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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/4592-0.txt b/4592-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..ab394c9 --- /dev/null +++ b/4592-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11073 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Cast Adrift, by T. S. Arthur + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Cast Adrift + +Author: T. S. Arthur + +Release Date: October, 2003 [Etext #4592] +Posting Date: December 8, 2009 +Last Updated: March 14, 2018 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CAST ADRIFT *** + + + + +Produced by Charles Aldarondo + + + + + +CAST ADRIFT + +By T. S. Arthur + +Author Of “Three Years In A Man-Trap,” “Orange Blossoms,” Etc., Etc. + + + Philadelphia: + Cincinnati: + New York: + Boston: + Chicago, Ills.: + New Castle, Pa.: + San Francisco, Cal.: + +1873 + + + +TO THE READER. + +IN this romance of real life, in which the truth is stranger than the +fiction, I have lifted only in part the veil that hides the victims of +intemperance and other terrible vices--after they have fallen to the +lower deeps of degradation to be found in our large cities, where the +vile and degraded herd together more like wild beasts than men and +women--and told the story of sorrow, suffering, crime and debasement +as they really exist in Christian America with all the earnestness and +power that in me lies. + +Strange and sad and terrible as are some of the scenes from which I hare +drawn this veil, I have not told the half of what exists. My book, apart +from the thread of fiction that runs through its pages, is but a series +of photographs from real life, and is less a work of the imagination +than a record of facts. + +If it stirs the hearts of American readers profoundly, and so awakens +the people to a sense of their duty; if it helps to inaugurate more +earnest and radical modes of reform for a state of society of which a +distinguished author has said, “There is not a country throughout the +earth on which it would not bring a curse; there is no religion upon the +earth that it would not deny; there is no people upon the earth it would +not put to shame;”--then will not my work be in vain. + +Sitting in our comfortable homes with well-fed, well-clothed and +happy-hearted children about us--children who have our tenderest care, +whose cry of pain from a pin-prick or a fall on the carpeted floor hurts +us like a blow---how few of us know or care anything about the homes +in which some other children dwell, or of the hard and cruel battle for +life they are doomed to fight from the very beginning! + +To get out from these comfortable homes and from the midst of tenderly +cared-for little ones, and stand face to face with squalor and hunger, +with suffering, debasement and crime, to look upon the starved faces +of children and hear their helpless cries, is what scarcely one in a +thousand will do. It is too much for our sensibilities. And so we stand +aloof, and the sorrow, and suffering, the debasement, the wrong and +the crime, go on, and because we heed it not we vainly imagine that no +responsibility lies at our door; and yet there is no man or woman who is +not, according to the measure of his or her influence, responsible for +the human debasement and suffering I have portrayed. + +The task I set for myself has not been a pleasant one. It has hurt my +sensibilities and sickened my heart many times as I stood face to face +with the sad and awful degradation that exists in certain regions of +our larger cities; and now that my work is done, I take a deep breath +of relief. The result is in your hands, good citizen, Christian reader, +earnest philanthropist! If it stirs your heart in the reading as it +stirred mine in the writing, it will not die fruitless. + +THE AUTHOR. + + + +CONTENTS. + + +CHAPTER I. The unwelcome babe--The defrauded young mother--The struggle +between life and death--“Your baby is in heaven”--A brief retrospect--A +marriage for social position--An ambitious wife and a disappointed +husband--The young daughter--The matrimonial market--The Circassian +slaves of modern society--The highest bidder--Disappearance--The old sad +story--Secret marriage--The letters--Disappointed ambition--Interview +between the parents--The mother's purpose--“Baffled, but not +defeated”--The father's surprise--The returned daughter--Forgiven--“I am +not going away again, father dear”--Insecurity and distrust + +CHAPTER II. The hatred of a bad woman--Mrs. Dinneford's plans for the +destruction of Granger--Starting in business--Plots of Mrs. Dinneford +and Freeling--The discounted notes--The trap--Granger's suspicions +aroused--Forgery--Mrs. Dinneford relentless--The arrest--Fresh evidence +of crime upon Granger's person--The shock to Edith--“That night her baby +was born” + +CHAPTER III. “It is a splendid boy”--A convenient, non-interfering +family doctor--Cast adrift--Into the world in a basket, unnamed +and disowned--Edith's second struggle back to life--Her mind a +blank--Granger convicted of forgery--Seeks to gain knowledge of his +child--The doctor's evasion and ignorance--An insane asylum instead of +State's prison--Edith's slow return to intelligence--“There's something +I can't understand, mother”--“Where is my baby?”--“What of George?”--No +longer a child, but a broken hearted woman--The divorce + +CHAPTER IV. Sympathy between father and daughter--Interest in public +charities--A dreadful sight--A sick babe in the arms of a half-drunken +woman--“Is there no law to meet such cases?”---“The poor baby has no +vote!”--Edith seeks for the grave of her child, but cannot find +it--She questions her mother, who baffles her curiosity--Mrs. Bray's +visit--Interview between Mrs. Dinneford and Mrs. Bray--“The baby +isn't living?”--“Yes; I saw it day before yesterday in the arms of a +beggar-woman”--Edith's suspicions aroused--Determined to discover the +fate of her child--Visits the doctor--“Your baby is in heaven”--“Would +to God it were so, for I saw a baby in hell not long ago!” + +CHAPTER V. Mrs. Dinneford visits Mrs. Bray--“The woman to whom you +gave that baby was here yesterday”--The woman must be put out of the +way--Exit Mrs. Dinneford, enter Pinky Swett--“You know your fate--New +Orleans and the yellow fever”--“All I want of you is to keep track of +the baby”--Division of the spoils--Lucky dreams--Consultation of the +dream-book for lucky figures--Sam McFaddon and his backer, who “drives +in the Park and wears a two thousand dollar diamond pin”--The fate of a +baby begged with--The baby must not die--The lottery-policies + +CHAPTER VI. Rottenness at the heart of a great city--Pinky Swett's +attempted rescue of a child from cruel beating--The fight--Pinky's +arrest--Appearance of the “queen”--Pinky's release at her command--The +queen's home--The screams of children being beaten--The rescue of +“Flanagan's Nell”--Death the great rescuer--“They don't look after +things in here as they do outside--Everybody's got the screws on, and +things must break sometimes, but it isn't called murder--The coroner +understands it all” + +CHAPTER VII. Pinky Swett at the mercy of the crowd in the street--Taken +to the nearest station-house--Mrs. Dinneford visits Mrs. Bray +again--Fresh alarms--“She's got you in her power”---“Money is of no +account”--The knock at the door--Mrs. Dinneford in hiding--The visitor +gone--Mrs. Bray reports the woman insatiable in her demands--Must have +two hundred dollars by sundown--No way of escape except through police +interference--“People who deal with the devil generally have the devil +to pay”--Suspicion--A mistake--Sound of feet upon the stairs--Mrs. +Dinneford again in hiding--Enter Pinky Swett--Pinky disposed of--Mrs. +Dinneford again released--Mrs. Bray's strategy--“Let us be friends +still, Mrs. Bray”--Mrs. Dinneford's deprecation and humiliation--Mrs. +Bray's triumph + +CHAPTER VIII. Mrs. Bray receives a package containing two hundred +dollars--“Poor baby! I must see better to its comfort”--Pinky meets a +young girl from the country--The “Ladies' Restaurant”--Fried oysters +and sangaree--The “bindery” girl--“My head feels strangely”--Through +the back alley--The ten-cent lodging house--Robbery--A second robbery--A +veil drawn--A wild prolonged cry of a woman--The policeman listens only +for a moment, and then passes on--Foul play--“In all our large +cities are savages more cruel and brutal in their instincts than the +Comanches”--Who is responsible? + +CHAPTER IX. Valuation of the spoils--The receiver--The “policy-shop” and +its customers--A victim of the lottery mania + +CHAPTER X. “Policy-drunkards”--A newly-appointed policeman's +blunder--The end of a “policy-drunkard”--Pinky and her friend in +consultation over “a cast-off baby in Dirty alley”--“If you can't get +hush-money out of its mother, you can bleed Fanny Bray”--The way to +starve a baby--Pinky moves her quarters without the use of “a dozen +furniture cars”--A baby's home--The baby's night nurse--The baby's +supper--The baby's bed--How the baby's money is spent--Where the baby's +nurse passes the night--The baby's disappearance + +CHAPTER XI. Reserve between mother and daughter--Mrs. Dinneford +disapproves of Edith's charitable visits--Mrs. Dinneford meets Freeling +by appointment at a hotel--“There's trouble brewing”--“A letter from +George Granger”--Accused of conspiracy--Possibility of Granger's pardon +by the governor--An ugly business--In great peril--Freeling's threats of +exposure--A hint of an alternative + +CHAPTER XII. Mr. Freeling fails to appear at his place of +business--Examination of his bank accounts--It is discovered that he has +borrowed largely of his friends--Mrs. Dinneford has supplied him $20,000 +from her private purse--Mrs. Dinneford falls sick, and temporarily +loses her reason--“I told you her name was Gray--Gray, not Bray”--Half +disclosures--Recovery--Mother and daughter mutually suspicious--The +visitor--Mrs. Dinneford equal to the emergency--Edith thrown off the +track + +CHAPTER XIII. Edith is satisfied that her babe is alive--She has a +desire to teach the children of the poor--“My baby may become like one +of these”--She hears of a baby which has been stolen--Resolves to go +and see it, and to apply to Mr. Paulding of the Briar street mission for +assistance in her attempt--Mr. Paulding persuades her that it is best +not to see the child, and promises that he himself will look after +it--Returns home--Her father remonstrates with her, finally promises to +help her + +CHAPTER XIV. Mr. Dinneford sets out for the mission-house--An incident +on the way--Encounters Mr. Paulding--Mr. Paulding makes his report--“The +vicious mark their offspring with unmistakable signs of moral depravity; +this baby has signs of a better origin”--A profitable conversation--“I +think you had better act promptly” + +CHAPTER XV. Mr. Dinneford with a policeman goes in quest of the +baby--The baby is gone--Inquiries--Mr. Dinneford resolves to +persevere--Cause of the baby's disappearance--Pinky Swett's +curiosity--Change of baby's nurse--Baby's improved condition--Baby's +first experience of motherly tenderness--Baby's first smile--“Such +beautiful eyes”--Pinky Swett visits the St. John mission-school--Edith +is not there + +CHAPTER XVI. Mr. Dinneford's return, and Edith's disappointment--“It +is somebody's baby, and it may be mine”--An unsuspected listener--Mrs. +Dinneford acts promptly--Conference between Mrs. Dinneford and Mrs. +Hoyt, _alias_ Bray--The child must be got out of the way--“If it will +not starve, it must drown”--Mrs. Dinneford sees an acquaintance as +she leaves Mrs. Hoyt's, and endeavors to escape his observation--A new +danger and disgrace awaiting her + +CHAPTER XVII. Mental conditions of mother and daughter--Mr. Dinneford +aroused to a sense of his moral responsibilities--The heathen in +our midst--The united evil of policy-lotteries and whisky-shops--The +education of the policy-shops + +CHAPTER XVIII. News item: “A child drowned”--Another news item: Pinky +Swett sentenced to prison for robbery--Baby's improved +condition--Mrs. Burke's efforts to retain the baby after Pinky Swett's +imprisonment--Baby Andy's rough life in the street--Mrs. Burke's +death--Cast upon the world--Andy's adventures--He finds a home and a +friend + +CHAPTER XIX. Mr. Dinneford visits the mission-school--A comparison of +the present with the past--The first mission-school--Reminiscences of +the school in its early days--The zealous scholar--Good effects of +the mission--“Get the burning brands apart, or interpose incombustible +things between them”--An illustration--“Let in light, and the darkness +flees” + +CHAPTER XX. “The man awoke and felt the child against his bosom, soft +and warm”--Led by a little child--“God being my helper, I will be a man +again”--A new life--Meeting of an old friend--A friend in need--Food, +clothes, work--A new home--God's strength our only safety + +CHAPTER XXI. Intimate relations of physical and moral purity--Blind +Jake--The harvest of the thieves and beggars--Inconsiderate +charity--Beggary a vice--“The deserving poor are never common +beggars”--“To help the evil is to hurt the good” The malignant ulcer +in the body politic of our city--The breeding-places of epidemics and +malignant diseases--Little Italian street musicians--The existence of +slavery in our midst--Facts in regard to it + +CHAPTER XXII. Edith's continued interest in the children of the +poor--Christmas dinner at the mission-house--Edith perceives Andy, +and feels a strange attraction toward him--Andy's disappearance after +dinner--Pinky Swett has been seen dragging him away--Lost sight of + +CHAPTER XXIII. Christmas dinner at Mr. Dinneford's--The dropped +letter--It is missed--A scene of wild excitement--Mrs. Dinneford's +sudden death--Edith reads the letter--A revelation--“Innocent!”--Edith +is called to her mother--“Dead, and better so!”--Granger's innocence +established--An agony of affection--No longer Granger's wife + +CHAPTER XXIV. Edith's sickness--Meeting of Mrs. Bray and Pinky Swett--A +trial of sharpness, in which neither gains the advantage--Mr. Dinneford +receives a call from a lady--The lady, who is Mrs. Bray, offers +information--Mr. Dinneford surprises her into admitting an important +fact--Mrs. Bray offers to produce the child for a price--Mr. Dinneford +consents to pay the price on certain stipulations--Mrs. Bray departs, +promising to come again + +CHAPTER XXV. Granger's pardon procured--How he receives his pardon--Mrs. +Bray tries to trace Pinky home--Loses sight of her in the street--Mrs. +Bray interviews a shop-woman--Pinky's destination--The child is gone + +CHAPTER XXVI. Mrs. Bray does not call on Mr. Dinneford, as she +promised--Peril to Andrew Hall through loss of the child--Help--Edith +longs to see or write to Granger, but does not--Edith encounters Mrs. +Bray in the street--“Where is my baby?”--Disappointment--How to identify +the child if found + +CHAPTER XXVII. No trace of Andy--Account of Andy's abduction--Andy's +prison--An outlook from prison--A loose nail--The escape--The sprained +ankle--The accident + +CHAPTER XXVIII. Edith's visit to the children's hospital--“Oh, my baby! +thank God! my baby!”--The identification + +CHAPTER XXIX. Meeting of Mr. Dinneford and George Granger--“We want you +to help us find your child”--“Edith's heart is calling out for you”--The +meeting--The marriage benediction + + + + + +CAST ADRIFT. + + + +CHAPTER I. + + + +_A BABY_ had come, but he was not welcome. Could anything be sadder? + +The young mother lay with her white face to the wall, still as death. A +woman opened the chamber door noiselessly and came in, the faint rustle +of her garments disturbing the quiet air. + +A quick, eager turning of the head, a look half anxious, half fearful, +and then the almost breathless question, + +“Where is my baby?” + +“Never mind about the baby,” was answered, almost coldly; “he's well +enough. I'm more concerned about you.” + +“Have you sent word to George?” + +“George can't see you. I've said that before.” + +“Oh, mother! I must see my husband.” + +“Husband!” The tone of bitter contempt with which the word was uttered +struck the daughter like a blow. She had partly risen in her excitement, +but now fell back with a low moan, shutting her eyes and turning her +face away. Even as she did so, a young man stepped back from the door of +the elegant house in which she lay with a baffled, disappointed air. He +looked pale and wretched. + +“Edith!” Two hours afterward the doctor stood over the young mother, +and called her name. She did not move nor reply. He laid his hand on her +cheek, and almost started, then bent down and looked at her intently for +a moment or two. She had fever. A serious expression came into his face, +and there was cause. + +The sweet rest and heavenly joy of maternity had been denied to his +young patient. The new-born babe had not been suffered to lie even for +one blissful moment on her bosom. Hard-hearted family pride and cruel +worldliness had robbed her of the delight with which God ever seeks to +dower young motherhood, and now the overtaxed body and brain had given +way. + +For many weeks the frail young creature struggled with +delirium--struggled and overcame. + +“Where is my baby?” + +The first thought of returning consciousness was of her baby. + +A woman who sat in a distant part of the chamber started up and crossed +to the bed. She was past middle life, of medium stature, with small, +clearly cut features and cold blue eyes. Her mouth was full, but very +firm. Self-poise was visible even in her surprised movements. She bent +over the bed and looked into Edith's wistful eyes. + +“Where is my baby, mother?” Mrs. Dinneford put her fingers lightly on +Edith's lips. + +“You must be very quiet,” she said, in a low, even voice. “The doctor +forbids all excitement. You have been extremely ill.” + +“Can't I see my baby, mother? It won't hurt me to see my baby.” + +“Not now. The doctor--” + +Edith half arose in bed, a look of doubt and fear coming into her face. + +“I want my baby, mother,” she said, interrupting her. + +A hard, resolute expression came into the cold blue eyes of Mrs. +Dinneford. She put her hand firmly against Edith and pressed her back +upon the pillow. + +“You have been very ill for nearly two months,” she said, softening her +voice. “No one thought you could live. Thank God! the crisis is over, +but not the danger.” + +“Two months! Oh, mother!” + +The slight flush that had come into Edith's wan face faded out, and the +pallor it had hidden for a few moments became deeper. She shut her eyes +and lay very still, but it was plain from the expression of her face +that thought was busy. + +“Not two whole months, mother?” she said, at length, in doubtful tones. +“Oh no! it cannot be.” + +“It is just as I have said, Edith; and now, my dear child, as you value +your life, keep quiet; all excitement is dangerous.” + +But repression was impossible. To Edith's consciousness there was no +lapse of time. It seemed scarcely an hour since the birth of her baby +and its removal from her sight. The inflowing tide of mother-love, the +pressure and yearning sweetness of which she had begun to feel when she +first called for the baby they had not permitted to rest, even for an +instant, on her bosom, was now flooding her heart. Two months! If that +were so, what of the baby? To be submissive was impossible. + +Starting up half wildly, a vague terror in her face, she cried, +piteously, + +“Oh, mother, bring me my baby. I shall die if you do not!” + +“Your baby is in heaven,” said Mrs. Dinneford, softening her voice to a +tone of tender regret. + +Edith caught her breath, grew very white, and then, with a low, wailing +cry that sent a shiver through Mrs. Dinneford's heart, fell back, to all +appearance dead. + +The mother did not call for help, but sat by the bedside of her +daughter, and waited for the issue of this new struggle between life and +death. There was no visible excitement, but her mouth was closely set +and her cold blue eyes fixed in a kind of vacant stare. + +Edith was Mrs. Dinneford's only child, and she had loved her with +the strong, selfish love of a worldly and ambitious woman. In her +own marriage she had not consulted her heart. Mr. Dinneford's social +position and wealth were to her far more than his personal endowments. +She would have rejected him without a quicker pulse-beat if these had +been all he had to offer. He was disappointed, she was not. Strong, +self-asserting, yet politic, Mrs Dinneford managed her good husband +about as she pleased in all external matters, and left him to the free +enjoyment of his personal tastes, preferences and friendships. The +house they lived in, the furniture it contained, the style and equipage +assumed by the family, were all of her choice, Mr. Dinneford giving +merely a half-constrained or half-indifferent consent. He had learned, +by painful and sometimes humiliating experience, that any contest with +Mrs. Helen Dinneford upon which he might enter was sure to end in his +defeat. + +He was a man of fine moral and intellectual qualities. His wealth gave +him leisure, and his tastes, feelings and habits of thought drew +him into the society of some of the best men in the city where he +lived--best in the true meaning of that word. In all enlightened social +reform movements you would be sure of finding Mr. Howard Dinneford. He +was an active and efficient member in many boards of public charity, and +highly esteemed in them all for his enlightened philanthropy and sound +judgment. Everywhere but at home he was strong and influential; there he +was weak, submissive and of little account. He had long ago accepted +the situation, making a virtue of necessity. A different man--one of +stronger will and a more imperious spirit--would have held his own, even +though it wrought bitterness and sorrow. But Mr. Dinneford's aversion +to strife, and gentleness toward every one, held him away from conflict, +and so his home was at least tranquil. + +Mrs. Dinneford had her own way, and so long as her husband made no +strong opposition to that way all was peaceful. + +For Edith, their only child, who was more like her father than her +mother, Mr. Dinneford had the tenderest regard. The well-springs of +love, choked up so soon after his marriage, were opened freely toward +his daughter, and he lived in her a new, sweet and satisfying life. The +mother was often jealous of her husband's demonstrative tenderness for +Edith. A yearning instinct of womanhood, long repressed by worldliness +and a mean social ambition, made her crave at times the love she had +cast away, and then her cup of life was very bitter. But fear of Mr. +Dinneford's influence over Edith was stronger than any jealousy of his +love. She had high views for her daughter. In her own marriage she had +set aside all considerations but those of social rank. She had made it +a stepping-stone to a higher place in society than the one to which she +was born. Still, above them stood many millionaire families, living +in palace-homes, and through her daughter she meant to rise into one +of them. It mattered not for the personal quality of the scion of the +house; he might be as coarse and common as his father before him, or +weak, mean, selfish, and debased by sensual indulgence. This was of +little account. To lift Edith to the higher social level was the all in +all of Mrs. Dinneford's ambition. + +But Mr. Dinneford taught Edith a nobler life-lesson than this, gave her +better views of wedlock, pictured for her loving heart the bliss of a +true marriage, sighing often as he did so, but unconsciously, at the +lost fruition of his own sweet hopes. He was careful to do this only +when alone with Edith, guarding his speech when Mrs. Dinneford was +present. He had faith in true principles, and with these he sought to +guard her life. He knew that she would be pushed forward into society, +and knew but too well that one so pure and lovely in mind as well as +person would become a centre of attraction, and that he, standing on the +outside as it were, would have no power to save her from the saddest of +all fates if she were passive and her mother resolute. Her safety must +lie in herself. + +Edith was brought out early. Mrs. Dinneford could not wait. At seventeen +she was thrust into society, set up for sale to the highest bidder, her +condition nearer that of a Circassian than a Christian maiden, with her +mother as slave-dealer. + +So it was and so, it is. You may see the thing every day. But it did not +come out according to Mrs. Dinneford's programme. There was a highest +bidder; but when he came for his slave, she was not to be found. + +Well, the story is trite and brief--the old sad story. Among her suitors +was a young man named Granger, and to him Edith gave her heart. But +the mother rejected him with anger and scorn. He was not rich, though +belonging to a family of high character, and so fell far below her +requirements. Under a pressure that almost drove the girl to despair, +she gave her consent to a marriage that looked more terrible than death. +A month before the time fixed for, its consummation, she barred the +contract by a secret union with Granger. + +Edith knew her mother's character too well to hope for any +reconciliation, so far as Mr. Granger was concerned. Coming in as he had +done between her and the consummation of her highest ambition, she could +never feel toward him anything but the most bitter hatred; and so, after +remaining at home for about a week after her secret marriage, she wrote +this brief letter to her mother and went away: + +“My DEAR MOTHER: I do not love Spencer Wray, and would rather die than +marry him, and so I have made the marriage to which my heart has never +consented, an impossibility. You have left me no other alternative but +this. I am the wife of George Granger, and go to cast my lot with his. + +“Your loving daughter, + +“EDITH.” + +To her father she wrote: + +“My DEAR, DEAR FATHER: If I bring sorrow to your good and loving heart +by what I have done, I know that it will be tempered with joy at my +escape from a union with one from whom my soul has ever turned with +irrepressible dislike. Oh, my father, you can understand, if mother +cannot, into what a desperate strait I have been brought. I am a deer +hunted to the edge of a dizzy chasm, and I leap for life over the dark +abyss, praying for strength to reach the farther edge. If I fail in the +wild effort, I can only meet destruction; and I would rather be bruised +to death on the jagged rocks than trust myself to the hounds and +hunters. I write passionately--you will hardly recognize your quiet +child; but the repressed instincts of my nature are strong, and peril +and despair have broken their bonds. I did not consult you about the +step I have taken, because I dared not trust you with my secret. You +would have tried to hold me back from the perilous leap, fondly hoping +for some other way of escape. I had resolved on putting an impassable +gulf between me and danger, if I died in the attempt. I have taken the +leap, and may God care for me! + +“I have laid up in my heart of hearts, dearest of fathers, the precious +life-truths that so often fell from your lips. Not a word that you ever +said about the sacredness of marriage has been forgotten. I believe +with you that it is a little less than crime to marry when no love +exists--that she who does so, sells her heart's birthright for some +mess of pottage, sinks down from the pure level of noble womanhood, and +traffics away her person, is henceforth meaner in quality if not really +vile. + +“And so, my father, to save myself from such a depth of degradation and +misery, I take my destiny into my own hands. I have grown very strong in +my convictions and purposes in the last four weeks. My sight has become +suddenly clear. I am older by many years. + +“As for George Granger, all I can now say is that I love him, and +believe him to be worthy of my love. I am willing to trust him, and am +ready to share his lot, however humble. + +“Still hold me in your heart, my precious father, as I hold you in mine. + +“EDITH.” + +Mr. Dinneford read this letter twice. It took him some time, his eyes +were so full of tears. In view of her approaching marriage with Spencer +Wray, his heart had felt very heavy. It was something lighter now. Young +Granger was not the man he would have chosen for Edith, but he liked him +far better than he did the other, and felt that his child was safe now. + +He went to his wife's room, and found her with Edith's letter crushed in +her hand. She was sitting motionless, her face pale and rigid, her eyes +fixed and stony and her lips tight against her teeth. She did not seem +to notice his presence until he put his hand upon her, which he did +without speaking. At this she started up and looked at him with a kind +of fierce intentness. + +“Are you a party to this frightful things?” she demanded. + +Mr. Dinneford weakly handed her the letter he had received from Edith. +She read it through in half the time it had taken his tear-dimmed eyes +to make out the touching sentences. After she had done so, she stood for +a few moments as if surprised or baffled. Then she sat down, dropping +her head, and remained for a long time without speaking. + +“The bitter fruit, Mr. Dinneford,” she said, at last, in a voice so +strange and hard that it seemed to his ears as if another had spoken. +All passion had died out of it. + +He waited, but she added nothing more. After a long silence she waved +her hand slightly, and without looking at her husband, said, + +“I would rather be alone.” + +Mr. Dinneford took Edith's letter from the floor, where it had dropped +from his wife's hand, and withdrew from her presence. She arose quickly +as he did so, crossed the room and silently turned the key, locking +herself in. Then her manner changed; she moved about the room in a +half-aimless, half-conscious way, as though some purpose was beginning +to take shape in her mind. Her motions had an easy, cat-like grace, in +contrast with their immobility a little while before. Gradually her step +became quicker, while ripples of feeling began to pass over her face, +which was fast losing its pallor. Gleams of light began shooting from +her eyes, that were so dull and stony when her husband found her with +Edith's letter crushed in her grasp. Her hands opened and shut upon +themselves nervously. This went on, the excitement of her forming +purpose, whatever it was, steadily increasing, until she swept about +the room like a fury, talking to herself and gesticulating as one half +insane from the impelling force of an evil passion. + +“Baffled, but not defeated.” The excitement had died out. She spoke +these words aloud, and with a bitter satisfaction in her voice, then sat +down, resting her face in her hands, and remaining for a long time in +deep thought. + +When she met her husband, an hour afterward, there was a veil over her +face, and he tried in vain to look beneath it. She was greatly changed; +her countenance had a new expression--something he had never seen there +before. For years she had been growing away from him; now she seemed +like one removed to a great distance--to have become almost stranger. He +felt half afraid of her. She did not speak of Edith, but remained cold, +silent and absorbed. + +Mrs. Dinneford gave no sign of what was in her heart for many weeks. +The feeling of distance and strangeness perceived by her husband went on +increasing, until a vague feeling of mystery and fear began to oppress +him. Several times he had spoken of Edith, but his wife made no +response, nor could he read in her veiled face the secret purposes she +was hiding from him. + +No wonder that Mr. Dinneford was greatly surprised and overjoyed, on +coming home one day, to meet his daughter, to feel her arms about his +neck, and to hold her tearful face on his bosom. + +“And I'm not going away again, father dear,” she said as she kissed him +fondly. “Mother has sent for me, and George is to come. Oh, we shall be +so happy, so happy!” + +And father and daughter cried together, like two happy children, in very +excess of gladness. They had met alone, but Mrs. Dinneford came in, her +presence falling on them like a cold shadow. + +“Two great babies,” she said, a covert sneer in her chilling voice. + +The joy went slowly out of their faces, though not out of their +hearts. There it nestled, and warmed the renewing blood. But a vague, +questioning fear began to creep in, a sense of insecurity, a dread of +hidden danger. The daughter did not fully trust her mother, nor the +husband his wife. + + + + +CHAPTER II. + + + +_THE_ reception of young Granger was as cordial as Mrs. Dinneford +chose to make it. She wanted to get near enough to study his character +thoroughly, to discover its weaknesses and defects, not its better +qualities, so that she might do for him the evil work that was in her +heart. She hated him with a bitter hatred, and there is nothing so +subtle and tireless and unrelenting as the hatred of a bad woman. + +She found him weak and unwary. His kindly nature, his high sense of +honor, his upright purpose, his loving devotion to Edith, were nothing +in her eyes. She spurned them in her thoughts, she trampled them under +her feet with scorn. But she studied his defects, and soon knew every +weak point in his character. She drew him out to speak of himself, +of his aims and prospects, of his friends and associates, until she +understood him altogether. Then she laid her plans for his