Alger Horatio Jr.
Timothy Crump's Ward: A Story of American Life
CHAPTER XVII. JACK OBTAINS INFORMATION
JACK set out with that lightness of heart and keen sense of enjoyment that seem natural to a young man of eighteen on his first journey. Partly by cars, partly by boat, he traveled, till in a few hours he was discharged, with hundreds of others, at the depot in Philadelphia.
Among the admonitions given to Jack on leaving home, one was prominently in his mind, to beware of imposition, and to be as economical as possible.
Accordingly he rejected all invitations to ride, and strode along, with his carpet-bag in hand, though, sooth to say, he had very little idea whether he was steering in the right direction for his uncle’s shop. By dint of diligent and persevering inquiry he found it at length, and, walking in, announced himself to the worthy baker as his nephew Jack.
“What, are you Jack?” exclaimed Mr. Abel Crump, pausing in his labor; “well, I never should have known you, that’s a fact. Bless me, how you’ve grown! Why, you’re most as big as your father, ain’t you?”
“Only half an inch shorter,” returned Jack, complacently.
“And you’re—let me see, how old are you?”
“Eighteen, that is, almost; I shall be in two months.”
“Well, I’m glad to see you, Jack, though I hadn’t the least idea of your raining down so unexpectedly. How’s your father and mother and Rachel, and your adopted sister?”
“Father and mother are pretty well,” answered Jack, “and so is Aunt Rachel,” he added, smiling; “though she ain’t so cheerful as she might be.”
“Poor Rachel!” said Abel, smiling also, “all things look upside down to her. I don’t suppose she’s wholly to blame for it. Folks differ constitutionally. Some are always looking on the bright side of things, and others can never see but one side, and that’s the dark one.”
“You’ve hit it, uncle,” said Jack, laughing. “Aunt Rachel always looks as if she was attending a funeral.”
“So she is, my boy,” said Abel Crump, gravely, “and a sad funeral it is.”
“I don’t understand you, uncle.”
“The funeral of her affections,—that’s what I mean. Perhaps you mayn’t know that Rachel was, in early life, engaged to be married to a young man whom she ardently loved. She was a different woman then from what she is now. But her lover deserted her just before the wedding was to have come off, and she’s never got over the disappointment. But that isn’t what I was going to talk about. You haven’t told me about your adopted sister.”
“That’s what I’ve come to Philadelphia about,” said Jack, soberly. “Ida has been carried off, and I’ve been sent in search of her.”
“Been carried off!” exclaimed his uncle, in amazement. “I didn’t know such things ever happened in this country. What do you mean?”
In answer to this question Jack told the story of Mrs. Hardwick’s arrival with a letter from Ida’s mother, conveying the request that the child might, under the guidance of the messenger, be allowed to pay her a visit. To this, and the subsequent details, Abel Crump listened with earnest attention.
“So you have reason to think the child is in (sic) Phildelphia?” he said, musingly.
“Yes,” said Jack, “Ida was seen in the cars, coming here, by a boy who knew her in New York.”
“Ida!” repeated his Uncle Abel, looking up, suddenly.
“Yes. You know that’s my sister’s name, don’t you?”
“Yes, I dare say I have known it; but I have heard so little of your family lately, that I had forgotten it. It is rather a singular circumstance.”
“What is singular!”
“I will tell you,” said his uncle. “It may not amount to anything, however. A few days since, a little girl came into my shop to buy a small amount of bread. I was at once favorably impressed with her appearance. She was neatly dressed, and had a very sweet face.”
“What was her name?” inquired Jack.
“That I will tell you by and by. Having made the purchase, she handed me in payment a silver dollar. ‘I’ll keep that for my little girl,’ thought I at once. Accordingly, when I went home at night, I just took the dollar out the till, and gave it to her. Of course she was delighted with it, and, like a child, wanted to spend it at once. So her mother agreed to go out with her the next day. Well, they selected some nicknack or other, but when they came to pay for it the dollar proved to be spurious.”
“Spurious!”
