The Garret and the Garden; Or, Low Life High Up

Chapter Seven.
Mischief Brewing

David Laidlaw was one of those comfortably constituted men who eat heartily, sleep profoundly, and lie thinking in bed in the mornings—when awake—with philosophic intensity.

On the morning after his first day in London our hero’s mind had to grapple with the perplexing question, whether it was possible that a man with a jovial face, a hearty manner, well-off to all appearance in a worldly point of view, and who chanced to have a man’s money at his mercy yet did not take it, could be a deceiver and in league with thieves. Impossible! Yet there were the damaging facts that Mr Spivin had introduced a thief to him as a true and converted man, and that this thief, besides denying his own conversion, had pronounced him—Spivin—a black-hearted villain!

“It bothers me!” said David at length, getting over the side of the bed, and sitting there for some time abstractedly stroking his chin.

Pondering the subject deeply, he dressed, called for breakfast, met Spivin with a quiet “guid-mornin’, freen,” said that he had had “a pleesant time o’t i’ the slums,” and then went out to visit his friends in Cherub Court. Before going, however, he removed his money from his bag, put it in an inner breast-pocket, and paid his bill.

“You won’t be back to dinner, I suppose,” said the landlord in his genial manner.

“Na. I’m gaun to plowter aboot a’ day an’ see the toon. I may be late o’ comin’ in, but ye’ll keep my bed for me, an’ tak’ care o’ my bag.”

Spivin said he would do so with such hearty goodwill that David said, mentally, “He’s innocent.”

At the moment a tall dark man with a sharp intelligent expression entered the house and bade the landlord good-morning. The latter started, laughed, winked, glanced expressively at the Scotsman, and returned the stranger’s salute in a tone that induced David to say, mentally, “He’s guilty.”

Gravely pondering these contradictory opinions, our hero walked along until he found himself close to the alley which led into Cherub Court. A female yell issued from the alley as he came up, and Mrs Rampy suddenly appeared in a state of violent self-assertion. She was a strong, red-faced woman, who might have been born a man, perhaps, with advantage. She carried a broken-lipped jug, and was on her way to the shop which was at least the second cause of all her woes.

Standing aside to let the virago pass, Laidlaw proceeded to the court, where, to his great surprise, he found Tommy Splint sitting on a doorstep, not exactly in tears, but with disconsolation deeply impressed on his dirty young face.

“Eh, laddie, what’s wrang?” exclaimed the Scot, his mind reverting anxiously, and strangely enough, to the “waux doll.”

“O, Mr Laidlow” exclaimed the boy.

“Na, na,” interrupted David, “I’m no laid low yet, though the Lun’on folk hae done their best to bring me t’ that condeetion. My name’s Laid-law, laddie. Freen’s ca’ me David, an’ ye may do the same; but for ony sake dinna use that English Daivid. I canna thole that. Use the lang, braid, Bible a. But what’s the maitter wi’ ye?”

“Well, Mr Da-a-a-vid,” returned the boy, unable to resist a touch of fun even in his distress, “they’ve bin an’ dismissed our Susy, wot’s as good as gold; so she’s hout o’ work, and chimley-pot Liz she’s fit to break ’er hold ’art, ’cause she ain’t able to earn enough now to pay the rent of ’er room, an’ the landlord, what’s a lawyer, ’e is, says two weeks’ rent is overdue, and ’e’ll turn ’er hout into the street to-morrer if it’s not paid.”

“That’s bad news, Tammy,” said Laidlaw, thrusting both hands into his pockets, and looking meditatively at the ground. “But why doesna Sam Blake, the waux—, I mean Susy’s faither, lend them the siller?”

“’Cause he’s gone to Liverpool for somethink or other about ’is wessel, an’ left no address, an’ won’t be back for two or three days, an’ the old ooman ain’t got a friend on ’arth—leastwise not a rich ’un who can ’elp ’er.”

“Hoots, laddie, ye’re wrang! I can help her.”

“Ah, but,” said the boy, still in tones of disconsolation, “you don’t know chimley-pot Liz. She’s proud, she is, an’ won’t take nuffin from strangers.”

“Weel, weel, but I’m no’—a stranger, callant.”

