University of Virginia Library

7. CHAPTER VII.
EXCITEMENT AT MRS. DIMPLE'S—CONSOLATORY VISITORS
TO PECAN ALLEY—NED'S RETURN.

Susan had not slept during the night. At early dawn
she had hastened to the mansion of Mrs. Dimple. Her
tidings spread dismay through the household. Betty,
whose silly communications had contributed to involve Tim
in his difficulties, was painfully shocked. She was in love
with the coachman, and hoped some day to make him her
husband. The news soon reached Mrs. Dimple, who sent
for Susan to come to her chamber. For the names of
Bainton and Mallex had been mentioned in connexion with
the abduction, and both those gentleman had recently
manifested indications of a purpose to seek the rich widow's
hand. They had not, of course, communicated to each
other their intentions; and they were rival suitors, without
as yet being aware of it.

Susan, however, was gone before the message could be
delivered. She could not tell what moment intelligence of
her dear boy might come to her house in Pecan alley.
Although nearly frantic at her loss, she had not yet relinquished
all hope of seeing Ned again. She had uttered
too many prayers for his preservation and prosperity, to
suppose that Providence would permit him to be utterly
destroyed.

Alice, when she heard what had taken place, after sitting
in abstracted silence for so long a time as to induce her
mother to inquire particularly into the state of her feelings,
said, laconically, that she was ill. She was fearfully pale.
Her alarmed parent strove in vain to arouse her into a
state of hopeful cheerfulness. She demanded to be put to
bed, and was gratified. The family physician was sent for,
but could find no symptoms of disease. There was a prostration
of the spirits. But for this how could he prescribe?

When Susan returned, she found Mr. Mulvany, the
deacon, at her door. They entered together. Amidst a
copious flood of tears, Susan poured out her griefs. Mr.

Mulvany, who had conceived an ardent affection for the
devoted protector of his little protege, truly sympathized
with her. And besides, the loss of Ned could not but be
a source of misery to himself. So it was a double blow to
him. He felt for the distress of Susan, and he lamented
the abduction of the boy.

Mr. Mulvany had been himself a poor orphan boy. But
his fair face, kind disposition, and activity of mind, attracting
attention at the Sunday school which he attended,
he had been patronized by some wealthy ladies, and sent
to college, where he was to be prepared to enter the ministry.
His education was completed with honor to himself,
and credit to his patrons. He had been ordained a deacon,
and being a most excellent reader, was employed by the
rector of the parish to assist him in the services at the
altar. His salary, as usual, was small, but having no
family to support, he contrived to live, and enjoyed the
satisfaction of reading prayers every Sunday before the
kind friends who had taken the poor orphan boy by the
hand and placed him in a position to be useful to others.

Mr. Mulvany sought for comfort at the only true
source. Both of the bereaved friends of Ned offered up
prayers for the preservation and restoration of the poor
boy they loved so well. And they seemed to derive consolation
from a firm conviction that He to whom their
humble supplications were addressed, possessed the power,
and would be likely to have the disposition, to grant their
reasonable requests.

When this devout scene was ended, a knock at the door
attracted their attention. It was Mr. D. L. Parke, the
gray-haired lawyer, and uncle of young Parke, if indeed
the nephew still survived. Susan had despatched a message
to him early in the morning.

“Where is he? What is the matter with the boy?” asked
the old man, with much animation, and, for the present,
partially relieved of his asthma. He did not pant so much
as he had done the preceding evening. His discovery of
facts which might produce a most desirable change in the
circumstances of his family, then supposed to be upon the
eve of extinction, had wrought a wonderful effect upon

his system, imparting a vigor and activity which he had
not experienced for many years.

“Gone! They have taken him away, sir!” said Susan,
feelingly, but submissively.

“Ah!” said Mr. Parke, sitting down gravely between
Susan and Mr. Mulvany. “Child,” he continued, but
without the marks of despair upon his features, “what did
I tell you? Did I not say you should be careful?”

“Oh, sir, they came and took him away when I was
with you. Mr. Mallex was at Mrs. Dimple's, and learning
that Tim Trudge was to come here to stay with Ned during
my absence, obtained Mrs. Dimple's consent to send him
somewhere else, and he did not return until Ned was gone.
Mr. Mallex and Mr. Bainton, one or both of them I am
sure, seized Ned, and carried him away.”

