Timothy Crump's Ward: A Story of American Life

“Can you remember Ida when she was brought to your house?” she asked. “Did she look like this?”

“It is her image,” said Jack, decidedly. “I should know it anywhere.”

“Then there can be no further doubt,” said Mrs. Clifton. “It is my child whom you have cared for so long. Oh, why could I not have known it? How many sleepless nights and lonely days would it have spared me! But God be thanked for this late blessing! Pardon me, I have not yet asked your name.”

“My name is Crump—Jack Crump.”

“Jack?” said the lady, smiling.

“Yes, madam; that is what they call me. It would not seem natural to be called by another.”

“Very well,” said Mrs. Clifton, with a smile which went to Jack’s heart at once, and made him think her, if anything, more beautiful than Ida; “as Ida is your adopted sister, that makes us connected in some way, doesn’t it? I won’t call you Mr. Crump, for that would seem too formal. I will call you Jack.”

To be called Jack by such a beautiful lady, who every day of her life was accustomed to live in a state which he thought could not be exceeded, even by royal state, almost upset our hero. Had Mrs. Clifton been Queen Victoria herself, he could not have felt a profounder respect and veneration for her than he did already.

“Now Jack,” said Mrs. Clifton, “we must take measures immediately to discover Ida. I want you to tell me about her disappearance from your house, and what steps you have taken thus far towards finding her out.”

Jack began at the beginning, and described the appearance of Mrs. Hardwick; how she had been permitted to carry Ida away under false representations, and the manner in which he had tracked her to Philadelphia. He spoke finally of her arrest, and her obstinate refusal to impart any information as to Ida’s whereabouts.

Mrs. Clifton listened attentively and anxiously. There were more difficulties in the way than she had supposed.

“Do you think of any plan, Jack?” she asked, at length.

“Yes, madam,” said our hero. “The man who painted the picture of Ida may know where she is to be found.”

“You are right,” said the lady. “I should have thought of it before. I will order the carriage again instantly, and we will at once go back to the print-store.”

An hour later, Henry Bowen was surprised by the visit of an elegant lady to his studio, accompanied by a young man of eighteen.

“I think you are the artist who designed ‘The Flower-Girl,’” said Mrs. Clifton.

“I am, madam.”

“It was taken from life?”

“You are right.”

“I am anxious to find out the little girl whose face you copied. Can you give me any directions that will enable me to find her out?”

“I will accompany you to the place, if you desire it, madam,” said the young man. “It is a strange neighborhood to look for so much beauty.”

“I shall be deeply indebted to you if you will oblige me so far,” said the lady. “My carriage is below, and my coachman will obey your orders.”

Once more they were on the move. A few minutes later, and the carriage paused. The driver opened the door. He was evidently quite scandalized at the idea of bringing his lady to such a place.

“This can’t be the place, madam,” he said.

“Yes,” said the artist. “Do not get out, madam. I will go in, and find out all that is needful.”

Two minutes later he returned, looking disappointed.

“We are too late,” he said. “An hour since a gentleman called, and took away the child.”

Mrs. Clifton sank back, in keen disappointment.

“My child, my child!” she murmured. “Shall I ever see thee again?”

Jack, too, felt more disappointed than he was willing to acknowledge. He could not conjecture who this gentleman could be who had carried away Ida. The affair seemed darker and more complicated than ever.

CHAPTER XXV. IDA IS FOUND

IDA was sitting alone in the dreary apartment which she was now obliged to call home. Peg had gone out, and not feeling quite certain of her prey, had bolted the door on the outside. She had left some work for the child,—some handkerchiefs to hem for Dick,—with strict orders to keep steadily at work.

While seated at work, she was aroused from thoughts of home by a knock at the door.

“Who’s there?” asked Ida.

“A friend,” was the reply.

“Mrs. Hardwick—Peg isn’t at home,” returned Ida. “I don’t know when she will be back.”

“Then I will come in and wait till she comes back,” said the voice outside.

“I can’t open the door,” said Ida. “It’s fastened on the outside.”

“Yes, I see. Then I will take the liberty to draw the bolt.”

Mr. John Somerville entered the room, and for the first time in eight years his glance fell upon the child whom, for so long a time, he had defrauded of a mother’s care and tenderness.

Ida returned to the window.

“How beautiful she is!” thought Somerville, with surprise. “She inherits all her mother’s rare beauty.”

On the table beside Ida was a drawing.

“Whose is this?” he inquired.

“Mine,” answered Ida.

“So you have learned to draw?”

“A little,” answered the child, modestly.

“Who taught you? Not the woman you live with?”

“No;” said Ida.

“You have not always lived with her, I am sure.”