Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. Timothy Crump's Ward: A Story of American Life by Jr. Horatio Alger (english novels to improve english txt) 📖
- Author: Jr. Horatio Alger
Book online «Timothy Crump's Ward: A Story of American Life by Jr. Horatio Alger (english novels to improve english txt) 📖». Author Jr. Horatio Alger
“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.”
Ida admitted that she had not.
“You lived in New York with a family named Crump, did you not?”
“Do you know father and mother?” asked Ida, with sudden hope. “Did they send you for me?”
“I will tell you that by and by, my child; but I want to ask you a few questions first. Why does this woman Peg lock you in whenever she goes away?”
“I suppose,” said Ida, “she is afraid I will run away.”
“Then she knows you don't want to live with her?”
“Oh, yes, she knows that,” said the child, frankly. “I have asked her to send me home, but she says she won't for a year.”
“And how long have you been with her?”
“About a fortnight.”
“What does she make you do?”
“I can't tell what she made me do first.”
“Why not?”
“Because she would be very angry.”
“Suppose I should tell you that I would deliver you from her. Would you be willing to go with me?”
“And you would carry me back to my mother and father?”
“Certainly, I would restore you to your mother,” said he, evasively.
“Then I will go with you.”
Ida ran quickly to get her bonnet and shawl.
“We had better go at once,” said Somerville. “Peg might return, and give us trouble.”
“O yes, let us go quickly,” said Ida, turning pale at the remembered
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