Kitabı oku: «Tattered Tom», sayfa 10

CHAPTER XXVI
CONCLUSION

When Tom was suitably dressed, it was easy to perceive a strong resemblance between her mother and herself. This resemblance was affected, to be sure, by a careless, independent expression produced by the strange life she had led as a street Arab. No doubt her new life would soften and refine her manners, and make her more like girls of her own age.

Having no further occasion to remain in New York, Mrs. Lindsay took the train for Philadelphia the next day, where Tom, whom we must now call Jane Lindsay, found herself in an elegant home, surrounded by all that wealth could supply. Her mother lost no time in supplying her with teachers, that the defects of her education might be remedied. These were great, as we know, but Jane—I had nearly said Tom—was quick, and her ambition was excited, so that the progress which she made was indeed remarkable. At the end of the year she was as far advanced as most girls of her age.

At first our heroine found the change in her life not altogether agreeable. She missed the free life of the streets, which, in spite of all its privations and discomforts, is not without a charm to the homeless young Arabs that swarm about the streets. But in a short time she acquired new tastes, never, however, losing that fresh and buoyant spirit, and sturdy independence, which had enabled her to fight her way when she was compelled to do so. It was evident that Jane, whether from her natural tendencies or her past experiences, was not likely to settle down into one of those average, stereotyped, uninteresting young ladies that abound in our modern society. Nature was sure to assert itself in a certain piquancy and freshness of manner, which, added to her personal attraction, will, I think, eventually make Tom—the name slipped from my pen unintentionally—a great favorite in society. Her faults, at some of which I have hinted, she did not at once get rid of; but the influence of an excellent mother will, I am convinced, in time eradicate most of them.

When James Lindsay learned that his sister-in-law had recovered her child, he went abroad without seeing her, being ashamed no doubt to meet one whom he had so deeply injured, and there was no difficulty in reclaiming the property, the income of which had for some years been wrongly diverted to his use.

Such of my readers as have conceived an admiration for granny may be interested to learn that she kept on in her western journey, hoping to come upon Tom somewhere; but of course she was disappointed. She arrived at length in Chicago, and, having a considerable sum of money in her possession, decided to stay there. She did not venture to open communication with James Lindsay, lest he should take from her the money she had at present, on account of her careless guardianship. Hiring a room, she gave herself up to the delights of drinking and smoking. The last habit proved fatal, when, one afternoon, she lay down with her lighted pipe in her mouth. Falling asleep, the pipe fell upon the bed, setting on fire the bedclothes, and next the clothing of Margaret herself. Whether she was suffocated before awakening, or whether she awoke too late for rescue, was never ascertained. Certain it is, however, that when the smell of smoke called in the neighbors, granny was quite dead, expiating by her tragical end the sins of her miserable career.

I must sketch one more scene, and then this chronicle of Tom’s adventurous life will close.

Fifteen months after Tom made the acquaintance of Captain Barnes, that worthy officer returned to New York. He at once repaired to the house of his sister, Mrs. Merton, expecting to find Tom. He had thought of her very often while at sea, and pictured with pleasure the improvement which she would exhibit after a year’s training and education.

“I have no child. I probably shall never have one,” he said to himself. “If Jenny has become such a girl as I hope, I will formally adopt her, and when I have become too old to go to sea, we will make a pleasant and cosey little home together, and she shall cheer my declining years.”

Such thoughts as these warmed the heart of the sailor, and made him anxious for the voyage to close. He had heard nothing from his sister since he left, and was, therefore, ignorant of the fact that Tom was no longer in her charge.

When he reached his sister’s house, and had kissed her and his nieces, he inquired eagerly:—

“Where’s Jane? Has she improved?”

“Then you haven’t heard, Albert,” said his sister, not without embarrassment, for she was about to deceive him.

“Heard! What is there to hear?” he said impatiently.

“Jane has not been with me for a year.”

“What has become of her?”

“Indeed I don’t know. She remained with me three months after you left, and then suddenly disappeared. She must have got tired of a life so different from that she had been accustomed to lead, and determined to go back to her street life.”

“I am deeply grieved to hear it,” said Captain Barnes. “I have anticipated meeting her with so much pleasure. And have you never seen her since?”