“I rather think you are!” replied the boy, with a knowing look.

“Ye may be richt. Weel, I’ll no’ gi’e them the chance to refuse. What’s the name of the lawyer-body that’s their landlord?”

“Lockhart. John would be ’is Christian name if ’e wos a Christian. But a cove with a Christian name as is not a Christian do seem an absurdity—don’t it? They say ’e’s about the greatest willian out o’ Newgate. An’ ’is office is somewhere near Chancery Lane.”

“Weel, Christian or no Christian, I’ll gi’e him a ca’,” said David; “are they up there enow?” he added, with a significant motion of his head towards the garden on the roof.

“Yes, both of ’em—’owling. I couldn’t stand it, so came down ’ere to veep alone.”

“Weel, ye better stop where ye are, an’ veep—as ye say—a wee while langer. I’ll gang up to see them.”

A minute more and David, tapping at the garret door, was bidden to enter by a sweet voice which caused the slightest imaginable sensation in his heart! Susan was there alone—not ’owling, as Tommy had expressed it, but with the traces of tears obviously about her eyes. She blushed deeply and looked a little confused as David entered, probably because of being caught with the signs aforesaid on her cheeks.

“Guid-mornin’, Miss Blake,” said David earnestly, giving the girl a warm shake of the hand. “O lassie, but I am sorry to hear that ye’re in trouble! I do assure ye that if a pund or twa would help yer granny—”

“’Sh, Mr Laidlaw!” said Susan, looking furtively round and speaking low. “Granny will hear! You must not offer her money. From father, indeed, if he were here, she would accept it, but not from a—a stranger.”

“Am I, then, such a stranger?” asked David in a peculiar tone, for the word sounded cold and disagreeable.

Again Susan blushed, yet felt a tendency to laugh, as she replied, “Well, you know, although you have helped me in trouble, it is not very long since we met. But come and see granny; she’s in the garden—and, please, don’t speak of our troubles.”

“Weel, weel, please yersel’, lassie,” returned the Scot, almost sternly, as he followed Susan into the garden on the roof, where old Liz sat in her rustic chair resting her head on her hand, and looking sadly at the sunlight, which flickered through the foliage on to the zinc floor. Despite Susan’s caution Laidlaw sat down beside the old woman and took her hand.

“Noo, Mrs Morley,” he said, “it’s o’ no use me tryin’ to haud my tongue whan I want to speak. I’m a plain north-country man, an’ I canna thole to see a puir auld body in trouble withoot offerin’ t’ help her. I’ve been telt o’ Susy’s misfortin’ an’ aboot the rent, and if ye’ll accep’—”

“No, sir, no,” said old Liz firmly, but without any look of that pride with which she had been credited. “I will not accept money from—”

“But I’m no’ askin’ ye,” interrupted David, “to accep’ money as a gift—only as a loan, ye ken, withoot interest of course.”

“Not even as a loan,” said the old woman. “Besides, young man, you must not fancy that I am altogether penniless. I ’appen to ’ave shares in an American Railway, which my landlord advised me to buy with my small savings. No doubt, just at present the dividend on the shares of the Washab and Roria Railway have fallen off terribly, but—”

“What railway?” asked Laidlaw quickly.

“The Washab and Roria. Somewhere in the United States,” said Liz.

“H’m! I was readin’ the papers yestreen,” said David. “Ye see, I’m fond o’ fishin’ aboot odd corners o’ the papers—the money market, an’ stocks, an’ the like—an’ I noticed that vera railway—owin’ to its daft-like name, nae doot—an’ its deevidends are first-rate. Ye could sell oot enow at a high profit gin ye like.”

“Indeed? You must be mistaken, I think,” replied the old woman, “for I ’ave ’ad almost nothink for a year or two. You see, my landlord, who takes charge of these matters for me—”

“That’s Mr Lockhart the lawyer, ye mean?”

“Yes. He says they’re losing money now, and there was no dividend at all last half-year.”

“H’m! that is strange,” said David, stroking his chin, “uncommon—strange!”

“D’you think Mr Lockhart has made a mistake, Mr Laidlaw?” asked Susan hopefully.