“Yes, bad. Got up, no doubt, by a gang of coiners. When they told me of this I thought to myself, ‘Can it be that this little girl knew what she was about when she offered me that money?’ I couldn’t think it possible, but decided to wait till she came again.”
“Did she come again?”
“Yes, only day before yesterday. This time she wanted some gingerbread, so she said. As I thought likely, she offered me another dollar just like the other. Before letting her know that I had discovered the imposition I asked her one or two questions, with the idea of finding out as much as possible about her. When I told her the coin was a bad one, she seemed very much surprised. It might have been all acting, but I didn’t think so then. I even felt pity for her and let her go on condition that she would bring me back a good dollar in place of the bad one the next day. I suppose I was a fool for doing so, but she looked so pretty and innocent that I couldn’t make up my mind to speak or harshly to her. But I’m afraid that I was deceived, and that she is an artful character, after all.”
“Then she didn’t come back with the good money?” said Jack.
“No, I haven’t seen her since; and, what’s more, I don’t think it very likely she will venture into my shop at present.”
“What name did she give you?” asked Jack.
“Haven’t I told you? It was the name that made me think of telling you. It was Ida Hardwick.”
“Ida Hardwick!” exclaimed Jack, bounding from his chair, somewhat to his uncle’s alarm.
“Yes, Ida Hardwick. But that hasn’t anything to do with your Ida, has it?”
“Hasn’t it, though?” said Jack. “Why, Mrs. Hardwick was the woman that carried her away.”
“Mrs. Hardwick—her mother!”
“No, not her mother. She was, or at least she said she was, the woman that took care of Ida before she was brought to us.”
“Then you think that Ida Hardwick may be your missing sister?”
“That’s what I don’t know,” said Jack. “If you would only describe her, Uncle Abel, I could tell better.”
“Well,” said Mr. Abel Crump, thoughtfully, “I should say this little girl might be eight or nine years old.”
“Yes,” said Jack, nodding; “what color were her eyes?”
“Blue.”
“So are Ida’s.”
“A small mouth, with a very sweet expression.”
“Yes.”
“And I believe her dress was a light one, with a blue ribbon about her waist. She also had a brown scarf about her neck, if I remember rightly.”
“That is exactly the way Ida was dressed when she went away. I am sure it must be she.”
“Perhaps,” suggested his uncle, “this woman, though calling herself Ida’s nurse, was really her mother.”
“No, it can’t be,” said Jack, vehemently. “What, that ugly, disagreeable woman, Ida’s mother! I won’t believe it. I should just as soon expect to see strawberries growing on a thorn-bush. There isn’t the least resemblance between them.”
“You know I have not seen Mrs. Hardwick, so I cannot judge on that point.”
“No great loss,” said Jack. “You wouldn’t care much about seeing her again. She is a tall, gaunt, disagreeable looking woman; while Ida is fair, and sweet looking. I didn’t fancy this Mrs. Hardwick when I first set eyes on her. Aunt Rachel was right, for once.”
“What did she think?”
“She took a dislike to her, and declared that it was only a plot to get possession of Ida; but then, that was what we expected of Aunt Rachel.”
“Still, it seems difficult to imagine any satisfactory motive on the part of this woman, supposing she is not Ida’s mother.”
“Mother, or not,” returned Jack, “she’s got possession of Ida; and, from all that you say, she is not the best person to bring her up. I am determined to rescue Ida from this she-dragon. Will you help me, uncle?”
“You may count upon me, Jack, for all I can do.”
“Then,” said Jack, with energy, “we shall succeed. I feel sure of it. ‘Where there’s a will there’s a way,’ you know.”
CHAPTER XVIII. FINESSE
THE next thing to be done by Jack was, of course, in some way to obtain a clew to the whereabouts of Peg, or Mrs. Hardwick, to use the name by which he knew her. No mode of proceeding likely to secure this result occurred to him, beyond the very obvious one of keeping in the street as much as possible, in the hope that chance might bring him face to face with the object of his pursuit.
Fortunately her face was accurately daguerreotyped in his memory, so that he felt certain of recognizing her, under whatever circumstances they might meet.
