Chapter XXXII: Little Lenny’s Adventures

Oh! ’tis a peerless boy,
Fearless, ingenuous, courteous, capable:
He’s all the mother’s, from the top to toe.—SHAKESPEARE.

Was little Lenny frightened when he woke up and found himself in that strange and wretched garret, closely surrounded by new and terrible faces?

Not at all. Neither by nature nor by training was the baby-boy a coward. The child of many generations of heroes had inherited no craven fears; the cherished darling of the household had been taught none.

In a word, he was a plucky little fellow, afraid of neither man, beast or devil.

And there was still another reason why on this occasion he was not afraid. For if, as it has been written by the prince of poets, “_music_ hath charms to soothe the savage breast,” how much more hath beautiful and gracious childhood?

The wretched men and women, gathered around this pretty boy, looked on him, not with ferocious faces, but with smiles; and not with the deceitful smiles whose insincerity a child will detect more quickly than an adult can, but real, heartfelt smiles, called up by seeing among them “something better than they had known.”

Yes, even while they were wresting from him his little treasures of finery and jewelry, they did it with an expression of eagerness rather than of ferocity.

And little Lenny gazed on them, turning his blue eyes from one to another, not in fear, but in wonder and curiosity. Sometimes he was so much amused by their excitement that he laughed aloud.

But he was as a little prince, king, or god among these poor creatures, and he knew it. For when Red Roger unclasped and snatched his elegant pearl and turquoise necklace from his neck, he suddenly put out his chubby hand and snatched it back—so suddenly and unexpectedly that he actually gained possession of it again before the slow and lumbering brute could prevent him. And after he did so he fixed his eyes indignantly upon the thief, and said:

“Man! how dare you tate ’hings ’out leave?”

And it was delicious to see the air of authority and confidence with which the baby-boy put this question.

And why not? Had he not been permitted to rule over his mother and cousins, and even over his godfather, the veteran General, who was the greatest man _he_ knew in the world? and should he not rule over these poor creatures? And besides, I think that Master Leonard Lyon, while inheriting all the graces and virtues of his ancient house, inherited some of its faults as well, and among the latter that inordinate pride of caste which is so very objectionable in this republican age, and that he looked upon this order of human creatures as rather lower in the scale of being than well-bred cattle. So, captive and helpless as he was, he looked around upon them with queerly mixed feelings of wonder, mirth, pity and disapprobation, but without a particle of fear.

As for the red-haired ruffian, he was so astonished by the words and actions of the baby-boy, that he could but open his mouth and eyes and stare. He did not attempt to recover the necklace; but of course he knew that the child and his jewels were both in his power all the same.

Lenny, after staring at him for a moment and receiving no answer to his unanswerable question, turned to the gipsy-looking girl and asked:

“What you name, dirl?”

“Meg,” answered the girl, smiling kindly on the child.

“Met, you tate dis and teep it for Lenny. Me name Lenny,” he said, handing her the necklace.

Meg looked up in doubt and fear to the face of her red-haired relative, and meeting his eye, and seeing him nod and wink at her, she slipped the necklace into her bosom, and answered the child, calling herself by the name he had given her:

“Yes, pretty! Met will keep it for Lenny. (Yes, and I will, too, if I can,”) she added, in a lower tone. But she probably knew also that the jewels must pass back into the custody of the red-haired ruffian before the night should be over.

But Lenny’s attention was instantly called away to another quarter. In fact, he needed to be constantly on the alert to prevent himself from being stripped and skinned by the thieves.

“You ’top, _man_!” he indignantly exclaimed to Black Bill, who was stealing the pearl and turquoise armlets from his sleeve. “Div Lenny back, minute!” he cried, making a snatch at the jewels.

Black Bill probably felt safe in relinquishing his prizes, for the time being; for as soon as he restored them to Lenny, the child passed them over to the appointed keeper of the jewels, saying:

“Met, teep dem too for Lenny.”

And the girl, with a smile, put them also in her bosom.

But presently this chosen servant seemed turning traitor to her little lord, for while his attention was for a moment called off elsewhere, he felt hands at work upon his pretty little blue kid gaiters, with their gold buttons.

