Chapter XXXIII: Lenny’s Experiences

Oh! strange new world
That has such people in it!—SHAKESPEARE.

The beldam was the first to awake. She looked at the child and asked if he had slept well, and if he had had anything to eat, and having received satisfactory answers, she set about preparing her own breakfast.

It was her daily custom, in returning home at evening to pick up and put into her wallet almost any sort of trash she might find about the streets; not only rags, but paper, straw, dry leaves, chips, sticks, and so forth.

Of these she now made just fire enough in the rusty grate to boil her kettle and make her tea.

And then she took from a small bundle a store of crusts and bones and broken victuals, all of which she arranged on the end of the rickety table; and so she made her morning meal.

“You may have what’s left. And mind you take care of that child while I’m gone.”

And with these orders, given of course to Meg, she put on her smashed bonnet and took her bundle of matches and went off to her usual haunts. And she did this, notwithstanding that she had received ten pounds the night before. Such with her was the force of habit, or of rapacity.

After she had gone Meg made a meal of the fragments she had left, and washed it down with milk, now turned sour, that had been provided for Lenny on the preceding evening.

Then she cleared the table, and straightened the bed, and tidied the miserable room as well as she could.

All this time little Lenny was watching her gravely, and occasionally turning his eyes with solemn curiosity upon the sleeping men on the floor.

When Meg had got through her housework, even to the rolling up of little Lenny’s pallet, she came back to the child and sought to amuse him with the ancient histories entitled “Red Riding Hood,” “Goody Two Shoes,” “Cinderella,” “Jack the Giant Killer,” and so forth.

And although of course Lenny had heard these venerable chronicles a hundred times before—as what child has not?—he was ready to listen to them a hundred times more—as what child is not?

But at the end of every story he would ask:

“Met, why not Doosa tome?”

“Doosa will be sure to come, my pretty. Now let me tell you another story.”

—“Tome soon?”

“Yes, she will come soon. Now let me tell you about Hop-O’-My-Thumb.”

Lenny sighed.

Did you ever hear a baby sigh? It is the most pathetic sound in nature. Fortunately they don’t often sigh; they generally prefer to scream.

Another story was told; and then a song was sung; and so with telling stories and singing songs, Meg tried to comfort and amuse the child.

But at last he said again:

“_Oh_, Met! _why_ not Doosa tome? I want see Doosa, so bad.” And his little lips began to tremble and his bosom to heave. But he had been taught that it was naughty to cry so he struggled valiantly to keep from doing so. But how could he bear hope deferred any better than his biggers?

His courage at last gave way and he burst out sobbing:

“I want to see Doosa! I want to see Doosa! I want to see Doosa so bad!”

Meg took him up in her arms and began to walk him up and down the room and sing to him; but his heart-breaking sobs arose above her song; and at last in despair she herself burst into tears and dropped down into her chair and hugged him to her heart, sobbing:

“Oh, my pretty, pretty boy, what can Meg do to comfort you? It was such a sin to take you from your mother!”

What a germ of a perfect gentleman little Lenny was!

As soon as he saw that his crying grieved his friend, he stopped short with a gasp or two, and put his arms around her neck, and laid his face to hers, and began to kiss and coax her.

“Don’t ky, Met; Lenny so sorry mate Met ky! Don’t ky, Met! Lenny be dood boy—’deed Lenny will. Let Lenny wipe eye.”

And he took up the hem of his little frock, and tried to stretch it up to her eyes to dry her tears.

And she clasped him to her heart in almost hysterical passion, and kissed him, and shook him, and danced him until he laughed. And then a sort of tacit, but well understood, compromise took place between them—that one would not cry if the other did not, that is if either could help it.

It was long past noon when the men woke from their drunken sleep.

First Red Roger tumbled up from the floor, rubbed his eyes, stared about him, yawned, and sat down on the side of the bed to steady himself.