destruction. + +Granger was holding a clerkship at the time of his marriage, but was +anxious to get a start for himself. He had some acquaintance with a +man named Lloyd Freeling, and often spoke of him in connection with +business. Freeling had a store on one of the best streets, and, as +represented by himself, a fine run of trade, but wanted more capital. +One day he said to Granger, + +“If I could find the right man with ten thousand dollars, I would take +him in. We could double this business in a year.” + +Granger repeated the remark at home, Mrs. Dinneford listened, laid it up +in her thought, and on the next day called at the store of Mr. Freeling +to see what manner of man he was. + +Her first impression was favorable--she liked him. On a second visit she +likes him better. She was not aware that Freeling knew her; in this he +had something of the advantage. A third time she dropped in, asking to +see certain goods and buying a small bill, as before. This time she drew +Mr. Freeling into conversation about business, and put some questions +the meaning of which he understood quite as well as she did. + +A woman like Mrs. Dinneford can read character almost as easily as she +can read a printed page, particularly a weak or bad character. She knew +perfectly, before the close of this brief interview, that Freeling was a +man without principle, false and unscrupulous, and that if Granger were +associated with him in business, he could, if he chose, not only involve +him in transactions of a dishonest nature, but throw upon him the odium +and the consequences. + +“Do you think,” she said to Granger, not long afterward, “that your +friend, Mr. Freeling, would like to have you for a partner in business?” + +The question surprised and excited him. + +“I know it,” he returned; “he has said so more than once.” + +“How much capital would he require?” + +“Ten thousand dollars.” + +“A large sum to risk.” + +“Yes; but I do not think there will be any risk. The business is well +established.” + +“What do you know about Mr. Freeling?” + +“Not a great deal; but if I am any judge of character, he is fair and +honorable.” + +Mrs. Dinneford turned her head that Granger might not see the expression +of her face. + +“You had better talk with Mr. Dinneford,” she said. + +But Mr. Dinneford did not favor it. He had seen too many young men go +into business and fail. + +So the matter was dropped for a little while. But Mrs. Dinneford had +set her heart on the young man's destruction, and no better way of +accomplishing the work presented itself than this. He must be involved +in some way to hurt his good name, to blast his reputation and drive him +to ruin. Weak, trusting and pliable, a specious villain in whom he +had confidence might easily get him involved in transactions that were +criminal under the law. She would be willing to sacrifice twice ten +thousand dollars to accomplish this result. + +Neither Mr. Dinneford nor Edith favored the business connection with +Freeling, and said all they could against it. In weak natures we often +find great pertinacity. Granger had this quality. He had set his mind on +the copartnership, and saw in it a high road to fortune, and no argument +of Mr. Dinneford, nor opposition of Edith, had power to change his +views, or to hold him back from the arrangement favored by Mrs. +Dinneford, and made possible by the capital she almost compelled her +husband to supply. + +In due time the change from clerk to merchant was made, and the new +connection announced, under the title of “FREELING & GRANGER.” + +Clear seeing as evil may be in its schemes for hurting others, it +is always blind to the consequent exactions upon itself; it strikes +fiercely and desperately, not calculating the force of a rebound. So +eager was Mrs. Dinneford to compass the ruin of Granger that she stepped +beyond the limit of common prudence, and sought private interviews +with Freeling, both before and after the completion of the partnership +arrangement. These took place in the parlor of a fashionable hotel, +where the gentleman and lady seemed to meet accidentally, and without +attracting attention. + +Mrs. Dinneford was very confidential in these interviews not concealing +her aversion to Granger. He had come into the family, she said, as an +unwelcome intruder; but now that he was there, they had to make the best +of him. Not in spoken words did Mrs. Dinneford convey to Freeling the +bitter hatred that was in her heart, nor in spoken words let him know +that she desired the young man's utter ruin, but he understood it +all before the close of their first private interview. Freeling was +exceedingly deferential in the beginning and guarded in his speech. He +knew by the quick intuitions of his nature that Mrs. Dinneford cherished +an evil purpose, and had chosen him as the agent for its accomplishment. +She was rich, and occupied a high social position, and his ready +conclusion was that, be the service what it might, he could make it pay. +To get such a woman in his power was worth an effort. + +One morning--it was a few months after the date of the +copartnership--Mrs. Dinneford received a note from Freeling. It said, +briefly, + +“At the usual place, 12 M. to-day. Important.” There was no signature. + +The sharp knitting of her brows and the nervous crumpling of the note +in her hand showed that she was not pleased at the summons. She had come +already to know her partner in evil too well. At 12 M. she was in +the hotel parlor. Freeling was already there. They met in external +cordiality, but it was very evident from the manner of Mrs. Dinneford, +that she felt herself in the man's power, and had learned to be afraid +of him. + +“It will be impossible to get through to-morrow,” he said, in a kind of +imperative voice, that was half a threat, “unless we have two thousand +dollars.” + +“I cannot ask Mr. Dinneford for anything more,” Mrs. Dinneford replied; +“we have already furnished ten thousand dollars beyond the original +investment.” + +“But it is all safe enough--that is, if we do not break down just here +for lack of so small a sum.” + +Mrs. Dinneford gave a start. + +“Break down!” She repeated the words in a husky, voice, with a paling +face. “What do you mean?” + +“Only that in consequence of having in store a large stock of unsalable +goods bought by your indiscreet son-in-law, who knows no more about +business than a child, we are in a temporary strait.” + +“Why did you trust him to buy?” asked Mrs. Dinneford. + +“I didn't trust him. He bought without consulting me,” was replied, +almost rudely. + +“Will two thousand be the end of this thing?” + +“I think so.” + +“You only think so?” + +“I am sure of it.” + +“Very well; I will see what can be done. But all this must have an end, +Mr. Freeling. We cannot supply any more money. You must look elsewhere +if you have further need. Mr. Dinneford is getting very much annoyed and +worried. You surely have other resources.” + +“I have drawn to the utmost on all my resources,” said the man, coldly. + +Mrs. Dinneford remained silent for a good while, her eyes upon the +floor. Freeling watched her face intently, trying to read what was in +her thoughts. At last she said, in a suggestive tone, + +“There are many ways of getting money known to business-men--a little +risky some of them, perhaps, but desperate cases require desperate +expedients. You understand me?” + +Freeling took a little time to consider before replying. + +“Yes,” he said, at length, speaking slowly, as one careful of his words. +“But all expedients are 'risky,' as you say--some of them very risky. It +takes a long, cool head to manage them safely.” + +“I don't know a longer or cooler head than yours,” returned Mrs. +Dinneford, a faint smile playing about her lips. + +“Thank you for the compliment,” said Freeling, his lips reflecting the +smile on hers. + +“You must think of some expedient.” Mrs. Dinneford's manner grew +impressive. She spoke with emphasis and deliberation. “Beyond the sum of +two thousand dollars, which I will get for you by to-morrow, I shall not +advance a single penny. You may set that down as sure. If you are not +sharp enough and strong enough, with the advantage you possess, to hold +your own, then you must go under; as for me, I have done all that I can +or will.” + +Freeling saw that she was wholly in earnest, and understood what she +meant by “desperate expedients.” Granger was to be ruined, and she was +growing impatient of delay. He had no desire to hurt the young man--he +rather liked him. Up to this time he had been content with what he could +draw out of Mrs. Dinneford. There was no risk in this sort of business. +Moreover, he enjoyed his interviews and confidences with the elegant +lady, and of late the power he seemed to be gaining over her; this power +he regarded as capital laid up for another use, and at another time. + +But it was plain that he had reached the end of his present financial +policy, and must decide whether to adopt the new one suggested by Mrs. +Dinneford or make a failure, and so get rid of his partner. The question +he had to settle with himself was whether he could make more by a +failure than by using Granger a while longer, and then throwing him +overboard, disgraced and ruined. Selfish and unscrupulous as he was, +Freeling hesitated to do this. And besides, the “desperate expedients” + he would have to adopt in the new line of policy were fraught with +peril to all who took part in them. He might fall into the snare set for +another--might involve himself so deeply as not to find a way of escape. + +“To-morrow we will talk this matter over,” he said in reply to Mrs. +Dinneford's last remark; “in the mean time I will examine the ground +thoroughly and see how it looks.” + +“Don't hesitate to make any use you can of Granger,” suggested the lady. +“He has done his part toward getting things tangled, and must help to +untangle them.” + +“All right, ma'am.” + +And they separated, Mrs. Dinneford reaching the street by one door of +the hotel, and Freeling by another. + +On the following day they met again, Mrs. Dinneford bringing the two +thousand dollars. + +“And now what next?” she asked, after handing over the money and taking +the receipt of “Freeling & Granger.” Her eyes had a hard glitter, and +her face was almost stern in its expression. “How are you going to raise +money and keep afloat?” + +“Only some desperate expedient is left me now,” answered Freeling, +though not in the tone of a man who felt himself at bay. It was said +with a wicked kind of levity. + +Mrs. Dinneford looked at him keenly. She was beginning to mistrust the +man. They gazed into each other's faces in silence for some moments, +each trying to read what was in the other's thought. At length Freeling +said, + +“There is one thing more that you will have to do, Mrs. Dinneford.” + +“What?” she asked. + +“Get your husband to draw two or three notes in Mr. Granger's favor. +They should not be for less than five hundred or a thousand dollars +each. The dates must be short--not over thirty or sixty days.” + +“It can't be done,” was the emphatic answer. + +“It must be done,” replied Freeling; “they need not be for the business. +You can manage the matter if you will; your daughter wants an India +shawl, or a set of diamonds, or a new carriage--anything you choose. Mr. +Dinneford hasn't the ready cash, but we can throw his notes into bank +and get the money; don't you see?” + +But Mrs. Dinneford didn't see. + +“I don't mean,” said Freeling, “that we are to use the money. Let the +shawl, or the diamond, or the what-not, be bought and paid for. We get +the discounts for your use, not ours.” + +“All very well,” answered Mrs. Dinneford; “but how is that going to help +you?” + +“Leave that to me. You get the notes,” said Freeling. + +“Never walk blindfold, Mr. Freeling,” replied the lady, drawing herself +up, with a dignified air. “We ought to understand each other by this +time. I must see beyond the mere use of these notes.” + +Freeling shut his mouth tightly and knit his heavy brows. Mrs. Dinneford +watched him, closely. + +“It's a desperate expedient,” he said, at length. + +“All well as far as that is concerned; but if I am to have a hand in it, +I must know all about it,” she replied, firmly. “As I said just now, I +never walk blindfold.” + +Freeling leaned close to Mrs. Dinneford, and uttered a few sentences in +a low tone, speaking rapidly. The color went and came in her face, but +she sat motionless, and so continued for some time after he had ceased +speaking. + +“You will get the notes?” Freeling put the question as one who has +little doubt of the answer. + +“I will get them,” replied Mrs. Dinneford. + +“When?” + +“It will take time.” + +“We cannot wait long. If the thing is done at all, it must be done +quickly. 'Strike while the iron is hot' is the best of all maxims.” + +“There shall be no needless delay on my part. You may trust me for +that,” was answered. + +Within a week Mrs. Dinneford brought two notes, drawn by her husband +in favor of George Granger--one for five hundred and the other for one +thousand dollars. The time was short--thirty and sixty days. On this +occasion she came to the store and asked for her son-in-law. The meeting +between her and Freeling was reserved and formal. She expressed regret +for the trouble she was giving the firm in procuring a discount for her +use, and said that if she could reciprocate the favor in any way she +would be happy to do so. + +“The notes are drawn to your order,” remarked Freeling as soon as the +lady had retired. Granger endorsed them, and was about handing them to +his partner, when the latter said: + +“Put our name on them while you are about it.” And the young man wrote +also the endorsement of the firm. + +After this, Mr. Freeling put the bank business into Granger's hands. +Nearly all checks were drawn and all business paper endorsed by the +younger partner, who became the financier of the concern, and had the +management of all negotiations for money in and out of bank. + +One morning, shortly after the first of Mr. Dinneford's notes was paid, +Granger saw his mother-in-law come into the store. Freeling was at the +counter. They talked together for some time, and then Mrs. Dinneford +went out. + +On the next day Granger saw Mrs. Dinneford in the store again. After +she had gone away, Freeling came back, and laying a note-of-hand on his +partner's desk, said, in a pleased, confidential way. + +“Look at that, my friend.” + +Granger read the face of the note with a start of surprise. It was drawn +to his order, for three thousand dollars, and bore the signature of +Howard Dinneford. + +“A thing that is worth having is worth asking for,” said Freeling. +“We obliged your mother-in-law, and now she has returned the favor. It +didn't come very easily, she said, and your father-in-law isn't feeling +rather comfortable about it; so she doesn't care about your speaking of +it at home.” + +Granger was confounded. + +“I can't understand it,” he said. + +“You can understand that we have the note, and that it has come in the +nick of time,” returned Freeling. + +“Yes, I can see all that.” + +“Well, don't look a gift-horse in the mouth, but spring into the saddle +and take a ride. Your mother-in-law is a trump. If she will, she will, +you may depend on't.” + +Freeling was unusually excited. Granger looked the note over and over +in a way that seemed to annoy his partner, who said, presently, with a +shade of ill-nature in his voice, + +“What's the matter? Isn't the signature all right?” + +“That's right enough,” returned the young man, after looking at it +closely. “But I can't understand it.” + +“You will when you see the proceeds passed to our accounted in bank--ha! +ha!” + +Granger looked up at his partner quickly, the laugh had so strange a +sound, but saw nothing new in his face. + +In about a month Freeling had in his possession another note, signed by +Mr. Dinneford and drawn to the order of George Granger. This one was for +five thousand dollars. He handed it to his partner soon after the latter +had observed Mrs. Dinneford in the store. + +A little over six weeks from this time Mrs. Dinneford was in the store +again. After she had gone away, Freeling handed Granger three more +notes drawn by Mr. Dinneford to his order, amounting in all to fifteen +thousand dollars. They were at short dates. + +Granger took these notes without any remark, and was about putting them +in his desk, when Freeling said, + +“I think you had better offer one in the People's Bank and another in +the Fourth National. They discount to-morrow.” + +“Our line is full in both of these banks,” replied Granger. + +“That may or may not be. Paper like this is not often thrown out. Call +on the president of the Fourth National and the cashier of the People's +Bank. Say that we particularly want the money, and would like them to +see that the notes go through. Star & Giltedge can easily place the +other.” + +Granger's manner did not altogether please his partner. The notes lay +before him on his desk, and he looked at them in a kind of dazed way. + +“What's the matter?” asked Freeling, rather sharply. + +“Nothing,” was the quiet answer. + +“You saw Mrs. Dinneford in the store just now. I told her last week that +I should claim another favor at her hands. She tried to beg off, but I +pushed the matter hard. It must end here, she says. Mr. Dinneford won't +go any farther.” + +“I should think not,” replied Granger. “I wouldn't if I were he. The +wonder to me is that he has gone so far. What about the renewal of these +notes?” + +“Oh, that is all arranged,” returned Freeling, a little hurriedly. +Granger looked at him for some moments. He was not satisfied. + +“See that they go in bank,” said Freeling, in a positive way. + +Granger took up his pen in an abstracted manner and endorsed the notes, +after which he laid them in his bank-book. An important customer coming +in at the moment, Freeling went forward to see him. After Granger was +left alone, he took the notes from his bank-book and examined them +with great care. Suspicion was aroused. He felt sure that something +was wrong. A good many things in Freeling's conduct of late had seemed +strange. After thinking for a while, he determined to take the notes at +once to Mr. Dinneford and ask him if all was right. As soon as his mind +had reached this conclusion he hurried through the work he had on hand, +and then putting his bank-book in his pocket, left the store. + +On that very morning Mr. Dinneford received notice that he had a note +for three thousand dollars falling due at one of the banks. He went +immediately and asked to see the note. When it was shown to him, he was +observed to become very pale, but he left the desk of the note-clerk +without any remark, and returned home. He met his wife at the door, just +coming in. + +“What's the matter?” she asked, seeing how pale he was. “Not sick, I +hope?” + +“Worse than sick,” he replied as they passed into the house together. +“George has been forging my name.” + +“Impossible!” exclaimed Mrs. Dinneford. + +“I wish it were,” replied Mr. Dinneford, sadly; “but, alas! it is too +true. I have just returned from the Fourth National Bank. They have a +note for three thousand dollars, bearing my signature. It is drawn +to the order of George Granger, and endorsed by him. The note is a +forgery.” + +Mrs. Dinneford became almost wild with excitement. Her fair face grew +purple. Her eyes shone with a fierce light. + +“Have you had him arrested?” she asked. + +“Oh no, no, no!” Mr. Dinneford answered. “For poor Edith's sake, if for +nothing else, this dreadful business must be kept secret. I will take up +the note when due, and the public need be none the wiser.” + +“If,” said Mrs. Dinneford, “he has forged your name once, he has, in all +probability, done it again and again. No, no; the thing can't be hushed +up, and it must not be. Is he less a thief and a robber because he is +our son-in-law? My daughter the wife of a forger! Great heavens! has it +come to this Mr. Dinneford?” she added, after a pause, and with intense +bitterness and rejection in her voice. “The die is cast! Never again, if +I can prevent it, shall that scoundrel cross our threshold. Let the law +have its course. It is a crime to conceal crime.” + +“It will kill our poor child!” answered Mr. Dinneford in a broken voice. + +“Death is better than the degradation of living with a criminal,” + replied his wife. “I say it solemnly, and I mean it; the die is cast! +Come what will, George Granger stands now and for ever on the outside! +Go at once and give information to the bank officers. If you do not, I +will.” + +With a heavy heart Mr. Dinneford returned to the bank and informed the +president that the note in question was a forgery. He had been gone from +home a little over half an hour, when Granger, who had come to ask him +about the three notes given him that morning by Freeling, put his key in +the door, and found, a little to his surprise, that the latch was down. +He rang the bell, and in a few moments the servant appeared. Granger was +about passing in, when the man said, respectfully but firmly, as he held +the door partly closed, + +“My orders are not to let you come in.” + +“Who gave you those orders?” demanded Granger, turning white. + +“Mrs. Dinneford.” + +“I wish to see Mr. Dinneford, and I must see him immediately.” + +“Mr. Dinneford is not at home,” answered the servant. + +“Shut that door instantly!” + +It was the voice of Mrs. Dinneford, speaking from within. Granger heard +it; in the next moment the door was shut in his face. + +The young man hardly knew how he got back to the store. On his arrival +he found himself under arrest, charged with forgery, and with fresh +evidence of the crime on his person in the three notes received that +morning from his partner, who denied all knowledge of their existence, +and appeared as a witness against him at the hearing before a +magistrate. Granger was held to bail to answer the charge at the next +term of court. + +It would have been impossible to keep all this from Edith, even if there +had been a purpose to do so. Mrs. Dinneford chose to break the dreadful +news at her own time and in her own way. The shock was fearful. On the +night that followed her baby was born. + + + + +CHAPTER III. + + + +“_IT_ is a splendid boy,” said the nurse as she came in with the +new-born baby in her arms, “and perfect as a bit of sculpture. Just look +at that hand.” + +“Faugh!” ejaculated Mrs. Dinneford, to whom this was addressed. Her +countenance expressed disgust. She turned her head away. “Hide the thing +from my sight!” she added, angrily. “Cover it up! smother it if you +will!” + +“You are still determined?” said the nurse. + +“Determined, Mrs. Bray; I am not the woman to look back when I have once +resolved. You know me.” Mrs. Dinneford said this passionately. + +The two women were silent for a little while. Mrs. Bray, the nurse, kept +her face partly turned from Mrs. Dinneford. She was a short, dry, wiry +little woman, with French features, a sallow complexion and very black +eyes. + +The doctor looked in. Mrs. Dinneford went quickly to the door, and +putting her hand on his arm, pressed him back, going out into the entry +with him and closing the door behind them. They talked for a short time +very earnestly. + +“The whole thing is wrong,” said the doctor as he turned to go, “and I +will not be answerable for the consequences.” + +“No one will require them at your hand, Doctor Radcliffe,” replied +Mrs. Dinneford. “Do the best you can for Edith. As for the rest, know +nothing, say nothing. You understand.” + +Doctor Burt Radcliffe had a large practice among rich and fashionable +people. He had learned to be very considerate of their weaknesses, +peculiarities and moral obliquities. His business was to doctor them +when sick, to humor them when they only thought themselves sick, and to +get the largest possible fees for his, services. A great deal came under +his observation that he did not care to see, and of which he saw as +little as possible. From policy he had learned to be reticent. He held +family secrets enough to make, in the hands of a skillful writer, more +than a dozen romances of the saddest and most exciting character. + +Mrs. Dinneford knew him thoroughly, and just how far to trust him. “Know +nothing, say nothing” was a good maxim in the case, and so she divulged +only the fact that the baby was to be cast adrift. His weak remonstrance +might as well not have been spoken, and he knew it. + +While this brief interview was in progress, Nurse Bray sat with the baby +on her lap. She had taken the soft little hands into her own; and evil +and cruel though she was, an impulse of tenderness flowed into her heart +from the angels who were present with the innocent child. It grew +lovely in her eyes. Its helplessness stirred in her a latent instinct of +protection. “No no, it must not be,” she was saying to herself, when the +door opened and Mrs. Dinneford came back. + +Mrs. Bray did not lift her head, but sat looking down at the baby and +toying with its hands. + +“Pshaw!” ejaculated Mrs. Dinneford, in angry disgust, as she noticed +this manifestation of interest. “Bundle the thing up and throw into that +basket. Is the woman down stairs?” + +“Yes,” replied Mrs. Bray as she slowly drew a light blanket over the +baby. + +“Very well. Put it in the basket, and let her take it away.” + +“She is not a good woman,” said the nurse, whose heart was failing her +at the last moment. + +“She may be the devil for all I care,” returned Mrs. Dinneford. + +Mrs. Bray did as she was ordered, but with an evident reluctance that +irritated Mrs. Dinneford. + +“Go now and bring up the woman,” she said, sharply. + +The woman was brought. She was past the prime of life, and had an evil +face. You read in it the record of bad passions indulged and the signs +of a cruel nature. She was poorly clad, and her garments unclean. + +“You will take this child?” said Mrs. Dinneford abruptly, as the woman +came into her presence. + +“I have agreed to do so,” she replied, looking toward Mrs. Bray. + +“She is to have fifty dollars,” said the nurse. + +“And that is to be the last of it!” Mrs. Dinneford's face was pale, and +she spoke in a hard, husky voice. + +Opening her purse, she took from it a small roll of bills, and as she +held out the money said, slowly and with a hard emphasis, + +“You understand the terms. I do not know you--not even your name. I +don't wish to know you. For this consideration you take the child away. +That is the end of it between you and me. The child is your own as much +as if he were born to you, and you can do with him as you please. And +now go.” Mrs. Dinneford waved her hand. + +“His name?” queried the woman. + +“He has no name!” Mrs. Dinneford stamped her foot in angry impatience. + +The woman stooped down, and taking up the basket, tucked the covering +that had been laid over the baby close about its head, so that no one +could see what she carried, and went off without uttering another word. + +It was some moments before either Mrs. Dinneford or the nurse spoke. +Mrs. Bray was first to break silence. + +“All this means a great deal more than you have counted on,” she said, +in a voice that betrayed some little feeling. “To throw a tender baby +out like that is a hard thing. I am afraid--” + +“There, there! no more of that,” returned Mrs. Dinneford, impatiently. +“It's ugly work, I own, but it had to be done--like cutting off a +diseased limb. He will die, of course, and the sooner it is over, the +better for him and every one else.” + +“He will have a hard struggle for life, poor little thing!” said the +nurse. “I would rather see him dead.” + +Mrs. Dinneford, now that this wicked and cruel deed was done, felt ill +at ease. She pushed the subject away, and tried to bury it out of sight +as we bury the dead, but did not find the task an easy one. + +What followed the birth and removal of Edith's baby up to the time of +her return to reason after long struggle for life, has already been +told. Her demand to have her baby--“Oh, mother, bring me my baby! +I shall die if you do not!” and the answer, “Your baby is in +heaven!”--sent the feeble life-currents back again upon her heart. There +was another long period of oblivion, out of which she came very slowly, +her mind almost as much a blank as the mind of a child. + +She had to learn again the names of things, and to be taught their use. +It was touching to see the untiring devotion of her father, and the +pleasure he took in every new evidence of mental growth. He went +over the alphabet with her, letter by letter, many times each day, +encouraging her and holding her thought down to the unintelligible signs +with a patient tenderness sad yet beautiful to see; and when she began +to combine letters into words, and at last to put words together, his +delight was unbounded. + +Very slowly went on the new process of mental growth, and it was months +before thought began to reach out beyond the little world that lay just +around her. + +Meanwhile, Edith's husband had been brought to trial for forgery, +convicted and sentenced to the State's prison for a term of years. His +partner came forward as the chief witness, swearing that he had believed +the notes genuine, the firm having several times had the use of Mr. +Dinneford's paper, drawn to the order of Granger. + +Ere the day of trial came the poor young man was nearly broken-hearted. +Public disgrace like this, added to the terrible private wrongs he was +suffering, was more than he had the moral strength to bear. Utterly +repudiated by his wife's family, and not even permitted to see Edith, he +only knew that she was very ill. Of the birth of his baby he had but +a vague intimation. A rumor was abroad that it had died, but he could +learn nothing certain. In his distress and uncertainty he called on Dr. +Radcliffe, who replied to his questions with a cold evasion. “It was +put out to nurse,” said the doctor, “and that is all I know about it.” + Beyond this he would say nothing. + +Granger was not taken to the State's prison after his sentence, but +to an insane asylum. Reason gave way under the terrible ordeal through +which he had been made to pass. + +“Mother,” said Edith, one day, in a tone that caused Mrs. Dinneford's +heart to leap. She was reading a child's simple story-book, and looked +up as she spoke. Her eyes were wide open and full of questions. + +“What, my dear?” asked Mrs. Dinneford, repressing her feelings and +trying to keep her voice calm. + +“There's something I can't understand, mother.” She looked down at +herself, then about the room. Her manner was becoming nervous. + +“What can't you understand?” + +Edith shut her hands over her eyes and remained very still. When +she removed them, and her mother looked into her face the childlike +sweetness and content were all gone, and a conscious woman was before +her. The transformation was as sudden as it was marvelous. + +Both remained silent for the space of nearly a minute. Mrs. Dinneford +knew not what to say, and waited for some sign from her daughter. + +“Where is my baby, mother?” Edith said this in a low, tremulous whisper, +leaning forward as she spoke, repressed and eager. + +“Have you forgotten?” asked Mrs. Dinneford, with regained composure. + +“Forgotten what?” + +“You were very ill after your baby was born; no one thought you could +live; you were ill for a long time. And the baby--” + +“What of the baby, mother?” asked Edith, beginning to tremble violently. +Her mother, perceiving her agitation, held back the word that was on her +lips. + +“What of the baby, mother?” Edith repeated the question. + +“It died,” said Mrs. Dinneford, turning partly away. She could not look +at her child and utter this cruel falsehood. + +“Dead! Oh, mother, don't say that! The baby can't be dead!” + +A swift flash of suspicion came into her eyes. + +“I have said it, my child,” was the almost stern response of Mrs. +Dinneford. “The baby is dead.” + +A weight seemed to fall on Edith. She bent forward, crouching down until +her elbows rested on her knees and her hands supported her head. Thus +she sat, rocking her body with a slight motion. Mrs. Dinneford watched +her without speaking. + +“And what of George?” asked Edith, checking her nervous movement at +last. + +Her mother did not reply. Edith waited a moment, and then lifted herself +erect. + +“What of George?” she demanded. + +“My poor child!” exclaimed Mrs. Dinneford, with a gush of genuine pity, +putting her arms about Edith and drawing her head against her bosom. “It +is more than you have strength to bear.” + +“You must tell me,” the daughter said, disengaging herself. “I have +asked for my husband.” + +“Hush! You must not utter that word again;” and Mrs. Dinneford put her +fingers on Edith's lips. “The wretched man you once called by that name +is a disgraced criminal. It is better that you know the worst.” + +When Mr. Dinneford came home, instead of the quiet, happy child he +had left in the morning, he found a sad, almost broken-hearted woman, +refusing to be comforted. The wonder was that under the shock of this +terrible awakening, reason had not been again and hopelessly dethroned. + +After a period of intense suffering, pain seemed to deaden sensibility. +She grew calm and passive. And now Mrs. Dinneford set herself to the +completion of the work she had begun. She had compassed the ruin of +Granger in order to make a divorce possible; she had cast the baby +adrift that no sign of the social disgrace might remain as an impediment +to her first ambition. She