“’Top dat, _Met_! ’Top it! _Met_! What you pull off my hoos for? Me not do bed. ’Top it, _Met_!” he cried, this time less in anger than in anguish to see such treachery in a trusted servant.

“Oh! I want ’em so bad! so bad! Won’t you give ’em to me? Won’t Lenny give ’em to Met?” pleaded the girl, in a wheedling tone.

“You want my hoos?” inquired Lenny, pitifully.

“Yes, so bad! I have got no shoes.”

“You dot no hoos?”

“No.”

“Well, den, me div you mine. Tate off! tate off! Me dot more hoos home.”

The girl took them off. And this must be said in excuse for her, that she was acting under the orders and under the eyes of her tyrannical and unscrupulous uncles.

“Now put on _you_ feet! Put on! put on!” insisted Lenny, stooping over and looking at Meg’s sturdy naked limbs. “But my hoos too ittle for you feet. You feet so bid,” he added, in astonishment, at the size of Meg’s “understanding.”

“Never mind, I can change ’em for a bigger pair,” answered the girl.

Before Lenny could reply again, he was accosted by the beldam, who held him on her lap and who had got possession of his elegant little white satin hat, with its plume of white marabout feathers fastened with a cluster of diamonds.

“And may I have this, my pretty, pretty bird?” she asked, holding it up to view.

“You dot no bonnet?” he inquired compassionately.

“No, my pretty little angel, I’ve got no bonnet.”

“Den you have Lenny hat—Doosa div Lenny more hat. Put on, put on!” he exclaimed, impatiently seizing his beautiful and costly cap, and trying to decorate with it the horrible head of the old hag.

He was permitted to complete his purpose, to the unbounded mirth of the group who all burst into loud laughter at the ludicrous effect produced.

When this ebullition had somewhat subsided, Lenny bestowed his sash upon Meg, his tiny pocket-handkerchief on one man, and his little gloves on another; and then he said, with an air of relief:

“Now, dat all—Lenny dot no more div! Now Lenny want do home see Doosa.”

He said this with so much confidence, yet with so much uneasiness and longing that they all pitied him. The old woman asked:

“Who is Doosa, my little angel?”

“Doosa id Doosa—Lenny Doosa—Lenny pretty Mamma Doosa.”

“His mother,” said one of the men, in a low voice.

And then, for a few moments, nobody knew what to say.

Lenny was the first to speak:

“Tate me home now see Doosa. Met, I do ’id you—you tate me.”

Meg was confounded for a few moments, and then her mother-wit came to her aid, and she answered:

“But Doosa is coming here herself to take Lenny home.”

“Doosa tome here, tate Lenny home?”

“Yes, and Lenny must be a good boy till Doosa comes.”

“Doosa say so?”

“Yes, Doosa say so.”

“Den Lenny will—” he said, gaping, and adding:

“Lenny so sleepy! me so sleepy!”

“Well, then, lay on its old grannam breast, and go to sleep, my little angel,” said the old woman, gathering him up to her bosom.

“No, no, no, no! lay on Met lap. Met dit Lenny seep,” he said, wriggling himself away from the crone, and going up to Meg.

What girl does not doat on little children? What girl, under these circumstances, would not have met the baby’s advances with delight?

The poor young daughter of thieves and beggars took the child up in her arms and looked around for a seat.

“Well, then, if you have got to nurse him, I will give you my chair,” said the old woman, rising and throwing herself down upon the bed.

Meg took the seat and arranged the drowsy child comfortably on her lap.

“Wock me! wock me, Met,” said little Lenny.

There were no rockers on the rickety chair, but Meg moved her body backwards and forwards, and so gave the baby the best rocking she could.

“Now sin’ to me, Met.”

Meg looked perplexed at this request, for a moment, but soon recovered herself. Fortunately, Mother Goose’s melodies are the common property of infant humanity, from the royal palace to the rag-picker’s hut, and Meg struck up the nursery-classic—

“By, Baby-Bunting!”

She had a very sweet voice, which certainly soothed the child, for he listened in drowsy delight. He well understood that he himself was the Baby-Bunting in question. But when she sang the next line:

“Popper’s gone a-hunting.”

He opened his sleepy eyes and said:

“No, no; me dot no popper!”