Then he got up, and walked across the room to where Meg sat with the child. He stared at him for a few moments, while little Lenny met the stare with unquailing eyes, and Meg trembled lest the ruffian should miss the shilling from his pocket; and then, saying:

“Keep that little fellow close, mind you!” he took himself off, greatly to Meg’s relief.

Then Black Bill reared his lofty height from the boards, tottered on his feet, reeled towards the table, sat down upon it, for a few moments, to yawn and stretch his limbs, and then he went away.

These worthy gentlemen seldom breakfasted at home.

All that day, Meg had a hard time with little Lenny. The poor girl told all the stories and sung all the songs she knew, and did her best to comfort and amuse him. And the baby-boy tried his best to be a little gentleman, and to keep his promise not to cry; yet every little while, he would burst into heart-breaking sobs and tears, and cries, the burden of which was:

“I want to see Doosa! I want to see Doosa so much!”

At length, late in the afternoon, he succumbed to the influence of excitement, and fell asleep. And then Meg made his pallet with one hand, while she held him with the other, and laid him down.

Leaving him asleep, she went out and spent her last three-pence left of the shilling, and bought him a mug of milk and a penny-roll for his supper. These she brought home, and put away. And then she sat down to watch by the sleeping boy.

That evening Everage came in before the return of the others.

“I am glad I have found you alone, my girl,” he said. “I have brought a little money to buy some clean bedding for the boy, and I think I would rather trust you to spend it than another. Can you do it?”

“Oh, yes, sir.”

“It doesn’t take much to buy cheap bedding for a baby and the cheaper you can get this the better, so it is clean. Here are ten shillings; will that do?”

“Yes, sir; and if there’s any over I will keep it to buy milk for him.”

“Quite right. And now let me look at him,” said Everage, going up and gazing on the sleeping child.

There was a tear resting on little Lenny’s rosy cheeks, which Everage in his awakening remorse could not endure to see; so he quickly turned away his head, and he asked Meg:

“Has the child cried much to-day?”

“Oh yes, sir; he has cried a great deal indeed for his mother.”

“Poor child! But he will soon forget her, and—he shall be taken care of. We will get him to the Highlands after a while, and then he will grow into a sturdy mountaineer,” said Everage to himself.

And soon after this he got up and went away.

Later, the two men and the woman came in and drank themselves drunk, and then flung themselves down to sleep themselves sober. Little Lenny slept on in his pallet watched by Meg.

So passed the first day of the child’s captivity.

On the second and third days the old crone abandoned her post at St. Mary’s le Strand, and, hoping to make more by the beautiful boy, dressed him in rags, and telling him it was all for fun, and promising to take him to Drusilla, went out to beg with him.

But she carefully avoided the haunts where he or she had been seen, and took to other quarters of the city. On one of these begging excursions at the Railway Station, Lenny had recognized Dick and called to him, as has been related. But the beldam hastily covered the boy’s head with a ragged shawl, plunged into the crowd and disappeared, leaving Dick bewildered.

On that night, when she took the child home to the miserable garret, she found Everage waiting there.

Everage was in a great panic. He told her that posters were out all over London advertising the loss of the child, describing his person and dress, and offering a large reward for his recovery. He assured her that, if the child were found in their possession, the whole lot of them would be sent to prison and to penal servitude, and enjoined them to keep him very closely in the attic until a favorable opportunity should occur of taking him out of the country.

He promised them further and greater rewards if they would faithfully follow his instructions; and having received their pledge to obey him, he left the house.

From this day Lenny was confined to the miserable attic and taken care of by Meg. She watched him by night, and tended him by day; she washed, dressed and fed him; she tried to amuse and console him; she sung all the songs she knew and told all the tales; and she wept when he cried, and she smiled when he laughed; and, though her nature was truthful, she told lots of lies to little Lenny to account for the non-appearance of Doosa, promising every morning that Doosa would certainly come that day.

Little Lenny at first believed this; but daily disappointment at length disturbed his faith. And day by day he pined and pined, wailing in a tone of despair that nearly broke Meg’s heart:

“No, no, no, Doosa not tome. _Doosa done away! Doosa done away!_”