“Ay, I think he hes made a mistake. But ’oo’ll see. An’ noo, to change the subjec’, I’ll tell ’ee aboot some o’ the adventur’s I had last nicht.”

From this point David Laidlaw entertained old Liz and Susy and Tommy Splint, who had by that time joined them, with a graphic account of his adventures in the slums, in the telling of which he kept his audience in fits of laughter, yet spoke at times with such pathos that Susan was almost moved to tears.

“Noo, I must away,” he said at length, rising. “I’ve got partikler business in haund. Come wi’ me, Tammy. I’ll want ’ee, and I’ll come back sune to see ye, auld Liz. Dinna ye tak’ on aboot losin’ yer place, Su—, Miss Blake, lass. Ye’ll git a better place afore lang—tak’ my word for ’t.”

On the way down-stairs Laidlaw and his little companion passed a tall gentleman and two ladies who were ascending. Ere the foot of the stair was reached, loud exclamations of recognition and joy were heard in the regions above.

“I say!” exclaimed Tommy Splint, with wide-open eyes, “ain’t they a-goin’ of it up there? Let’s go back an’ listen.”

“Na, ye wee rascal, we’ll no’ gang back. If ye want to be freen’s wi’ me ye’ll no daur to putt yer lug to keyholes. Come awa’. It’s nae business o’ yours or mine.”

They had not gone far in the direction of Chancery Lane when, to their surprise, they met Sam Blake, who had changed his mind about the visit to Liverpool. David at once seized him by the arm, and made him walk with them, while he explained the circumstances in which his daughter and old Liz had been so suddenly placed.

“Wouldn’t it be better for me,” said Sam, “to steer straight for the garden than to go along with you?”

“Na—ye’ll gang wi’ me. It’s plain that they hae auld freen’s veesitin’ them at the gairden, sae we’d better lat them alane. Besides, I want ye for a wutness; I’m no much o’ a polis man, nevertheless I’m gaun to try my haund at a bit o’ detective business. Just you come wi’ me, and niver say a word till ye’re spoken to.”

“Heave ahead then, skipper; you’re in command,” returned the sailor with a quiet laugh. It was echoed by little Tommy, who was hugely pleased with the semi-mysterious looks and nods of his Scottish friend, and regarded the turn affairs seemed to be taking as infinitely superior to mere ordinary mischief.

Arrived at Chancery Lane, they soon discovered the office of John Lockhart, Esquire, Solicitor. Entering, they found the principal seated at a table covered with papers and legal documents of all kinds. Both the lawyer and the farmer felt, but did not show, some surprise on looking at each other.

Chapter Eight.
Dark Designs

The lawyer was first to speak. “It strikes me I have seen you before,” he said, looking at Laidlaw with a sharp steady gaze.

“Ay, sir, an’ I’ve seen you before,” returned the latter with an extremely simple look. “I saw ye whan I was comin’ oot o’ the hoose o’ Mr Speevin, whar I’m lodgin’.”

“Oh, exactly!” returned the lawyer with a bland smile; “pray be seated, gentlemen, and let me know your business.”

They obeyed,—Sam Blake with an expression of stolid stupidity on his countenance, which was powerfully suggestive of a ship’s figurehead—Tommy with an air of meekness that was almost too perfect.

It would be tedious to detail the conversation that ensued. Suffice it to say that David said he was a Scotch farmer on a visit to London; that he possessed a good lot of spare cash, for which, at the time being, he got very small interest; that he did not understand business matters very well, but what he wanted to know was, how he should go about investing funds—in foreign railways, for instance, such as the Washab and Roria line.

At this point he was interrupted by Mr Lockhart who asked what had put that particular railway into his head, and was informed that the newspapers had done so by showing it to be the line whose shares produced very high dividends at that time.

“I’m richt I fancy?” said David.

“Yes, you are right, and I could easily put you in the way of investing in that railway.”

“Have the shares been lang at this high figure?” asked Laidlaw.

“Yes; they have improved steadily for several years back.”

“What say ye to that freend?” demanded David, turning to Sam with a triumphant look.

Sam turned on his friend a look as expressionless as that of a Dutch clock, and said sententiously, “I says, go in an’ win.”

