Chapter XXIX Dan, the Newsboy by Jr. Horatio Alger
A Ne’Er Do Well
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 in leaving 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 the lady, 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 long survive 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 your proposition, 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.