would yet see her daughter in the position +to which she had from the beginning resolved to lift her, cost what it +might. But the task was not to be an easy one. + +After a period of intense suffering, as we have said, Edith grew calm +and passive. But she was never at ease with her mother, and seemed to +be afraid of her. To her father she was tender and confiding. Mrs. +Dinneford soon saw that if Edith's consent to a divorce from her husband +was to be obtained, it must come through her father's influence; for +if she but hinted at the subject, it was met with a flash of almost +indignant rejection. So her first work was to bring her husband over to +her side. This was not difficult, for Mr. Dinneford felt the disgrace +of having for a son-in-law a condemned criminal, who was only saved from +the State's prison by insanity. An insane criminal was not worthy to +hold the relation of husband to his pure and lovely child. + +After a feeble opposition to her father's arguments and persuasions, +Edith yielded her consent. An application for a divorce was made, and +speedily granted. + + + + +CHAPTER IV. + + + +_OUT_ of this furnace Edith came with a new and purer spirit. She had +been thrust in a shrinking and frightened girl; she came out a woman in +mental stature, in feeling and self-consciousness. + +The river of her life, which had cut for itself a deeper channel, lay +now so far down that it was out of the sight of common observation. Even +her mother failed to apprehend its drift and strength. Her father knew +her better. To her mother she was reserved and distant; to her father, +warm and confiding. With the former she would sit for hours without +speaking unless addressed; with the latter she was pleased and social, +and grew to be interested in what interested him. As mentioned, Mr. +Dinneford was a man of wealth and leisure, and active in many public +charities. He had come to be much concerned for the neglected and +cast-off children of poor and vicious parents, thousands upon thousands +of whom were going to hopeless ruin, unthought of and uncared for by +Church or State, and their condition often formed the subject of his +conversation as well at home as elsewhere. + +Mrs. Dinneford had no sympathy with her husband in this direction. A +dirty, vicious child was an offence to her, not an object of pity, and +she felt more like, spurning it with her foot than touching it with +her hand. But it was not so with Edith; she listened to her father, and +became deeply interested in the poor, suffering, neglected little ones +whose sad condition he could so vividly portray, for the public duties +of charity to which he was giving a large part of his time made him +familiar with much that was sad and terrible in human suffering and +degradation. + +One day Edith said to her father, + +“I saw a sight this morning that made me sick. It has haunted me ever +since. Oh, it was dreadful!” + +“What was it?” asked Mr. Dinneford. + +“A sick baby in the arms of a half-drunken woman. It made me shiver to +look at its poor little face, wasted by hunger and sickness and purple +with cold. The woman sat at the street corner begging, and the people +went by, no one seeming to care for the helpless, starving baby in her +arms. I saw a police-officer almost touch the woman as he passed. Why +did he not arrest her?” + +“That was not his business,” replied Mr. Dinneford. “So long as she did +not disturb the peace, the officer had nothing to do with her.” + +“Who, then, has?” + +“Nobody.” + +“Why, father!” exclaimed Edith. “Nobody?” + +“The woman was engaged in business. She was a beggar, and the sick, +half-starved baby was her capital in trade,” replied Mr. Dinneford. +“That policeman had no more authority to arrest her than he had to +arrest the organ-man or the peanut-vender.” + +“But somebody should see after a poor baby like that. Is there no law to +meet such cases?” + +“The poor baby has no vote,” replied Mr. Dinneford, “and law-makers +don't concern themselves much about that sort of constituency; and even +if they did, the executors of law would be found indifferent. They are +much more careful to protect those whose business it is to make drunken +beggars like the one you saw, who, if men, can vote and give them place +and power. The poor baby is far beneath their consideration.” + +“But not of Him,” said Edith, with eyes full of tears, “who took little +children in his arms and blessed them, and said, Suffer them to come +unto me and forbid them not, for of such is the kingdom of heaven.” + +“Our law-makers are not, I fear, of his kingdom,” answered Mr. +Dinneford, gravely, “but of the kingdom of this world.” + +A little while after, Edith, who had remained silent and thoughtful, +said, with a tremor in her voice, + +“Father, did you see my baby?” + +Mr. Dinneford started at so unexpected a question, surprised and +disturbed. He did not reply, and Edith put the question again. + +“No, my dear,” he answered, with a hesitation of manner that was almost +painful. + +After looking into his face steadily for some moments, Edith dropped her +eyes to the floor, and there was a constrained silence between them for +a good while. + +“You never saw it?” she queried, again lifting her eyes to her father's +face. Her own was much paler than when she first put the question. + +“Never.” + +“Why?” asked Edith. + +She waited for a little while, and then said, + +“Why don't you answer me, father?” + +“It was never brought to me.” + +“Oh, father!” + +“You were very ill, and a nurse was procured immediately.” + +“I was not too sick to see my baby,” said Edith, with white, quivering +lips. “If they had laid it in my bosom as soon as it was born, I would +never have been so ill, and the baby would not have died. If--if--” + +She held back what she was about saying, shutting her lips tightly. Her +face remained very pale and strangely agitated. Nothing more was then +said. + +A day or two afterward, Edith asked her mother, with an abruptness that +sent the color to her face, “Where was my baby buried?” + +“In our lot at Fairview,” was replied, after a moment's pause. + +Edith said no more, but on that very day, regardless of a heavy rain +that was falling, went out to the cemetery alone and searched in the +family lot for the little mound that covered her baby--searched, but did +not find it. She came back so changed in appearance that when her mother +saw her she exclaimed, + +“Why, Edith! Are you sick?” + +“I have been looking for my baby's grave and cannot find it,” she +answered. “There is something wrong, mother. What was done with my baby? +I must know.” And she caught her mother's wrists with both of her hands +in a tight grip, and sent searching glances down through her eyes. + +“Your baby is dead,” returned Mrs. Dinneford, speaking slowly and with +a hard deliberation. “As for its grave--well, if you will drag up the +miserable past, know that in my anger at your wretched _mesalliance_ I +rejected even the dead body of your miserable husband's child, and would +not even suffer it to lie in our family ground. You know how bitterly I +was disappointed, and I am not one of the kind that forgets or forgives +easily. I may have been wrong, but it is too late now, and the past may +as well be covered out of sight.” + +“Where, then, was my baby buried?” asked Edith, with a calm resolution +of manner that was not to be denied. + +“I do not know. I did not care at the time, and never asked.” + +“Who can tell me?” + +“I don't know.” + +“Who took my baby to nurse?” + +“I have forgotten the woman's name. All I know is that she is dead. When +the child died, I sent her money, and told her to bury it decently.” + +“Where did she live?” + +“I never knew precisely. Somewhere down town.” + +“Who brought her here? who recommended her?” said Edith, pushing her +inquiries rapidly. + +“I have forgotten that also,” replied Mrs. Dinneford, maintaining her +coldness of manner. + +“My nurse, I presume,” said Edith. “I have a faint recollection of +her--a dark little woman with black eyes whom I had never seen before. +What was her name?” + +“Bodine,” answered Mrs. Dinneford, without a moment's hesitation. + +“Where does she live?” + +“She went to Havana with a Cuban lady several months ago.” + +“Do you know the lady's name?” + +“It was Casteline, I think.” + +Edith questioned no further. The mother and daughter were still sitting +together, both deeply absorbed in thought, when a servant opened the +door and said to Mrs. Dinneford, + +“A lady wishes to see you.” + +“Didn't she give you her card?” + +“No ma'am.” + +“Nor send up her name?” + +“No, ma'am.” + +“Go down and ask her name.” + +The servant left the room. On returning, she said, + +“Her name is Mrs. Bray.” + +Mrs. Dinneford turned her face quickly, but not in time to prevent Edith +from seeing by its expression that she knew her visitor, and that her +call was felt to be an unwelcome one. She went from the room without +speaking. On entering the parlor, Mrs. Dinneford said, in a low, hurried +voice, + +“I don't want you to come here, Mrs. Bray. If you wish to see me send me +word, and I will call on you, but you must on no account come here.” + +“Why? Is anything wrong?” + +“Yes.” + +“What?” + +“Edith isn't satisfied about the baby, has been out to Fairview looking +for its grave, wants to know who her nurse was.” + +“What did you tell her?” + +“I said that your name was Mrs. Bodine, and that you had gone to Cuba.” + +“Do you think she would know me?” + +“Can't tell; wouldn't like to run the risk of her seeing you here. Pull +down your veil. There! close. She said, a little while ago, that she had +a faint recollection of you as a dark little woman with black eyes whom +she had never seen before.” + +“Indeed!” and Mrs. Bray gathered her veil close about her face. + +“The baby isn't living?” Mrs. Dinneford asked the question in a whisper. + +“Yes.” + +“Oh, it can't be! Are you sure?” + +“Yes; I saw it day before yesterday.” + +“You did! Where?” + +“On the street, in the arms of a beggar-woman.” + +“You are deceiving me!” Mrs. Dinneford spoke with a throb of anger in +her voice. + +“As I live, no! Poor little thing! half starved and half frozen. It +'most made me sick.” + +“It's impossible! You could not know that it was Edith's baby.” + +“I do know,” replied Mrs. Bray, in a voice that left no doubt on Mrs. +Dinneford's mind. + +“Was the woman the same to whom we gave the baby?” + +“No; she got rid of it in less than a month.” + +“What did she do with it?” + +“Sold it for five dollars, after she had spent all the money she +received from you in drink and lottery-policies.” + +“Sold it for five dollars!” + +“Yes, to two beggar-women, who use it every day, one in the morning and +the other in the afternoon, and get drunk on the money they receive, +lying all night in some miserable den.” + +Mrs. Dinneford gave a little shiver. + +“What becomes of the baby when they are not using it?” she asked. + +“They pay a woman a dollar a week to take care of it at night.” + +“Do you know where this woman lives?” + +“Yes.” + +“Were you ever there?” + +“Yes.” + +“What kind of a place is it?” + +“Worse than a dog-kennel.” + +“What does all this mean?” demanded Mrs. Dinneford, with repressed +excitement. “Why have you so kept on the track of this baby, when you +knew I wished it lost sight of?” + +“I had my own reasons,” replied Mrs. Bray. “One doesn't know what may +come of an affair like this, and it's safe to keep well up with it.” + +Mrs. Dinneford bit her lips till the blood almost came through. A faint +rustle of garments in the hall caused her to start. An expression of +alarm crossed her face. + +“Go now,” she said, hurriedly, to her visitor; “I will call and see you +this afternoon.” + +Mrs. Bray quietly arose, saying, as she did so, “I shall expect you,” + and went away. + +There was a menace in her tone as she said, “I shall expect you,” that +did not escape the ears of Mrs. Dinneford. + +Edith was in the hall, at some distance from the parlor door. Mrs. Bray +had to pass her as she went out. Edith looked at her intently. + +“Who is that woman?” she asked, confronting her mother, after the +visitor was gone. + +“If you ask the question in a proper manner, I shall have no objection +to answer,” said Mrs. Dinneford, with a dignified and slightly offended +air; “but my daughter is assuming rather, too much.” + +“Mrs. Bray, the servant said.” + +“No, Mrs. Gray.” + +“I understood her to say Mrs. Bray.” + +“I can't help what you understood.” The mother spoke with some asperity +of manner. “She calls herself Gray, but you can have it anything you +please; it won't change her identity.” + +“What did she want?” + +“To see me.” + +“I know.” Edith was turning away with an expression on her face that +Mrs. Dinneford did not like, so she said, + +“She is in trouble, and wants me to help her, if you must know. She +used to be a dressmaker, and worked for me before you were born; she got +married, and then her troubles began. Now she is a widow with a house +full of little children, and not half bread enough to feed them. I've +helped her a number of times already, but I'm getting tired of it; she +must look somewhere else, and I told her so.” + +Edith turned from her mother with an unsatisfied manner, and went up +stairs. Mrs. Dinneford was surprised, not long afterward, to meet her at +her chamber door, dressed to go out. This was something unusual. + +“Where are you going?” she asked, not concealing her surprise. + +“I have a little errand out,” Edith replied. + +This was not satisfactory to her mother. She asked other questions, but +Edith gave only evasive answers. + +On leaving the house, Edith walked quickly, like one in earnest about +something; her veil was closely drawn. Only a few blocks from where she +lived was the office of Dr. Radcliffe. Hither she directed her steps. + +“Why, Edith, child!” exclaimed the doctor, not concealing the surprise +he felt at seeing her. “Nobody sick, I hope?” + +“No one,” she answered. + +There was a momentary pause; then Edith said, abruptly, + +“Doctor, what became of my baby?” + +“It died,” answered Doctor Radcliffe, but not without betraying some +confusion. The question had fallen upon him too suddenly. + +“Did you see it after it was dead?” She spoke in a firm voice, looking +him steadily in the face. + +“No,” he replied, after a slight hesitation. + +“Then how do you know that it died?” Edith asked. + +“I had your mother's word for it,” said the doctor. + +“What was done with my baby after it was born?” + +“It was given out to nurse.” + +“With your consent?” + +“I did not advise it. Your mother had her own views in the case. It was +something over which I had no control.” + +“And you never saw it after it was taken away?” + +“Never.” + +“And do not really know whether it be dead or living?” + +“Oh, it's dead, of course, my child. There is no doubt of that,” said +the doctor, with sudden earnestness of manner. + +“Have you any evidence of the fact?” + +“My dear, dear child,” answered the doctor, with much feeling, “it is +all wrong. Why go back over this unhappy ground? why torture yourself +for nothing? Your baby died long ago, and is in heaven.” + +“Would God I could believe it!” she exclaimed, in strong agitation. “If +it were so, why is not the evidence set before me? I question my mother; +I ask for the nurse who was with me when my baby was born, and for the +nurse to whom it was given afterward, and am told that they are dead or +out of the country. I ask for my baby's grave, but it cannot be found. +I have searched for it where my mother told me it was, but the grave +is not there. Why all this hiding and mystery? Doctor, you said that my +baby was in heaven, and I answered, 'Would God it were so!' for I saw a +baby in hell not long ago!” + +The doctor was scared. He feared that Edith was losing her mind, she +looked and spoke so wildly. + +“A puny, half-starved, half-frozen little thing, in the arms of a +drunken beggar,” she added. “And, doctor, an awful thought has haunted +me ever since.” + +“Hush, hush!” said the doctor, who saw what was in her mind. “You must +not indulge such morbid fancies.” + +“It is that I may not indulge them that I have come to you. I want +certainty, Dr. Radcliffe. Somebody knows all about my baby. Who was my +nurse?” + +“I never saw her before the night of your baby's birth, and have never +seen her since. Your mother procured her.” + +“Did you hear her name?” + +“No.” + +“And so you cannot help me at all?” said Edith, in a disappointed voice. + +“I cannot, my poor child,” answered the doctor. + +All the flush and excitement died out of Edith's face. When she arose to +go, she was pale and haggard, like one exhausted by pain, and her steps +uneven, like the steps of an invalid walking for the first time. Dr. +Radcliffe went with her in silence to the door. + +“Oh, doctor,” said Edith, in a choking voice, as she lingered a moment +on the steps, “can't you bring out of this frightful mystery something +for my heart to rest upon? I want the truth. Oh, doctor, in pity help me +to find the truth!” + +“I am powerless to help you,” the doctor replied. “Your only hope lies +in your mother. She knows all about it; I do not.” + +And he turned and left her standing at the door. Slowly she descended +the steps, drawing her veil as she did so about her face, and walked +away more like one in a dream than conscious of the tide of life setting +so strongly all about her. + + + + +CHAPTER V. + + + +_MEANTIME_, obeying the unwelcome summons, Mrs. Dinneford had gone to +see Mrs. Bray. She found her in a small third-story room in the lower +part of the city, over a mile away from her own residence. The meeting +between the two women was not over-gracious, but in keeping with their +relations to each other. Mrs. Dinneford was half angry and impatient; +Mrs. Bray cool and self-possessed. + +“And now what is it you have to say?” asked the former, almost as soon +as she had entered. + +“The woman to whom you gave that baby was here yesterday.” + +A frightened expression came into Mrs. Dinneford's face. Mrs. Bray +watched her keenly as, with lips slightly apart, she waited for what +more was to come. + +“Unfortunately, she met me just as I was at my own door, and so found +out my residence,” continued Mrs. Bray. “I was in hopes I should never +see her again. We shall have trouble, I'm afraid.” + +“In what way?” + +“A bad woman who has you in her power can trouble you in many ways,” + answered Mrs. Bray. + +“She did not know my name--you assured me of that. It was one of the +stipulations.” + +“She does know, and your daughter's name also. And she knows where the +baby is. She's deeper than I supposed. It's never safe to trust such +people; they have no honor.” + +Fear sent all the color out of Mrs. Dinneford's face. + +“What does she want?” + +“Money.” + +“She was paid liberally.” + +“That has nothing to do with it. These people have no honor, as I said; +they will get all they can.” + +“How much does she want?” + +“A hundred dollars; and it won't end there, I'm thinking. If she is +refused, she will go to your house; she gave me that alternative--would +have gone yesterday, if good luck had not thrown her in my way. I +promised to call on you and see what could be done.” + +Mrs. Dinneford actually groaned in her fear and distress. + +“Would you like to see her yourself?” coolly asked Mrs. Bray. + +“Oh dear! no, no!” and the lady put up her hands in dismay. + +“It might be best,” said her wily companion. + +“No, no, no! I will have nothing to do with her! You must keep her away +from me,” replied Mrs. Dinneford, with increasing agitation. + +“I cannot keep her away without satisfying her demands. If you were to +see her yourself, you would know just what her demands were. If you do +not see her, you will only have my word for it, and I am left open +to misapprehension, if not worse. I don't like to be placed in such a +position.” + +And Mrs. Bray put on a dignified, half-injured manner. + +“It's a wretched business in every way,” she added, “and I'm sorry that +I ever had anything to do with it. It's something dreadful, as I told +you at the time, to cast a helpless baby adrift in such a way. Poor +little soul! I shall never feel right about it.” + +“That's neither here nor there;” and Mrs. Dinneford waved her hand +impatiently. “The thing now in hand is to deal with this woman.” + +“Yes, that's it--and as I said just now, I would rather have you deal +with her yourself; you may be able to do it better than I can.” + +“It's no use to talk, Mrs. Bray. I will not see the woman.” + +“Very well; you must be your own judge in the case.” + +“Can't you bind her up to something, or get her out of the city? I'd +pay almost anything to have her a thousand miles away. See if you can't +induce her to go to New Orleans. I'll pay her passage, and give her a +hundred dollars besides, if she'll go.” + +Mrs. Bray smiled a faint, sinister smile: + +“If you could get her off there, it would be the end of her. She'd never +stand the fever.” + +“Then get her off, cost what it may,” said Mrs. Dinneford. + +“She will be here in less than half an hour.” Mrs. Bray looked at the +face of a small cheap clock that stood on the mantel. + +“She will?” Mrs. Dinneford became uneasy, and arose from her chair. + +“Yes; what shall I say to her?” + +“Manage her the best you can. Here are thirty dollars--all the money I +have with me. Give her that, and promise more if necessary. I will see +you again.” + +“When?” asked Mrs. Bray. + +“At any time you desire.” + +“Then you had better come to-morrow morning. I shall not go out.” + +“I will be here at eleven o'clock. Induce her if possible to leave the +city--to go South, so that she may never come back.” + +“The best I can shall be done,” replied Mrs. Bray as she folded the +bank-bills she had received from Mrs. Dinneford in a fond, tender sort +of way and put them into her pocket. + +Mrs. Dinneford retired, saying as she did so, + +“I will be here in the morning.” + +An instant change came over the shallow face of the wiry little woman as +the form of Mrs. Dinneford vanished through the door. A veil seemed to +fall away from it. All its virtuous sobriety was gone, and a smile of +evil satisfaction curved about her lips and danced in her keen black +eyes. She stood still, listening to the retiring steps of her visitor, +until she heard the street door shut. Then, with a quick, cat-like step, +she crossed to the opposite side of the room, and pushed open a door +that led to an adjoining chamber. A woman came forward to meet her. This +woman was taller and stouter than Mrs. Bray, and had a soft, sensual +face, but a resolute mouth, the under jaw slightly protruding. Her eyes +were small and close together, and had that peculiar wily and alert +expression you sometimes see, making you think of a serpent's eyes. She +was dressed in common finery and adorned by cheap jewelry. + +“What do you think of that, Pinky Swett?” exclaimed Mrs. Bray, in a +voice of exultation. “Got her all right, haven't I?” + +“Well, you have!” answered the woman, shaking all over with unrestrained +laughter. “The fattest pigeon I've happened to see for a month of +Sundays. Is she very rich?” + +“Her husband is, and that's all the same. And now, Pinky”--Mrs. Bray +assumed a mock gravity of tone and manner--“you know your fate--New +Orleans and the yellow fever. You must pack right off. Passage free and +a hundred dollars for funeral expenses. Nice wet graves down there--keep +off the fire;” and she gave a low chuckle. + +“Oh yes; all settled. When does the next steamer sail?” and Pinky almost +screamed with merriment. She had been drinking. + +“H-u-s-h! h-u-s-h! None of that here, Pinky. The people down stairs are +good Methodists, and think me a saint.” + +“You a saint? Oh dear!” and she shook with repressed enjoyment. + +After this the two women grew serious, and put their heads together for +business. + +“Who is this woman, Fan? What's her name, and where does she live?” + asked Pinky Swett. + +“That's my secret, Pinky,” replied Mrs. Bray, “and I can't let it go; it +wouldn't be safe. You get a little off the handle sometimes, and don't +know what you say--might let the cat out of the bag. Sally Long took the +baby away, and she died two months ago; so I'm the only one now in +the secret. All I want of you is to keep track of the baby. Here is a +five-dollar bill; I can't trust you with more at a time. I know your +weakness, Pinky;” and she touched her under the chin in a familiar, +patronizing way. + +Pinky wasn't satisfied with this, and growled a little, just showing her +teeth like an unquiet dog. + +“Give me ten,” she said; “the woman gave you thirty. I heard her say so. +And she's going to bring you seventy to-morrow.” + +“You'll only waste it, Pinky,” remonstrated Mrs. Bray. “It will all be +gone before morning.” + +“Fan,” said the woman, leaning toward Mrs. Bray and speaking in a low, +confidential tone, “I dreamed of a cow last night, and that's good +luck, you know. Tom Oaks made a splendid hit last Saturday--drew twenty +dollars--and Sue Minty got ten. They're all buzzing about it down in our +street, and going to Sam McFaddon's office in a stream.” + +“Do they have good luck at Sam McFaddon's?” asked Mrs. Bray, with +considerable interest in her manner. + +“It's the luckiest place that I know. Never dreamed of a cow or a hen +that I didn't make a hit, and I dreamed of a cow last night. She was +giving such a splendid pail of milk, full to the brim, just as old Spot +and Brindle used to give. You remember our Spot and Brindle, Fan?” + +“Oh yes.” There was a falling inflection in Mrs. Bray's voice, as if +the reference had sent her thoughts away back to other and more innocent +days. + +The two women sat silent for some moments after that; and when Pinky +spoke, which she did first, it was in lower and softer tones: + +“I don't like to think much about them old times, Fan; do you? I might +have done better. But it's no use grizzling about it now. What's done's +done, and can't be helped. Water doesn't run up hill again after it's +once run down. I've got going, and can't stop, you see. There's nothing +to catch at that won't break as soon as you touch it. So I mean to be +jolly as I move along.” + +“Laughing is better than crying at any time,” returned Mrs. Bray; “here +are five more;” and she handed Pinky Swett another bank-bill. “I'm going +to try my luck. Put half a dollar on ten different rows, and we'll go +shares on what is drawn. I dreamed the other night that I saw a flock of +sheep, and that's good luck, isn't it?” + +Pinky thrust her hand into her pocket and drew out a worn and soiled +dream-book. + +“A flock of sheep; let me see;” and she commenced turning over the +leaves. “Sheep; here it is: 'To see them is a sign of sorrow--11, 20, +40, 48. To be surrounded by many sheep denotes good luck--2, 11, 55.' +That's your row; put down 2, 11, 55. We'll try that. Next put down 41 +11, 44--that's the lucky row when you dream of a cow.” + +As Pinky leaned toward her friend she dropped her parasol. + +“That's for luck, maybe,” she said, with a brightening face. “Let's see +what it says about a parasol;” and she turned over her dream-book. + +“For a maiden to dream she loses her parasol shows that her sweetheart +is false and will never marry her--5, 51, 56.” + +“But you didn't dream about a parasol, Pinky.” + +“That's no matter; it's just as good as a dream. 5, 51, 56 is the row. +Put that down for the second, Fan.” + +As Mrs. Bray was writing out these numbers the clock on the mantel +struck five. + +“8, 12, 60,” said Pinky, turning to the clock; “that's the clock row.” + +And Mrs. Bray put down these figures also. + +“That's three rows,” said Pinky, “and we want ten.” She arose, as she +spoke, and going to the front window, looked down upon the street. + +“There's an organ-grinder; it's the first thing I saw;” and she came +back fingering the leaves of her dream-book. “Put down 40, 50, 26.” + +Mrs. Bray wrote the numbers on her slip of paper. + +“It's November; let's find the November row.” Pinky consulted her book +again. “Signifies you will have trouble through life--7, 9, 63. That's +true as preaching; I was born in November, and I've had it all trouble. +How many rows does that make?” + +“Five.” + +“Then we will cut cards for the rest;” and Pinky drew a soiled pack from +her pocket, shuffled the cards and let her friends cut them. + +“Ten of diamonds;” she referred to the dream-book. “10, 13, 31; put that +down.” + +The cards were shuffled and cut again. + +“Six of clubs--6, 35, 39.” + +Again they were cut and shuffled. This time the knave of clubs was +turned up. + +“That's 17, 19, 28,” said Pinky, reading from her book. + +The next cut gave the ace of clubs, and the policy numbers were 18, 63, +75. + +“Once more, and the ten rows will be full;” and the cards were cut +again. + +“Five of hearts--5, 12, 60;” and the ten rows were complete. + +“There's luck there, Fan; sure to make a hit,” said Pinky, with almost +childish confidence, as she gazed at the ten rows of figures. “One +of 'em can't help coming out right, and that would be fifty +dollars--twenty-five for me and twenty-five for you; two rows would give +a hundred dollars, and the whole ten a thousand. Think of that, Fan! +five hundred dollars apiece.” + +“It would break Sam McFaddon, I'm afraid,” remarked Mrs. Bray. + +“Sam's got nothing to do with it,” returned Pinky. + +“He hasn't?” + +“No.” + +“Who has, then?” + +“His backer.” + +“What's that?” + +“Oh, I found it all out--I know how it's done. Sam's got a backer--a man +that puts up the money. Sam only sells for his backer. When there's a +hit, the backer pays.” + +“Who's Sam's backer, as you call him?” + +“Couldn't get him to tell; tried him hard, but he was close as an +oyster. Drives in the Park and wears a two thousand dollar diamond pin; +he let that out. So he's good for the hits. Sam always puts the money +down, fair and square.” + +“Very well; you get the policy, and do it right off, Pinky, or the +money'll slip through your fingers.” + +“All right,” answered Pinky as she folded the slip of paper containing +the lucky rows. “Never you fear. I'll be at Sam McFaddon's in ten +minutes after I leave here.” + +“And be sure,” said Mrs. Bray, “to look after the baby to-night, and see +that it doesn't perish with cold; the air's getting sharp.” + +“It ought to have something warmer than cotton rags on its poor little +body,” returned Pinky. “Can't you get it some flannel? It will die if +you don't.” + +“I sent it a warm petticoat last week,” said Mrs. Bray. + +“You did?” + +“Yes; I bought one at a Jew shop, and had it sent to the woman.” + +“Was it a nice warm one?” + +“Yes.” + +Pinky drew a sigh. “I saw the poor baby last night; hadn't anything on +but dirty cotton rags. It was lying asleep in a cold cellar on a little +heap of straw. The woman had given it something, I guess, by the way +it slept. The petticoat had gone, most likely, to Sam McFaddon's. She +spends everything she can lay her hands on in policies and whisky.” + +“She's paid a dollar a week for taking care of the baby at night and on +Sundays,” said Mrs. Bray. + +“It wouldn't help the baby any if she got ten dollars,” returned Pinky. +“It ought to be taken away from her.” + +“But who's to do that? Sally Long sold it to the two beggar women, and +they board it out. I have no right to interfere; they own the baby, and +can do as they please with it.” + +“It could be got to the almshouse,” said Pinky; “it would be a thousand +times better off.” + +“It mustn't go to the almshouse,” replied Mrs. Bray; “I might lose track +of it, and that would never do.” + +“You'll lose track of it for good and all before long, if you don't get +it out of them women's bands. No baby can hold out being begged with +long; it's too hard on the little things. For you know how it is, Fan; +they must keep 'em half starved and as sick as they will bear without +dying right off, so as to make 'em look pitiful. You can't do much at +begging with a fat, hearty-looking baby.” + +“What's to be done about it?” asked Mrs. Bray. “I don't want that baby +to die.” + +“Would its mother know it if she saw it?” asked Pinky. + +“No; for she never set eyes on it.” + +“Then, if it dies, get another baby, and keep track of that. You can +steal one from a drunken mother any night in the week. I'll do it for +you. One baby is as good as another.” + +“It will be safer to have the real one,” replied Mrs. Bray. “And now, +Pinky that you have put this thing into my head, I guess I'll commission +you to get the baby away from that woman.” + +“All right!” + +“But what are we to do with it? I can't have it here.” + +“Of course you can't. But that's easily managed, if your're willing to +pay for it.” + +“Pay for it?” + +“Yes; if it isn't begged with, and made to pay its way and earn +something into the bargain, it's got to be a dead weight on somebody. So +you see how it is, Fan. Now, if you'll take a fool's advice, you'll +let 'it go to the almshouse, or let it alone to die and get out of its +misery as soon as possible. You can find another baby that will do just +as well, if you should ever need one.” + +“How much would it cost, do you think, to have it boarded with some one +who wouldn't abuse it? She might beg with it herself, or hire it out two +or three times a week. I guess it would stand that.” + +“Beggars don't belong to the merciful kind,” answered Pinky; “there's no +trusting any of them. A baby in their hands is never safe. I've seen 'em +brought in at night more dead than alive, and tossed on a dirty rag-heap +to die before morning. I'm always glad when they're out of their misery, +poor things! The fact is, Fan, if you expect that baby to live, you've +got to take it clean out of the hands of beggars.” + +“What could I get it boarded for outright?” asked Mrs. Bray. + +“For 'most anything, 'cording to how it's done. But why not, while +you're about it, bleed the old lady, its grandmother, a little deeper, +and take a few drops for the baby?” + +“Guess you're kind o' right about that, Fan; anyhow, we'll make a start +on it. You find another place for the brat.” + +“'Greed; when shall I do it?” + +“The sooner, the better. It might die of cold any night in that horrible +den. Ugh!” + +“I've been in worse places. Bedlow street is full of them, and so is +Briar street and Dirty alley. You don't know anything about it.” + +“Maybe not, and maybe I don't care to know. At present I want to settle +about this baby. You'll find another place for it?” + +“Yes.” + +“And then steal it from the woman who has it now?” + +“Yes; no trouble in the world. She's drunk every night,” answered Pinky +Swett, rising to go. + +“You'll see me to-morrow?” said Mrs. Bray. + +“Oh yes.” + +“And you won't forget about the policies?” + +“Not I. We shall make a grand hit, or I'm a fool. Day-day!” Pinky waved +her hand gayly, and then retired. + + + + +CHAPTER VI. + + + +_A COLD_ wet drizzling rain was beginning to fall when Pinky Swett +emerged from the house. Twilight was gathering drearily. She drew her +thin shawl closely, and shivered as the east wind struck her with a +chill. + +At hurried walk of five or ten minutes brought her to a part of the town +as little known to its citizens generally as if it were in the centre +of Africa--a part of the town where vice, crime, drunkenness and beggary +herd together in the closest and most shameless contact; where men and +women, living in all foulness, and more like wild beasts than human +beings, prey greedily upon each other, hurting, depraving and marring +God's image in all over whom they can get power or influenced--_a very +hell upon the earth!