“I says ditto!” thought Tommy Splint, but he meekly and wisely held his tongue.

Meanwhile the lawyer went into another room, from which, returning after a short absence, he produced a bundle of Reports which fully bore out his statement as to the flourishing condition of the Washab and Roria Railway.

“Weel, I’ll see aboot it,” said David, after a few moments’ consideration, with knitted brows. “In the meantime, sir, what have I to pay to you for yer information?”

Mr Lockhart said he had nothing to pay, and hoped he would have the pleasure of seeing him soon again.

“Noo, isn’t that a blagyird?” demanded Laidlaw, when they were again in the street.

“No doubt he is,” replied Sam; “but how will you manage to haul him up and prove that he has been swindling the old woman?”

“Hoo can I tell? Am I a lawyer? But I’ll fin’ oot somehoo.”

“Well, mate, while you are finding out,” returned the sailor, “I’ll go to Cherub Court. So, Tommy, will you go with Mr Laidlaw or with me?”

The boy looked first at one and then at the other with a curious “how-happy-could-I-be-with-either” expression on his sharp countenance, and then elected to accompany the sailor. On the way he told Sam of the “swell visitors” to the garret, whom Laidlaw had prevented him from going back to see.

“Quite right he was, Tommy, my boy,” said his friend. “It is easy to see that you have not profited as much as you might from the example and teaching of my dear Susy an’ chimney-pot Liz.”

“Chimley-pot,” murmured the boy, correcting him in a low tone. “Vell, you could ’ardly expect,” he added, “that a child of my age should git the profit all at once. I suppose it’s like a bad ease o’ waxination—it ha’n’t took properly yet.”

“Then we must have you re-vaccinated, my boy. But tell me, what were the swells like?”

The description of the swells occupied Tommy all the rest of the walk to Cherub Court, where they found old Liz and Susan in a state of great excitement about the visitors who had just left.

“Why, who d’ye think they was?” exclaimed the old woman, making the fang wobble with a degree of vigour that bid fair to unship it altogether, “it was my dear sweet little boy Jacky—”

“Little boy! Granny!” cried Susan, with a merry laugh.

“Of course, child, I mean what he was and ever will be to me. He’s a tall middle-aged gentleman now, an’ with that nice wife that used to visit us—an’ their sweet daughter—just like what the mother was, exceptin’ those hideous curls tumblin’ about her pretty brow as I detest more than I can tell. An’ she’s goin’ to be married too, young as she is, to a clergyman down in Devonshire, where the family was used to go every summer (alongside o’ their lawyer Mr Lockhart as they was so fond of, though the son as has the business now ain’t like his father); the sweet child—dear, dear, how it do call up old times!”

“And didn’t they,” broke in Tommy, “never say a word about ’elpin’ you, granny, to git hout of your troubles?”

“’Ow could they offer to ’elp me,” returned old Liz sternly, “w’en they knew nothink about my troubles? an’ I’m very glad they didn’t, for it would have spoiled their visit altogether if they’d begun it by offerin’ me assistance. For shame, Tommy. You’re not yet cured o’ greed, my dear.”

“Did I say I was?” replied the urchin, with a hurt look.

Lest the reader should entertain Tommy’s idea, we may here mention that Colonel Brentwood and his wife, knowing old Liz’s character, had purposely refrained from spoiling their first visit by referring to money matters.

After a full and free discussion of the state of affairs—in which, however, no reference was made to the recent visit to the lawyer, or to the suspected foul play of that gentleman—the sailor went off to overhaul Messrs Stickle and Screw in the hope of inducing that firm to retain Susy on its staff. Failing which, he resolved to pay a visit to Samson and Son. As for Tommy, he went off in a free-and-easy sort of way, without any definite designs, in search of adventures.

That evening old Liz filled her teapot, threw her apron over it, and descended to the court to visit Mrs Rampy.

“Well, you are a good creetur,” said that masculine female, looking up as her friend entered. “Come away; sit down; I was wantin’ some one to cheer me up a bit, for I’ve just ’ad a scrimidge with Mrs Blathers, an’ it’s bin ’ard work. But she ’ave comed off second best, I knows.”