“Very well! Don't make yourself ill. I am glad to
see you here, Mr. Mulvany. You see I know you. I admire
the correctness of your reading, and have heard
something of your history. Come as often as you can,
and comfort poor Susan. Her affliction is unaffected—she
is sadly stricken. But I am not cast down. This occurrence
is but one of the acts in the drama of life. All the
world's a stage. Start not at the theatrical allusion. Let
mawkish devotees, the pedantic moral teachers, who only
think evil of others, do that. This occurrence lends vigor
to my body, and elasticity to my mind. It is something
tangible. It is a thread in the web to be unravelled.
There is work to do, and I have the will. But I must
have an energetic coadjutor. Let me consider and decide
who it shall be.”

“If I might answer—”

“No. It must be a lawyer, Mr. Mulvany. One who
has been in contact with bad men; and if he has been
their victim, it will be all the better.”

“Oh, sir!” said Susan, somewhat disappointed at the
apparently slight effect the loss of Ned seemed to produce
on the feelings of the aged lawyer, “I have not told you
all. They rummaged the black chest, and carried off the
letters.”

“Aha!” cried Mr. Parke, with triumph, if not delight,
expressed in his manner. “Deuces and trays merely—we

have the aces! The game is not in their hands, as they
suppose. My dear child, it was a most lucky thing you
brought me the two letters last night. Fortune, or luck, is
not entirely adverse to us, even if they do posses the boy.

“Pardon me, sir!” said Mr. Mulvany, “but might it
not be the hand of Providence, which rescued the important
letters, and separated them from the rest?”

“It might be, sir; probably it was. I am a believer in
special providences, and that God directs and controls our
thoughts and actions to a greater extent than the world is
aware of.”

“I am rejoiced to hear you say so, sir.”

“Oh, sinner as they take me for, and as I undoubtedly
am, I can go farther than that. I believe all the church
teaches, and would be a member, were it not for the conduct
of the ministers.”

“Is it possible!” exclaimed Mr. Mulvany, in undissembled
amazement.

“It is true. I acknowledge one baptism. And I could
have no difficulty in renouncing the vain pomps of the
world; but I cannot allow the ministers to decide for me
what they are. Your principal, last Sunday, said we must
not go to soirees, parties, operas, &c., nor indulge in
worldly amusements. I am fearful all this sort of preaching
is worse than nonsense. Is it not wicked? Or, at least,
an injury to the cause he is bound to serve? He said, for
members to indulge in them, however innocent they might
be, in themselves, manifested an inconsistency, and afforded
a pernicious example. Then, in the same sermon, he
uttered eulogiums on the characters, the lives and deaths
of several distinguished public individuals. It so happened
that I had played cards, visited the theatres, and drunk
wine with two of the great men he eulogized, perhaps more
than a hundred times. Where, then, was his consistency?
But the men he praised were Christians, nevertheless.
There are hundreds of thousands of good Christians, Mr.
Mulvany, who would be members of the church, if your
ministers would let them. But they will not be convinced
that the object of life is merely to traverse a narrow penitential
path, with an iron railing on either hand, from the
cradle to the grave. God has made the world beautiful.