_--at part of the town where theft and robbery and +murder are plotted, and from which prisons and almshouses draw their +chief population. + +That such a herding together, almost in the centre of a great Christian +city, of the utterly vicious and degraded, should be permitted, when +every day's police and criminal records give warning of its cost +and danger, is a marvel and a reproach. Almost every other house, in +portions of this locality, is a dram-shop, where the vilest liquors are +sold. Policy-offices, doing business in direct violation of law, are in +every street and block, their work of plunder and demoralization going +on with open doors and under the very eyes of the police. Every one of +them is known to these officers. But arrest is useless. A hidden and +malign influence, more potent than justice, has power to protect the +traffic and hold the guilty offenders harmless. Conviction is rarely, if +ever, reached. + +The poor wretches, depraved and plundered through drink and +policy-gambling, are driven into crime. They rob and steal and debase +themselves for money with which to buy rum and policies, and sooner or +later the prison or death removes the greater number of them from their +vile companions. But drifting toward this fatal locality under the +attraction of affinity, or lured thither by harpies in search of new +supplies of human victims to repair the frightful waste perpetually +made, the region keeps up its dense population, and the work of +destroying human souls goes on. It is an awful thing to contemplate. +Thousands of men and women, boys and girls, once innocent as the +babes upon whom Christ laid his hand in blessing, are drawn into this +whirlpool of evil every year, and few come out except by the way of +prison or death. + +It was toward this locality that Pinky Swett directed her feet, after +parting with Mrs. Bray. Darkness was beginning to settle down as she +turned off from one of the most populous streets, crowded at the time by +citizens on their way to quiet and comfortable homes, few if any of whom +had ever turned aside to look upon and get knowledge of the world or +crime and wretchedness so near at hand, but girdled in and concealed +from common observation. + +Down a narrow street she turned from the great thoroughfare, walking +with quick steps, and shivering a little as the penetrating east wind +sent a chill of dampness through the thin shawl she drew closer and +closer about her shoulders. Nothing could be in stronger contrast than +the rows of handsome dwellings and stores that lined the streets through +which she had just passed, and the forlorn, rickety, unsightly and +tumble-down houses amid which she now found herself. + +Pinky had gone only a little way when the sharp cries of a child cut the +air suddenly, the shrill, angry voice of a woman and the rapid fall of +lashes mingled with the cries. The child begged for mercy in tones of +agony, but the loud voice, uttering curses and imprecations, and the +cruel blows, ceased not. Pinky stopped and shivered. She felt the pain +of these blows, in her quickly-aroused sympathy, almost as much as +if they had been falling on her own person. Opposite to where she had +paused was a one-story frame house, or enclosed shed, as unsightly +without as a pig-pen, and almost as filthy within. It contained two +small rooms with very low ceilings. The only things in these rooms that +could be called furniture were an old bench, two chairs from which the +backs had been broken, a tin cup black with smoke and dirt, two or +three tin pans in the same condition, some broken crockery and an iron +skillet. Pinky stood still for a moment, shivering, as we have said. She +knew what the blows and the curses and the cries of pain meant; she had +heard them before. A depraved and drunken woman and a child ten years +old, who might or might not be her daughter, lived there. The child was +sent out every day to beg or steal, and if she failed to bring home a +certain sum of money, was cruelly beaten by the woman. Almost every +day the poor child was cut with lashes, often on the bare flesh; almost +every day her shrieks rang out from the miserable hovel. But there was +no one to interfere, no one to save her from the smarting blows, no one +to care what she suffered. + +Pinky Swett could stand it no longer. She had often noticed the ragged +child, with her pale, starved face and large, wistful eyes, passing +in and out of this miserable woman's den, sometimes going to the +liquor-shops and sometimes to the nearest policy-office to spend for +her mother, if such the woman really was, the money she had gained by +begging. + +With a sudden impulse, as a deep wail and a more piteous cry for mercy +smote upon her ears, Pinky sprang across the street and into the hovel. +The sight that met her eyes left no hesitation in her mind. Holding up +with one strong arm the naked body of the poor child--she had drawn the +clothes over her head--the infuriated woman was raining down blows from +a short piece of rattan upon the quivering flesh, already covered with +welts and bruises. + +“Devil!” cried Pinky as she rushed upon this fiend in human shape and +snatched the little girl from her arm. “Do you want to kill the child?” + +She might almost as well have assaulted a tigress. + +The woman was larger, stronger, more desperate and more thoroughly given +over to evil passions than she. To thwart her in anything was to rouse +her into a fury. A moment she stood in surprise and bewilderment; in +the next, and ere Pinky had time to put herself on guard, she had sprung +upon her with a passionate cry that sounded more like that of a wild +beast than anything human. Clutching her by the throat with one hand, +and with the other tearing the child from her grasp, she threw the +frightened little thing across the room. + +“Devil, ha!” screamed the woman; “devil!” and she tightened her grasp +on Pinky's throat, at the same time striking her in the face with her +clenched fist. + +Like a war-horse that snuffs the battle afar off and rushes to the +conflict, so rushed the inhabitants of that foul neighborhood to the +spot from whence had come to their ears the familiar and not unwelcome +sound of strife. Even before Pinky had time to shake off her assailant, +the door of the hovel was darkened by a screen of eager faces. And +such faces! How little of God's image remained in them to tell of +their divine origination!--bloated and scarred, ashen pale and wasted, +hollow-eyed and red-eyed, disease looking out from all, yet all lighted +up with the keenest interest and expectancy. + +Outside, the crowd swelled with a marvelous rapidity. Every cellar and +room and garret, every little alley and hidden rookery, “hawk's nest” + and “wren's nest,” poured out its unseemly denizens, white and black, +old and young, male and female, the child of three years old, keen, +alert and self-protective, running to see the “row” side by side with +the toothless crone of seventy; or most likely passing her on the way. +Thieves, beggars, pick-pockets, vile women, rag-pickers and the like, +with the harpies who prey upon them, all were there to enjoy the show. + +Within, a desperate fight was going on between Pinky Swett and the woman +from whose hands she had attempted to rescue the child--a fight in which +Pinky was getting the worst of it. One garment after another was torn +from her person, until little more than a single one remained. + +“Here's the police! look out!” was cried at this juncture. + +“Who cares for the police? Let 'em come,” boldly retorted the woman. “I +haven't done nothing; it's her that's come in drunk and got up a row.” + +Pushing the crowd aside, a policeman entered the hovel. + +“Here she is!” cried the woman, pointing toward Pinky, from whom she +had sprung back the moment she heard the word police. “She came in here +drunk and got up a row. I'm a decent woman, as don't meddle with nobody. +But she's awful when she gets drunk. Just look at her--been tearing her +clothes off!” + +At this there was a shout of merriment from the crowd who had witnessed +the fight. + +“Good for old Sal! she's one of 'em! Can't get ahead of old Sal, drunk +or sober!” and like expressions were shouted by one and another. + +Poor Pinky, nearly stripped of her clothing, and with a great bruise +swelling under one of her eyes, bewildered and frightened at the aspect +of things around her, could make no acceptable defence. + +“She ran over and pitched into Sal, so she did! I saw her! She made +the fight, she did!” testified one of the crowd; and acting on this +testimony and his own judgment of the case, the policeman said roughly, +as he laid his hand on Pinky. + +“Pick up your duds and come along.” + +Pinky lifted her torn garments from the dirty floor and gathered them +about her person as best she could, the crowd jeering all the time. A +pin here and there, furnished by some of the women, enabled her to get +them into a sort of shape and adjustment. Then she tried to explain the +affair to the policeman, but he would not listen. + +“Come!” he said, sternly. + +“What are you going to do with me?” she asked, not moving from where she +stood. + +“Lock you up,” replied the policeman. “So come along.” + +“What's the matter here?” demanded a tall, strongly-built woman, +pressing forward. She spoke with a foreign accent, and in a tone of +command. The motley crowd, above whom she towered, gave way for her as +she approached. Everything about the woman showed her to be superior in +mind and moral force to the unsightly wretches about her. She had the +fair skin, blue eyes and light hair of her nation. Her features were +strong, but not masculine. You saw in them no trace of coarse sensuality +or vicious indulgence. + +“Here's Norah! here's the queen!” shouted a voice from the crowd. + +“What's the matter here?” asked the woman as she gained an entrance to +the hovel. + +“Going to lock up Pinky Swett,” said a ragged little girl who had forced +her way in. + +“What for?” demanded the woman, speaking with the air of one in +authority. + +“'Cause she wouldn't let old Sal beat Kit half to death,” answered the +child. + +“Ho! Sal's a devil and Pinky's a fool to meddle with her.” Then turning +to the policeman, who still had his hand on the girl, she said, + +“What're you goin' to do, John?” + +“Goin' to lock her up. She's drunk an' bin a-fightin'.” + +“You're not goin' to do any such thing.” + +“I'm not drunk, and it's a lie if anybody says so,” broke in Pinky. “I +tried to keep this devil from beating the life out of poor little Kit, +and she pitched into me and tore my clothes off. That's what's the +matter.” + +The policeman quietly removed his hand from Pinky's shoulder, and +glanced toward the woman named Sal, and stood as if waiting orders. + +“Better lock _her_ up,” said the “queen,” as she had been called. Sal +snarled like a fretted wild beast. + +“It's awful, the way she beats poor Kit,” chimed in the little girl who +had before spoken against her. “If I was Kit, I'd run away, so I would.” + +“I'll wring your neck off,” growled Sal, in a fierce undertone, making a +dash toward the girl, and swearing frightfully. But the child shrank to +the side of the policeman. + +“If you lay a finger on Kit to-night,” said the queen, “I'll have her +taken away, and you locked up into the the bargain.” + +Sal responded with another snarl. + +“Come.” The queen moved toward the door. Pinky followed, the policeman +offering no resistance. A few minutes later, and the miserable crowd of +depraved human beings had been absorbed again into cellar and garret, +hovel and rookery, to take up the thread of their evil and sensual +lives, and to plot wickedness, and to prey upon and deprave each +other--to dwell as to their inner and real lives among infernals, to be +in hell as to their spirits, while their bodies yet remained upon the +earth. + +Pinky and her rescuer passed down the street for a short distance until +they came to another that was still narrower. On each side dim lights +shone from the houses, and made some revelation of what was going on +within. Here liquor was sold, and there policies. Here was a junk-shop, +and there an eating-saloon where for six cents you could make a meal out +of the cullings from beggars' baskets. Not very tempting to an ordinary +appetite was the display inside, nor agreeable to the nostrils the odors +that filled the atmosphere. But hunger like the swines', that was not +over-nice, satisfied itself amid these disgusting conglomerations, and +kept off starvation. + +Along this wretched street, with scarcely an apology for a sidewalk, +moved Pinky and the queen, until they reached a small two-story frame +house that presented a different aspect from the wretched tenements amid +which it stood. It was clean upon the outside, and had, as contrasted +with its neighbors, an air of superiority. This was the queen's +residence. Inside, all was plain and homely, but clean and in order. + +The excitement into which Pinky had been thrown was nearly over by this +time. + +“You've done me a good turn, Norah,” she said as the door closed upon +them, “and I'll not soon forget you.” + +“Ugh!” ejaculated Norah as she looked into Pinky's bruised face; “Sal's +hit you square in the eye; it'll be black as y'r boot by morning. I'll +get some cold water.” + +A basin of cold water was brought, and Pinky held a wet cloth to the +swollen spot for a long time, hoping thereby not only to reduce the +swelling, but to prevent discoloration. + +“Y'r a fool to meddle with Sal,” said Norah as she set the basin of +water before Pinky. + +“Why don't you meddle with her? Why do you let her beat poor little Kit +the way she does?” demanded Pinky. + +Norah shrugged her shoulders, and answered with no more feeling in her +voice than if she had been speaking of inanimate things: + +“She's got to keep Kit up to her work.” + +“Up to her work!” + +“Yes; that's just it. Kit's lazy and cheats--buys cakes and candies; and +Sal has to come down on her; it's the way, you know. If Sal didn't come +down sharp on her all the while, Kit wouldn't bring her ten cents a day. +They all have to do it--so much a day or a lickin'; and a little lickin' +isn't any use--got to 'most kill some of 'em. We're used to it in here. +Hark!” + +The screams of a child in pain rang out wildly, the sounds coming from +across the narrow street. Quick, hard strokes of a lash were heard at +the same time. Pinky turned a little pale. + +“Only Mother Quig,” said Norah, with an indifferent air; “she has to do +it 'most every night--no getting along any other way with Tom. It beats +all how much he can stand.” + +“Oh, Norah, won't she never stop?” cried Pinky, starting up. “I can't +bear it a minute longer.” + +“Shut y'r ears. You've got to,” answered the woman, with some impatience +in her voice. “Tom has to be kept to his work as well as the rest of +'em. Half the fuss he's making is put on, anyhow; he doesn't mind a +beating any more than a horse. I know his hollers. There's Flanagan's +Nell getting it now,” added Norah as the cries and entreaties of another +child were heard. She drew herself up and listened, a slight shade of +concern drifting across her face. + +A long, agonizing wail shivered through the air. + +“Nell's Sick, and can't do her work.” The woman rose as she spoke. “I +saw her goin' off to-day, and told Flanagan she'd better keep her at +home.” + +Saying this, Norah went out quickly, Pinky following. With head erect +and mouth set firmly, the queen strode across the street and a little +way down the pavement, to the entrance of a cellar, from which the cries +and sounds of whipping came. Down the five or six rotten and broken +steps she plunged, Pinky close after her. + +“Stop!” shouted Norah, in a tone of command. + +Instantly the blows ceased, and the cries were hushed. + +“You'll be hanged for murder if you don't take care,” said Norah. +“What's Nell been doin'?” + +“Doin', the slut!” ejaculated the woman, a short, bloated, revolting +creature, with scarcely anything human in her face. “Doin', did ye say? +It's nothin' she's been doin', the lazy, trapsing huzzy! Who's that +intrudin' herself in here?” she added fiercely, as she saw Pinky, making +at the same time a movement toward the girl. “Get out o' here, or I'll +spile y'r pictur'!” + +“Keep quiet, will you?” said Norah, putting her hand on the woman and +pushing her back as easily as if she had been a child. “Now come here, +Nell, and let me look at you.” + +Out of the far corner of the cellar into which Flanagan had thrown her +when she heard Norah's voice, and into the small circle of light made +by a single tallow candle, there crept slowly the figure of a child +literally clothed in rags. Norah reached out her hand to her as she came +up--there was a scared look on her pinched face--and drew her close to +the light. + +“Gracious! your hand's like an ice-ball!” exclaimed Norah. + +Pinky looked at the child, and grew faint at heart. She had large hazel +eyes, that gleamed with a singular lustre out of the suffering, grimed +and wasted little face, so pale and sad and pitiful that the sight of it +was enough to draw tears from any but the brutal and hardened. + +“Are you sick?” asked Norah. + +“No, she's not sick; she's only shamming,” growled Flanagan. + +“You shut up!” retorted Norah. “I wasn't speaking to you.” Then she +repeated her question: + +“Are you sick, Nell?” + +“Yes.” + +“Where?” + +“I don't know.” + +Norah laid her hand on the child's head: + +“Does it hurt here?” + +“Oh yes! It hurts so I can't see good,” answered Nell. + +“It's all a lie! I know her; she's shamming.” + +“Oh no, Norah!” cried the child, a sudden hope blending with the fear in +her voice. “I ain't shamming at all. I fell down ever so many times in +the street, and 'most got run over. Oh dear! oh dear!” and she clung to +the woman with a gesture of despair piteous to see. + +“I don't believe you are, Nell,” said Norah, kindly. Then, to the woman, +“Now mind, Flanagan, Nell's sick; d'ye hear?” + +The woman only uttered a defiant growl. + +“She's not to be licked again to-night.” Norah spoke as one having +authority. + +“I wish ye'd be mindin' y'r own business, and not come interfarin' wid +me. She's my gal, and I've a right to lick her if I plaze.” + +“Maybe she is and maybe she isn't,” retorted Norah. + +“Who says she isn't my gal?” screamed the woman, firing up at this and +reaching out for Nell, who shrunk closer to Norah. + +“Maybe she is and maybe she isn't,” said the queen, quietly repeating +her last sentence; “and I think maybe she isn't. So take care and mind +what I say. Nell isn't to be licked any more to-night.” + +“Oh, Norah,” sobbed the child, in a husky, choking voice, “take me, +won't you? She'll pinch me, and she'll hit my head on the wall, and +she'll choke me and knock me. Oh, Norah, Norah!” + +Pinky could stand this no longer. Catching up the bundle of rags in +her arms, she sprang out of the cellar and ran across the street to the +queen's house, Norah and Flanagan coming quickly after her. At the +door, through which Pinky had passed, Norah paused, and turning to the +infuriated Irish woman, said, sternly, + +“Go back! I won't have you in here; and if you make a row, I'll tell +John to lock you up.” + +“I want my Nell,” said the woman, her manner changing. There was a shade +of alarm in her voice. + +“You can't have her to-night; so that's settled. And if there's any row, +you'll be locked up.” Saying which, Norah went in and shut the door, +leaving Flanagan on the outside. + +The bundle of dirty rags with the wasted body of a child inside, the +body scarcely heavier than the rags, was laid by Pinky in the corner +of a settee, and the unsightly mass shrunk together like something +inanimate. + +“I thought you'd had enough with old Sal,” said Norah, in a tone of +reproof, as she came in. + +“Couldn't help it,” replied Pinky. “I'm bad enough, but I can't stand to +see a child abused like that--no, not if I die for it.” + +Norah crossed to the settee and spoke to Nell. But there was no answer, +nor did the bundle of rags stir. + +“Nell! Nell!” She called to deaf ears. Then she put her hand on the +child and raised one of the arms. It dropped away limp as a withered +stalk, showing the ashen white face across which it had lain. + +The two women manifested no excitement. The child had fainted or was +dead--which, they did not know. Norah straightened out the wasted little +form and turned up the face. The eyes were shut, the mouth closed, the +pinched features rigid, as if still giving expression to pain, but there +was no mistaking the sign that life had gone out of them. It might be +for a brief season, it might be for ever. + +A little water was thrown into the child's face. Its only effect was to +streak the grimy skin. + +“Poor little thing!” said Pinky. “I hope she's dead.” + +“They're tough. They don't die easy,” returned Norah. + +“She isn't one of the tough kind.” + +“Maybe not. They say Flanagan stole her when she was a little thing, +just toddling.” + +“Don't let's do anything to try to bring her to,” said Pinky. + +Norah stood for some moment's with an irresolute air, then bent over the +child and examined her more carefully. She could feel no pulse beat, nor +any motion of the heart, + +“I don't want the coroner here,” she said, in a tone of annoyance. “Take +her back to Flanagan; it's her work, and she must stand by it.” + +“Is she really dead?” asked Pinky. + +“Looks like it, and serves Flanagan right. I've told her over and over +that Nell wouldn't stand it long if she didn't ease up a little. Flesh +isn't iron.” + +Again she examined the child carefully, but without the slightest sign +of feeling. + +“It's all the same now who has her,” she said, turning off from the +settee. “Take her back to Flanagan.” + +But Pinky would not touch the child, nor could threat or persuasion +lead her to do so. While they were contending, Flanagan, who had fired +herself up with half a pint of whisky, came storming through the door in +a blind rage and screaming out, + +“Where's my Nell? I want my Nell!” + +Catching sight of the child's inanimate form lying on the settee, she +pounced down upon it like some foul bird and bore it off, cursing and +striking the senseless clay in her insane fury. + +Pinky, horrified at the dreadful sight, and not sure that the child was +really dead, and so insensible to pain, made a movement to follow, but +Norah caught her arm with a tight grip and held her back. + +“Are you a fool?” said the queen, sternly. “Let Flanagan alone. Nell's +out of her reach, and I'm glad of it.” + +“If I was only sure!” exclaimed Pinky. + +“You may be. I know death--I've seen it often enough. They'll have the +coroner over there in the morning. It's Flanagan's concern, not yours or +mine, so keep out of it if you know when you're well off.” + +“I'll appear against her at the inquest,” said Pinky. + +“You'll do no such thing. Keep your tongue behind your teeth. It's time +enough to show it when it's pulled out. Take my advice, and mind your +own business. You'll have enough to do caring for your own head, without +looking after other people's.” + +“I'm not one of that kind,” answered Pinky, a little tartly; “and if +there's any way to keep Flanagan from murdering another child, I'm going +to find it out.” + +“You'll find out something else first,” said Norah, with a slight curl +of her lip. + +“What?” + +“The way to prison.” + +“Pshaw! I'm not afraid.” + +“You'd better be. If you appear against Flanagan, she'll have you caged +before to-morrow night.” + +“How can she do it?” + +“Swear against you before an alderman, and he'll send you down if it's +only to get his fee. She knows her man.” + +“Suppose murder is proved against her?” + +“Suppose!” Norah gave a little derisive laugh. + +“They don't look after things in here as they do outside. Everybody's +got the screws on, and things must break sometimes, but it isn't called +murder. The coroner understands it all. He's used to seeing things +break.” + + + + +CHAPTER VII. + + + +_FOR_ a short time the sounds of cruel exultation came over from +Flanagan's; then all was still. + +“Sal's put her mark on you,” said Norah, looking steadily into Pinky's +face, and laughing in a cold, half-amused way. + +Pinky raised her hand to her swollen cheek. “Does it look very bad?” she +asked. + +“Spoils your beauty some.” + +“Will it get black?” + +“Shouldn't wonder. But what can't be helped, can't. You'll mind your own +business next time, and keep out of Sal's way. She's dangerous. What's +the matter?” + +“Got a sort of chill,” replied the girl, who from nervous reaction was +beginning to shiver. + +“Oh, want something to warm you up.” Norah brought out a bottle of +spirits. Pinky poured a glass nearly half full, added some water, and +then drank off the fiery mixture. + +“None of your common stuff,” said Norah, with a smile, as Pinky smacked +her lips. The girl drew her handkerchief from her pocket, and as she did +so a piece of paper dropped on the floor. + +“Oh, there it is!” she exclaimed, light flashing into her face. “Going +to make a splendid hit. Just look at them rows.” + +Norah threw an indifferent glance on the paper. + +“They're lucky, every one of them,” said Pinky. “Going to put half a +dollar on each row--sure to make a hit.” + +The queen gave one of her peculiar shrugs. + +“Going to break Sam McFaddon,” continued Pinky, her spirits rising under +the influence of Norah's treat. + +“Soft heads don't often break hard rocks,” returned the woman, with a +covert sneer. + +“That's an insult!” cried Pinky, on whom the liquor she had just taken +was beginning to have a marked effect, “and I won't stand an insult from +you or anybody else.” + +“Well, I wouldn't if I was you,” returned Norah, coolly. A hard +expression began settling about her mouth. + +“And I don't mean to. I'm as good as you are, any day!” + +“You may be a great deal better, for all I care,” answered Norah. “Only +take my advice, and keep a civil tongue in your head.” There was a +threatening undertone in the woman's voice. She drew her tall person +more erect, and shook herself like a wild beast aroused from inaction. + +Pinky was too blind to see the change that had come so suddenly. A +stinging retort fell from her lips. But the words had scarcely died on +the air ere she found herself in the grip of vice-like hands. Resistance +was of no more avail than if she had been a child. In what seemed but a +moment of time she was pushed back through the door and dropped upon the +pavement. Then the door shut, and she was alone on the outside--no, +not alone, for scores of the denizens who huddle together in that foul +region were abroad, and gathered around her as quickly as flies about +a heap of offal, curious, insolent and aggressive. As she arose to her +feet she found herself hemmed in by a jeering crowd. + +“Ho! it's Pinky Swett!” cried a girl, pressing toward her. “Hi, Pinky! +what's the matter? What's up?” + +“Norah pitched her out! I saw it!” screamed a boy, one of the young +thieves that harbored in the quarter. + +“It's a lie!” Pinky answered back as she confronted the crowd. + +At this moment another boy, who had come up behind Pinky, gave her dress +so violent a jerk that she fell over backward on the pavement, striking +her head on a stone and cutting it badly. She lay there, unable to rise, +the crowd laughing with as much enjoyment as if witnessing a dog-fight. + +“Give her a dose of mud!” shouted one of the boys; and almost as soon +as the words were out of his mouth her face was covered with a paste of +filthy dirt from the gutter. This, instead of exciting pity, only gave +a keener zest to the show. The street rang with shouts and peals of +merriment, bringing a new and larger crowd to see the fun. With them +came one or two policemen. + +Seeing that it was only a drunken woman, they pushed back the crowd and +raised her to her feet. As they did so the blood streamed from the back +of her head and stained her dress to the waist. She was taken to the +nearest station-house. + +At eleven o'clock on the next morning, punctual to the minute, came Mrs. +Dinneford to the little third-story room in which she had met Mrs. Bray. +She repeated her rap at the door before it was opened, and noticed that +a key was turned in the lock. + +“You have seen the woman?” she said as she took an offered seat, coming +at once to the object of her visit. + +“Yes.” + +“Well?” + +“I gave her the money.” + +“Well?” + +Mrs. Bray shook her head: + +“Afraid I can't do much with her.” + +“Why?” an anxious expression coming into Mrs. Dinneford's face. + +“These people suspect everybody; there is no honor nor truth in them, +and they judge every one by themselves. She half accused me of getting a +larger amount of money from you, and putting her off with the paltry sum +of thirty dollars.” + +Mrs. Bray looked exceedingly hurt and annoyed. + +“Threatened,” she went on, “to go to you herself--didn't want any +go-betweens nor brokers. I expected to hear you say that she'd been at +your house this morning.” + +“Good Gracious! no!” Mrs. Dinneford's face was almost distorted with +alarm. + +“It's the way with all these people,” coolly remarked Mrs. Bray. “You're +never safe with them.” + +“Did you hint at her leaving the city?