As a black eye, dishevelled hair, and a scratched nose constituted Mrs Rampy’s share in the “scrimidge,” Mrs Blathers’s condition could not have been enviable. But it was evident from Mrs Rampy’s tone and manner that a more powerful foe than Mrs Blathers had assaulted her that afternoon.

“Ah, Mrs Rampy,” said her visitor, pouring out a cup of tea with a liberal allowance of sugar, “if you’d only give up that—”

“Now, old Liz,” interrupted her friend impressively, “don’t you go for to preach me a sermon on drink. It’s all very well to preach religion. That’s nat’ral like, an’ don’t much signify. You’re welcome. But, wotiver you do, old Liz, keep off the drink.”

“Well, that’s just what I do,” replied Liz promptly, as she handed her friend a cup of hot tea, “and that’s just what I was goin’ to advise you to do. Keep off the drink.”

Feeling that she had slightly committed herself, Mrs Rampy gave a short laugh and proceeded to drink with much gusto, and with a preliminary “Here’s luck!” from the force of habit.

“But what’s the matter with you to-day, Liz?” she asked, setting her cup down empty and looking, if not asking, for more; “you looks dull.”

“Do I? I shouldn’t ought to, I’m sure, for there’s more blessin’s than sorrows in my cup,” said Liz.

“Just you put another lump o’ sugar in my cup, anyhow,” returned her friend. “I likes it sweet, Liz. Thank ’ee. But what ’as ’appened to you?”

Old Liz explained her circumstances in a pitiful tone, yet without making very much phrase about it, though she could not refrain from expressing wonder that her railway dividends had dwindled down to nothing.

“Now look ’ee here, chimley-pot Liz,” cried Mrs Rampy in a fierce voice, and bringing her clenched fist down on the table with a crash that made the tea-cups dance. “You ain’t the only ’ooman as ’as got a tea-pot.”

She rose, took a masculine stride towards a cupboard, and returned with a tea-pot of her own, which, though of the same quality as that of her friend, and with a similarly broken spout, was much larger. Taking off the lid she emptied its contents in a heap—silver and copper with one or two gold pieces intermixed—on the table.

“There! Them’s my savin’s, an’ you’re welcome to what you need, Liz. For as sure as you’re alive and kickin’, if you’ve got into the ’ands of Skinflint Lockhart, ’e’ll sell you up, garding an’ all! I know ’im! Ah—I know ’im. So ’elp yourself, Liz.”

Tears rose to the eyes of old Liz, and her heart swelled with joy, for was there not given to her here unquestionable evidence of her success in the application of loving-kindness? Assuredly it was no small triumph to have brought drunken, riotous, close-fisted, miserly, fierce Mrs Rampy to pour her hard-won savings at her feet, for which on her knees she thanked God that night fervently. Meanwhile, however, she said, with a grave shake of her head—

“Now, Mrs Rampy, that is uncommon good of you, an’ I would accept it at once, but I really won’t require it, for now that Susy’s father ’as returned, I can borrow it from him, an’ sure he’s better able to lend it than you are. Now, don’t be angry, Mrs Rampy, but—’ave some more tea?”

While she was speaking her friend shovelled the money back into the teapot with violence, and replaced it in her cupboard with a bang.

“You won’t git the hoffer twice,” she said, sitting down again. “Now, Liz, let’s ’ave another cup, an’ don’t spare the sugar.”

“That I won’t” said Liz, with a laugh, as she poured out her cheering but not inebriating beverage.

On the second day after the tea-party just described, John Lockhart, Esquire, and Mr Spivin met in a low public-house not far from Cherub Court. They drank sparingly and spoke in whispers. It may seem strange that two such men should choose a low tavern in such a neighbourhood for confidential intercourse, but when we explain that both were landlords of numerous half-decayed tenements there, the choice will not seem so peculiar. Lockhart frowned darkly at his companion.

“From what you have told me of his inquiries about me,” he said, “this man’s suspicions had certainly been roused, and he would not have rested until he had made undesirable discoveries. It is lucky that you managed to get the job so well done.”

They put their heads together and whispered lower. From time to time Lockhart gave vent to a grim laugh, and Spivin displayed his feelings in a too-amiable smile.