In pursuance of this, the only plan which suggested itself, Jack became a daily promenader in Chestnut and other streets. Many wondered what could be the object of the young man who so persistently frequented the thoroughfares. It was observed that, while he paid no attention to young ladies, he scrutinized the faces of all middle-aged or elderly women whom he met, a circumstance likely to attract remark, in the case of a well-made youth like Jack.
Several days passed, and, although he only returned to his uncle’s house at the hour of meals, he had the same report to bring on each occasion.
“I am afraid,” said the baker, “it will be as hard as finding a needle in a hay-stack, to hope to meet the one you seek, among so many faces.”
“There’s nothing like trying,” answered Jack, courageously. “I’m not going to give up yet awhile.”
He sat down and wrote the following note, home:—
“DEAR PARENTS:
“I arrived in Philadelphia safe, and am stopping at Uncle Abel’s. He received me very kindly. I have got track of Ida, though I have not found her yet. I have learned as much as this, that this Mrs. Hardwick—who is a double distilled she-rascal—probably has Ida in her clutches, and has sent her on two occasions to my uncle’s. I am spending most of my time in the streets, keeping a good lookout for her. If I do meet her, see if I don’t get Ida away from her. But it may take some time. Don’t get discouraged, therefore, but wait patiently. Whenever anything new turns up you will receive a line from your dutiful son
“JACK.”
In reply to this letter, or rather note, Jack received an intimation that he was not to cease his efforts as long as a chance remained to find Ida.
The very day after the reception of this letter, as Jack was sauntering along the street, he suddenly perceived in front of him a form which at once reminded him of Mrs. Hardwick. Full of hope that this might be so, he bounded forward, and rapidly passed the suspected person, turned suddenly round, and confronted Ida’s nurse.
The recognition was mutual. Peg was taken aback by this unexpected encounter.
“Her first impulse was to make off, but the young man’s resolute expression warned her that this would prove in vain.
“Mrs. Hardwick!” said Jack.
“You are right,” said she, nodding, “and you, if I am not mistaken, are John Crump, the son of my worthy friends in New York.”
“Well,” ejaculated Jack, internally, “if that doesn’t beat all for coolness.”
“My name is Jack,” he said, aloud.
“Indeed! I thought it might be a nickname.”
“You can’t guess what I came here for,” said Jack, with an attempt at sarcasm, which utterly failed of its effect.
“To see your sister Ida, I presume,” said Peg, coolly.
“Yes,” said Jack, amazed at the woman’s composure.
“I thought some of you would be coming on,” said Peg, whose prolific genius had already mapped out her course.
“You did?”
“Yes, it was only natural. But what did your father and mother say to the letter I wrote them?”
“The letter you wrote them!”
“The letter in which I wrote that Ida’s mother had been so pleased with the appearance and manners of her child, that she could not resolve to part with her, and had determined to keep her for the present.”
“You don’t mean to say,” said Jack, “that any such letter as that has been written?”
“What, has it not been received?” inquired Peg, in the greatest apparent astonishment.
“Nothing like it,” answered Jack. “When was it written?”
“The second day after Ida’s arrival,” replied Peg, unhesitatingly.
“If that is the case,” returned Jack, not knowing what to think, “it must have miscarried.”
“That is a pity. How anxious you all must have felt!” remarked Peg, sympathizingly.
“It seemed as if half the family were gone. But how long does Ida’s mother mean to keep her?”
“A month or six weeks,” was the reply.
“But,” said Jack, his suspicions returning, “I have been told that Ida has twice called at a baker’s shop in this city, and, when asked what her name was, answered Ida Hardwick.’ You don’t mean to say that you pretend to be her mother?”
“Yes, I do,” returned Peg, calmly.
“It’s a lie,” said Jack, vehemently. “She isn’t your daughter.”
“Young man,” said Peg, with wonderful self-command, “you are exciting yourself to no purpose. You asked me if I pretended to be her mother. I do pretend; but I admit, frankly, that it is all pretence.”
“I don’t understand what you mean,” said Jack, mystified.
