Chapter 2

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

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

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

"Ye speak o' gaun to see the warld, laddie, as if 'ee was a gentleman."

"Div 'ee think, mother, that the warld was made only for _gentlemen_ to
travel in?" demanded the youth, with the gentlest touch of scorn in his
tone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yer a' right, puir bairn. See, tak' ha'd o' my airm," said the Scot.

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

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

"Ye needna fash," said David carelessly, "I'm gawn that way mysel', an'
if the puir lassie has nae objection I'll be glad to--"

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

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

"Help _me_ to tak' care o' her!" exclaimed David, whose pride was sorely
hurt by the distrust implied in these words; "man, I could putt her in
my pooch an' _you_ alang wi' her."

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

"C'way, lassie, I _wull_ gang wi' ye," he said, advancing quickly and
offering his arm.

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

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

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

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

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

He paused: "Well, I do declare I forgot I wasn't aboard my own ship,
but--" again he paused and looked at old Liz.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But suppose that the heart _is_ right?"

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

"Oh, this is no my ain lassie,
Kind though the lassie be,--"

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

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

CHAPTER FOUR.

DANGERS THREATEN.

The man who had been thus captured by David was one of those wretched
forlorn creatures who seem to reach a lower depth of wretchedness and
degradation in London than in any other city in the world. Although
young and strongly made he was pale, gaunt and haggard, with a look
about the eyes and mouth which denoted the habitual drunkard. The
meanness of his attire is indescribable.

He trembled--whether from the effects of dissipation or fear we cannot
say--as his captor led him under the lamp, with a grip on the collar
that almost choked him, but when the light fell full on his haggard face
a feeling of intense pity induced the Scot to relax his hold.

"Oh, ye puir meeserable crater!" he said, but stopped abruptly, for the
man made a sudden and desperate effort to escape. He might as well have
struggled in the grasp of a gorilla!

"Na, na, my man, ye'll no twust yersel' oot o' my grup sae easy! keep
quiet noo, an' I'll no hurt 'ee. What gars ye gang aboot tryin' to
steal like that?"

"Steal!" explained the man fiercely, "what else can I do? I _must_
live! I've just come out of prison, and am flung on the world to be
kicked about like a dog and starve. Let me go, or I'll kill you!"

"Na, 'ee'll no kill me. I'm no sae easy killed as 'ee think," returned
David, again tightening the grasp of his right hand while he thrust his
left into his trousers-pocket.

At that moment the bull's-eye light of an advancing constable became
visible, and the defiant air of the thief gave place to a look of
anxious fear. It was evident that the dread of another period of prison
life was strong upon the trembling wretch. Drawing out a handful of
coppers, David thrust them quickly into the man's hand, and said--

"Hae, tak' them, an' aff ye go! an' ask the Lord to help 'ee to dae
better."

The strong hand relaxed, another moment and the man, slipping round the
corner like an unwholesome spirit, was gone.

"Can ye direck me, polisman," said the Scot to the constable, as he was
about to pass, "t' Toor Street?"

"Never heard of it," said the constable brusquely, but civilly enough.

"That's queer noo. I was telt it was hereaboots--Toor Street."

"Oh, perhaps you mean _Tower_ Street" said the constable, with a
patronising smile.

"Perhaps I div," returned the Scot, with that touch of cynicism which is
occasionally seen in his race. "Can 'ee direck me tilt?"

"Yes, but it is on the other side of the river."

"Na--it's on _this_ side o' the river," said David quietly yet
confidently.

The conversation was here cut short by the bursting on their ears of a
sudden noise at some distance. The policeman turned quickly away, and
when David advanced into the main street he observed that there was some
excitement among its numerous and riotous occupants. The noise
continued to increase, and it became evident that the cause of it was
rapidly approaching, for the sound changed from a distant rumble into a
steady roar, in the midst of which stentorian shouts were heard.
Gradually the roar culminated, for in another moment there swept round
the end of the street a pair of apparently runaway horses, with two
powerful lamps gleaming, or rather glaring, above them. On each side of
the driver of the galloping steeds stood a man, shouting like a maniac
of the boatswain type. All three were brass-helmeted, like antique
charioteers. Other helmets gleamed behind them. Little save the
helmets and the glowing lamps could be seen through the dark and smoky
atmosphere as the steam fire-engine went thundering by.