“Never.”

“I thought you might accidentally have met her in the street.”

“No.”

“Had she improved while she did stay?”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Merton, with hesitation, “that is, a little. She was not quite so wild and rude as at first; but I don’t think she would ever have made up the deficiencies of her early training.”

Captain Barnes paced the floor, deeply disturbed. His disappointment was a great one.

“I shall try to trace her,” he said at length. “I will apply to the police for help.”

“That’s the best thing to do, uncle,” said Mary, with a sneer. “Very likely you’ll find her at Blackwell’s Island.”

“For shame, niece,” said her uncle, sternly. “You might have a little more charity for a poor girl who has not had your advantages.”

Mary was abashed, and regretted that she had spoken so unguardedly, for she hoped to produce a favorable impression upon her uncle, in the hope of becoming his heiress.

The silence was broken by the stopping of a carriage before the door. Mary flew to the window.

“O mother,” she said, “there’s a beautiful carriage at the door, with a coachman in livery, and there’s a lady and a young girl, elegantly dressed, getting out.”

Quite a sensation was produced by the intelligence.

A moment later, and the servant brought in the cards of Mrs. Lindsay and Miss Lindsay.

“I don’t remember the name,” said Mrs. Merton, “but you may show the ladies in, Hannah.”

Directly afterwards Mrs. Lindsay and our heroine entered the room. They were visiting friends in New York, and Jane had induced her mother to call at the house where she had learned her first lessons in civilization. She was very different now from the young Arab of fifteen months since. She was now a young lady in manners, and her handsome dress set off a face which had always been attractive. Neither Mrs. Merton nor Mary dreamed of associating this brilliant young lady with the girl whom they had driven from the house by a false charge.

“Good-morning, Mrs. Lindsay,” said Mrs. Merton, deferentially. “Won’t you and the young lady take seats?”

“You are no doubt surprised to see me,” said Mrs. Lindsay, “but my daughter wished me to call. She was for three months, she tells me, a member of your family.”

“Indeed,” said Mrs. Merton, in surprise, “I think there must be some mistake. I don’t remember that Miss Lindsay ever boarded with me.”

“Don’t you remember Tom?” asked Jane, looking up, and addressing Mrs. Merton in something of her old tone.

“Good gracious! You don’t mean to say—” ejaculated the landlady, while Mary opened wide her eyes in astonishment and dismay.

“For years,” explained Mrs. Lindsay, “my daughter was lost to me through the cruel schemes of one whom I deemed a faithful friend; but, thank God, she was restored to me within a week after she left your house.”

“Was that the reason of your leaving, Jane?” asked Captain Barnes.

“Mother,” said Jane, cordially grasping the hand of the captain, “this is the kind gentleman who first found me in the street, and provided me with a home.”

“Accept a mother’s gratitude,” said Mrs. Lindsay, simply, but with deep feeling.

“I was sure you would turn out right, Jane,” said the captain, his face glowing with pleasure. “Then you left my sister, because you found your mother?”

“No, that was not the reason,” said Jane, looking significantly at Mrs. Merton, who, knowing that she had suspected her of what was really her daughter’s fault, felt confused and embarrassed.

“There was a—a little misunderstanding,” she stammered, “for which I hope Miss Lindsay will excuse me. I found out my mistake afterwards.”

No further explanation was then given, but Captain Barnes required and obtained an explanation afterwards. He blamed his sister severely, and Mary even more, and that young lady’s prospects of becoming her uncle’s heiress are now very slender.

“I hope, Captain Barnes,” said Mrs. Lindsay, “you will come to Philadelphia and pass a few days at my house. Nothing would please my daughter more, nor myself.”

The good captain finally accepted this invitation, though with diffidence, and henceforth never arrived in port without visiting his former protegée, where he always found a warm welcome.

And so my story ends. My heroine is now a young lady, not at all like the “Tattered Tom” whose acquaintance we first made at the street-crossing. For her sake, her mother loses no opportunity of succoring those homeless waifs, who, like her own daughter, are exposed to the discomforts and privations of the street, and through her liberality and active benevolence more than one young Arab has been reclaimed, and is likely to fill a respectable place in society.