Fruits and flowers abound, and we have tastes for their
enjoyment. And we have talents for literary achievements;
for intellectual delights; to be impassioned, to be quiescent,
to be sad, to be merry. They were not given to be
shoveled pell mell, undeveloped and unenjoyed, into the
eternal grave. Is not the everlasting picture of the sombre
habiliments of death, and the horrors of hell, held up
to our gaze, to blanch our cheeks, and to cause us to relinquish
the goods of this world, for the benefit of the
church—but a vile mockery of the greatness and goodness
of a bountiful God? It is impossible but offences must
come. The most rigid sin continually, in thought, word or
deed. Nothing but charity, and continual forgiveness can
save any of us. But those who blindly follow the priests
look upon us with aversion, and we look upon them with
disgust. We are at enmity, as the priests say they would
have us. We know that our little peccadillos, venial in
themselves, are no worse than their malignant thoughts,
evinced in their uncharitable conduct. While they consider
good men—good, if they could see their hearts—vile outcasts
from heaven, because they witness the performance
of a good play; the good men often view them as the victims
of delusion—the miserable dupes of a cunning priesthood—living
sacrifices upon an outraged altar, and hardly
worthy of a respectable standing in the world, where their
Creator placed them. No, Mr. Mulvany; let us not widen
the breach. Let us make it honorable, respectable, genteel,
to be members of Christ's church, and then additional
millions will flock to it. Let us not be sallow monomaniacs,
with fury in our eyes, boiling passions in our hearts, and
detraction upon our lips. Let us be cheerful Christians—
charitable Christians; honoring God by thankfully enjoying
his infinite bounties, whether in the fruits of the earth,
or in the entertainments of the mind; and resorting to the
fountain of forgiveness whenever we err, which must necessarily
be very frequently. We cannot avoid sinning too
much: but don't be always telling us, we mustn't eat,
drink, slumber, laugh, play, smell, see, or hear, under pain
of future damnation, and the present displeasure of the
priests. And don't demand too much of our wealth, under
the plea that it is sinful in us to keep it, for you may convict
yourselves by receiving it. By pursuing the policy I
have suggested, I verily believe, your numbers would be
doubled. On the other hand, by the present system, one
might believe that the ministers only wanted subservient
automatons, and were really striving to prevent a glorious
accession of free and rational members.”

During the delivery of this lengthy speech, Mr. Mulvany
listened in irrepressible astonishment; and at its conclusion,
it might have been a question if his mouth was not as
wide open as his eyes. It was different from anything he
had ever heard before; and, in truth, he had not mingled
much with the people of the world, except among the poor
and miserable, whom his sacred mission made it his duty
to attend. He did not reply. He did not know that he
could refute all the arguments, or controvert the statements,
of his experienced friend. In short, he was no controversialist.

“Do not be amazed, my young friend,” said Mr. Parke;
“what I have just spoken was not meant for you.”

“I'm sure it wasn't!” said Susan, interpreting the lawyer's
remarks as being designed to censure certain irascible
ministers, and anxious to screen Mr. Mulvany from
participation in the denunciation.

“You must both forgive me,” added the lawyer. “It
is a habit with me, when in pursuit of evidence, to rest for
a time upon a newly found link, and, holding fast to it,
launch my thoughts into some other channel. I am satisfied
we shall overtake these iniquitous gentlemen. They
have been guilty of a crime; and sooner or later, they
must atone for it.”

Susan uttered a scream of delight and ran to the door.
She had caught the sound of a well known voice. The
door flew open before she reached it. The next instant
Ned was in her arms. Lifting him up, she ran to an extreme
corner of the room, holding him fast, and pressing
him to her breast, as a mother would a darling child. She
laughed; she wept; and Ned did the same. They seemed
to be in a delirium of ecstacy.

“A happy Christmas to you!” cried Mr. Parke, upon
hearing the boy's name repeated. And upon looking a
moment at the gentleman who accompanied Ned, and who

remained standing near the door, he exclaimed, “Persever!
my dear boy, what brings you here? You came with the
lad? Come, sit down. You are the one I want. You
stand in need of profitable business, and mine may prove
to be such.”

“You here, Mr. Parke! And can it be possible that Ned
there is your nephew?”

“My nephew? Ah! let me see. Bring him here,
Susan. Upon my life there is a strong resemblance of my
poor brother. I was twenty years older than my brother,
and can remember distinctly his features, when he was no
older than this handsome lad. I tell you the resemblance
is perfect! I would be qualified to it,” he continued, holding
Ned by the hand and surveying him from head to foot.

“Are you my uncle, sir?” asked Ned.

“Yes—that is, I hope so, my dear child,” replied the
old man, placing his hand affectionately on his head.

“But he might resemble your brother, and even be his
son,” said Mr. Persever, glancing at Susan, “without
being your brother's heir.”

“Yet he would be my nephew!” replied Mr. Parke,
with emphasis. “And since I have seen him, I am resolved
to be his friend and protector!”

“Thank you, sir!” said Ned.