Now, if there was one thing more than another that David Laidlaw desired
to see, it was a London fire. Often had he read about these fires, for
he was a great reader of books, as well as newspapers, and deeply had
his enthusiasm been stirred (though not expressed) by accounts of
thrilling escapes and heroic deeds among the firemen. His eyes
therefore flashed back the flame of the lamps as the engine went past
him like a red thunderbolt, and he started off in pursuit of it.

But, as many people know, and all may believe, running in a crowded
London street is difficult--even to an expert London thief. Our Scot
found that out after a sixty-yards' run; then he had the wisdom to stop,
just as a little boy leaped out of his way exclaiming--

"'Ullo, Goliah! mind w'ere you're a-goin' to. I wonder yer mother let
you hout all alone!"

"Whar's the fire, laddie?" demanded David, with some impatience.

"'Ow should _I_ know, Scotty! I ain't a pleeceman, ham I? that I should
be expected to know heverythink!"

As the engine had by that time vanished, no one could tell where the
fire was, and as the street had reverted to its normal condition of
noise and bustle, David Laidlaw gave up the search for it. He also gave
up as hopeless further search for his friend that night, and resolved to
avail himself of one of those numerous establishments in the windows of
which it was announced that "good beds" were to be had within.

Entering one, the landlord of which had a round jovial countenance, he
ordered tea, toast, and sausages, with pen, ink, and paper. Having
heartily consumed the former, he devoted himself to the latter and
proceeded to write a letter. Here is the epistle:--

"BAWBYLON, I dinna ken where.

"_5th July_ 18--.

"DEAR MITHER--Here I am, in Lun'on, an' wow! but it _is_ an awfu' place!
'Ee'll no believe me, but I've been lost twa or three times a'ready,
an' I've had a kine o' fecht an' a rescue, an' been taen to the polis
office, an' made some freens, an' catched a thief (an' latten 'im aff
wi' a caution an' a wheen bawbees), an' seen a fire-engine that lookit
as if it was gawn full gallop to destruction. Ay, wumin, an' I've fawn
in a'ready wi' a waux doll! But dinna ye fear, mither, I'm ower teugh
to be gotten the better o' by the likes o' them. An' noo I'm gawn to my
bed, sae as to be ready for mair adventurs the mornin'. Ye'll admit
that I've done gey 'n' weel for the first day. At this rate I'll be
able to write a story-buik when I git hame. Respecks to faither. Yer
affectionate son, DAVID.

"_P.S._--The lan'lord's just been in, an' I've had a lang crack wi' him
aboot the puir folk an' the thieves o' this Great Bawbylon. Wow, but I
_am_ wae for them. Seems to me they have na got a chance i' the battle
o' life. He says he'll tak' me to see ane o' their low lodgin'-hooses
the morn. Guid-nicht."

------------------------------------------------------------------------

We turn now to a very different scene--to a West End drawing-room, in
which is to be found every appliance, in the way of comfort and
luxurious ease, that ingenuity can devise or labour produce. An
exceedingly dignified, large, self-possessed yet respectful footman,
with magnificent calves in white stockings, has placed a silver tray,
with three tiny cups and a tiny teapot thereon, near to the hand of a
beautiful middle-aged lady--the mistress of the mansion. She is reading
a letter with evident interest. A girl of seventeen, whose style of
beauty tells of the closest relationship, sits beside her, eagerly
awaiting the news which is evidently contained in the letter.

"Oh, I am _so_ glad, Rosa! they have found traces of her at last."

"Of who, mother--old nurse?" asked Rosa.

"Yes, your father's old nurse; indeed I may say mine also, for when I
was a little girl I used to pay long visits to your grandfather's house.
And it seems that she is in great poverty--almost destitute. Dear,
_dear_ old nurse! you won't be long in poverty if I can help it!"

As she spoke, a handsome man of middle age and erect carriage entered
the room. There was an expression of care and anxiety on his
countenance, which, however, partly disappeared when the lady turned
towards him with a triumphant look and held up the letter.

