and her eyes had that wild, wide open, sleepless look seldom seen except in the insane. And yet Drusilla, in all her agony of mind was far as possible from insanity. All her anxieties were marked by forecast, reason, judgment.
Dick arose, and his countenance and gestures were full of sympathy as he held out his hands and went to meet her.
“Oh, Dick! Dick! you have heard of my great loss,” she said, putting her hands in his.
“Yes, my dear Drusilla,” he answered, in a voice shaking with the pity that nearly broke his heart, as he looked upon her great misery.
“Oh, my Lenny! my Lenny! Oh, my poor little two-year old baby!” she cried, breaking into sobs and tottering on her feet.
Dick caught her and tenderly placed her in a chair and stooped before and took her hands again, saying:
“Dear Drusa, your little Lenny will be found, he will indeed, my dear.”
“Oh, I hope so! I believe so!—but this suspense is the most awful anguish in life! Oh, where is henow?Nowat this moment, where is my poor little helpless babe? In whose hands? Suffering what?”
Her look as she said this was so full of unutterable sorrow that Dick could restrain himself no longer.
“Dear Drusa, dear Drusa,” he said holding her hands, “your child, wherever he is, is not suffering; he is well and cheerful. I know it.”
She looked up suddenly as a wild joy flashed over her face, for she had sprung to a too natural conclusion.
“Oh, Dick, you have found him! You have found my boy! Oh, tell me so at once! Oh, don’t try tobreaksuch news to me as that is! Joyful news may be told at once! it never kills! And now you see I know you have found my baby! Oh, bring him to me at once! Where is he? In my room?”
She had spoken rapidly and breathlessly, and now she started up to hurry to her chamber, expecting to find her child there.
Dick gently stopped her.
“Dear Drusilla, I have not got your child. I wish I had,” he began, with his hand on her arm.
The look of joy vanished from her face. It had been but a lightning flash across the night of her sorrow, and now it had passed and left the darkness still there.
“Oh, Dick!” she groaned, covering her face with her hands and sinking again into her seat.
“But, Drusilla, dear, I have aclueto him! I have indeed! And I know that he is alive and well and cheerful.”
“Oh, Dick, is this so? Oh, Dick, I know you wouldn’t deceive me, even for my own comfort, would you now, Dick?” she pleaded.
“Heaven knows I would not, Drusilla. Your child wasalive and well at five o’clock this afternoon—only two hours ago, for it is now only seven. And though you cannot now find him in your chamber, you need not be surprised at any future hour to find him there.”
“Alive and well two hours ago! You are sure, Dick?”
“Sure as I am of my own life.”
“Wherewas he, then?Whosaw him? Who told you?”
“He was at the railway station in the arms of a poor woman.Isaw him, andIheard him.”
“Oh, Dick, why did you not bring him to me at once?”
“Dear Drusilla, I did not then know that he was lost. I had just stepped from the carriage to the platform, when I heard little Lenny’s voice calling me in a strong, chirping, authoritative little tone, ‘Dit! Dit! tome here!’ And I looked around, expecting to see him and all of you come to meet me. But I saw nothing of any of you. I only saw a poor woman with a child about Lenny’s age and size covered with a shawl and in her arms. Her back was towards me, and she was hurrying away through the crowd. That child was little Lenny, though I did not know it or even suspect it at the time; for I only glanced at him and turned to look for little Lenny elsewhere, expecting to find him with his nurse. When I failed to do so, I thought I had been the subject of an ocular illusion. But when I came home here, and learned that little Lenny was lost, I understood the whole thing. And I went immediately to Scotland Yard and gave the information and set the detectives on the fresh scent. They are as keen as bloodhounds, you know, and they will be sure to find your child. So you need not be surprised to see him brought in and laid upon your lap at any moment.”
Another lightning flash of joy passed over her face at this announcement.
“Oh, Dick! Dick! you give me new life! You saw my child two hours ago! Did you see his face?” she eagerly inquired.
“Of course not, else I should have claimed him and brought him home. He was covered with a shawl, I tell you, and hurried through the crowd. I did not know he was Lenny till afterwards.”
“But you heard his voice, and you knew that?”
“Oh, yes, I knew his voice; but I did not at the moment know where the voice came from.”
“Oh, Dick, what was it he said? dear little Lenny! tell me again.”
Dick repeated the words.
“And oh, Dick, did he speak sadly, piteously, imploringly as if he was suffering, and wanted you to relieve him?”
“No, indeed! quite the contrary! he hailed me in his usual hearty manner; and commanded me to come to him, just as he is accustomed to speak to all of us, his slaves, when he is lording it over us and ordering us around,” said Dick, so cheerfully that he called up a wan smile upon the poor young mother’s face.