“And he will need one,” said Persever; “and if one will
not suffice, he shall have two. I, too, will watch over him,
for he has enemies. But why should he have enemies?”

“The boy may recover the fortune of his father; and
you shall have a slice of it, if you render me your assistance,”
said Mr. Parke.

“Cheerfully! But then the evidence I have heard in
relation to the death of your brother's son, affords no
cheering prospect.”

“True enough!” said Mr. Parke. “I recollect seeing
my nephew's monument, and reading the inscription!”

“Oh, believe me, it was not Ned they buried there!”
cried Susan. “I can prove it! I can swear it was not
Ned who died at the house of refuge.”

“I'm sure I didn't!” said Ned.

This declaration produced a burst of laughter from the
two lawyers, and a fit of coughing for the eldest.

“If I am old enough to be a witness, I can tell the
judge of all I saw and did when they put me in that place,
and how Susan got me out. She took me under her
gown!”

“I did so!” said Susan.

“Well; keep your memory fresh, both of you,” said
Mr. Parke. “You will no doubt be called on to testify.
And keep your doors locked, when no friend is with
you.”

Persever then related everything which had transpired
before the mayor, and repeated all the evidence that had
been offered.

“Oh, poor Tim!” cried Susan. “They've got him in
prison!”

“I forgot he was your foster-brother—else I should
have suppressed a portion of my narration,” said Mr.
Persever.

“He is safe, child,” said Mr. Parke, “and will be made
comfortable. He is a brave fellow, and shall not be forgotten.
No injury can befall him there. There are too
many witnesses. And when it may be deemed necessary
for him to come out, there is a potent instrument, called
habeas corpus, which we may obtain, that will answer the
purpose. But I must have a consultation with you, Persever.
Give me your arm. Farewell, farewell!” he said,
to all that remained, and departed abruptly with his young
legal friend.

The news of the disappearance of Ned had made quite a
stir in the alley. The inhabitants in the vicinity had
sympathized sincerely with Susan, and uttered many execrations
upon the abductors. But above all the rest,
perhaps little Tommy Denny, a lad of about the age of
Ned, appeared to be the most excited. The possibility of
such a thing as carrying away a boy of his years, had
never occurred to him. Tom had never the slightest intimation
to whom he had been indebted for his own existence.
He had been found in a basket, and taken in and
supported by Mrs. Workman, the wife of a carpenter living
opposite to Susan. Having no child of their own, they
kept the poor boy. But at the age of ten, Tom, who had
led a hardy life, was able to support himself. He was a

“news-boy,” and supplied Ned with his unsold papers at
cost. Occasionally they played together at Susan's house,
and an attachment had grown up between them.

When Tom Denny had learned that Ned had returned,
he hastened to Susan's house to welcome him back. And he
determined to greet him with a handsome Christmas gift.

“Huzza, Ned!” cried he, running in, with a noisy parrot
perched on his wrist. “I'm glad you've got back,
Ned!”

“Thank you, Tom; but what did you bring your parrot
for?”

“I'm going to make a Christmas gift of him to somebody.”

“Indeed! Who to?”

“Take him, Ned!” said Tom, presenting the bird.

“Polly wants her breakfast!” said the bird.

“He don't,” said Tom; “he's had it.”

“Oh, Tom!” said Susan, interposing, “I can't afford
it. Ned will thank you, and be just as grateful as if he
had received it. But I cannot afford to provide for the
parrot. Ned must be educated, and all my money must
be saved for that purpose. I must buy books. Take him
back, Tom; that's a good boy.”

“Yes, I thank you, Tom. But Susan can't afford it,”
said Ned. “When you have sold your papers, come and
spend the day with me. We'll have a merry Christmas;
and I'll tell you of my wonderful adventures last night.
They'll make you stare!”

“And I will be back after the morning's service,” said
Mr. Mulvany. “In the meantime, Susan, I think it would
be well for Ned to sleep an hour or so. He has lost much
rest, and is paler than usual.”

Ned was not averse to it. He had been gaping, and
stretching his arms apart, ever since his return; and it
was feared the reaction, after the scenes of excitement he
had passed through, might have an injurious effect upon
his health.