"Didn't I tell you, Jack, that your lawyer would find our old nurse if
any one could? He writes me that she has been heard of, living in some
very poor district on the south side of the Thames, and hopes to be able
to send me her exact address very soon. I felt quite sure that Mr
Lockhart would find her, he is such an obliging and amiable man, as well
as clever. I declare that I can't bear to look at all the useless
luxury in which we live when I think of the good and true creatures like
old nurse who are perishing in absolute destitution."

"But being disgusted with our luxury and giving it all up would not mend
matters, little wife," returned Jack with a faint smile. "Rich people
are not called upon to give up their riches, but to _use_ them--to spend
well within their means, so as to have plenty to spare in the way of
helping those who are willing to help themselves, and sustaining those
who cannot help themselves. The law of supply and demand has many
phases, and the profits resulting therefrom are overruled by a Higher
Power than the laws of Political Economy. There are righteous rich as
well as poor; there are wicked poor as well as rich. What you and I
have got to do in this perplexing world is to cut our particular coat
according to our cloth."

"Just so," said the lady with energy. "Your last remark is to the
point, whatever may be the worth of your previous statements, and I
intend to cut off the whole of my superfluous skirts in order to clothe
old nurse and such as she with them."

Rosa laughingly approved of this decision, for she was like-minded with
her mother, but her father did not respond. The look of care had
returned to his brow, and there was cause for it for Colonel Brentwood
had just learned from his solicitor that he was a ruined man.

"It is hard to have to bring you such news, darling," he said, taking
his wife's hand, "especially when you were so happily engaged in
devising liberal things for the poor, but God knows what is best for us.
He gave us this fortune, when He inclined uncle Richard to leave it to
us, and now He has seen fit to take it away."

"But how--what do you mean by taking it away?" asked poor Mrs
Brentwood, perceiving that her husband really had some bad news to tell.

"Listen; I will explain. When uncle Richard Weston died, unexpectedly,
leaving to us his estate, we regarded it you know, as a gift from God,
and came to England resolving to spend our wealth in His service. Well,
yesterday Mr Lockhart informed me that another will has been found, of
later date than that which made me uncle Richard's heir, in which the
whole estate is left to a distant connection of whose very existence I
had become oblivious."

"Well, Jack," returned the lady, with a valiant effort to appear
reconciled, "but that is not _ruin_, you know. Your pay still remains
to us."

"I--I fear not. That is to say, believing the estate to be mine, I have
come under obligations which must be met and, besides, I have spent
considerable sums which must be refunded--all of which, if I understand
the law of the land rightly, means ruin."

For some moments Mrs Brentwood sat in silent meditation. "Well," she
said at length, with the air of one who has made up her mind, "I don't
understand much about the law of the land. All I know is that my purse
is full of gold just now, so I will snap my fingers at the law of the
land and go right off to visit and succour our dear old Liz."

CHAPTER FIVE.

A NIGHT OF ADVENTURES.

According to arrangement, David Laidlaw was taken the following evening
by his landlord, Mr Spivin, to see one of the low lodging-houses of
London.

Our adventurous Scot had often read and heard that some of the low
quarters of London were dangerous for respectable men to enter without
the escort of the police, but his natural courage and his thorough
confidence in the strength of his bulky frame inclined him to smile at
the idea of danger. Nevertheless, by the advice of his new friend the
landlord, he left his watch and money, with the exception of a few
coppers, behind him--carefully stowed under the pillow of his bed in his
shoulder-bag. For further security the door of his room was locked and
the key lung on a nail in an out-of-the-way corner, known only, as Mr
Spivin pointed out, to "their two selves."

"But hoo dis it happen, Mr Speevin," asked David, as they walked along
the streets together, "that _ye_ can gang safely amang the thieves
withoot a polisman t' proteck ye?"

"Oh, as to that," replied the jolly landlord, "I'm connected with a
religious society which sends agents down among them poor houtcasts to
convert 'em. They hall knows me, bless you. But I ain't a-goin' with
you myself. You see, I'm a very busy man, and engagements which I 'ad
forgotten prevents me, but I've made an arrangement with one o' the
converted thieves to take you to a few of the worst places in London.
Of course he can pass you hevery where as one of his friends."

To this David made no reply, save with a slight "Humph!" as he looked
earnestly at his companion. But Mr Spivin wore an expression of
seraphic candour.