“Then I will take the trouble to explain it to you. As I informed your father and mother, when in New York, there are circumstances which stand in the way of Ida’s real mother recognizing her as her own child. Still, as she desires her company, in order to avert all suspicion, and prevent embarrassing questions being asked, while she remains in Philadelphia she is to pass as my daughter.”
This explanation was tolerably plausible, and Jack was unable to gainsay it, though it was disagreeable to him to think of even a nominal connection between Ida and the woman before him.
“Can I see Ida?” asked Jack, at length.
To his great joy, Peg replied, “I don’t think there can be any objection. I am going to the house now. Will you come now, or appoint some other time?”
“I will go now by all means,” said Jack, eagerly. “Nothing should stand in the way of seeing Ida.”
A grim smile passed over the nurse’s face.
“Follow me, then,” she said. “I have no doubt Ida will be delighted to see you.”
“Dear Ida!” said Jack. “Is she well, Mrs. Hardwick?”
“Perfectly well,” answered Peg. “She has never been in better health than since she has been in Philadelphia.”
“I suppose,” said Jack, with a pang, “that she is so taken up with her new friends that she has nearly forgotten her old friends in New York.”
“If she did,” said Peg, sustaining her part with admirable self-possession, “she would not deserve to have friends at all. She is quite happy here, but she will be very glad to return to New York to those who have been so kind to her.”
“Really,” thought Jack; “I don’t know what to make of this Mrs. Hardwick. She talks fair enough, if her looks are against her. Perhaps I have misjudged her, after all.”
CHAPTER XIX. CAUGHT IN A TRAP
JACK and his guide paused in front of a three-story brick building of respectable appearance.
“Does Ida’s mother live here?” interrogated Jack.
“Yes,” said Peg, coolly. “Follow me up the steps.”
The woman led the way, and Jack followed.
The former rang the bell. An untidy servant girl made her appearance.
“We will go up-stairs, Bridget,” said Peg.
Without betraying any astonishment, the servant conducted them to an upper room, and opened the door.
“If you will go in and take a seat,” said Peg, “I will send Ida to you immediately.”
She closed the door after him, and very softly slipped the bolt which had been placed on the outside. She then hastened downstairs, and finding the proprietor of the house, who was a little old man with a shrewd, twinkling eye, and a long aquiline nose, she said to this man, who was a leading spirit among the coiners into whose employ she and her husband had entered, “I want you to keep this lad in confinement, until I give you notice that it will be safe to let him go.”
“What has he done?” asked the old man.
“He is acquainted with a secret dangerous to both of us,” answered Peg, with intentional prevarication; for she knew that, if it were supposed that she only had an interest in Jack’s detention, they would not take the trouble to keep him.
“Ha!” exclaimed the old man; “is that so? Then, I warrant me, he can’t get out unless he has sharp claws.”
“Fairly trapped, my young bird,” thought Peg, as she hastened away; “I rather think that will put a stop to your troublesome interference for the present. You haven’t lived quite long enough to be a match for old Peg. You’ll find that out by and by. Ha, ha! won’t your worthy uncle, the baker, be puzzled to know why you don’t come home to-night?”
Meanwhile Jack, wholly unsuspicious that any trick had been played upon him, seated himself in a rocking-chair, waiting impatiently for the coming of Ida, whom he was resolved to carry back with him to New York if his persuasions could effect it.
Impelled by a natural curiosity he examined, attentively, the room in which he was seated. It was furnished moderately well; that is, as well as the sitting-room of a family in moderate circumstances. The floor was covered with a plain carpet. There was a sofa, a mirror, and several chairs covered with hair-cloth were standing stiffly at the windows. There were one or two engravings, of no great artistic excellence, hanging against the walls. On the centre-table were two or three books. Such was the room into which Jack had been introduced.
Jack waited patiently for twenty minutes. Then he began to grow impatient.
“Perhaps Ida is out,” thought our hero; “but, if she is, Mrs. Hardwick ought to come and let me know.”
Another fifteen minutes passed, and still Ida came not.