“Never mind; some Baby-Buntings have—”

“Mommer’s gone a-milking.”

“No, no; Lenny mammer don’t go miltin’! _Dane_ do miltin’, and _Mawy_, and _Suzy_—down home in tountry. And Lenny do wid ’em too—see milt tow,” he exclaimed, quite waking up, as the memory of the rural pleasures of Old Lyon Hall flashed over his mind.

“Well, never mind; some mommers do, you know—”

“Sister’s gone a silking.”

“Lenny ain’t dot no sister—not one,” he said.

“Brother’s gone to get a skin
To wrap my Baby-Bunting in—
A pretty little rabbit skin,
To wrap my Baby-Bunting in.”

“No, no, no; Lenny ain’t dot no brudder. _Dit_ do after yabbits,” said Lenny, very drowsily.

He was almost asleep, and the girl continued her chanting: but presently as his eyes were about closing, he suddenly started up:

“Met?”

“What does my pretty want?”

“When Doosa tomes, wate me up.”

“Yes, that I will.”

“Dood night, Met!”

“Good night, little angel!”

“Tiss me first, Met; tiss Lenny dood-night, Met!”

The girl stooped and kissed the child almost passionately, and murmured:

“Who could hurt him, the darling?”

But Lenny’s eyelids were weighed down with sleep, and he was almost gone again, when, once more he called:

“Met, I fordot to say my p’ayers. Hear me say my p’ayers, Met!”

And heavy with sleep as he was, he slipped off her lap, knelt down at her knee, and folded his little hands, and bowed his little head, and opened his baby-mouth, in “the simplest form of words that infant-lips can try:”

“Now I ’ay me down to s’eep,
P’ay de Lord my soul to teep;
If I die before I wate,
P’ay de Lord my soul to tate.”

This was the little evening prayer that had been taught him, with much trouble, by his mother.

It was uttered now in a place and among people who had probably never heard a prayer before.

Yet, perhaps, no purer orisons from priest or prelate arose to the throne of the Most High that night.

“Now me done. Now me do s’eep,” said Lenny, drowsily, climbing up to Meg’s lap and putting his arms around her neck and nestling his head upon her bosom.

“Bless the darling!” said the girl, as she gathered him closer and supported him comfortably.

And again he was almost asleep, when again he started up and called out again:

“Met!”

“What is it now, my pretty?”

“Don’t you fordet to wate me up when mamma Doosa tomes.”

“No, I won’t, my pretty.”

“Now I do s’e p, sure ’nough. Dood night, Met.”

“Good night, little angel.”

“More tiss.”

She stooped and pressed her lips to his baby lips again.

He opened his drowsy eyes to look at her and say:

“Lenny love Met.” And with the words in his mouth he fell fast asleep.

And Meg continued to rock him with a gentle motion and sing to him in a soothing tone.

“Meanwhile the old woman lay resting on her bed, and the two men sat drinking at the rickety table.

“You’d better take them things to Old Israel and get ’em out’n the way in case of accident; and mind what he gives you for ’em. Them’s rale jewels, if _I_ know anythink about rale jewels,” said the old woman from her bed.

“Which you don’t. Not the least. But them’s rale, sure enough; because it ain’t possible as a rich lady, rolling in gold, would go for to put her onliest child into imitation trash,” said Black Bill.

“Well then you had better go and make sure on ’em. There’ll be a hue and cry next.”

“There is a hue and a cry now, I shouldn’t wonder; only it won’t come down our way.”

“Well, anyhow, why don’t you go and take the things to the Jew?”

“Because we must wait here for the gentleman. I saw him on the Strand arter Bill carried off the child. He said he was coming to settle to-night,” said Roger.

“One of you can stay here to see him and the other can go and sell the jewels.”

“Not if we know it,” laughed both the brothers, speaking at once.

“We want to stay here together to see the gentleman and get the money,” said Red Roger.

“So we can have fair play and diwide it, equal, share and share alike,” added Black Bill.

“And then we wants to go together to Israel’s to sell the jewels and get the price,” pursued Red Roger.

“So we can diwide the same fair and equal,” added Black Bill.

By this it will seem that there was no “honor among thieves” in this case. Neither would trust the other.

“Here he is now,” said Roger as a step was heard upon the stairs.