--going to New Orleans, for +instance?” + +“Oh dear, no! She isn't to be managed in that way--is deeper and more +set than I thought. The fact is, Mrs. Dinneford”--and Mrs. Bray lowered +her voice and looked shocked and mysterious--“I'm beginning to suspect +her as being connected with a gang.” + +“With a gang? What kind of a gang?” Mrs. Dinneford turned slightly pale. + +“A gang of thieves. She isn't the right thing; I found that out long +ago. You remember what I said when you gave her the child. I told you +that she was not a good woman, and that it was a cruel thing to put a +helpless, new-born baby into her hands.” + +“Never mind about that.” Mrs. Dinneford waved her hand impatiently. +“The baby's out of her hands, so far as that is concerned. A gang of +thieves!” + +“Yes, I'm 'most sure of it. Goes to people's houses on one excuse and +another, and finds out where the silver is kept and how to get in. You +don't know half the wickedness that's going on. So you see it's no use +trying to get her away.” + +Mrs. Bray was watching the face of her visitor with covert scrutiny, +gauging, as she did so, by its weak alarms, the measure of her power +over her. + +“Dreadful! dreadful!” ejaculated Mrs. Dinneford, with dismay. + +“It's bad enough,” said Mrs. Bray, “and I don't see the end of it. She's +got you in her power, and no mistake, and she isn't one of the kind to +give up so splendid an advantage. I'm only surprised that she's kept +away so long.” + +“What's to be done about it?” asked Mrs. Dinneford, her alarm and +distress increasing. + +“Ah! that's more than I can tell,” coolly returned Mrs. Bray. “One thing +is certain--I don't want to have anything more to do with her. It isn't +safe to let her come here. You'll have to manage her yourself.” + +“No, no, no, Mrs. Bray! You mustn't desert me!” answered Mrs. Dinneford, +her face growing pallid with fear. “Money is of no account. I'll pay +'most anything, reasonable or unreasonable, to have her kept away.” + +And she drew out her pocket-book while speaking. At this moment there +came two distinct raps on the door. It had been locked after Mrs. +Dinneford's entrance. Mrs. Bray started and changed countenance, turning +her face quickly from observation. But she was self-possessed in an +instant. Rising, she said in a whisper, + +“Go silently into the next room, and remain perfectly still. I believe +that's the woman now. I'll manage her as best I can.” + +Almost as quick as thought, Mrs. Dinneford vanished through a door that +led into an adjoining room, and closing it noiselessly, turned a key +that stood in the lock, then sat down, trembling with nervous alarm. The +room in which she found herself was small, and overlooked the street; +it was scantily furnished as a bed-room. In one corner, partly hid by +a curtain that hung from a hoop fastened to the wall, was an old wooden +chest, such as are used by sailors. Under the bed, and pushed as far +back as possible, was another of the same kind. The air of the room was +close, and she noticed the stale smell of a cigar. + +A murmur of voices from the room she had left so hastily soon reached +her ears; but though she listened intently, standing close to the door, +she was not able to distinguish a word. Once or twice she was sure that +she heard the sound of a man's voice. It was nearly a quarter of an +hour by her watch--it seemed two hours--before Mrs. Bray's visitor or +visitors retired; then there came a light rap on the door. She opened +it, and stood face to face again with the dark-eyed little woman. + +“You kept me here a long time,” said Mrs. Dinneford, with ill-concealed +impatience. + +“No longer than I could help,” replied Mrs. Bray. “Affairs of this kind +are not settled in a minute.” + +“Then it was that miserable woman?” + +“Yes.” + +“Well, what did you make out of her?” + +“Not much; she's too greedy. The taste of blood has sharpened her +appetite.” + +“What does she want?” + +“She wants two hundred dollars paid into her hand to-day, and says that +if the money isn't here by sundown, you'll have a visit from her in less +than an hour afterward.” + +“Will that be the end of it?” + +A sinister smile curved Mrs. Bray's lips slightly. + +“More than I can say,” she answered. + +“Two hundred dollars?” + +“Yes. She put the amount higher, but I told her she'd better not go for +too big a slice or she might get nothing--that there was such a thing +as setting the police after her. She laughed at this in such a wicked, +sneering way that I felt my flesh creep, and said she knew the police, +and some of their masters, too, and wasn't afraid of them. She's a +dreadful woman;” and Mrs. Bray shivered in a very natural manner. + +“If I thought this would be the last of it!” said Mrs. Dinneford as she +moved about the room in a disturbed way, and with an anxious look on her +face. + +“Perhaps,” suggested her companion, “it would be best for you to grapple +with this thing at the outset--to take our vampire by the throat and +strangle her at once. The knife is the only remedy for some forms of +disease. If left to grow and prey upon the body, they gradually suck +away its life and destroy it in the end.” + +“If I only knew how to do it,” replied Mrs. Dinneford. “If I could only +get her in my power, I'd make short works of her.” Her eyes flashed with +a cruel light. + +“It might be done.” + +“How?” + +“Mr. Dinneford knows the chief of police.” + +The light went out of Mrs. Dinneford's eyes: + +“It can't be done in that way, and you know it as well as I do.” + +Mrs. Dinneford turned upon Mrs. Bray sharply, and with a gleam of +suspicion in her face. + +“I don't know any other way, unless you go to the chief yourself,” + replied Mrs. Bray, coolly. “There is no protection in cases like this +except through the law. Without police interference, you are wholly in +this woman's power.” + +Mrs. Dinneford grew very pale. + +“It is always dangerous,” went on Mrs. Bray, “to have anything to do +with people of this class. A woman who for hire will take a new-born +baby and sell it to a beggar-woman will not stop at anything. It is very +unfortunate that you are mixed up with her.” + +“I'm indebted to you for the trouble,” replied. Mrs. Dinneford, with +considerable asperity of manner. “You ought to have known something +about the woman before employing her in a delicate affair of this kind.” + +“Saints don't hire themselves to put away new-born babies,” retorted +Mrs. Bray, with an ugly gurgle in her throat. “I told you at the time +that she was a bad woman, and have not forgotten your answer.” + +“What did I answer?” + +“That she might be the devil for all you cared!” + +“You are mistaken.” + +“No; I repeat your very words. They surprised and shocked me at the +time, and I have not forgotten them. People who deal with the devil +usually have the devil to pay; and your case, it seems, is not to be an +exception.” + +Mrs. Bray had assumed an air of entire equality with her visitor. + +A long silence followed, during which Mrs. Dinneford walked the floor +with the quick, restless motions of a caged animal. + +“How long do you think two hundred dollars will satisfy her?” she asked, +at length, pausing and turning to her companion. + +“It is impossible for me to say,” was answered; “not long, unless you +can manage to frighten her off; you must threaten hard.” + +Another silence followed. + +“I did not expect to be called on for so large a sum,” Mrs. Dinneford +said at length, in a husky voice, taking out her pocket-book as she +spoke. “I have only a hundred dollars with me. Give her that, and put +her off until to-morrow.” + +“I will do the best I can with her,” replied Mrs. Bray, reaching out her +hand for the money, “but I think it will be safer for you to let me have +the balance to-day. She will, most likely, take it into her head that +I have received the whole sum from you, and think I am trying to cheat +her. In that case she will be as good as her word, and come down on +you.” + +“Mrs. Bray!” exclaimed Mrs. Dinneford, suspicion blazing from her eyes. +“Mrs. Bray!”--and she turned upon her and caught her by the arms with +a fierce grip--“as I live, you are deceiving me. There is no woman but +yourself. You are the vampire!” + +She held the unresisting little woman in her vigorous grasp for some +moments, gazing at her in stern and angry accusation. + +Mrs. Bray stood very quit and with scarcely a change of countenance +until this outburst of passion had subsided. She was still holding the +money she had taken from Mrs. Dinneford. As the latter released her she +extended her hand, saying, in a low resolute voice, in which not the +faintest thrill of anger could be detected, + +“Take your money.” She waited for a moment, and then let the little roll +of bank-bills fall at Mrs. Dinneford's feet and turned away. + +Mrs. Dinneford had made a mistake, and she saw it--saw that she was +now more than ever in the power of this woman, whether she was true or +false. If false, more fatally in her power. + +At this dead-lock in the interview between these women there came a +diversion. The sound of feet was heard on the stairs, then a hurrying +along the narrow passage; a hand was on the door, but the key had been +prudently turned on the inside. + +With a quick motion, Mrs. Bray waved her hand toward the adjoining +chamber. Mrs. Dinneford did not hesitate, but glided in noiselessly, +shutting and locking the door behind her. + +“Pinky Swett!” exclaimed Mrs. Bray, in a low voice, putting her finger +to her lips, as she admitted her visitor, at the same time giving a +warning glance toward the other room. Eyeing her from head to foot, she +added, “Well, you are an object!” + +Pinky had drawn aside a close veil, exhibiting a bruised and swollen +face. A dark band lay under one of her eyes, and there was a cut with +red, angry margins on the cheek. + +“You are an object,” repeated Mrs. Bray as Pinky moved forward into the +room. + +“Well, I am, and no mistake,” answered Pinky, with a light laugh. She +had been drinking enough to overcome the depression and discomfort of +her feelings consequent on the hard usage she had received and a night +in one of the city station-houses. “Who's in there?” + +Mrs. Bray's finger went again to her lips. “No matter,” was replied. +“You must go away until the coast is clear. Come back in half an hour.” + +And she hurried Pinky out of the door, locking it as the girl retired. +When Mrs. Dinneford came out of the room into which he had gone so +hastily, the roll of bank-notes still lay upon the floor. Mrs. Bray had +prudently slipped them into her pocket before admitting Pinky, but as +soon as she was alone had thrown them down again. + +The face of Mrs. Dinneford was pale, and exhibited no ordinary signs of +discomfiture and anxiety. + +“Who was that?” she asked. + +“A friend,” replied Mrs. Bray, in a cold, self-possessed manner. + +A few moments of embarrassed silence followed. Mrs. Bray crossed the +room, touching with her foot the bank-bills, as if they were of no +account to her. + +“I am half beside myself,” said Mrs. Dinneford. + +Mrs. Bray made no response, did not even turn toward her visitor. + +“I spoke hastily.” + +“A vampire!” Mrs. Bray swept round upon her fiercely. “A blood-sucker!” + and she ground her teeth in well-feigned passion. + +Mrs. Dinneford sat down trembling. + +“Take your money and go,” said Mrs. Bray, and she lifted the bills from +the floor and tossed them into her visitor's lap. “I am served right. It +was evil work, and good never comes of evil.” + +But Mrs. Dinneford did not stir. To go away at enmity with this woman +was, so far as she could see, to meet exposure and unutterable disgrace. +Anything but that. + +“I shall leave this money, trusting still to your good offices,” she +said, at length, rising. Her manner was much subdued. “I spoke hastily, +in a sort of blind desperation. We should not weigh too carefully the +words that are extorted by pain or fear. In less than an hour I will +send you a hundred dollars more.” + +Mrs. Dinneford laid the bank-bills on a table, and then moved to the +door, but she dared not leave in this uncertainty. Looking back, she +said, with an appealing humility of voice and manner foreign to her +character, + +“Let us be friends still, Mrs. Bray; we shall gain nothing by being +enemies. I can serve you, and you can serve me. My suspicions were ill +founded. I felt wild and desperate, and hardly knew what I was saying.” + +She stood anxiously regarding the little dark-eyed woman, who did not +respond by word or movement. + +Taking her hand from the door she was about opening, Mrs. Dinneford came +back into the room, and stood close to Mrs. Bray: + +“Shall I send you the money?” + +“You can do as you please,” was replied, with chilling indifference. + +“Are you implacable?” + +“I am not used to suspicion, much less denunciation and assault. A +vampire! Do you know what that means?” + +“It meant, as used by me, only madness. I did not know what I was +saying. It was a cry of pain--nothing more. Consider how I stand, how +much I have at stake, in what a wretched affair I have become involved. +It is all new to me, and I am bewildered and at fault. Do not desert me +in this crisis. I must have some one to stand between me and this woman; +and if you step aside, to whom can I go?” + +Mrs. Bray relented just a little. Mrs. Dinneford pleaded and humiliated +herself, and drifted farther into the toils of her confederate. + +“You are not rich, Mrs. Bray,” she said, at parting, “independent in +spirit as you are. I shall add a hundred dollars for your own use; and +if ever you stand in need, you will know where to find an unfailing +friend.” + +Mrs. Bray put up her hands, and replied, “No, no, no; don't think of +such a thing. I am not mercenary. I never serve a friend for money.” + +But Mrs. Dinneford heard the “yes” which flushed into the voice that +said “no.” She was not deceived. + +A rapid change passed over Mrs. Bray on the instant her visitor left the +room. Her first act was to lock the door; her next, to take the roll of +bank-bills from the table and put it into her pocket. Over her face a +gleam of evil satisfaction had swept. + +“Got you all right now, my lady!” fell with a chuckle from her lips. “A +vampire, ha!” The chuckle was changed for a kind of hiss. “Well, have it +so. There is rich blood in your veins, and it will be no fault of mine +if I do not fatten upon it. As for pity, you shall have as much of it +as you gave to that helpless baby. Saints don't work in this kind of +business, and I'm not a saint.” + +And she chuckled and hissed and muttered to herself, with many signs of +evil satisfaction. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. + + + +_FOR_ an hour Mrs. Bray waited the reappearance of Pinky Swett, but the +girl did not come back. At the end of this time a package which had been +left at the door was brought to her room. It came from Mrs. Dinneford, +and contained two hundred dollars. A note that accompanied the package +read as follows: + +“Forgive my little fault of temper. It is your interest to be my friend. +The woman must not, on any account, be suffered to come near me.” + +Of course there was no signature. Mrs. Bray's countenance was radiant as +she fingered the money. + +“Good luck for me, but bad for the baby,” she said, in a low, pleased +murmur, talking to herself. “Poor baby! I must see better to its +comfort. It deserves to be looked after. I wonder why Pinky doesn't +come?” + +Mrs. Bray listened, but no sound of feet from the stairs or entries, no +opening or shutting of doors, broke the silence that reigned through the +house. + +“Pinky's getting too low down--drinks too much; can't count on her any +more.” Mrs. Bray went on talking to herself. “No rest; no quiet; never +satisfied; for ever knocking round, and for ever getting the worst +of it. She was a real nice girl once, and I always liked her. But she +doesn't take any care of herself.” + +As Pinky went out, an hour before, she met a fresh-looking girl, not +over seventeen, and evidently from the country. She was standing on the +pavement, not far from the house in which Mrs. Bray lived, and had +a traveling-bag in her hand. Her perplexed face and uncertain manner +attracted Pinky's attention. + +“Are you looking for anybody?” she asked. + +“I'm trying to find a Mrs. Bray,” the girl answered. “I'm a stranger +from the country.” + +“Oh, you are?” said Pinky, drawing her veil more tightly so that her +disfigured face could not be seen. + +“Yes I'm from L----.” + +“Indeed? I used to know some people there.” + +“Then you've been in L----?” said the girl, with a pleased, trustful +manner, as of one who had met a friend at the right time. + +“Yes, I've visited there.” + +“Indeed? Who did you know in L----?” + +“Are you acquainted with the Cartwrights?” + +“I know of them. They are among our first people,” returned the girl. + +“I spent a week in their family a few years ago, and had a very pleasant +time,” said Pinky. + +“Oh, I'm glad to know that,” remarked the girl. “I'm a stranger here; +and if I can't find Mrs. Bray, I don't see what I am to do. A lady from +here who was staying at the hotel gave me at letter to Mrs. Bray. I was +living at the hotel, but I didn't like it; it was too public. I told the +lady that I wanted to learn a trade or get into a store, and she said +the city was just the place for me, and that she would give me a letter +to a particular friend, who would, on her recommendation, interest he +self for me. It's somewhere along here that she lived, I'm sure;” and +she took a letter from her pocket and examined the direction. + +The girl was fresh and young and pretty, and had an artless, confiding +manner. It was plain she knew little of the world, and nothing of its +evils and dangers. + +“Let me see;” and Pinky reached out her hand for the letter. She put it +under her veil, and read, + +“MRS. FANNY BRAY, “No. 631----street, “---- + +“By the hand of Miss Flora Bond.” + +“Flora Bond,” said Pinky, in a kind, familiar tone. + +“Yes, that is my name,” replied the girl; “isn't this----street?” + +“Yes; and there, is the number you are looking for.” + +“Oh, thank you! I'm so glad to find the place. I was beginning to feel +scared.” + +“I will ring the bell for you,” said Pinky, going to the door of No. +631. A servant answered the summons. + +“Is Mrs. Bray at home?” inquired Pinky. + +“I don't know,” replied the servant, looking annoyed. “Her rooms are in +the third story;” and she held the door wide open for them to enter. As +they passed into the hall Pinky said to her companion, + +“Just wait here a moment, and I will run up stairs and see if she is +in.” + +The girl stood in the hall until Pinky came back. + +“Not at home, I'm sorry to say.” + +“Oh dear! that's bad; what shall I do?” and the girl looked distressed. + +“She'll be back soon, no doubt,” said Pinky, in a light, assuring voice. +“I'll go around with you a little and see things.” + +The girl looked down at her traveling-bag. + +“Oh, that's nothing; I'll help you to carry it;” and Pinky took it from +her hand. + +“Couldn't we leave it here?” asked Flora. + +“It might not be safe; servants are not always to be trusted, and +Mrs. Bray's rooms are locked; we can easily carry it between us. I'm +strong--got good country blood in my veins. You see I'm from the country +as well as you; right glad we met. Don't know what you would have done.” + +And she drew the girl out, talking familiarly, as they went. + +“Haven't had your dinner yet?” + +“No; just arrived in the cars, and came right here.” + +“You must have something to eat, then. I know a nice place; often get +dinner there when I'm out.” + +The girl did not feel wholly at ease. She had not yet been able to get +sight of Pinky's closely-veiled features, and there was something in her +voice that made her feel uncomfortable. + +“I don't care for any dinner,” she said; “I'm not hungry.” + +“Well, I am, then, so come. Do you like oysters?” + +“Yes.” + +“Cook them splendidly. Best place in the city. And you'd like to get +into a store or learn a trade?” + +“Yes.” + +“What trade did you think of?” + +“None in particular.” + +“How would you like to get into a book-bindery? I know two or three +girls in binderies, and they can make from five to ten dollars a week. +It's the nicest, cleanest work I know of.” + +“Oh, do you?” returned Flora, with newly-awakening interest. + +“Yes; we'll talk it all over while we're eating dinner. This way.” + +And Pinky turned the corner of a small street that led away from the +more crowded thoroughfare along which they had been passing. + +“It's a quiet and retired place, where only the nicest kind of people +go,” she added. “Many working-girls and girls in stores get their +dinners there. We'll meet some of them, no doubt; and if any that I know +should happen in, we might hear of a good place. Just the thing, isn't +it? I'm right glad I met you.” + +They had gone halfway down the square, when Pinky stopped before the +shop of a confectioner. In the window was a display of cakes, pies and +candies, and a sign with the words, “LADIES' RESTAURANT.” + +“This is the place,” she said, and opening the door, passed in, the +young stranger following. + +A sign of caution, unseen by Flora, was made to a girl who stood behind +the counter. Then Pinky turned, saying, + +“How will you have your oysters? stewed, fried, broiled or roasted?” + +“I'm not particular--any way,” replied Flora. + +“I like them fried. Will you have them the same way?” + +Flora nodded assent. + +“Let them be fried, then. Come, we'll go up stairs. Anybody there?” + +“Two or three only.” + +“Any girls from the bindery?” + +“Yes; I think so.” + +“Oh. I'm glad of that! Want to see some of them. Come, Miss Bond.” + +And Pinky, after a whispered word to the attendant, led the way to a +room up stairs in which were a number of small tables. At one of these +were two girls eating, at another a girl sitting by herself, and at +another a young man and a girl. As Pinky and her companion entered, +the inmates of the room stared at them familiarly, and then winked and +leered at each other. Flora did not observe this, but she felt a sudden +oppression and fear. They sat down at a table not far from one of the +windows. Flora looked for the veil to be removed, so that she might see +the face of her new friend. But Pinky kept it closely down. + +In about ten minutes the oysters were served. Accompanying them were two +glasses of some kind of liquor. Floating on one of these was a small bit +of cork. Pinky took this and handed the other to her companion, saying, + +“Only a weak sangaree. It will refresh you after your fatigue; and I +always like something with oysters, it helps to make them lay lighter on +the stomach.” + +Meantime, one of the girls had crossed over and spoken to Pinky. After +word or two, the latter said, + +“Don't you work in a bindery, Miss Peter?” + +“Yes,” was answered, without hesitation. + +“I thought so. Let me introduce you to my friend, Miss Flora Bond. She's +from the country, and wants to get into some good establishment. She +talked about a store, but I think a bindery is better.” + +“A great deal better,” was replied by Miss Peter. “I've tried them both, +and wouldn't go back to a store again on any account. If I can serve +your friend, I shall be most happy.” + +“Thank you!” returned Flora; “you are very kind.” + +“Not at all; I'm always glad when I can be of service to any one. You +think you'd like to go into a bindery?” + +“Yes. I've come to the city to get employment, and haven't much choice.” + +“There's no place like the city,” remarked the other. “I'd die in the +country--nothing going on. But you won't stagnate here. When did you +arrive?” + +“To-day.” + +“Have you friends here?” + +“No. I brought a letter of introduction to a lady who resides in the +city.” + +“What's her name?” + +“Mrs. Bray.” + +Miss Peter turned her head so that Flora could not see her face. It was +plain from its expression that she knew Mrs. Bray. + +“Have you seen her yet?” she asked. + +“No. She was out when I called. I'm going back in a little while.” + +The girl sat down, and went on talking while the others were eating. +Pinky had emptied her glass of sangaree before she was half through with +her oysters, and kept urging Flora to drink. + +“Don't be afraid of it, dear,” she said, in a kind, persuasive way; +“there's hardly a thimbleful of wine in the whole glass. It will soothe +your nerves, and make you feel ever so much better.” + +There was something in the taste of the sangaree that Flora did not +like--a flavor that was not of wine. But urged repeatedly by her +companion, whose empty glass gave her encouragement and confidence, she +sipped and drank until she had taken the whole of it. By this time she +was beginning to have a sense of fullness and confusion in the head, and +to feel oppressed and uncomfortable. Her appetite suddenly left her, and +she laid down her knife and fork and leaned her head upon her hand. + +“What's the matter?” asked Pinky. + +“Nothing,” answered the girl; “only my head feels a little strangely. It +will pass off in a moment.” + +“Riding in the cars, maybe,” said Pinky. “I always feel bad after being +in the cars; it kind of stirs me up.” + +Flora sat very quietly at the table, still resting her head upon +her hands. Pinky and the girl who had joined them exchanged looks of +intelligence. The former had drawn her veil partly aside, yet concealing +as much as possible the bruises on her face. + +“My! but you're battered!” exclaimed Miss Peter, in a whisper that was +unheard by Flora. + +Pinky only answered by a grimace. Then she said to Flora, with +well-affected concern, + +“I'm afraid you are ill, dear? How do you feel?” + +“I don't know,” answered the poor girl, in a voice that betrayed great +anxiety, if not alarm. “It came over me all at once. I'm afraid that +wine was too strong; I am not used to taking anything.” + +“Oh dear, no! it wasn't that. I drank a glass, and don't feel it any +more than if it had been water.” + +“Let's go,” said Flora, starting up. “Mrs. Bray must be home by this +time.” + +“All right, if you feel well enough,” returned Pinky, rising at the same +time. + +“Oh dear! how my head swims!” exclaimed Flora, putting both hands to +her temples. She stood for a few moments in an uncertain attitude, then +reached out in a blind, eager way. + +Pinky drew quickly to her side, and put one arm about her waist. + +“Come,” she said, “the air is too close for you here;” and with the +assistance of the girl who had joined them, she steadied Flora down +stairs. + +“Doctored a little too high,” whispered Miss Peter, with her mouth close +to Pinky's ear. + +“All right,” Pinky whispered back; “they know how to do it.” + +At the foot of the stairs Pinky said, + +“You take her out through the yard, while I pay for the oysters. I'll be +with you in a moment.” + +Poor Flora, was already too much confused by the drugged liquor she had +taken to know what they were doing with her. + +Hastily paying for the oysters and liquor, Pinky was on hand in a few +moments. From the back door of the house they entered a small yard, and +passed from this through a gate into a narrow private alley shut in on +each side by a high fence. This alley ran for a considerable distance, +and had many gates opening into it from yards, hovels and rear +buildings, all of the most forlorn and wretched character. It terminated +in a small street. + +Along this alley Pinky and the girl she had met at the restaurant +supported Flora, who was fast losing strength and consciousness. When +halfway down, they held a brief consultation. + +“It won't do,” said Pinky, “to take her through to----street. She's too +far gone, and the police will be down on us and carry her off.” + +“Norah's got some place in there,” said the other, pointing to an old +wooden building close by. + +“I'm out with Norah,” replied Pinky, “and don't mean to have anything +more to do with her.” + +“Where's your room?” + +“That isn't the go. Don't want her there. Pat Maley's cellar is just +over yonder. We can get in from the alley.” + +“Pat's too greedy a devil. There wouldn't be anything left of her when +he got through. No, no, Pinky; I'll have nothing to do with it if she's +to go into Pat Maley's cellar.” + +“Not much to choose between 'em,” answered Pinky. “But it won't do to +parley here. We must get her in somewhere.” + +And she pushed open a gate as she spoke. It swung back on one hinge +and struck the fence with a bang, disclosing a yard that beggared +description in its disorder and filth. In the back part of this yard +was a one-and-a-half-story frame building, without windows, looking more +like an old chicken-house or pig-stye than a place for human beings +to live in. The loft over the first story was reached by ladder on the +outside. Above and below the hovel was laid off in kind of stalls or +bunks furnished with straw. There were about twenty of these. It was +a ten-cent lodging-house, filled nightly. If this wretched hut or +stye--call it what you will--had been torn down, it would not have +brought ten dollars as kindling-wood. Yet its owner, a gentleman (?) +living handsomely up town, received for it the annual rent of two +hundred and fifty dollars. Subletted at an average of two dollars a +night, it gave an income of nearly seven hundred dollars a year. It was +known as the “Hawk's Nest,” and no bird of prey ever had a fouler nest +than this. + +As the gate banged on the fence a coarse, evil-looking man, wearing a +dirty Scotch cap and a red shirt, pushed his head up from the cellar of +the house that fronted on the street. + +“What's wanted?” he asked, in a kind of growl, his upper lip twitching +and drawing up at one side in a nervous way, letting his teeth appear. + +“We want to get this girl in for a little while,” said Pinky. “We'll +take her away when she comes round. Is anybody in there?” and she +pointed to the hovel. + +The man shook his head. + +“How much?” asked Pinky. + +“Ten cents apiece;” and he held out his hand. + +Pinky gave him thirty cents. He took a key from his pocket, and opened +the door that led into the lower room. The stench that came out as the +door swung back was dreadful. But poor Flora Bond was by this time so +relaxed in every muscle, and so dead to outward things, that it was +impossible to get her any farther. So they bore her into this horrible +den, and laid her down in one of the stalls on a bed of loose straw. +Inside, there was nothing but these stalls and straw--not a table or +chair, or any article of furniture. They filled up nearly the entire +room, leaving only a narrow passage between them. The only means of +ventilation was by the door. + +As soon as Pinky and her companion in this terrible wickedness were +alone with their victim, they searched her pocket for the key of her +traveling-bag. On finding it, Pinky was going to open it, when the other +said, + +“Never mind about that; we can examine her baggage in safer place. Let's +go for the movables.” + +And saying this, she fell quickly to work on the person of Flora, +slipping out the ear-rings first, then removing her breast-pin and +finger-rings, while Pinky unbuttoned the new gaiter boots, and drew off +both boots and stockings, leaving upon the damp straw the small, bare +feet, pink and soft almost as a baby's. + +It did not take these harpies five minutes to possess themselves of +everything but the poor girl's dress and undergarments. Cloth oversack, +pocket-book, collar, linen cuffs, hat, shoes and stockings--all these +were taken. + +“Hallo!” cried the keeper of this foul den as the two girls hurried out +with the traveling-bag and a large bundle sooner than he had expected; +and he came quickly forth from the cellar in which he lived like a cruel +spider and tried to intercept them, but they glided through the gate +and were out of his reach before he could get near. He could follow them +only with obscene invectives and horrible oaths. Well he knew what had +been done--that there had been a robbery in the “Hawk's Nest,” and he +not in to share the booty. + +Growling like a savage dog, this wretch, in whom every instinct of +humanity had long since died--this human beast, who looked on innocence +and helplessness as a wolf looks upon a lamb--strode across the yard and +entered the den. Lying in one of the stalls upon the foul, damp straw +he found Flora Bond. Cruel beast that he was, even he felt himself +held back as by an invisible hand, as he looked at the pure face of the +insensible girl. Rarely had his eyes rested on a countenance so full of +innocence. But the wolf has no pity for the lamb, nor the hawk for the +dove. The instinct of his nature quickly asserted itself. + +Avarice first. From the face his eyes turned to see what had been left +by the two girls. An angry imprecation fell from his lips when he saw +how little remained for him. But when he lifted Flora's head and unbound +her hair, a gleam of pleasure came info his foul face. It was a full +suit of rich chestnut brown, nearly three feet long, and fell in thick +masses over her breast and shoulders. He caught it up eagerly, drew it +through his great ugly hands, and gloated over it with something of a +miser's pleasure as he counts his gold. Then taking a pair of scissors +from his pocket, he ran them over the girl's head with the quickness and +skill of a barber, cutting close down, that he might not lose even the +sixteenth part of an inch of her rich tresses. An Indian scalping his +victim could not have shown more eagerness. An Indian's wild pleasure +was in his face as he lifted the heavy mass of brown hair and held it +above his head. It was not a trophy--not a sign of conquest and triumph +over an enemy--but simply plunder, and had a market value of fifteen or +twenty dollars. + +The dress was next examined; it was new, but not of a costly material. +Removing this, the man went out with his portion of the spoils, and +locked the door, leaving the half-clothed, unconscious girl lying on +the damp, filthy straw, that swarmed with vermin. It was cold as well as +damp, and the chill of a bleak November day began creeping into her warm +blood. But the stupefying draught had been well compounded, and held her +senses locked. + +Of what followed we cannot write, and we shiver as we draw a veil over +scenes that should make the heart of all Christendom ache--scenes that +are repeated in thousands of instances year by year in our large cities, +and no hand is stretched forth to succor and no arm to save. Under +the very eyes of the courts and the churches things worse than we have +described--worse than the reader can imagine--are done every day. The +foul dens into which crime goes freely, and into which innocence is +betrayed, are known to the police, and the evil work that is done +is ever before them. From one victim to another their keepers pass +unquestioned, and plunder, debauch, ruin and murder with an impunity +frightful to contemplate. As was said by a distinguished author, +speaking of a kindred social enormity, “There is not a country +throughout the earth on which a state of things like this would not +bring a curse. There is no religion upon earth that it would not deny; +there is no people on earth that it would not put to shame.” + +And we are Christians! + +No. Of what followed we cannot write. Those who were near the “Hawk's +Nest” heard that evening, soon after nightfall, the single wild, +prolonged cry of a woman. It was so full of terror and despair that even +the hardened ears that heard it felt a sudden pain. But they were used +to such things in that region, and no one took the trouble to learn what +it meant. Even the policeman moving on his beat stood listening for only +a moment, and then passed on. + +Next day, in the local columns of a city paper, appeared the following: + +“FOUL PLAY.