“This is rather singular,” thought Jack. “She can’t have told Ida that I am here, or I am sure she would rush up at once to see her brother Jack.”
At length, tired of waiting, and under the impression that he had been forgotten, Jack walked to the door, and placing his hand upon the latch, attempted to open it.
There was a greater resistance than he had anticipated.
Supposing that it must stick, he used increased exertion, but the door perversely refused to open.
“Good heavens!” thought Jack, the real state of the case flashing upon him, “is it possible that I am locked in?”
To determine this he employed all his strength, but the door still resisted. He could no longer doubt.
He rushed to the windows. There were two in number, and looked out upon a court in the rear of the house. No part of the street was visible from them; therefore there was no hope of drawing the attention of passers-by to his situation.
Confounded by this discovery, Jack sank into his chair in no very enviable state of mind.
“Well,” thought he, “this is a pretty situation for me to be in! I wonder what father would say if he knew that I was locked up like a prisoner. And then to think I let that treacherous woman, Mrs. Hardwick, lead me so quietly into a snare. Aunt Rachel was about right when she said I wasn’t fit to come alone. I hope she’ll never find out this adventure of mine; I never should hear the last of it.”
Jack’s mortification was extreme. His self-love was severely wounded by the thought that a woman had got the better of him, and he resolved, if he ever got out, that he would make Mrs. Hardwick suffer, he didn’t quite know how, for the manner in which she had treated him.
Time passed. Every hour seemed to poor Jack to contain at least double the number of minutes which are usually reckoned to that division of time. Moreover, not having eaten for several hours, he was getting hungry.
A horrible suspicion flashed across his mind. “The wretches can’t mean to starve me, can they?” he asked himself, while, despite his constitutional courage, he could not help shuddering at the idea.
He was unexpectedly answered by the sliding of a little door in the wall, and the appearance of the old man whose interview with Peg has been referred to.
“Are you getting hungry, my dear sir?” he inquired, with a disagreeable smile upon his features.
“Why am I confined here?” demanded Jack, in a tone of irritation.
“Why are you confined?” repeated his interlocutor. “Really, one would think you did not find your quarters comfortable.”
“I am so far from finding them comfortable that I insist upon leaving them immediately,” returned Jack.
“Then all you have got to do is to walk through that door.
“It is locked; I can’t open it.”
“Can’t open it!” repeated the old man, with another disagreeable leer; “perhaps, then, it will be well for you to wait till you are strong enough.”
Irritated by this reply, Jack threw himself spitefully against the door, but to no purpose.
The old man laughed in a cracked, wheezing way.
“Good fellow!” said he, encouragingly, “try it again! Won’t you try it again? Better luck next time.”
Jack throw himself sullenly into a chair.
“Where is the woman that brought me here?” he asked.
“Peg? Oh, she couldn’t stay. She had important business to transact, my young friend, and so she has gone; but don’t feel anxious. She commended you to our particular attention, and you will be just as well treated as if she were here.”
This assurance was not very well calculated to comfort Jack.
“How long are you going to keep me cooped up here?” he asked, desperately, wishing to learn the worst at once.
“Really, my young friend, I couldn’t say. We are very hospitable, very. We always like to have our friends with us as long as possible.”
Jack groaned internally at the prospect before him.
“One question more,” he said, “will you tell me if my sister Ida is in this house?”
“Your sister Ida!” repeated the old man, surprised in his turn.
“Yes,” said Jack; believing, his astonishment feigned. “You needn’t pretend that you don’t know anything about her. I know that she is in your hands.”
“Then if you know so much,” said the other, shrugging his shoulders, “there is no need of asking.”
Jack was about to press the question, but the old man, anticipating him, pointed to a plate of food which he pushed in upon a shelf, just in front of the sliding door, and said: “Here’s some supper for you. When you get ready to go to bed you can lie down on the sofa. Sorry we didn’t know of your coming, or we would have got our best bed-chamber ready for you. Good-night, and pleasant dreams!”
Smiling disagreeably he slid to the door, bolted it, and disappeared, leaving Jack more depressed, if possible, than before.