“Now, I’ll tell you all about it, Drusilla,” pursued Dick confidently. “The fact is, the child must have been stolen first, for the sake of the fine lace and gold and coral on his dress; and now he is kept for his beauty to beg with. No doubt, now that the clue is found, he will be recovered in a few hours. And I want you to bear this fact in mind—that you need not be surprised at any moment to see your child brought in and laid upon your lap. Keep that hope before you, and let it support your soul through this suspense, and let it prepare you for the event, so that you may not die of joy when it comes,” said Richard Hammond.
And certainly he believed himself justified in giving this advice.
“Dick! dear Dick, you have brought the first crumb of earthly comfort that has come to me since I lost my little Lenny,” said Drusilla, gratefully. “But where is uncle?” she asked, suddenly recollecting the General.
“He is detained by some business.”
“He is quite well?”
“Very well,” answered Dick, cheerfully.
“And now I hope you will be willing to stay at home and rest just one evening, dear Drusilla,” added Anna.
“Oh, don’t ask me to do that, dear Anna! How could I stay home in inactivity, especially now that I know where to look for him? No, I will drive down to that neighborhood in which he was seen, and I will search for him there,” answered Drusilla, firmly and very cheerfully, for hope had come into her heart again.
“And Anna and myself will go with you, my dear Drusa, for we have nothing to do but to devote ourselves to your service until your child shall be found,” said Dick, affectionately.
“Then I shall order tea at once, and something substantial along with it,” said Anna, rising.
Inspired by the new hope brought to her by Dick, Drusilla’s spirits rose.
When tea was placed upon the table, with the “something substantial” promised by Anna, Drusilla was able to join the party and even to partake of the refreshment.
Afterwards, accompanied by her two friends, she got into a cab and drove to the railway station where Dick had seen little Lenny in the arms of the strange woman.
There they drove up and down the streets and roads and in and out among the lanes, and alleys and inquired at many shops and houses for such a woman and child, but they neither found nor heard of one or the other.
To be sure, there were many poor beggar women, and many little two-year-old children; but they did not answer to the description of little Lenny and his strange bearer.
They also found their coadjutors, the detective policemen, in the same neighborhood, upon the same search. The detectives had had as yet no better success than their employers; but their hopes were high and their words encouraging.
They had great sympathy for the bereaved and anxious young mother, and they came to her carriage door with expressions full of confidence.
“We shall be sure to find the little gentleman now, my lady. Now when we know where to look for him. It is a downright certainty, you know. Why, Lord love you, sir, there ain’t a woman is this neighborhood as has heard about the child that ain’t as interested in the search as we are, and out of downright human motherly feeling too, to say nothing of the hope of getting the reward. Bless you, my lady, take heart, and don’t you be taken by surprise any time to see me walk in and put your little boy in your arms. And if I might be so bold, ma’am, I would recommend you to persuade her to go home and go to her rest and leave us to follow up the clue, and justhave faith till I bring the young gentleman home,” said the detective, with his head in the door, and addressing in turn the three occupants of the carriage.
“That is what I am telling her,” said Dick, “to wait patiently; or, if she can’t do that, to wait hopefully until her child is brought home and laid on her lap.”
“And now, it is so late, and you have lost so much rest, Drusilla, dear, that I do think you had better go back, and lie down even if you cannot sleep,” said Anna, earnestly.
“Friends, you are so kind to me and so interested in my child’s recovery, that I owe it to you to follow your advice. So I will put myself in your hands at least for this evening,” answered Drusilla.
“That is right, that is right, my dear,” said Dick.
“And, my lady, take this truth with you to comfort you—that we will never give up the search until we find the child. We will never give it up by night or by day till we find him. While some of us gets our needful bit of food or nap of sleep, the others will be pursuing of the search till we find him. And when we do find him, my lady, be it midnight, or noonday, or any other hour of the twenty-four I will bring him to you,” said the officer, earnestly.
“Oh, do, do, do! and you shall have half my fortune for your pains—the whole of it, if you will, and my eternal gratitude besides!” exclaimed Drusilla fervently clasping her hands.
“My lady, the reward offered in the hand-bills would set me up for life; and, though that is a great object, and was my only object at first, it is not now—it is not indeed! I am most anxious to find the young gentleman, to give you peace—I am indeed.”
“I believe you, and I thank and bless you,” said Drusilla.
And then the policeman touched his hat, and closed the door, and transmitted Mr. Hammond’s order to the cabman.
“Home.”
They drove back to the Morley House.
And there Dick and Anna made Drusilla take a glass of port wine and a biscuit, and go to bed.
All arose very early the next morning. Anna orderedthe breakfast, that it might be ready when Drusilla should come down.
Dick soon joined her.
“You will write to grandpa, to-day?” inquired Anna.
“Not unless little Lenny is found. I dread the effect the news of the child’s loss would have upon him at his age, and I wish to spare him if possible,” answered Dick.
“But if Lenny is not found to-day, and grandpa gets no letter to-morrow, he will feel very anxious at not hearing from us.”
