"Unfair! 'tis vile—rascally!" cried the Chancery prisoner. "But, talking of the Poor-Side puts me in mind of a strange story connected with that quarter of the Bench; and if you have nothing better to do for an hour or so, and will step up to my room——"
"I shall have great pleasure," interrupted Curtis; "for, to tell you the truth, the time does hang rather heavy on my hands;—and till my friends the Marquis of Aldersgate and the Prince of Paris, who is staying in London, come over to see me, I may just as well amuse myself with your story."
Prout accordingly led the way to his room, which was in the front of the building and commanded a view of the parade and racquet-grounds. It was very plainly furnished, but neat and clean; and its owner informed Curtis that he had a married daughter who visited him every day, was very kind to him, and superintended his little domestic concerns.
"But I will not detain you longer than I can help, sir," observed Prout; "and I can promise you that you are about to hear a true tale of deep interest. I have thought of it so often, and have so frequently repeated its details to myself, in the solitude of this chamber, that I am enabled to give you the whole story in a connected form; although it was not in the same continuous manner that the vicissitudes I am about to relate, became known to me. Alas! 'tis a sad—sad tale, sir; but I am afraid that, bad as it is, it still is not the worst that might be told of human nature."
Frank Curtis seated himself opposite to the old man, who, after a short pause, commenced his narrative in the following words.
CHAPTER CVII.
A TALE OF SORROW.
"It was about thirty years ago that a poor but respectable and kind-hearted tradesman, of the name of Craddock, came up from Plymouth to London to receive a hundred pounds which had fallen to him through the death of a relative of whom he had not heard for years until he received the lawyer's letter announcing his decease and the legacy. Craddock was a linen-draper in a very small way at Plymouth: and though industrious, temperate, and obliging, he never had succeeded in doing any thing better than earning a mere living. He was about forty-five years of age at the time of which I am speaking, and had long been married to a woman as generous-souled as himself. They were childless; and, in spite of their poverty, they often regretted that they had no offspring to become the object of their affection, and to comfort them when old age should overtake them. Indeed, it appears that they had seriously thought of adopting some poor person's child: but circumstances of various kinds had opposed this plan; and they at last ceased to converse upon it—endeavouring to render themselves as happy as they could in each other's society. And happy, for that matter, they were too; for the mutual attachment which linked their hearts together, was firmly established; and, as they advanced in years, they seemed to become so necessary to each other, that when Craddock received the lawyer's letter summoning him to London, it was with the greatest difficulty his wife would allow him to set out alone. He however succeeded in making her understand that a hundred pounds did not constitute an independent fortune,—that it was absolutely necessary to carry on the shop,—and that therefore she must remain at home to manage it. Accordingly, the worthy dame tarried at Plymouth, and her husband came up to London by the stage—at that period a journey of no inconsiderable importance.
"It was the first time Mr. Craddock had ever been in the metropolis: but he did not stay a moment longer than his business absolutely compelled him, which was four or five days. The lawyer with whom he had to transact his little affair, was a kind and conscientious man—for there are many good lawyers as well as bad ones;—and he hastened the business as much as possible. Accordingly, Mr. Craddock received his money in less than a week; and he instantly went to the Belle Sauvage on Ludgate Hill to take his place home again by the coach. There was only one inside-seat vacant by the stage that was to start in the evening; and Craddock secured it. He then returned to the little lodging where he had slept during his sojourn in London, and which was somewhere in the neighbourhood of Doctors' Commons. Having packed up his portmanteau, he shouldered it, and was wending his way to the Belle Sauvage, when his attention was drawn to a little boy who was sitting on a door-step in one of the narrow, secluded streets in that district. The child, who was very neatly dressed and about two years old, was crying bitterly. Craddock stopped and spoke kindly to him; and though the boy was too young to give any explanation of the cause of his grief, it was easy to divine that he had strayed from home, or been lost by a negligent servant. Two or three other persons stopped likewise; and some of the neighbours came out of their houses: but the boy was unknown to them. Craddock tried to console him; but the little fellow wept as if his heart would break. By accident the parish-beadle passed that way, and, on learning what was the matter, said, 'Oh! the best thing I can do, is to take the poor child to the workhouse.'—Now, the mere name of a workhouse was terrible to the ears of the kind-hearted Craddock; and, obeying the impulse of the moment, he exclaimed, 'No, no: not while I have a crust to give him, poor child!'—'Why don't you take him home with you, then?' demanded the beadle: 'the parish will be very glad to be quit of such a bargain as a lost child promises to be.'—'But I live at Plymouth,' returned honest John Craddock.—'Never mind if you live at the devil, so as you agree to take the child,' persisted the parochial authority.—'Well, I have not the least objection: on the contrary, I shall be delighted to do so,' said Craddock, his eyes filling with tears as the poor boy's grief became more heart-rending. 'I will give you my address; and if you hear any enquiries made by the parents of the child, you can let me know.'—'Very good,' exclaimed the beadle, as he received the card on which John Craddock's name, calling, and abode were printed in bold type. The worthy linen-draper then took up the boy in his arms, the beadle consenting to carry the portmanteau; and in this manner they proceeded to the Belle Sauvage, the kind looks, soothing tone, and fond caresses of Craddock having the effect of somewhat diminishing the little fellow's grief.
"The coach was just ready to start; and Craddock took his place, with the child upon his knees. The beadle renewed his promise to write in case he should hear any thing relative to the boy's parents; and the stage rolled out of the old inn yard. It was evening—the shops glared with light; and the scene, as well as the ride in the coach, amused the boy, so that his violent weeping ceased—but frequent sobs agitated his little chest, until at last he fell asleep in worthy John Craddock's arms. It was now for the first time that the linen-draper had leisure to reflect upon the step which he had taken; and it struck him that he had acted imprudently. He was taking away the child from the city to which he most probably belonged, and where he was alone likely to be found by his parents,—taking him away to a far distant town. But, on the other hand, he remembered the beadle's declaration that the lost child must be conveyed to the workhouse; and he likewise felt certain that should the little creature's parents make proper enquiries concerning their child, the parochial authority would know what explanation to give. Craddock therefore came to the conclusion that he had performed a Christian deed and an Englishman's duty; and, having thus set all scruples at rest, he began to reflect upon the pleasure which his wife would experience in receiving the foundling. For the child was a most interesting one—with curly flaxen hair, sparkling blue eyes, and a sweet complexion; and as he lay sleeping in Craddock's arms, and the lights of the shops in the outskirts of London, which the coach was then traversing, beamed through the window upon the boy's countenance, the worthy linen-draper thought that he had never seen a face so truly cherub-like. But tears came afresh into the worthy man's eyes—for he reflected that an afflicted father and a distracted mother might at that moment be calling upon heaven to restore them their lost child; and, as he bent down and kissed its cool and firm cheeks, on which the traces of weeping still remained, he murmured to himself, 'If thy parents never succeed in recovering thee, my boy, I will be as a father, and I know that my wife will be as a mother to thee!'—The other inside passengers admired the child greatly; but when honest John Craddock told them the story connected with his possession of the boy, they merely hem'd and coughed drily as if they thought him a very great fool for so burthening himself. Craddock understood what was passing in their minds; and he only hugged the child closer to his bosom.