A few moments after, there was a rap at the door.

Black Bill opened it and admitted Everage.

“You have got the child?” he eagerly demanded.

But before any one could reply, his eyes fell upon little Lenny sleeping on the girl Meg’s lap.

“Yes, as your honor sees, we’ve got him fast enough,” answered Roger.

Everage approached the sleeping child and gazed in his tranquil face.

“Did he cry much?” he inquired, in a subdued tone.

“Cry?” laughed Black Bill. “‘Cry?’—Lord love you, sir, no! He thought it was a frolic, and he whooped ‘stop thief’ with the lustiest on ’em till the clooryfum quieted of him.”

“But when he was brought here?”

“Oh, he was asleep then.”

“Good Heaven!” exclaimed Everage, fairly jumping off his feet with fright, “has he been in that state ever since?”

“Lord bless your honor, no, sir! He woke up bright as a skylark the minute we flung water in his face.”

“And _then_ was he frightened? Did he cry for his mother?”

“Lord love you, no, sir! Never see such a plucky little cove. He scolded us men, and he petted Meg, and he put his precious little cap on the old woman’s head. Such a figure it made of her—ha! ha! ha!—ho! ho! ho!” laughed both brothers.

“Then he was not terrified or distressed?”

“_He_ terrified or distressed! You ought to have heard how he ordered us all around until he got sleepy, and then he insisted on Meg’s rocking him to sleep. And she did it.”

“Has he had his supper?”

“No, your honor. He didn’t ask for no supper. Why, sir, his hands were full of buns when I snatched him up and run off with him,” said Black Bill.

“But if he wakes up hungry, what have you got to give him?”

“Well, unless the poor woman has a bit of bread and a lump of cheese, I don’t know as there’s anything else.”

“I thought so. I must go out and buy him some milk. Where can I find any hereabouts?”

“Well, sir, there’s a shop at the corner of the next street where they sells it. But, master, how about the pay?”

“Oh, you shall have it,” said Everage, taking out his old portmonnaie and drawing from its interior three ten pound notes, the price of his valuable jeweled gold watch and chain, his own seal ring, a costly microscope that had once been his delight, and other sacred treasures spared from sacrifice till now.

“I promised you ten pounds each, I think. Here they are.” And he handed a note to each of his confederates.

“And now,” he said, “I must go and get some milk for the child.”

“I will go, your worship,” said Roger.

“Very well. I shall thank you. Here is a sixpence,” said Everage.

“If your honor pleases, I must buy a mug or summit to fetch it in.”

“Here is another sixpence. And now make haste. I want to see the child comfortable before I leave him to-night.”

“All right, your honor; I’ll be back in no time,” said Roger, starting out of the room.

“But—where are you going to lay him?” inquired Everage, glancing at the old woman’s foul bed with a visible shudder.

“Oh, your honor, it’s all right. He shall sleep with me,” said the crone.

“No, I would rather he should not. Can’t he sleep with the girl?”

“But she shares my bed, your honor.”

“Have you no other bedding?” he inquired, glancing around the room.

“Lord love you, sir, where would the likes of us get it? No, your honor, you see all we have.”

“Where do the men sleep?”

“La, sir, anywheres or nowheres! most in general nowheres! If so be they happen to be at home a night they just fling themselves down onto the floor.”

“Well,” sighed the poor gentleman, “I suppose there in no help for it to-night, and he must sleep as he can, but to-morrow I must get some clean bedding for his use. I wish you to take good care of the little fellow for the few hours or days he will be with you; but I must get him out of the country as soon as possible.”

With Everage “as soon as possible” meant as soon as by any means he could raise the money to do so.

“If you please, sir——” began Meg, in a timid voice.

“Well, my girl, what is it?” inquired Everage, turning and looking at her, and thinking what a fine frank face was hers, notwithstanding that she was the child and companion of thieves and outcasts.

“If you please, sir, I would not lay him on that bed. He ain’t hardened to it, and he could not sleep, sir. It is full of bugs,” said Meg.

“But what’s to be done? You can’t hold him in your arms all night.”

“’Deed I’d sooner do it, sir, than see him eat up alive. But please, sir, if so be I might make so bold——”

“Yes, yes, to be sure. Go on.”