--About eleven o'clock last night the body of a beautiful +young girl, who could not have been over seventeen years of age, was +discovered lying on the pavement in----street. No one knew how she came +there. She was quite dead when found. There was nothing by which she +could be identified. All her clothes but a single undergarment had been +removed, and her hair cut off close to her head. There were marks of +brutal violence on her person. The body was placed in charge of the +coroner, who will investigate the matter.” + +On the day after, this paragraph appeared: + +“SUSPICION OF FOUL PLAY.--The coroner's inquest elicited nothing in +regard to the young girl mentioned yesterday as having been found dead +and stripped of her clothing in----street. No one was able to identify +her. A foul deed at which the heart shudders has been done; but the +wretches by whom it was committed have been able to cover their tracks.” + +And that was the last of it. The whole nation gives a shudder of fear at +the announcement of an Indian massacre and outrage. But in all our large +cities are savages more cruel and brutal in their instincts than the +Comanches, and they torture and outrage and murder a hundred poor +victims for every one that is exposed to Indian brutality, and there +comes no succor. Is it from ignorance of the fact? No, no, no! There is +not a Judge on the bench, not a lawyer at the bar, not a legislator at +the State capital, not a mayor or police-officer, not a minister who +preaches the gospel of Christ, who came to seek and to save, not an +intelligent citizen, but knows of all this. + +What then? Who is responsible? The whole nation arouses itself at news +of an Indian assault upon some defenseless frontier settlement, and the +general government sends troops to succor and to punish. But who takes +note of the worse than Indian massacres going on daily and nightly in +the heart of our great cities? Who hunts down and punishes the human +wolves in our midst whose mouths are red with the blood of innocence? +Their deeds of cruelty outnumber every year a hundred--nay, a +thousand--fold the deeds of our red savages. Their haunts are known, and +their work is known. They lie in wait for the unwary, they gather in the +price of human souls, none hindering, at our very church doors. Is no +one responsible for all this? Is there no help? Is evil stronger than +good, hell stronger than heaven? Have the churches nothing to do in this +matter? Christ came to seek and to save that which was lost--came to +the lowliest, the poorest and the vilest, to those over whom devils had +gained power, and cast out the devils. Are those who call themselves +by his name diligent in the work to which he put his blessed hands? +Millions of dollars go yearly into magnificent churches, but how +little to the work of saving and succoring the weak, the helpless, the +betrayed, the outcast and the dying, who lie uncared for at the mercy +of human fiends, and often so near to the temples of God that their +agonized appeals for help are drowned by the organ and choir! + + + + +CHAPTER IX. + + + +_THE_ two girls, on leaving the “Hawk's Nest” with their plunder, did +not pass from the narrow private alley into the small street at its +termination, but hurried along the way they had come, and re-entered the +restaurant by means of the gate opening into the yard. Through the back +door they gained a small, dark room, from which a narrow stairway led +to the second and third stories of the rear building. They seemed to be +entirely familiar with the place. + +On reaching the third story, Pinky gave two quick raps and then a single +rap on a closed door. No movement being heard within, she rapped again, +reversing the order--that is, giving one distinct rap, and then two in +quick succession. At this the door came slowly open, and the two girls +passed in with their bundle of clothing and the traveling-bag. + +The occupant of this room was a small, thin, well-dressed man, +with cold, restless gray eyes and the air of one who was alert and +suspicious. His hair was streaked with gray, as were also his full beard +and moustache. A diamond pin of considerable value was in his shirt +bosom. The room contained but few articles. There was a worn and faded +carpet on the floor, a writing-table and two or three chairs, and +a small bookcase with a few books, but no evidence whatever of +business--not a box or bundle or article of merchandise was to be seen. + +As the two girls entered he, shut the door noiselessly, and turned the +key inside. Then his manner changed; his eyes lighted, and there was an +expression of interest in his face. He looked toward the bag and bundle. + +Pinky sat down upon the floor and hurriedly unlocked the traveling-bag. +Thrusting in her hand, she drew out first a muslin nightgown and threw +it down, then a light shawl, a new barege dress, a pair of slippers, +collars, cuffs, ribbons and a variety of underclothing, and last of all +a small Bible and a prayer-book. These latter she tossed from her with a +low derisive laugh, which was echoed by her companion, Miss Peter. + +The bundle was next opened, and the cloth sacque, the hat, the boots +and stockings and the collar and cuffs thrown upon the floor with the +contents of the bag. + +“How much?” asked Pinky, glancing up at the man. + +They were the first words that had been spoken. At this the man knit +his brows in an earnest way, and looked business. He lifted each article +from the floor, examined it carefully and seemed to be making a close +estimate of its value. The traveling-bag was new, and had cost probably +five dollars. The cloth sacque could not have been made for less than +twelve dollars. A fair valuation of the whole would have been near forty +dollars. + +“How much?” repeated Pinky, an impatient quiver in her voice. + +“Six dollars,” replied the man. + +“Six devils!” exclaimed Pinky, in a loud, angry voice. + +“Six devils! you old swindler!” chimed in Miss Peter. + +“You can take them away. Just as you like,” returned the man, with cool +indifference. “Perhaps the police will give you more. It's the best I +can do.” + +“But see here, Jerkin,” said Pinky: “that sacque is worth twice the +money.” + +“Not to me. I haven't a store up town. I can't offer it for sale in the +open market. Don't you understand?” + +“Say ten dollars.” + +“Six.” + +“Here's a breast-pin and a pair of ear-rings,” said Miss Peter; “we'll +throw them in;” and she handed Jerkin, as he was called, the bits of +jewelry she had taken from the person of Flora Bond. He looked at them +almost contemptuously as he replied, + +“Wouldn't give you a dollar for the set.” + +“Say eight dollars for the whole,” urged Pinky. + +“Six fifty, and not a cent more,” answered Jerkin. + +“Hand over, then, you old cormorant!” returned the girl, fretfully. +“It's a shame to swindle us in this way.” + +The man took out his pocket-book and paid the money, giving half to each +of the girls. + +“It's just a swindle!” repeated Pinky. “You're an old hard-fisted +money-grubber, and no better than a robber. Three dollars and a quarter +for all that work! It doesn't pay for the trouble. We ought to have had +ten apiece.” + +“You can make it ten or twenty, or maybe a hundred, if you will,” said +Jerkin, with a knowing twinkle in his eyes. He gave his thumb a little +movement over his shoulder as he spoke. + +“That's so!” exclaimed Pinky, her manner undergoing a change, and her +face growing bright--at least as much of it as could brighten. “Look +here, Nell,” speaking to Miss Peter, and drawing a piece of paper from +her pocket, “I've got ten rows here. Fanny Bray gave me five dollars to +go a half on each row. Meant to have gone to Sam McFaddon's last night, +but got into a muss with old Sal and Norah, and was locked up.” + +“They make ten hits up there to one at Sam McFaddon's,” said Jerkin, +again twitching his thumb over his shoulder. “It's the luckiest office I +ever heard of. Two or three hits every day for a week past--got a lucky +streak, somehow. If you go in anywhere, take my advice and go in there,” + lifting his hand and twitching his thumb upward and over his shoulder +again. + +The two girls passed from the room, and the door was shut and locked +inside. No sooner had they done so than Jerkin made a new examination of +the articles, and after satisfying himself as to their value proceeded +to put them out of sight. Lifting aside a screen that covered the +fireplace, he removed from the chimney back, just above the line of +sight, a few loose bricks, and through the hole thus made thrust the +articles he had bought, letting them drop into a fireplace on the other +side. + +On leaving the room of this professional receiver of stolen goods, Pinky +and her friend descended to the second story, and by a door which had +been cut through into the adjoining property passed to the rear building +of the house next door. They found themselves on a landing, or little +square hall, with a stairway passing down to the lower story and another +leading to the room above. A number of persons were going up and coming +down--a forlorn set, for the most part, of all sexes, ages and colors. +Those who were going up appeared eager and hopeful, while those who were +coming down looked disappointed, sorrowful, angry or desperate. There +was a “policy shop” in one of the rooms above, and these were some of +its miserable customers. It was the hour when the morning drawings +of the lotteries were received at the office, or “shop,” and the poor +infatuated dupes who had bet on their favorite “rows” were crowding in +to learn the result. + +Poor old men and women in scant or wretched clothing, young girls with +faces marred by evil, blotched and bloated creatures of both sexes, with +little that was human in their countenances, except the bare features, +boys and girls not yet in their teens, but old in vice and crime, and +drunkards with shaking nerves,--all these were going up in hope and +coming down in disappointment. Here and there was one of a different +quality, a scantily-dressed woman with a thin, wasted face and hollow +eyes, who had been fighting the wolf and keeping fast hold of her +integrity, or a tender, innocent-looking girl, the messenger of a weak +and shiftless mother, or a pale, bright-eyed boy whose much-worn but +clean and well-kept garments gave sad evidence of a home out of which +prop and stay had been removed. The strong and the weak, the pure and +the defiled, were there. A poor washerwoman who in a moment of weakness +has pawned the garments entrusted to her care, that she might venture +upon a “row” of which she had dreamed, comes shrinking down with a pale, +frightened face, and the bitterness of despair in her heart. She has +lost. What then? She has no friend from whom she can borrow enough money +to redeem the clothing, and if it is not taken home she may be arrested +as a thief and sent to prison. She goes away, and temptation lies close +at her feet. It is her extremity and the evil one's opportunity. So far +she has kept herself pure, but the disgrace of a public prosecution and +a sentence to prison are terrible things to contemplate. She is in peril +of her soul. God help her! + +Who is this dressed in rusty black garments and closely veiled, who +comes up from the restaurant, one of the convenient and unsuspected +entrances to this robber's den?--for a “policy-shop” is simply a robbery +shop, and is so regarded by the law, which sets a penalty upon the +“writer” and the “backer” as upon other criminals. But who is this +veiled woman in faded mourning garments who comes gliding as noiselessly +as a ghost out from one of the rooms of the restaurant, and along the +narrow entry leading to the stairway, now so thronged with visitors? +Every day she comes and goes, no one seeing her face, and every day, +with rare exceptions, her step is slower and her form visibly more +shrunken when she goes out than when she comes in. She is a broken-down +gentlewoman, the widow of an officer, who left her at his death a +moderate fortune, and quite sufficient for the comfortable maintenance +of herself and two nearly grown-up daughters. But she had lived at +the South, and there acquired a taste for lottery gambling. During her +husband's lifetime she wasted considerable money in lottery tickets, +once or twice drawing small prizes, but like all lottery dupes spending +a hundred dollars for one gained. The thing had become a sort of mania +with her. She thought so much of prizes and drawn numbers through the +day that she dreamed of them all night. She had a memorandum-book in +which were all the combinations she had ever heard of as taking prizes. +It contained page after page of lucky numbers and fancy “rows,” and was +oftener in her hand than any other book. + +There being no public sale of lottery tickets in Northern cities, this +weak and infatuated woman found out where some of the “policy-shops” + were kept, and instead of buying tickets, as before, risked her money on +numbers that might or might not come out of the wheel in lotteries said +to be drawn in certain Southern States, but chiefly in Kentucky. The +numbers rarely if ever came out. The chances were too remote. After her +husband's death she began fretting over the smallness of her income. It +was not sufficient to give her daughters the advantages she desired +them to have, and she knew of but one way to increase it. That way was +through the policy-shops. So she gave her whole mind to this business, +with as much earnestness and self-absorption as a merchant gives himself +to trade. She had a dream-book, gotten up especially for policy buyers, +and consulted it as regularly as a merchant does his price-current or a +broker the sales of stock. Every day she bet on some “row” or series of +“rows,” rarely venturing less than five dollars, and sometimes, when she +felt more than usually confident, laying down a twenty-dollar bill, +for the “hit” when made gave from fifty to two hundred dollars for each +dollar put down, varying according to the nature of the combinations. So +the more faith a policy buyer had in his “row,” the larger the venture +he would feel inclined to make. + +Usually it went all one way with the infatuated lady. Day after day she +ventured, and day after day she lost, until from hundreds the sums she +was spending had aggregated themselves into thousands. She changed from +one policy-shop to another, hoping for better luck. It was her business +to find them out, and this she was able to do by questioning some of +those whom she met at the shops. One of these was in a building on a +principal street, the second story of which was occupied by a milliner. +It was visited mostly by ladies, who could pass in from the street, +no one suspecting their errand. Another was in the attic of a house in +which were many offices and places of business, with people going in and +coming out all the while, none but the initiated being in the secret; +while another was to be found in the rear of a photograph gallery. Every +day and often twice a day, as punctually as any man of business, did +this lady make her calls at one and another of these policy-offices to +get the drawings or make new ventures. At remote intervals she would +make a “hit;” once she drew twenty dollars, and once fifty. But for +these small gains she had paid thousands of dollars. + +After a “hit” the betting on numbers would be bolder. Once she selected +what was known as a “lucky row,” and determined to double on it until it +came out a prize. She began by putting down fifty cents. On the next day +she put down a dollar upon the same combination, losing, of course, +Two dollars were ventured on the next day; and so she went on doubling, +until, in her desperate infatuation, she doubled for the ninth time, +putting down two hundred and fifty-six dollars. + +If successful now, she would draw over twenty-five thousand dollars. +There was no sleep for the poor lady during the night that followed. +She walked the floor of her chamber in a state of intense nervous +excitement, sometimes in a condition of high hope and confidence and +sometimes haunted by demons of despair. She sold five shares of stock +on which she had been receiving an annual dividend of ten per cent., in +order to get funds for this desperate gambling venture, in which over +five hundred dollars had now been absorbed. + +Pale and nervous, she made her appearance at the breakfast-table on the +next morning, unable to take a mouthful of food. It was in vain that her +anxious daughters urged her to eat. + +A little after twelve o'clock she was at the policy-office. The drawn +numbers for the morning were already in. Her combination was 4, 10, 40. +With an eagerness that could not be repressed, she caught up the slip +of paper containing the thirteen numbers out of seventy-five, which +purported to have been drawn that morning somewhere in “Kentucky,” and +reported by telegraph--caught it up with hands that shook so violently +that she could not read the figures. She had to lay the piece of paper +down upon the little counter before which she stood, in order that it +might be still, so that she could read her fate. + +The first drawn number was 4. What a wild leap her heart gave! The next +was 24; the next 8; the next 70; the next 41, and the next 39. Her heart +grew almost still; the pressure as of a great hand was on her bosom. 10 +came next. Two numbers of her row were out. A quiver of excitement ran +through her frame. She caught up the paper, but it shook as before, so +that she could not see the figures. Dashing it back upon the counter, +and holding it down almost violently, she bent over, with eyes starting +from their sockets, and read the line of figures to the end, then sank +over upon the counter with a groan, and lay there half fainting and too +weak to lift herself up. If the 40 had been there, she would have made a +hit of twenty-five thousand dollars. But the 40 was not there, and this +made all the difference. + +“Once more,” said the policy-dealer, in a tone of encouragement, as he +bent over the miserable woman. “Yesterday, 4 came out; to-day, 4, 10; +tomorrow will be the lucky chance; 4, 10, 40 will surely be drawn. I +never knew this order to fail. If it had been 10 first, and then 4, 10, +or 10, 4, I would not advise you to go on. But 4, 10, 40 will be drawn +to-morrow as sure as fate.” + +“What numbers did you say? 4, 10, 40?” asked an old man, ragged and +bloated, who came shuffling in as the last remarks was made. + +“Yes,” answered the dealer. “This lady has been doubling, and as the +chances go, her row is certain to make a hit to-morrow.” + +“Ha! What's the row? 4, 10, 40?” + +“Yes.” + +The old man fumbled in his pocket, and brought out ten cents. + +“I'll go that on the row. Give me a piece.” + +The dealer took a narrow slip of paper and wrote on it the date, the +sum risked and the combination of figures, and handed it to the old man, +saying, + +“Come here to-morrow; and if the bottom of the world doesn't drop out, +you'll find ten dollars waiting for you.” + +Two or three others were in by this time, eager to look over the list of +drawn numbers and to make new bets. + +“Glory!” cried one of them, a vile-looking young woman, and she +commenced dancing about the room. + +All was excitement now. “A hit! a hit!” was cried. “How much? how much?” + and they gathered to the little counter and desk of the policy-dealer. + +“1, 2, 3,” cried the girl, dancing about and waving her little slip +of paper over her head. “I knew it would come--dreamed of them numbers +three nights hand running! Hand over the money, old chap! Fifteen +dollars for fifteen cents! That's the go!” + +The policy-dealer took the girl's “piece,” and after comparing it with +the record of drawn numbers, said, in a pleased voice, + +“All right! A hit, sure enough. You're in luck to-day.” + +The girl took the money, that was promptly paid down, and as she counted +it over the dealer remarked, + +“There's a doubling game going on, and it's to be up to-morrow, sure.” + +“What's the row?” inquired the girl. + +“4, 10, 40,” said the dealer. + +“Then count me in;” and she laid down five dollars on the counter. + +“Take my advice and go ten,” urged the policy-dealer. + +“No, thank you! shouldn't know what to do with more than five hundred +dollars. I'll only go five dollars this time.” + +The “writer,” as a policy-seller is called, took the money and gave +the usual written slip of paper containing the selected numbers; +loudly proclaiming her good luck, the girl then went away. She was an +accomplice to whom a “piece” had been secretly given after the drawn +numbers were in. + +Of course this hit was the sensation of the day among the policy-buyers +at that office, and brought in large gains. + +The wretched woman who had just seen five hundred dollars vanish into +nothing instead of becoming, as under the wand of an enchanter, a +great heap of gold, listened in a kind of maze to what passed around +her--listened and let the tempter get to her ear again. She went away, +stooping in her gait as one bearing a heavy burden. Before an hour had +passed hope had lifted her again into confidence. She had to make but +one venture more to double on the risk of the day previous, and secure a +fortune that would make both herself and daughters independent for life. + +Another sale of good stocks, another gambling venture and another loss, +swelling the aggregate in this wild and hopeless “doubling” experiment +to over a thousand dollars. + +But she was not cured. As regularly as a drunkard goes to the bar went +she to the policy-shops, every day her fortune growing less. Poverty +began to pinch. The house in which she lived with her daughters was +sold, and the unhappy family shrunk into a single room in a third-rate +boarding-house. But their income soon became insufficient to meet the +weekly demand for board. Long before this the daughters had sought for +something to do by which to earn a little money. Pride struggled hard +with them, but necessity was stronger than pride. + +We finish the story in a few words. In a moment of weakness, with want +and hard work staring her in the face, one of the daughters married +a man who broke her heart and buried her in less than two years. The +other, a weak and sickly girl, got a situation as day governess in the +family of an old friend of her father's, where she was kindly treated, +but she lived only a short time after her sister's death. + +And still there was no abatement of the mother's infatuation. She was +more than half insane on the subject of policy gambling, and confident +of yet retrieving her fortunes. + +At the time Pinky Swett and her friend in evil saw her come gliding up +from the restaurant in faded mourning garments and closely veiled, she +was living alone in a small, meagrely furnished room, and cooking her +own food. + +Everything left to her at her husband's death was gone. She earned a +dollar or two each week by making shirts and drawers for the slop-shops, +spending every cent of this in policies. A few old friends who pitied +her, but did not know of the vice in which she indulged, paid her +rent and made occasional contributions for her support. All of these +contributions, beyond the amount required for a very limited supply of +food, went to the policy-shops. It was a mystery to her friends how she +had managed to waste the handsome property left by her husband, but no +one suspected the truth. + + + + +CHAPTER X. + + + +“_WHO'S_ that, I wonder?” asked Nell Peter as the dark, close-veiled +figure glided past them on the stairs. + +“Oh, she's a policy-drunkard,” answered Pinky, loud enough to be heard +by the woman, who, as if surprised or alarmed, stopped and turned her +head, her veil falling partly away, and disclosing features so pale and +wasted that she looked more like a ghost than living flesh and blood. +There was a strange gleam in her eyes. She paused only for an instant, +but her steps were slower as she went on climbing the steep and narrow +stairs that led to the policy-office. + +“Good Gracious, Pinky! did you ever see such a face?” exclaimed Nell +Peter. “It's a walking ghost, I should say, and no woman at all.” + +“Oh, I've seen lots of 'em,” answered Pinky. “She's a policy-drunkard. +Bad as drinking when it once gets hold of 'em. They tipple all the time, +sell anything, beg, borrow, steal or starve themselves to get money to +buy policies. She's one of 'em that's starving.” + +By this time they had reached the policy-office. It was in a small room +on the third floor of the back building, yet as well known to the police +of the district as if it had been on the front street. One of these +public guardians soon after his appointment through political influence, +and while some wholesome sense of duty and moral responsibility yet +remained, caused the “writer” in this particular office to be arrested. +He thought that he had done a good thing, and looked for approval and +encouragement. But to his surprise and chagrin he found that he had +blundered. The case got no farther than the alderman's. Just how it was +managed he did not know, but it was managed, and the business of the +office went on as before. + +A little light came to him soon after, on meeting a prominent politician +to whom he was chiefly indebted for his appointment. Said this +individual, with a look of warning and a threat in his voice, + +“See here, my good fellow; I'm told that you've been going out of your +way and meddling with the policy-dealers. Take my advice, and mind your +own business. If you don't, it will be all day with you. There isn't a +man in town strong enough to fight this thing, so you'd better let it +alone.” + +And he did let it alone. He had a wife and three little children, and +couldn't afford to lose his place. So he minded his own business, and +let it alone. + +Pinky and her friend entered this small third-story back room. Behind a +narrow, unpainted counter, having a desk at one end, stood a middle-aged +man, with dark, restless eyes that rarely looked you in the face. He +wore a thick but rather closely-cut beard and moustache. The police knew +him very well; so did the criminal lawyers, when he happened to come in +their way; so did the officials of two or three State prisons in which +he had served out partial sentences. He was too valuable to political +“rings” and associations antagonistic to moral and social well-being +to be left idle in the cell of a penitentiary for the whole term of a +commitment. Politicians have great influence, and governors are human. + +On the walls of the room were pasted a few pictures cut from the +illustrated papers, some of them portraits of leading politicians, and +some of them portraits of noted pugilists and sporting-men. The picture +of a certain judge, who had made himself obnoxious to the fraternity +of criminals by his severe sentences, was turned upside down. There was +neither table nor chair in the room. + +The woman in black had passed in just before the girls, and was waiting +her turn to examine the drawn numbers. She had not tasted food since the +day before, having ventured her only dime on a policy, and was feeling +strangely faint and bewildered. She did not have to wait long. It was +the old story. Her combination had not come out, and she was starving. +As she moved back toward the door she staggered a little. Pinky, who had +become curious about her, noticed this, and watched her as she went out. + +“It's about up with the old lady, I guess,” she said to her companion, +with an unfeeling laugh. + +And she was right. On the next morning the poor old woman was found dead +in her room, and those who prepared her for burial said that she +was wasted to a skeleton. She had, in fact, starved herself in her +infatuation, spending day after day in policies what she should have +spent for food. Pinky's strange remark was but too true. She had become +a policy-drunkard--a vice almost as disastrous in its effects as its +kindred, vice, intemperance, though less brutalizing and less openly +indulged. + +“Where now?” was the question of Pinky's friend as they came down, after +spending in policies all the money they had received from the sale of +Flora Bond's clothing. “Any other game?” + +“Yes.” + +“What?” + +“Come along to my room, and I'll tell you.” + +“Round in Ewing street?” + +“Yes. Great game up, if I can only get on the track.” + +“What is it?” + +“There's a cast-off baby in Dirty Alley, and Fan Bray knows its mother, +and she's rich.” + +“What?” + +“Fan's getting lots of hush-money.” + +“Goody! but that is game!” + +“Isn't it? The baby's owned by two beggar-women who board it in Dirty +Alley. It's 'most starved and frozen to death, and Fan's awful 'fraid +it may die. She wants me to steal it for her, so that she may have it +better taken care of, and I was going to do it last night, when I got +into a muss.” + +“Who's the woman that boards it?” + +“She lives in a cellar, and is drunk every night. Can steal the brat +easily enough; but if I can't find out who it belongs to, you see it +will be trouble for nothing.” + +“No, I don't see any such thing,” answered Nell Peter. “If you can't get +hush-money out of its mother, you can bleed Fanny Bray.” + +“That's so, and I'm going to bleed her. The mother, you see, thinks +the baby's dead. The proud old grandmother gave it away, as soon as was +born, to a woman that Fan Bray found for her. Its mother was out of her +head, and didn't know nothing. That woman sold the baby to the women who +keep it to beg with. She's gone up the spout now, and nobody knows who +the mother and grandmother are but Fan, and nobody knows where the baby +is but me and Fan. She's bleeding the old lady, and promises to share +with me if I keep track of the baby and see that it isn't killed or +starved to death. But I don't trust her. She puts me off with fives and +tens, when I'm sure she gets hundreds. Now, if we have the baby all +to ourselves, and find out the mother and grandmother, won't we have a +splendid chance? I'll bet you on that.” + +“Won't we? Why, Pinky, this is a gold-mine!” + +“Didn't I tell you there was great game up? I was just wanting some one +to help me. Met you in the nick of time.” + +The two girls had now reached Pinky's room in Ewing street, where they +continued in conference for a long time before settling their plans. + +“Does Fan know where you live?” queried Nell Peter. + +“Yes.” + +“Then you will have to change your quarters.” + +“Easily done. Doesn't take half a dozen furniture-cars to move me.” + +“I know a room.” + +“Where?” + +“It's a little too much out of the way, you'll think, maybe, but +it's just the dandy for hiding in. You cart keep the brat there, and +nobody--” + +“Me keep the brat?” interrupted Pinky, with a derisive laugh. “That's a +good one! I see myself turned baby-tender! Ha! ha! that's funny!” + +“What do you expect to do with the child after you steal it?” asked +Pinky's friend. + +“I don't intend to nurse it or have it about me.” + +“What then?” + +“Board if with some one who doesn't get drunk or buy policies.” + +“You'll hunt for a long time.” + +“Maybe, but I'll try. Anyhow, it can't be worse off than it is now. What +I'm afraid of is that it will be out of its misery before we can get +hold of it. The woman who is paid for keeping it at night doesn't give +it any milk--just feeds it on bread soaked in water, and that is slow +starvation. It's the way them that don't want to keep their babies get +rid of them about here.” + +“The game's up if the baby dies,” said Nell Peter, growing excited under +this view of the case. “If it only gets bread soaked in water, it can't +live. I've seen that done over and over again. They're starving a baby +on bread and water now just over from my room, and it cries and frets +and moans all the time it's awake, poor little wretch! I've been +in hopes for a week that they'd give it an overdose of paregoric or +something else.” + +“We must fix it to-night in some way,” answered Pinky. “Where's the room +you spoke of?” + +“In Grubb's court. You know Grubb's court?