“I know it. I must think of some plan by which I can write to him without alarming him, and bring him home here, before telling him of our loss. Here we might break the news to him gently; and, if it should overcome him, here, we can look after him. I will think of some such plan and act upon it, to-day,” said Dick, anxiously and reflectively.
While the husband and wife took counsel together, the door opened, and Drusilla, dressed as for a drive, came in.
“Good morning, my dear! Did you sleep last night?” anxiously inquired Anna.
“A little.”
“But you are not going out until you have breakfasted, my dear Drusilla?” said Dick.
“I have been out for the last three hours, and have just returned,” she answered.
“Good Heaven, Drusilla, you will destroy your life, and all to no purpose! The detectives are all sufficient for this business. You cannot help them,” urged Anna.
“I know it; but I cannot rest,” replied Drusilla.
“You have been to the same neighborhood? You have seen the officers this morning?” inquired Dick.
“Yes.”
“Any news?”
“None; but the men give me great hopes, and I must trust in God.”
“Now, Drusilla, don’t go up-stairs,” said Anna. “Take off your bonnet and shawl here, for here is the waiter, with our breakfast.”
Drusilla complied with this advice. And they wereabout to sit down to the table, when there was heard a hurried step upon the stairs, and the door was thrown open, and old General Lyon, dusty, travel-stained, pale and excited, burst into the room.
“Is the child found?” he cried to the astonished circle.
“No; but we have a clue to him,” answered Dick, as soon as he could recover his self-possession and his breath.
The old man sank into a chair, covered his face with his hands, and shook as with an ague fit.
Anna hastily poured out a cup of coffee and brought it to him.
“Drink this, dear grandpa, and you will feel better,” she said.
The old man raised his head and looked at her.
“How do you do, my dear? I really forgot to speak to you,” he said.
“Never mind that, dear sir. I am very well. Drink this. It will do you good,” she urged.
“You say you have a clue to him?” he inquired, as he mechanically took the cup from her hand.
“Yes, grandpa.”
“Why is not the clue followed up? Why has it not led you to him?”
“Indeed, it is being very diligently followed up. We are in hourly expectation of recovering our little Lenny. But, dear sir, please to drink your coffee. You are very faint, and need it very much.”
“Where is the poor young mother? Where is Drusa?” he continued.
Drusilla came and knelt down by his side, and took his disengaged hand, and looked up in his troubled face and said:
“She is here, dear uncle; and she trusts in the Lord to restore her child. But you are sinking with fatigue, and with fasting too, I fear. Drink your coffee, and we will tell you all we know about our missing boy.”
And Drusilla put a great constraint upon herself that she might comfort him.
At her request he took the refreshment offered to him, and was certainly benefited by it.
And they told him all the particulars of little Lenny’s abduction, and of the measures that had been taken for his recovery.
But when he heard of Dick’s adventure at the railroad station, he came down most unmercifully on that “unlucky dog.”
“You heard his voice calling you and didn’t go after him!” he indignantly exclaimed.
It was in vain that poor Dick explained and expounded; the old man would hear of no excuses.
“Sir! do you think ifIhad heard that helpless infant’s voice callingme, I would not have obeyed it with more promptitude than I ever obeyed the commands of my superior officer when I was in the army? Whatcanyou say for yourself?”
Dick had no word to say why sentence of death should not be immediately pronounced on him.
But Drusilla came to his relief by turning the conversation and inquiring:
“Dear uncle, how was it that you heard of little Lenny’s being lost?”
“By the newspapers, of course. I was sitting by the bedside of——”
Here Dick trod slyly upon his uncle’s toe.
The General stopped short.
Drusilla perceived that there was a secret between them that must be kept; so, without suspecting that it concerned herself or her Alick, she respected it, and turned away her head until the General recovered himself sufficiently to pursue the subject in another manner.
“You asked me how I learned little Lenny’s loss, my dear. Well, yesterday morning I was sitting by the bedside of a friend whom I had undertaken to look after, when the morning papers were brought to me, and I saw the advertisement. That was at nine o’clock. There was a boat left at ten for Southampton, and I took it and reached port at midnight, I took the first train for London and got here this morning.”
Such was the General’s explanation, given in the presence of Drusilla.
It was not until after they had all breakfasted, and he found himself in his own bedroom alone with Dick, thathe was able to make a report upon Alick’s condition—a report that Dick subsequently transmitted to Anna.
“Well, his condition is even more precarious than when you left him; irritative fever has set in, and he is delirious—or was so when I left him. He had not once recognized me. I know the surgeon thinks him in a very dangerous condition; although, of course, he will not admit so much to me. But oh, Dick! the child! the child!”
“Be comforted, sir. The child was safe and well in this city yesterday. We have the most skilful and experienced detectives in the world searching for him, and they will be sure to succeed.”