—“The shops is all open yet, sir, and if so be as you could send out and buy him a little clean blanket—a coarse one would do—I could make him a pallet in the corner of the room and cover him over with his own little mantle,” said Meg.

“Well thought of, my girl. How much will it take to buy?” required Everage, for his funds were very, very low.

“A crown would do it—maybe less.”

“Can you do this errand for me, my man?” inquired Everage, turning to Black Bill.

“If your honor wills; but it will take seven shillings at the least,” said the ruffian.

Everage produced the required amount and handed it ever to the man, who arose and lounged out of the room.

“And now I must not forget this,” said Everage, picking up a bundle he had brought in with him, unrolling it, and displaying a full suit of baby’s clothing, including the night gown, all of the cheapest and plainest material, faded and patched, but perfectly clean: for it belonged to his own little two-year-old Clara, and had been privately taken from his wife’s bureau drawer. “He must not remain in his fine clothes lest he should be accidentally seen. Put this night-gown on him to-night, and to-morrow dress him in this suit; and be sure to hide away or destroy the others. Do you understand?” he inquired, as he passed the bundle over to Meg.

“Yes, please, sir.”

The door opened and the two brothers came in together—Black Bill, with a small, coarse, cradle-blanket on his arm; and Red Roger, with a mug in his hand.

Everage himself took the purchases from them, and gave them into the keeping of the girl, whom he trusted more than all the rest of the gang.

Then he waited until he saw Meg undress the child and put it in his clean, patched night-gown, while little Lenny slept heavily the sleep of fatigue through the whole process.

“Now, if you will hold him on your knees half a minute, I’ll spread his pallet,” said the girl, laying the child on the lap of Everage.

As soon as his pallet was prepared, she took him, still sleeping, and laid him on it, covering him over with his own little mantle.

“And you’d better keep the milk handy so as to give it to him to drink if he should wake hungry or thirsty,” said Everage.

“Yes, sir, I will. I will just fling myself down on the floor by his pallet, and take care of him, sir,” replied Meg.

“And you shall not go unrewarded for your care of him,” said the poor gentleman loftily.

And then, having given his confederates an extra caution in regard to the child, and promised, or rather threatened, to look in the next night, Everage left the house and bent his steps homeward.

Surely little Lenny’s guardian angel inspired poor Meg that night. She laid herself down on the bare boards beside his pallet, and resting her head upon her bent arm, with her face towards the child, watched him until she became too drowsy to keep her eyes open; and even then she slept like a watch dog, on the alert, and at the slightest motion of her charge she would wake up to see if he wanted water, or milk, or to spread the mantle over him.

But Lenny slept soundly until morning.

At his usual time of waking, a little after sunrise, he opened his eyes. At first he stared around himself in utter bewilderment. Then he saw Meg bending over him, and he recognized her face, and he remembered the incidents of the preceding night.

“Why didn’t you, Met?” he inquired, looking reproachfully in her face.

“Why didn’t I do what, my pretty?” smiled the girl.

“Wate me up when Doosa tomed.”

“But Doosa didn’t come, my pretty bird.”

“Doosa didn’t tome?”

“No, pretty.”

“But Doosa say she tome.”

“So she did; but then she said she couldn’t, and now she says she will come to-day.”

“Tome to-day?”

“Yes.”

“Tome soon?”

“Yes.”

Lenny smiled, and then all out of season, he remembered a certain matutinal formula that he had forgotten under his unusual circumstances, and he suddenly said:

“Dood mornin’, Met!”

Meg, taken all aback by this unexpected salutation, did not respond.

“Dood mornin’, Met. Why don’t you say dood mornin’ to me?”

“Good morning, pretty bird.”

“Me not pretty bird—me ’ittle boy.”

“Good morning, little boy.”

“Tiss dood mornin’, Met.”

The girl caught him up in her arms and kissed him enthusiastically.

To her dark and gloomy life he had come like some beautiful, brilliant bird of Heaven, and she prized him and delighted in him. It was something of the same sort of natural passion that a child feels for its first wonderful wax doll, or its first beautiful live pet, only it was much more intense, inasmuch as this was a living, loving talking doll—a beautiful, intelligent human pet.