--a kind of elbow going off +from Rider's court. There's a room up there that you can get where even +the police would hardly find you out.” + +“Thieves live there,” said Pinky. + +“No matter. They'll not trouble you or the baby.” + +“Is the room furnished?” + +“Yes. There's a bed and a table and two chairs.” + +After farther consultation it was decided that Pinky should move at +once from her present lodgings to the room in Grubb's court, and get, if +possible, possession of the baby that very night. The moving was easily +accomplished after the room was secured. Two small bundles of clothing +constituted Pinky's entire effects; and taking these, the two girls went +quietly out, leaving a week's rent unpaid. + +The night that closed this early winter day was raw and cold, the +easterly wind still prevailing, with occasional dashes of rain. In a +cellar without fire, except a few bits of smouldering wood in an old +clay furnace, that gave no warmth to the damp atmosphere, and with +scarcely an article of furniture, a woman half stupid from drink sat on +a heap of straw, her bed, with her hands clasped about her knees. She +was rocking her body backward and forward, and crooning to herself in a +maudlin way. A lighted tallow candle stood on the floor of the cellar, +and near it a cup of water, in which was a spoon and some bread soaking. + +“Mother Hewitt!” called a voice from the cellar door that opened on the +street. “Here, take the baby!” + +Mother Hewitt, as she was called, started up and made her way with an +unsteady gait to the front part of the cellar, where a woman in not +much better condition than herself stood holding out a bundle of rags in +which a fretting baby was wrapped. + +“Quick, quick!” called the woman. “And see here,” she continued as +Mother Hewitt reached her arms for the baby; “I don't believe you're +doing the right thing. Did he have plenty of milk last night and this +morning?” + +“Just as much as he would take.” + +“I don't believe it. He's been frettin' and chawin' at the strings of +his hood all the afternoon, when he ought to have been asleep, and he's +looking punier every day. I believe you're giving him only bread and +water.” + +But Mother Hewitt protested that she gave him the best of new milk, and +as much as he would take. + +“Well, here's a quarter,” said the woman, handing Mother Hewitt some +money; “and see that he is well fed to-night and to-morrow morning. He's +getting 'most too deathly in his face. The people won't stand it if they +think a baby's going to die--the women 'specially, and most of all the +young things that have lost babies. One of these--I know 'em by the way +they look out of their eyes--came twice to-day and stood over him sad +and sorrowful like; she didn't give me anything. I've seen her before. +Maybe she's his mother. As like as nor, for nobody knows where he came +from. Wasn't Sally Long's baby; always thought she'd stole him from +somebody. Now, mind, he's to have good milk every day, or I'll change +his boarding-house. D'ye hear!” + +And laughing at this sally, the woman turned away to spend in a night's +debauch the money she had gained in half a day's begging. + +Left to herself, Mother Hewitt went staggering back with the baby in +her arms, and seated herself on the ground beside the cup of bread and +water, which was mixed to the consistence of cream. As she did so the +light of her poor candle fell on the baby's face. It was pinched and +hungry and ashen pale, the thin lips wrought by want and suffering into +such sad expressions of pain that none but the most stupid and hardened +could look at them and keep back a gush of tears. + +But Mother Hewitt saw nothing of this--felt nothing of this. Pity and +tenderness had long since died out of her heart. As she laid the baby +back on one arm she took a spoonful of the mixture prepared for its +supper, and pushed it roughly into its mouth. The baby swallowed it with +a kind of starving eagerness, but with no sign of satisfaction on +its sorrowful little face. But Mother Hewitt was too impatient to get +through with her work of feeding the child, and thrust in spoonful after +spoonful until it choked, when she shook it angrily, calling it vile +names. + +The baby cried feebly at this, when she shook it again and slapped it +with her heavy hand. Then it grew still. She put the spoon again to its +lips, but it shut them tightly and turned its head away. + +“Very well,” said Mother Hewitt. “If you won't, you won't;” and she +tossed the helpless thing as she would have tossed a senseless bundle +over upon the heap of straw that served as a bed, adding, as she did so, +“I never coaxed my own brats.” + +The baby did not cry. Mother Hewitt then blew out the candle, and +groping her way to the door of the cellar that opened on the street, +went out, shutting down the heavy door behind her, and leaving the child +alone in that dark and noisome den--alone in its foul and wet garments, +but, thanks to kindly drugs, only partially conscious of its misery. + +Mother Hewitt's first visit was to the nearest dram-shop. Here she spent +for liquor five cents of the money she had received. From the dram-shop +she went to Sam McFaddon's policy-office. This was not hidden away, +like most of the offices, in an upper room or a back building or in some +remote cellar, concealed from public observation, but stood with open +door on the very street, its customers going in and out as freely and +unquestioned as the customers of its next-door neighbor, the dram-shop. +Policemen passed Sam's door a hundred times in every twenty-four hours, +saw his customers going in and out, knew their errand, talked with Sam +about his business, some of them trying their luck occasionally after +there had been an exciting “hit,” but none reporting him or in any way +interfering with his unlicensed plunder of the miserable and besotted +wretches that crowded his neighborhood. + +From the whisky-shop to the policy-shop went Mother Hewitt. Here she put +down five cents more; she never bet higher than this on a “row.” From +the policy-shop she went back to the whisky-shop, and took another +drink. By this time she was beginning to grow noisy. It so happened that +the woman who had left the baby with her a little while before came in +just then, and being herself much the worse for drink, picked a quarrel +with Mother Hewitt, accusing her of getting drunk on the money she +received for keeping the baby, and starving it to death. A fight was the +consequence, in which they were permitted to tear and scratch and bruise +each other in a shocking way, to the great enjoyment of the little +crowd of debased and brutal men and women who filled the dram-shop. But +fearing a visit from the police, the owner of the den, a strong, coarse +Irishman, interfered, and dragging the women apart, pushed Mother Hewitt +out, giving her so violent an impetus that she fell forward into the +middle of the narrow street, where she lay unable to rise, not from any +hurt, but from sheer intoxication. + +“What's up now?” cried one and another as this little ripple of +disturbance broke upon that vile and troubled sea of humanity. + +“Only Mother Hewitt drunk again!” lightly spoke a young girl not out +of her teens, but with a countenance that seemed marred by centuries of +debasing evil. Her laugh would have made an angel shiver. + +A policeman came along, and stood for a little while looking at the +prostrate woman. + +“It's Mother Hewitt,” said one of the bystanders. + +“Here, Dick,” and the policeman spoke to a man near him. “Take hold of +her feet.” + +The man did as told, and the policeman lifting the woman's head and +shoulders, they carried her a short distance, to where a gate opened +into a large yard used for putting in carts and wagons at night, and +deposited her on the ground just inside. + +“She can sleep it off there,” said the policeman as he dropped his +unseemly load. “She'll have a-plenty to keep her company before +morning.” + +And so they left her without covering or shelter in the wet and chilly +air of a late November night, drunk and asleep. + +As the little crowd gathered by this ripple of excitement melted away, a +single figure remained lurking in a corner of the yard and out of sight +in its dark shadow. It was that of a man. The moment he was alone with +the unconscious woman he glided toward her with the alert movements of +an animal, and with a quickness that made his work seem instant, rifled +her pockets. His gains were ten cents and the policy-slip she had just +received at Sam McFaddon's. He next examined her shoes, but they were of +no value, lifted her dirty dress and felt its texture for a moment, then +dropped it with a motion of disgust and a growl of disappointment. + +As he came out from the yard with his poor booty, the light from a +street-lamp fell on as miserable a looking wretch as ever hid himself +from the eyes of day--dirty, ragged, bloated, forlorn, with scarcely a +trace of manhood in his swollen and disfigured face. His steps, quick +from excitement a few moments before, were now shambling and made +with difficulty. He had not far to walk for what he was seeking. The +ministers to his appetite were all about him, a dozen in every block of +that terrible district that seemed as if forsaken by God and man. Into +the first that came in his way he went with nervous haste, for he had +not tasted of the fiery stimulant he was craving with a fierce and +unrelenting thirst for many hours. He did not leave the bar until he had +drank as much of the burning poison its keeper dispensed as his booty +would purchase. In less than half an hour he was thrown dead drunk into +the street and then carried by policemen to the old wagon-yard, to take +his night's unconscious rest on the ground in company with Mother Hewitt +and a score besides of drunken wretches who were pitilessly turned out +from the various dram-shops after their money was spent, and who +were not considered by the police worth the trouble of taking to the +station-house. + +When Mother Hewitt crept back into her cellar at daylight, the baby was +gone. + + + + +CHAPTER XI. + + + +_FOR_ more than a week after Edith's call on Dr. Radcliffe she seemed to +take but little interest in anything, and remained alone in her room +for a greater part of the time, except when her father was in the house. +Since her questions about her baby a slight reserve had risen up between +them. During this time she went out at least once every day, and when +questioned by her mother as to where she had been, evaded any direct +answer. If questioned more closely, she would show a rising spirit and +a decision of manner that had the effect to silence and at the same time +to trouble Mrs. Dinneford, whose mind was continually on the rack. + +One day the mother and daughter met in a part of the city where neither +of them dreamed of seeing the other. It was not far from where Mrs. Bray +lived. Mrs. Dinneford had been there on a purgational visit, and had +come away lighter in purse and with a heavier burden of fear and anxiety +on her heart. + +“What are you doing here?” she demanded. + +“I've been to St. John's mission sewing-school,” replied Edith. “I have +a class there.” + +“You have! Why didn't you tell me this before? I don't like such doings. +This is no place for you.” + +“My place is where I can do good,” returned Edith, speaking slowly, but +with great firmness. + +“Good! You can do good if you want to without demeaning yourself to work +like this. I don't want you mixed up with these low, vile people, and I +won't have it!” Mrs. Dinneford spoke in a sharp, positive voice. + +Edith made no answer, and they walked on together. + +“I shall speak to your father about this,” said Mrs. Dinneford. “It +isn't reputable. I wouldn't have you seen here for the world.” + +“I shall walk unhurt; you need not fear,” returned Edith. + +There was silence between them for some time, Edith not caring to speak, +and her mother in doubt as to what it were best to say. + +“How long have you been going to St. John's mission school?” at length +queried Mrs. Dinneford. + +“I've been only a few times,” replied Edith. + +“And have a class of diseased and filthy little wretches, I +suppose--gutter children?” + +“They are God's children,” said Edith, in a tone of rebuke. + +“Oh, don't preach to me!” was angrily replied. + +“I only said what was true,” remarked Edith. + +There was silence again. + +“Are you going directly home?” asked Mrs. Dinneford, after they had +walked the distance of several blocks. Edith replied that she was. + +“Then you'd better take that car. I shall not be home for an hour yet.” + +They separated, Edith taking the car. As soon as she was alone Mrs. +Dinneford quickened her steps, like a person who had been held back +from some engagement. A walk of ten minutes brought her to one of +the principal hotels of the city. Passing in, she went up to a +reception-parlor, where she was met by a man who rose from a seat +near the windows and advanced to the middle of the room. He was of low +stature, with quick, rather nervous movements, had dark, restless eyes, +and wore a heavy black moustache that was liberally sprinkled with +gray. The lower part of his face was shaved clean. He showed some +embarrassment as he came forward to meet Mrs. Dinneford. + +“Mr. Feeling,” she said, coldly. + +The man bowed with a mixture of obsequiousness and familiarity, and +tried to look steadily into Mrs. Dinneford's face, but was not able to +do so. There was a steadiness and power in her eyes that his could not +bear. + +“What do you want with me, sir?” she demanded, a little sharply. + +“Take a chair, and I will tell you,” replied Freeling, and he turned, +moving toward a corner of the room, she following. They sat down, taking +chairs near each other. + +“There's trouble brewing,” said the man, his face growing dark and +anxious. + +“What kind of trouble?” + +“I had a letter from George Granger yesterday.” + +“What!” The color went out of the lady's face. + +“A letter from George Granger. He wished to see me.” + +“Did you go?” + +“Yes.” + +“What did he want?” + +Freeling took a deep breath, and sighed. His manner was troubled. + +“What did he want?” Mrs. Dinneford repeated the question. + +“He's as sane as you or I,” said Freeling. + +“Is he? Oh, very well! Then let him go to the State's prison.” Mrs. +Dinneford said this with some bravado in her manner. But the color did +not come back to her face. + +“He has no idea of that,” was replied. + +“What then?” The lady leaned toward Freeling. Her hands moved nervously. + +“He means to have the case in court again, but on a new issue.” + +“He does!” + +“Yes; says that he's innocent, and that you and I know it--that he's the +victim of a conspiracy, and that we are the conspirators!” + +“Talk!--amounts to nothing,” returned Mrs. Dinneford, with a faint +little laugh. + +“I don't know about that. It's ugly talk, and especially so, seeing that +it's true.” + +“No one will give credence to the ravings of an insane criminal.” + +“People are quick to credit an evil report. They will pity and believe +him, now that the worst is reached. A reaction in public feeling has +already taken place. He has one or two friends left who do not hesitate +to affirm that there has been foul play. One of these has been tampering +with a clerk of mine, and I came upon them with their heads together +on the street a few days ago, and had my suspicions aroused by their +startled look when they saw me.” + +“'What did that man want with you?' I inquired, when the clerk came in. + +“He hesitated a moment, and then replied, 'He was asking me something +about Mr. Granger.' + +“'What about him?' I queried. 'He asked me if I knew anything in regard +to the forgery,' he returned. + +“I pressed him with questions, and found that suspicion was on the right +track. This friend of Granger's asked particularly about your visits +to the store, and whether he had ever noticed anything peculiar in +our intercourse--anything that showed a familiarity beyond what would +naturally arise between a customer and salesman.” + +“There's nothing in that,” said Mrs. Dinneford. “If you and I keep our +own counsel, we are safe. The testimony of a condemned criminal goes for +nothing. People may surmise and talk as much as they please, but no one +knows anything about those notes but you and I and George.” + +“A pardon from the governor may put a new aspect on the case.” + +“A pardon!” There was a tremor of alarm in Mrs. Dinneford's voice. + +“Yes; that, no doubt, will be the first move.” + +“The first move! Why, Mr. Freeling, you don't think anything like this +is in contemplation?” + +“I'm afraid so. George, as I have said, is no more crazy than you or I. +But he cannot come out of the asylum, as the case now stands, without +going to the penitentiary. So the first move of his friends will be to +get a pardon. Then he is our equal in the eyes of the law. It would be +an ugly thing for you and me to be sued for a conspiracy to ruin this +young man, and have the charge of forgery added to the count.” + +Mrs. Dinneford gave a low cry, and shivered. + +“But it may come to that.” + +“Impossible!” + +“The prudent man foreseeth the evil and hideth himself, but the simple +pass on and are punished,” said Freeling. “It is for this that I have +sent for you. It's an ugly business, and I was a weak fool ever to have +engaged in it.” + +“You were a free agent.” + +“I was a weak fool.” + +“As you please,” returned Mrs. Dinneford, coldly, and drawing herself +away from him. + +It was some moments before either of them spoke again. Then Freeling +said, + +“I was awake all night, thinking over this matter, and it looks uglier +the more I think of it. It isn't likely that enough evidence could be +found to convict either of us, but to be tried on such an accusation +would be horrible.” + +“Horrible! horrible!” ejaculated Mrs. Dinneford. “What is to be done?” + She gave signs of weakness and terror. Freeling observed her closely, +then felt his way onward. + +“We are in great peril,” he said. “There is no knowing what turn affairs +will take. I only wish I were a thousand miles from here. It would be +safer for us both.” Then, after a pause, he added, “If I were foot-free, +I would be off to-morrow.” + +He watched Mrs. Dinneford closely, and saw a change creep over her face. + +“If I were to disappear suddenly,” he resumed, “suspicion, if it took +a definite shape, would fall on me. You would not be thought of in the +matter.” + +He paused again, observing his companion keenly but stealthily. He was +not able to look her fully in the face. + +“Speak out plainly,” said Mrs. Dinneford, with visible impatience. + +“Plainly, then, madam,” returned Freeling, changing his whole bearing +toward her, and speaking as one who felt that he was master of the +situation, “it has come to this: I shall have to break up and leave +the city, or there will be a new trial in which you and I will be the +accused. Now, self-preservation is the first law of nature. I don't mean +to go to the State's prison if I can help it. What I am now debating +are the chances in my favor if Granger gets a pardon, and then makes +an effort to drive us to the wall, which he most surely will. I have +settled it so far--” + +Mrs. Dinneford leaned toward him with an anxious expression on her +countenance, waiting for the next sentence. But Freeling did not go on. + +“How have you settled it?” she demanded, trembling as she spoke with the +excitement of suspense. + +“That I am not going to the wall if I can help it.” + +“How will you help it?” + +“I have an accomplice;” and this time he was able to look at Mrs. +Dinneford with such a fixed and threatening gaze that her eyes fell. + +“You have?” she questioned, in a husky voice. + +“Yes.” + +“Who?” + +“Mrs. Helen Dinneford. And do you think for a moment that to save myself +I would hesitate to sacrifice her?” + +The lady's face grew white. She tried to speak, but could not. + +“I am talking plainly, as you desired, madam,” continued Freeling. +“You led me into this thing. It was no scheme of mine; and if more evil +consequences are to come, I shall do my best to save my own head. Let +the hurt go to where it rightfully belongs.” + +“What do you mean?” Mrs. Dinneford tried to rally herself. + +“Just this,” was answered: “if I am dragged into court, I mean to go +in as a witness, and not as a criminal. At the first movement toward an +indictment, I shall see the district attorney, whom I know very well, +and give him such information in the case as will lead to fixing the +crime on you alone, while I will come in as the principal witness. This +will make your conviction certain.” + +“Devil!” exclaimed Mrs. Dinneford, her white face convulsed and her eyes +starting from their sockets with rage and fear. “Devil!” she repeated, +not able to control her passion. + +“Then you know me,” was answered, with cool self-possession, “and what +you have to expect.” + +Neither spoke for a considerable time. Up to this period they had been +alone in the parlor. Guests of the house now came in and took seats +near them. They arose and walked the floor for a little while, still in +silence, then passed into an adjoining parlor that happened to be empty, +and resumed the conference. + +“This is a last resort,” remarked Freeling, softening his voice as they +sat down--“a card that I do not wish to play, and shall not if I can +help it. But it is best that you should know that it is in my hand. If +there is any better way of escape, I shall take it.” + +“You spoke of going away,” said Mrs. Dinneford. + +“Yes. But that involves a great deal.” + +“What?” + +“The breaking up of my business, and loss of money and opportunities +that I can hardly hope ever to regain.” + +“Why loss of money?” + +“I shall have to wind up hurriedly, and it will be impossible to collect +more than a small part of my outstanding claims. I shall have to go +away under a cloud, and it will not be prudent to return. Most of these +claims will therefore become losses. The amount of capital I shall be +able to take will not be sufficient to do more than provide for a small +beginning in some distant place and under an assumed name. On the other +hand, if I remain and fight the thing through, as I have no doubt I can, +I shall keep my business and my place in society here--hurt, it may be, +in my good name, but still with the main chance all right. But it will +be hard for you. If I pass the ordeal safely, you will not. And the +question to consider is whether you can make it to my interest to go +away, to drop out of sight, injured in fortune and good name, while you +go unscathed. You now have it all in a nutshell. I will not press you to +a decision to-day. Your mind is too much disturbed. To-morrow, at noon, +I would like to see you again.” + +Freeling made a motion to rise, but Mrs. Dinneford did not stir. + +“Perhaps,” he said, “you decide at once to let things take their course. +Understand me, I am ready for either alternative. The election is with +yourself.” + +Mrs. Dinneford was too much stunned by all this to be able to come to +any conclusion. She seemed in the maze of a terrible dream, full of +appalling reality. To wait for twenty-four hours in this state of +uncertainty was more than her thoughts could endure. And yet she must +have time to think, and to get command of her mental resources. + +“Will you be disengaged at five o'clock?” she asked. + +“Yes.” + +“I will be here at five.” + +“Very well.” + +Mrs. Dinneford arose with a weary air. + +“I shall want to hear from you very explicitly,” she said. “If your +demand is anywhere in the range of reason and possibility, I may +meet it. If outside of that range, I shall of course reject it. It is +possible that you may not hold all the winning cards--in fact, I know +that you do not.” + +“I will be here at five,” said Freeling. + +“Very well. I shall be on time.” + +And they turned from each other, passing from the parlor by separate +doors. + + + + +CHAPTER XII. + + + +_ONE_ morning, about two weeks later, Mr. Freeling did not make his +appearance at his place of business as usual. At ten o'clock a clerk +went to the hotel where he boarded to learn the cause of his absence. He +had not been there since the night before. His trunks and clothing were +all in their places, and nothing in the room indicated anything more +than an ordinary absence. + +Twelve o'clock, and still Mr. Freeling had not come to the store. Two +or three notes were to be paid that day, and the managing-clerk began +to feel uneasy. The bank and check books were in a private drawer in the +fireproof of which Mr. Freeling had the key. So there was no means of +ascertaining the balances in bank. + +At one o'clock it was thought best to break open the private drawer and +see how matters stood. Freeling kept three bank-accounts, and it was +found that on the day before he had so nearly checked out all the +balances that the aggregate on deposit was not over twenty dollars. In +looking back over these bank-accounts, it was seen that within a week he +had made deposits of over fifty thousand dollars, and that most of +the checks drawn against these deposits were in sums of five thousand +dollars each. + +At three o'clock he was still absent. His notes went to protest, and on +the next day his city creditors took possession of his effects. One fact +soon became apparent--he had been paying the rogue's game on a pretty +liberal scale, having borrowed on his checks, from business friends +and brokers, not less than sixty or seventy thousand dollars. It was +estimated, on a thorough examination of his business, that he had +gone off with at least a hundred thousand dollars. To this amount Mrs. +Dinneford had contributed from her private fortune the sum of twenty +thousand dollars. Not until she had furnished him with that large amount +would he consent to leave the city. He magnified her danger, and so +overcame her with terrors that she yielded to his exorbitant demand. + +On the day a public newspaper announcement of Freeling's rascality was +made, Mrs. Dinneford went to bed sick of a nervous fever, and was for a +short period out of her mind. + +Neither Mr. Dinneford nor Edith had failed to notice a change in Mrs. +Dinneford. She was not able to hide her troubled feelings. Edith was +watching her far more closely than she imagined; and now that she was +temporarily out of her mind, she did not let a word or look escape +her. The first aspect of her temporary aberration was that of fear and +deprecation. She was pursued by some one who filled her with terror, +and she would lift her hands to keep him off, or hide her head in abject +alarm. Then she would beg him to keep away. Once she said, + +“It's no use; I can't do anything more. You're a vampire!” + +“Who is a vampire?” asked Edith, hoping that her mother would repeat +some name. + +But the question seemed to put her on her guard. The expression of fear +went out of her face, and she looked at her daughter curiously. + +Edith did not repeat the question. In a little while the mother's +wandering thoughts began to find words again, and she went on talking +in broken sentences out of which little could be gleaned. At length she +said, turning to Edith and speaking with the directness of one in her +right mind, + +“I told you her name was Gray, didn't I? Gray, not Bray.” + +It was only by a quick and strong effort that Edith could steady her +voice as she replied: + +“Yes; you said it was Gray.” + +“Gray, not Bray. You thought it was Bray.” + +“But it's Gray,” said Edith, falling in with her mother's humor. Then +she added, still trying to keep her voice even, + +“She was my nurse when baby was born.” + +“Yes; she was the nurse, but she didn't--” + +Checking herself, Mrs. Dinneford rose on one arm and looked at Edith in +a frightened way, then said, hurriedly, + +“Oh, it's dead, it's dead! You know that; and the woman's dead, too.” + +Edith sat motionless and silent as a statue, waiting for what more might +come. But her mother shut her lips tightly, and turned her head away. + +A long time elapsed before she was able to read in her mother's confused +utterances anything to which she could attach a meaning. At last Mrs. +Dinneford spoke out again, and with an abruptness that startled her: + +“Not another dollar, sir! Remember, you don't hold _all_ the winning +cards!” + +Edith held her breath, and sat motionless. Her mother muttered and +mumbled incoherently for a while, and then said, sharply, + +“I said I would ruin him, and I've done it!” + +“Ruin who?” asked Edith, in a repressed voice. + +This question, instead of eliciting an answer, as Edith had hoped, +brought her mother back to semi-consciousness. She rose again in bed, +and looked at her daughter in the same frightened way she had done a +little while before, then laid herself over on the pillows again. Her +lips were tightly shut. + +Edith was almost wild with suspense. The clue to that sad and painful +mystery which was absorbing her life seemed almost in her grasp. A +word from those closely-shut lips, and she would have certainty for +uncertainty. But she waited and waited until she grew faint, and still +the lips kept silent. + +But after a while Mrs. Dinneford grew uneasy, and began talking. She +moved her head from side to side, threw her arms about restlessly and +appeared greatly disturbed. + +“Not dead, Mrs. Bray?” she cried out, at last, in a clear, strong voice. + +Edith became fixed as a statue once more. + +A few moments, and Mrs. Dinneford added, + +“No, no! I won't have her coming after me. More money! You're a +vampire!” + +Then she muttered, and writhed and distorted her face like one in some +desperate struggle. Edith shuddered as she stood over her. + +After this wild paroxysm Mrs. Dinneford grew more quiet, and seemed to +sleep. Edith remained sitting by the bedside, her thoughts intent on the +strange sentences that had fallen from her Mother's lips. What mystery +lay behind them? Of what secret were they an obscure revelation? “Not +dead!” Who not dead? And again, “It's dead! You know that; and the +woman's dead, too.” Then it was plain that she had heard aright the name +of the person who had called on her mother, and about whom her mother +had made a mystery. It was Bray; if not, why the anxiety to make her +believe it Gray? And this woman had been her nurse. It was plain, also, +that money was being paid for keeping secret. What secret? Then a life +had been ruined. “I said I would ruin him, and I've done it!” Who? who +could her mother mean but the unhappy man she had once called husband, +now a criminal in the eyes of the law, and only saved by insanity from a +criminal's cell? + +Putting all together, Edith's mind quickly wrought out a theory, and +this soon settled into a conviction--a conviction so close to fact that +all the chief elements were true. + +During her mother's temporary aberration, Edith never left her room +except for a few minutes at a time. Not a word or sentence escaped +her notice. But she waited and listened in vain for anything more. The +talking paroxysm was over. A stupor of mind and body followed. Out +of this a slow recovery came, but it did not progress to a full +convalescence. Mrs. Dinneford went forth from her sick-chamber weak and +nervous, starting at sudden noises, and betraying a perpetual uneasiness +and suspense. Edith was continually on the alert, watching every look +and word and act with untiring scrutiny. Mrs. Dinneford soon became +aware of this. Guilt made her wary, and danger inspired prudence. +Edith's whole manner had changed. Why? was her natural query. Had she +been wandering in her mind? Had she given any clue to the dark secrets +she was hiding? Keen observation became mutual. Mother and daughter +watched each other with a suspicion that never slept. + +It was over a month from the time Freeling disappeared before Mrs. +Dinneford was strong enough to go out, except in her carriage. In every +case where she had ridden out, Edith had gone with her. + +“If you don't care about riding, it's no matter,” the mother would say, +when she saw Edith getting ready. “I can go alone. I feel quite well and +strong.” + +But Edith always had some reason for going against which her mother +could urge no objections. So she kept her as closely under observation +as possible. One day, on returning from a ride, as the carriage passed +into the block where they lived, she saw a woman standing on the step in +front of their residence. She had pulled the bell, and was waiting for a +servant to answer it. + +“There is some one at our door,” said Edith. + +Mrs. Dinneford leaned across her daughter, and then drew back quickly, +saying, + +“It's Mrs. Barker. Tell Henry to drive past. I don't want to see +visitors, and particularly not Mrs. Barker.” + +She spoke hurriedly, and with ill-concealed agitation. Edith kept her +eyes on the woman, and saw her go in, but did not tell the driver to +keep on past the house. It was not Mrs. Barker. She knew that very well. +In the next moment their carriage drew up at the door. + +“Go on, Henry!” cried Mrs. Dinneford, leaning past her daughter, and +speaking through the window that was open on that side. “Drive down to +Loring's.” + +“Not till I get out, Henry,” said Edith, pushing open the door and +stepping to the pavement. Then with a quick movement she shut the door +and ran across the pavement, calling back to the driver as she did so, + +“Take mother to Loring's.” + +“Stop, Henry!” cried Mrs. Dinneford, and with an alertness that was +surprising sprung from the carriage, and was on the steps of their house +before Edith's violent ring had brought a servant to the door. They +passed in, Edith holding her place just in advance. + +“I will see Mrs. Barker,” said Mrs. Dinneford, trying to keep out of her +voice the fear and agitation from which she was suffering. “You can go +up to your room.” + +“It isn't Mrs. Barker. You are mistaken.” There was as much of betrayal +in the voice of Edith as in that of her mother. Each was trying to hide +herself from the other, but the veil in both cases was far too thin for +deception. + +Mother and daughter entered the parlor together. As they did so a woman +of small stature, and wearing a rusty black dress, arose from a seat +near the window. The moment she saw Edith she drew a heavy dark veil +over her face with a quickness of movement that had in it as much of +discomfiture as surprise. + +Mrs. Dinneford was equal to the occasion. The imminent peril in which +she stood calmed the wild tumult within, as the strong wind calms this +turbulent ocean, and gave her thoughts clearness and her mind decision. +Edith saw before the veil fell a startled face, and recognized the +sallow countenance and black, evil eyes, the woman who had once before +called to see her mother. + +“Didn't I tell you not to come here, Mrs. Gray?” cried out Mrs. +Dinneford, with an anger that was more real than feigned, advancing +quickly upon the woman as she