"Here he is," added the landlord, as they turned a corner and drew near
to a man in mean attire, who seemed to be waiting for some one. "He's
rather disreputable to look at, only just been converted, an' not 'avin'
'ad the chance yet to better himself.--But--hallo!--you seem to know
him."

The last exclamation and remark were called forth by the look of
surprise on Laidlaw's face, and the air almost of alarm on that of the
mean-looking man--alarm which was by no means unnatural, seeing that he
was none other than the fellow who had attempted to rob our Scotsman the
previous night.

David, however, was quick to recover himself. "Know him!" he cried,
with a hearty laugh, "ay, I ken him weel. I lent him a helpin' haund
last nicht, no' far frae here."

"Surely he was not beggin'?" exclaimed Mr Spivin in tones of virtuous
reproof, "for a noo convert to go a-beggin', you know, would be
houtrageous!"

"Na, na," answered David, with a quiet and somewhat cynical smile, "he
wasna beggin', puir lad, but I took peety on 'im, an' gee'd 'im some
bawbees. So this is yer new convert, is he? an' he's to be my guide?
He'll do. He'll do. Sae I'll bid ye guid-nicht, Mr Speevin."

As the Scot held out his hand in a very decided manner the landlord was
obliged to depart without further enlightenment, after cautioning the
"converted" thief to take good care of his friend.

When he was gone the Scotsman and the ex-convict stood looking silently
at each other, the first with an earnest yet half-sarcastic smile, the
other with a mingled expression of reckless amusement, in which,
however, there was a trace of anxiety.

"Weel noo," said the former, "aren't ye an oot-an'-oot blagyird?"

"If you mean by that an out-and-out blackguard," answered the thief,
"you're not far wrong."

"Ye're honest the noo, ony way," remarked the Scot, with a nod. "Noo,
my man, look ye here. Ye are nae mair convertit than yer freen' Speevin
is, though I took him for a rale honest man at first. But bein' a
blagyird, as ye admit, I'm wullin' t' hire ye in that capacity for the
nicht. Noo, what I want is t' see low life in Lun'on, an' if ye'll tak'
me to what they may ca' the warst haunts o' vice, I'll mak' it worth yer
while--an' I've got mair siller than ye think for, maybe."

A stern frown settled on the thief's face as David spoke.

"I suppose," he said, "that you want me to show you the misery and
destitootion among the poor of London, that you may return to your 'ome
in the North and boast that you 'ave `done the slums!'"

"Na--na, ye're quite mista'en, man," returned David quickly; "but I want
t' see for mysel' what I've heard sae muckle aboot--to see if it's a'
true, for I'm wae--I'm" (correcting himself) "sorry--for the puir
craturs, an' wud fain help some o' them if I could. Noo, freen'," he
continued, laying his huge hand gently on the man's shoulder, "if ye
want to earn something, an'll tak' me t' where I want t' gang--guid. If
no'--I'll bid ye guid-nicht."

"Do you know," said the man, with a furtive glance at David's kindly
face, "the risk you run from the men who live in such places if you go
alone and unprotected?"

"I ken the risk _they_ run if they daur t' meddle wi' _me_! Besides,
I'll be naether alane nor unproteckit if I've _you_ wi' me, for I can
trust ye!"

A peculiar smile played for a moment on the haggard features of the
thief.

"Scotchman," he said, "whatever your name may be, I--"

"My name is David Laidlaw, an' I've nae cause t' be ashamed o't."

"Well, Mr Laidlaw," returned the thief, in vastly improved language and
tone, "I'm indebted to you for a good supper and a warm bed last night.
Besides, yours is the first friendly touch or kind voice that has
greeted me since I was discharged, and you've said you can _trust_ me!
So I'll do my best for you even though you should not give me a penny.
But remember, you will go among a rough lot whom I have but little power
to control."

"Hoots! c'way, man, an' dinna waste time haverin'."

Saying this, he grasped his guide by the arm in a friendly way and
walked off, much to the surprise of a policeman with an aquiline nose,
who turned his bull's-eye full on them as they passed, and then went on
his way, shaking his head sagaciously.

As the ill-assorted pair advanced, the streets they traversed seemed to
grow narrower and dirtier.