And so she kissed him, and hugged him, and shook him, and danced him, and prattled to him, and called him all the sweet names that, on such cases, spring spontaneously to the lips of girls and women.

And Lenny, in his gracious, genial nature, gave kiss for kiss, and caress for caress.

I think if poor Drusilla, waking in her agony of bereavement, that same morning, could have seen, as in a magic glass, these two friends—the girl and the baby,—she would have been contented,—no, not that, but she would have felt comforted.

“Lenny love Met,” said the child, patting her cheeks.

“And ‘Met’ loves Lenny dearly, dearly, dearly! and nobody shall hurt him—they shall kill ‘Met’ first!”

Now, as “hurt” and “kill” were words that had never been introduced into this cherished baby’s vocabulary, he did not understand and did not know how to reply; but he felt that _love_ was meant throughout, and he knew how to answer _that_. So he patted Meg’s cheeks and kissed her lips.

And now as the long-lingering light of day stole into that wretched attic-chamber, it brought out strange pictures. The yellow rays of the sun, striking obliquely through the window in the roof, fell upon the corner occupied by Meg and Lenny, and lighted up a picturesque group,—the beautiful, golden-haired, blue-eyed baby-boy, fair as one of Rafael’s pictured angels, with his rosy arms clasped around the neck of the wild, dark, gipsyish girl, who held him on her lap; and their surroundings,—the poor pallet, the little stone-jug of milk, the bare boards, and the broken walls. This was the only sunny scene in the room.

In the shadows were other scenes, best left in darkness,—the beldam in her foul bed, and the two men sprawling on the naked floor. All these were dead to all surrounding life, for they were heavily sleeping off the effects of the last night’s gin-drinking.

To return to the “sunny” spot occupied by the girl and the baby. She was still caressing him.

“Would Lenny like his breakfast now?” she asked.

“Yes, Lenny like breakfas’. But go in baf-tub first.”

“Go—where?” inquired the girl, quite bewildered.

“In baf-tub! baf-tub! baf-tub! wash!”

“Oh, bath-tub! My bonny bird, we have got no bath-tub here, but ‘Met’ will wash you clean—will she?”

“Yes, Met wash.”

“Will Lenny be afraid to stay here while ‘Met’ goes to fetch water?”

“’Faid? what ’faid?”

“You don’t know? Well, I hope you never will.”

“What ’faid? what ’faid? what ’faid?” peremptorily demanded this despotic little inquisitor.

“’Faid is—bad, naughty,” said Meg, after some little perplexity.

“No, Lenny not ’faid.”

“And will Lenny let ‘Met’ go get some water?”

“Yes.”

“And sit here and don’t move until I come?”

“Yes.”

Away ran the girl, and as quickly as she could borrow a bucket and fetch the water she returned to the room.

She washed the child very thoroughly and then dressed him in the clean suit that had been provided by Everage.

“But dese ain’t Lenny tose,” observed the child.

“No, Lenny has got no clean clothes here, so Lenny must wear these,” said the girl.

And the child trusted her and was content with the answer.

“And now Lenny will have his breakfast?” she asked.

“Yes; and Met have _hers_ too,” answered the child.

The girl then went to the sleeping men and felt in their pockets. She knew very well that both had cheated their employer in the matter of the price of the milk and the blanket that they had been sent to buy on the previous night, and so she judged they must have the odd change they had swindled Everage out of still in their possession.

She was right. She found a sixpence in Roger’s pocket and two shillings in Bill’s. She replaced all the money except one of the shillings, which she confiscated to the use of the right owner, as she called little Lenny.

Having possessed herself of this fund, she turned to the child and took him by the hand, saying:

“Will Lenny take a walk with ‘Met’?”

“Lenny want bekfas first.”

“Well, we are going out to buy milk for breakfast—nice new milk. Will Lenny go?”

“Pose Doosa tome?” objected the child.

“But Doosa won’t come before we get back.”

“Well, den Lenny go wid Met.”

And they walked out together down to the corner of the alley to the cellar where the milk was sold.

And Meg bought new milk and fresh rolls, and a little cheap white mug and plate, all for nine pence.

And then she took Lenny back to the attic and gave him his breakfast clean.

And through all this the beasts in the attic slept on.