spoke. “Go!” and she pointed to the door, +“and don't you dare to come here again. I told you when you were here +last time that I wouldn't be bothered with you any longer. I've done all +I ever intend doing. So take yourself away.” + +And she pointed again to the door. Mrs. Bray--for it was that +personage--comprehended the situation fully. She was as good an actor as +Mrs. Dinneford, and quite as equal to the occasion. Lifting her hand in +a weak, deprecating way, and then shrinking like one borne down by the +shock of a great disappointment, she moved back from the excited woman +and made her way to the hall, Mrs. Dinneford following and assailing her +in passionate language. + +Edith was thrown completely off her guard by this unexpected scene. She +did not stir from the spot where she stood on entering the parlor until +the visitor was at the street door, whither her mother had followed the +retreating figure. She did not hear the woman say in the tone of one who +spoke more in command than entreaty, + +“To-morrow at one o'clock, or take the consequences.” + +“It will be impossible to-morrow,” Mrs. Dinneford whispered back, +hurriedly; “I have been very ill, and have only just begun to ride out. +It may be a week, but I'll surely come. I'm watched. Go now! go! go!” + +And she pushed Mrs. Bray out into the vestibule and shut the door after +her. Mrs. Dinneford did not return to the parlor, but went hastily up to +her own room, locking herself in. + +She did not come out until dinner-time, when she made an effort to seem +composed, but Edith saw her hand tremble every time it was lifted. She +drank three glasses of wine during the meal. After dinner she went to +her own apartment immediately, and did not come down again that day. + +On the next morning Mrs. Dinneford tried to appear cheerful and +indifferent. But her almost colorless face, pinched about the lips and +nostrils, and the troubled expression that would not go out of her eyes, +betrayed to Edith the intense anxiety and dread that lay beneath the +surface. + +Days went by, but Edith had no more signs. Now that her mother was +steadily getting back both bodily strength and mental self-poise, the +veil behind which she was hiding herself, and which had been broken into +rifts here and there during her sickness, grew thicker and thicker. Mrs. +Dinneford had too much at stake not to play her cards with exceeding +care. She knew that Edith was watching her with an intentness that let +nothing escape. Her first care, as soon as she grew strong enough to +have the mastery over herself, was so to control voice, manner and +expression of countenance as not to appear aware of this surveillance. +Her next was to re-establish the old distance between herself and +daughter, which her illness had temporarily bridged over, and her next +was to provide against any more visits from Mrs. Bray. + + + + +CHAPTER XIII. + + + +_AS_ for Edith, all doubts and questionings as to her baby's fate were +merged into a settled conviction that it was alive, and that her mother +knew where it was to be found. From her mother's pity and humanity she +had nothing to hope for the child. It had been cruelly cast adrift, +pushed out to die; by what means was cared not, so that it died and left +no trace. + +The face of Mrs. Bray had, in the single glance Edith obtained of it, +become photographed in her mind. If she had been an artist, she could +have drawn it from memory so accurately that no one who knew the woman +could have failed to recognize her likeness. Always when in the street +her eyes searched for this face; she never passed a woman of small +stature and poor dark clothing without turning to look at her. Every day +she went out, walking the streets sometimes for hours looking for this +face, but not finding it. Every day she passed certain corners and +localities where she had seen women begging, and whenever she found one +with a baby in her arms would stop to look at the poor starved thing, +and question her about it. + +Gradually all her thoughts became absorbed in the condition of poor, +neglected and suffering children. Her attendance at the St. John's +mission sewing-school, which was located in the neighborhood of one +of the worst places in the city, brought her in contact with little +children in such a wretched state of ignorance, destitution and vice +that her heart was moved to deepest pity, intensified by the thought +that ever and anon flashed across her mind: “And my baby may become like +one of these!” + +Sometimes this thought would drive her almost to madness. Often she +would become so wild in her suspense as to be on the verge of openly +accusing her mother with having knowledge of her baby's existence and +demanding of her its restoration. But she was held back by the fear that +such an accusation would only shut the door of hope for ever. She had +come to believe her mother capable of almost any wickedness. Pressed +to the wall she would never be if there was any way of escape, and to +prevent such at thing there was nothing so desperate that she would not +do it; and so Edith hesitated and feared to take the doubtful issue. + +Week after week and month after month now went on without a single, +occurrence that gave to Edith any new light. Mrs. Dinneford wrought with +her accomplice so effectually that she kept her wholly out of the way. +Often, in going and returning from the mission-school, Edith would +linger about the neighborhood where she had once met her mother, hoping +to see her come out of some one of the houses there, for she had got it +into her mind that the woman called Mrs. Gray lived somewhere in this +locality. + +One day, in questioning a child who had come to the sewing-school as to +her home and how she lived, the little girl said something about a baby +that her mother said she knew must have been stolen. + +“How old is the baby?” asked Edith, hardly able to keep the tremor out +of her voice. + +“It's a little thing,” answered the child. “I don't know how old it is; +maybe it's six months old, or maybe it's a year. It can sit upon the +floor.” + +“Why does your mother think it has been stolen?” + +“Because two bad girls have got it, and they pay a woman to take care of +it. It doesn't belong to them, she knows. Mother says it would be a good +thing if it died.” + +“Why does she say that?” + +“Oh she always talks that way about babies--says she's glad when they +die.” + +“Is it a boy or a girl?” + +“It's a boy baby,” answered the child. + +“Does the woman take good care of it?” + +“Oh dear, no! She lets it sit on the floor 'most all the time, and it +cries so that I often go up and nurse it. The woman lives in the room +over ours.” + +“Where do you live?” + +“In Grubb's court.” + +“Will you show me the way there after school is over?” + +The child looked up into Edith's face with an expression of surprise and +doubt. Edith repeated her question. + +“I guess you'd better not go,” was answered, in a voice that meant all +the words expressed. + +“Why not?” + +“It isn't a good place.” + +“But you live there?” + +“Yes, but nobody's going to trouble me.” + +“Nor me,” said Edith. + +“Oh, but you don't know what kind of a place it is, nor what dreadful +people live there.” + +“I could get a policeman to go with me, couldn't I?” + +“Yes, maybe you could, or Mr. Paulding, the missionary. He goes about +everywhere.” + +“Where can I find Mr. Paulding?” + +“At the mission in Briar street.” + +“You'll show me the way there after school?” + +“Oh yes; it isn't a nice place for you to go, but I guess nobody'll +trouble you.” + +After the school closed, Edith, guided by the child, made her way to the +Briar st. mission-house. As she entered the narrow street in which it +was situated, the aspect of things was so strange and shocking to her +eyes that she felt a chill creep to her heart. She had never imagined +anything so forlorn and squalid, so wretched and comfortless. Miserable +little hovels, many of them no better than pig-styes, and hardly cleaner +within, were crowded together in all stages of dilapidation. Windows +with scarcely a pane of glass, the chilly air kept out by old hats, bits +of carpet or wads of newspaper, could be seen on all sides, with here +and there, showing some remains of an orderly habit, a broken pane +closed with a smooth piece of paper pasted to the sash. Instinctively +she paused, oppressed by a sense of fear. + +“It's only halfway down,” said the child. “We'll 'go quick. I guess +nobody'll speak to you. They're afraid of Mr. Paulding about here. He's +down on 'em if they meddle with anybody that's coming to the mission.” + +Edith, thus urged, moved on. She had gone but a few steps when two men +came in sight, advancing toward her. They were of the class to be seen +at all times in that region--debased to the lowest degree, drunken, +ragged, bloated, evil-eyed, capable of any wicked thing. They were +singing when they came in sight, but checked their drunken mirth as soon +as they saw Edith, whose heart sunk again. She stopped, trembling. + +“They're only drunk,” said the child. “I don't believe they'll hurt +you.” + +Edith rallied herself and walked on, the men coming closer and closer. +She saw them look at each other with leering eyes, and then at her in +a way that made her shiver. When only a few paces distant, they paused, +and with the evident intention of barring her farther progress. + +“Good-afternoon, miss,” said one of them, with a low bow. “Can we do +anything for you?” + +The pale, frightened face of Edith was noticed by the other, and it +touched some remnant of manhood not yet wholly extinguished. + +“Let her alone, you miserable cuss!” he cried, and giving his drunken +companion a shove, sent him staggering across the street. This made the +way clear, and Edith sprang forward, but she had gone only a few feet +when she came face to face with another obstruction even more frightful, +if possible, than the first. A woman with a red, swollen visage, black +eye, soiled, tattered, drunk, with arms wildly extended, came rushing up +to her. The child gave a scream. The wretched creature caught at a shawl +worn by Edith, and was dragging it from her shoulders, when the door of +one of the houses flew open, and a woman came out hastily. Grasping +the assailant, she hurled her across the street with the strength of a +giant. + +“We're going to the mission,” said the child. + +“It's just down there. Go 'long. I'll stand here and see that no one +meddles with you again.” + +Edith faltered her thanks, and went on. + +“That's the queen,” said her companion. + +“The queen!” Edith's hasty tones betrayed her surprise. + +“Yes; it's Norah. They're all afraid of her. I'm glad she saw us. She's +as strong as a man.” + +In a few minutes they reached the mission, but in those few minutes +Edith saw more to sadden the heart, more to make it ache for humanity, +than could be described in pages. + +The missionary was at home. Edith told him the purpose of her call and +the locality she desired to visit. + +“I wanted to go alone,” she remarked, “but this little girl, who is in +my class at the sewing-school, said it wouldn't be safe, and that you +would go with me.” + +“I should be sorry to have you go alone into Grubb's court,” said the +missionary, kindly, and with concern in his voice, “for a worse place +can hardly be found in the city--I was going to say in the world. You +will be safe with me, however. But why do you wish to visit Grubb's +court? Perhaps I can do all that is needed.” + +“This little girl who lives in there, has been telling me about a +poor neglected baby that her mother says has no doubt been stolen, +and--and--” Edith voice faltered, but she quickly gained steadiness +under a strong effort of will: “I thought perhaps I might be able to +do something for it--to get it into one of the homes, maybe. It is +dreadful, sir, to think of little babies being neglected.” + +Mr. Paulding questioned the child who had brought Edith to the +mission-house, and learned from her that the baby was merely boarded by +the woman who had it in charge, and that she sometimes took it out and +sat on the street, begging. The child repeated what she had said to +Edith--that the baby was the property, so to speak, of two abandoned +women, who paid its board. + +“I think,” said the missionary, after some reflection, “that if getting +the child out of their hands is your purpose, you had better not go +there at present. Your visit would arouse suspicion; and if the two +women have anything to gain by keeping the child in their possession, +it will be at once taken to a new place. I am moving about in these +localities all the while, and can look in upon the baby without anything +being thought of it.” + +This seemed so reasonable that Edith, who could not get over the nervous +tremors occasioned by what she had already seen and encountered, readily +consented to leave the matter for the present in Mr. Paulding's hands. + +“If you will come here to-morrow,” said the missionary, “I will tell you +all I can about the baby.” + +Out of a region where disease, want and crime shrunk from common +observation, and sin and death held high carnival, Edith hurried with +trembling feet, and heart beating so heavily that she could hear it +throb, the considerate missionary going with her until she had crossed +the boundary of this morally infected district. + +Mr. Dinneford met Edith at the door on her arrival home. + +“My child,” he exclaimed as he looked into her face, back to which the +color had not returned since her fright in Briar street, “are you sick?” + +“I don't feel very well;” and she tried to pass him hastily in the hall +as they entered the house together. But he laid his hand on her arm +and held her back gently, then drew her into the parlor. She sat down, +trembling, weak and faint. Mr. Dinneford waited for some moments, +looking at her with a tender concern, before speaking. + +“Where have you been, my dear?” he asked, at length. + +After a little hesitation, Edith told her father about her visit to +Briar street and the shock she had received. + +“You were wrong,” he answered, gravely. “It is most fortunate for you +that you took the child's advice and called at the mission. If you had +gone to Grubb's court alone, you might not have come out alive.” + +“Oh no, father! It can't be so bad as that.” + +“It is just as bad as that,” he replied, with a troubled face and +manner. “Grubb's court is one of the traps into which unwary victims +are drawn that they may be plundered. It is as much out of common +observation almost as the lair of a wild beast in some deep wilderness. +I have heard it described by those who have been there under protection +of the police, and shudder to think of the narrow escape you have made. +I don't want you to go into that vile district again. It is no place for +such as you.” + +“There's a poor little baby there,” said Edith, her voice trembling and +tears filling her eyes. Then, after a brief struggle with her feelings, +she threw herself upon her father, sobbing out, “And oh, father, it may +be my baby!” + +“My poor child,” said Mr. Dinneford, not able to keep his voice +firm--“my poor, poor child! It is all a wild dream, the suggestion of +evil spirits who delight in torment.” + +“What became of my baby, father? Can you tell me?” + +“It died, Edith dear. We know that,” returned her father, trying to +speak very confidently. But the doubt in his own mind betrayed itself. + +“Do you know it?” she asked, rising and confronting her father. + +“I didn't actually see it die. But--but--” + +“You know no more about it than I do,” said Edith; “if you did, you +might set my heart at rest with a word. But you cannot. And so I am left +to my wild fears, that grow stronger every day. Oh, father, help me, if +you can. I must have certainty, or I shall lose my reason.” + +“If you don't give up this wild fancy, you surely will,” answered Mr. +Dinneford, in a distressed voice. + +“If I were to shut myself up and do nothing,” said Edith, with greater +calmness, “I would be in a madhouse before a week went by. My safety +lies in getting down to the truth of this wild fancy, as you call it. It +has taken such possession of me that nothing but certainty can give me +rest. Will you help me?” + +“How can I help you? I have no clue to this sad mystery.” + +“Mystery! Then you are as much in the dark as I am--know no more of what +became of my baby than I do! Oh, father, how could you let such a thing +be done, and ask no questions--such a cruel and terrible thing--and I +lying helpless and dumb? Oh, father, my innocent baby cast out like a +dog to perish--nay, worse, like a lamb among wolves to be torn by their +cruel teeth--and no one to put forth a hand to save! If I only knew that +he was dead! If I could find his little grave and comfort my heart over +it!” + +Weak, naturally good men, like Mr. Dinneford, often permit great wrongs +to be done in shrinking from conflict and evading the sterner duties of +life. They are often the faithless guardians of immortal trusts. + +There was a tone of accusation and rebuke in Edith's voice that smote +painfully on her father's heart. He answered feebly: + +“What could I do? How should I know that anything wrong was being done? +You were very ill, and the baby was sent away to be nursed, and then I +was told that it was dead.” + +“Oh, father! Sent away without your seeing it! My baby! Your little +grandson! Oh, father!” + +“But you know, dear, in what a temper of mind your mother was--how +impossible it is for me to do anything with her when she once sets +herself to do a thing.” + +“Even if it be murder!” said Edith, in a hoarse whisper. + +“Hush, hush, my child! You must not speak so,” returned the agitated +father. + +A silence fell between them. A wall of separation began to grow up. +Edith arose, and was moving from the room. + +“My daughter!” There was a sob in the father's voice. + +Edith stopped. + +“My daughter, we must not part yet. Come back; sit down with me, and let +us talk more calmly. What is past cannot be changed. It is with the now +of this unhappy business that we have to do.” + +Edith came back and sat down again, her father taking a seat beside her. + +“That is just it,” she answered, with a steadiness of tone and manner +that showed how great was the self-control she was able to exert. “It +is with the now of this unhappy affair that we have to do. If I spoke +strongly of the past, it was that a higher and intenser life might be +given to present duty.” + +“Let there be no distance between us. Let no wall of separation grow +up,” said Mr. Dinneford, tenderly. “I cannot bear to think of this. +Confide in me, consult with me. I will help you in all possible ways to +solve this mystery. But do not again venture alone into that dreadful +place. I will go with you if you think any good will come of it.” + +“I must see Mr. Paulding in the morning,” said Edith, with calm +decision. + +“Then I will go with you,” returned Mr. Dinneford. + +“Thank you, father;” and she kissed him. “Until then nothing more can +be done.” She kissed him again, and then went to her own room. After +locking the door she sank on her knees, leaning forward, with her face +buried in the cushion of a chair, and did not rise for a long time. + + + + +CHAPTER XIV. + + + +_ON_ the next morning, after some persuasion, Edith consented to +postpone her visit to Grubb's court until after her father had seen Mr. +Paulding, the missionary. + +“Let me go first and gain what information I can,” he urged. “It may +save you a fruitless errand.” + +It was not without a feeling of almost unconquerable repugnance that +Mr. Dinneford took his way to the mission-house, in Briar street. His +tastes, his habits and his naturally kind and sensitive feelings all +made him shrink from personal contact with suffering and degradation. +He gave much time and care to the good work of helping the poor and the +wretched, but did his work in boards and on committees, rather than in +the presence of the needy and suffering. He was not one of those who +would pass over to the other side and leave a wounded traveler to +perish, but he would avoid the road to Jericho, if he thought it likely +any such painful incident would meet him in the way and shock his fine +sensibilities. He was willing to work for the downcast, the wronged, the +suffering and the vile, but preferred doing so at a distance, and not in +immediate contact. Thus it happened that, although one of the managers +of the Briar street mission and familiar with its work in a general way, +he had never been at the mission-house--had never, in fact, set his foot +within the morally plague-stricken district in which it stood. He had +often been urged to go, but could not overcome his reluctance to meet +humanity face to face in its sadder and more degraded aspects. + +Now a necessity was upon him, and he had to go. It was about ten o'clock +in the morning when, at almost a single step, he passed from what seemed +paradise to purgatory, the sudden contrast was so great. There were but +few persons in the little street; where the mission was situated at that +early hour, and most of these were children--poor, half-clothed, dirty, +wan-faced, keen-eyed and alert bits of humanity, older by far than their +natural years, few of them possessing any higher sense of right and +wrong than young savages. The night's late orgies or crimes had left +most of their elders in a heavy morning sleep, from which they did +not usually awaken before midday. Here and there one and another came +creeping out, impelled by a thirst no water could quench. Now it was a +bloated, wild-eyed man, dirty and forlorn beyond description, +shambling into sight, but disappearing in a moment or two in one of the +dram-shops, whose name was legion, and now it was a woman with the +angel all gone out of her face, barefooted, blotched, coarse, red-eyed, +bruised and awfully disfigured by her vicious, drunken life. Her steps +too made haste to the dram-shop. + +Such houses for men and women to live in as now stretched before +his eyes in long dreary rows Mr. Dinneford had never seen, except in +isolated cases of vice and squalor. To say that he was shocked would but +faintly express his feelings. Hurrying along, he soon came in sight of +the mission. At this moment a jar broke the quiet of the scene. Just +beyond the mission-house two women suddenly made their appearance, one +of them pushing the other out upon the street. Their angry cries rent +the air, filling it with profane and obscene oaths. They struggled +together for a little while, and then one of them, a woman with gray +hair and not less than sixty years of age, fell across the curb with her +head on the cobble-stones. + +As if a sorcerer had stamped his foot, a hundred wretched creatures, +mostly women and children, seemed to spring up from the ground. It was +like a phantasy. They gathered about the prostrate woman, laughing and +jeering. A policeman who was standing at the corner a little way off +came up leisurely, and pushing the motley crew aside, looked down at the +prostrate woman. + +“Oh, it's you again!” he said, in a tone of annoyance, taking hold of +one arm and raising her so that she sat on the curb-stone. Mr. Dinneford +now saw her face distinctly; it was that of an old woman, but red, +swollen and terribly marred. Her thin gray hair had fallen over her +shoulders, and gave her a wild and crazy look. + +“Come,” said the policeman, drawing on the woman's arm and trying to +raise her from the ground. But she would not move. + +“Come,” he said, more imperatively. + +“Nature you going to do with me?” she demanded. + +“I'm going to lock you up. So come along. Have had enough of you about +here. Always drunk and in a row with somebody.” + +Her resistance was making the policeman angry. + +“It'll take two like you to do that,” returned the woman, in a spiteful +voice, swearing foully at the same time. + +At this a cheer arose from the crowd. A negro with a push-cart came +along at the moment. + +“Here! I want you,” called the policeman. + +The negro pretended not to hear, and the policeman had to threaten him +before he would stop. + +Seeing the cart, the drunken woman threw herself back upon the pavement +and set every muscle to a rigid strain. And now came one of those +shocking scenes--too familiar, alas! in portions of our large Christian +cities--at which everything pure and merciful and holy in our nature +revolts: a gray-haired old woman, so debased by drink and an evil life +that all sense of shame and degradation had been extinguished, fighting +with a policeman, and for a time showing superior strength, swearing +vilely, her face distorted with passion, and a crowd made up chiefly +of women as vile and degraded as herself, and of all ages, and colors, +laughing, shouting and enjoying the scene intensely. + +At last, by aid of the negro, the woman was lifted into the cart and +thrown down upon the floor, her head striking one of the sides with a +sickening _thud_. She still swore and struggled, and had to be held down +by the policeman, who stood over her, while the cart was pushed off to +the nearest station-house, the excited crowd following with shouts and +merry huzzas. + +Mr. Dinneford was standing in a maze, shocked and distressed by this +little episode, when a man at his side said in a grave, quiet voice, + +“I doubt if you could see a sight just like that anywhere else in all +Christendom.” Then added, as he extended his hand, + +“I am glad to see you here, Mr. Dinneford.” + +“Oh, Mr. Paulding!” and Mr. Dinneford put out his hand and grasped that +of the missionary with a nervous grip. “This is awful! I am sixty years +old, but anything so shocking my eyes have not before looked upon.” + +“We see things worse than this every day,” said the missionary. “It is +only one of the angry boils on the surface, and tells of the corrupt +and vicious blood within. But I am right glad to find you here, Mr. +Dinneford. Unless you see these things with your own eyes, it is +impossible for you to comprehend the condition of affairs in this by-way +to hell.” + +“Hell, itself, better say,” returned Mr. Dinneford. “It is hell pushing +itself into visible manifestation--hell establishing itself on the +earth, and organizing its forces for the destruction of human souls, +while the churches are too busy enlarging their phylacteries and making +broader and more attractive the hems of their garments to take note of +this fatal vantage-ground acquired by the enemy.” + +Mr. Dinneford stood and looked around him in a dazed sort of way. + +“Is Grubb's court near this?” he asked, recollecting the errand upon +which he had come. + +“Yes.” + +“A young lady called to see you yesterday afternoon to ask about a child +in that court?” + +“Oh yes! You know the lady?” + +“She is my daughter. One of the poor children in her sewing-class +told her of a neglected baby in Grubb's court, and so drew upon her +sympathies that she started to go there, but was warned by the child +that it would be dangerous for a young lady like her to be seen in that +den of thieves and harlots, and so she came to you. And now I am here in +her stead to get your report about the baby. I would not consent to her +visiting this place again.” + +Mr. Paulding took his visitor into the mission-house, near which they +were standing. After they were seated, he said, + +“I have seen the baby about which your daughter wished me to make +inquiry. The woman who has the care of it is a vile creature, well known +in this region--drunken and vicious. She said at first that it was her +own baby, but afterward admitted that she didn't know who its mother +was, and that she was paid for taking care of it. I found out, after +a good deal of talking round, and an interview with the mother of the +child who is in your daughter's sewing-class, that a girl of notoriously +bad character, named Pinky Swett, pays the baby's board. There's a +mystery about the child, and I am of the opinion that it has been +stolen, or is known to be the offcast of some respectable family. The +woman who has the care of it was suspicious, and seemed annoyed at my +questions.” + +“Is it a boy?” asked Mr. Dinneford. + +“Yes, and has a finely-formed head and a pair of large, clear, hazel +eyes. Evidently it is of good parentage. The vicious, the sensual and +the depraved mark their offspring with the unmistakable signs of their +moral depravity. You cannot mistake them. But this baby has in its +poor, wasted, suffering little face, in its well-balanced head and deep, +almost spiritual eyes, the signs of a better origin.” + +“It ought at once to be taken away from the woman,” said Mr. Dinneford, +in a very decided manner. + +“Who is to take it?” asked the missionary. + +Mr. Dinneford was silent. + +“Neither you nor I have any authority to do so. If I were to see it cast +out upon the street, I might have it sent to the almshouse; but until I +find it abandoned or shamefully abused, I have no right to interfere.” + +“I would like to see the baby,” said Mr. Dinneford, on whose mind +painful suggestions akin to those that were so disturbing his daughter +were beginning to intrude themselves. + +“It would hardly be prudent to go there to-day,” said Mr. Paulding. + +“Why not?” + +“It would arouse suspicion; and if there is anything wrong, the baby +would drop out of sight. You would not find it if you went again. These +people are like birds with their wings half lifted, and fly away at the +first warning of danger. As it is, I fear my visit and inquiries will be +quite sufficient to the cause the child's removal to another place.” + +Mr. Dinneford mused for a while: + +“There ought to be some way to reach a case like this, and there is, +I am sure. From what you say, it is more than probable that this poor +little waif may have drifted out of some pleasant home, where love would +bless it with the tenderest care, into this hell of neglect and cruelty. +It should be rescued on the instant. It is my duty--it is yours--to see +that it is done, and that without delay. I will go at once to the mayor +and state the case. He will send an officer with me, I know, and we will +take the child by force. If its real mother then comes forward and shows +herself at all worthy to have the care of it, well; if not, I will see +that it is taken care of. I know where to place it.” + +To this proposition Mr. Paulding had no objection to offer. + +“If you take that course, and act promptly, you can no doubt get +possession of the poor thing. Indeed, sir”--and the missionary spoke +with much earnestness--“if men of influence like yourself would come +here and look the evil of suffering and neglected children in the face, +and then do what they could to destroy that evil, there would soon be +joy in heaven over the good work accomplished by their hands. I could +give you a list of ten or twenty influential citizens whose will would +be next to law in a matter like this who could in a month, if they put +heart and hand to it, do such a work for humanity here as would make the +angels glad. But they are too busy with their great enterprises to give +thought and effort to a work like this.” + +A shadow fell across the missionary's face. There was a tone of +discouragement in his voice. + +“The great question is _what_ to do,” said Mr. Dinneford. “There are no +problems so hard to solve as these problems of social evil. If men and +women choose to debase themselves, who is to hinder? The vicious heart +seeks a vicious life. While the heart is depraved the life will be evil. +So long as the fountain is corrupt the water will be foul.” + +“There is a side to all this that most people do not consider,” answered +Mr. Paulding. “Self-hurt is one thing, hurt of the neighbor quite +another. It may be questioned whether society has a right to touch the +individual freedom of a member in anything that affects himself alone. +But the moment he begins to hurt his neighbor, whether from ill-will +or for gain, then it is the duty of society to restrain him. The common +weal demands this, to say nothing of Christian obligation. If a man were +to set up an exhibition in our city dangerous to life and limb, but +so fascinating as to attract large numbers to witness and participate +therein, and if hundreds were maimed or killed every year, do you think +any one would question the right of our authorities to repress it? And +yet to-day there are in our city more than twenty thousand persons who +live by doing things a thousand times more hurtful to the people than +any such exhibition could possibly be. And what is marvelous to think +of, the larger part of these persons are actually licensed by the State +to get gain by hurting, depraving and destroying the people. Think of +it, Mr. Dinneford! The whole question lies in a nutshell. There is +no difficulty about the problem. Restrain men from doing harm to each +other, and the work is more than half done.” + +“Is not the law all the while doing this?” + +“The law,” was answered, “is weakly dealing with effect--how weakly let +prison and police statistics show. Forty thousand arrests in our city +for a single year, and the cause of these arrests clearly traced to the +liquor licenses granted to five or six thousand persons to make money +by debasing and degrading the people. If all of these were engaged in +useful employments, serving, as every true citizen is bound to do, the +common good, do you think we should have so sad and sickening a record? +No, sir! We must go back to the causes of things. Nothing but radical +work will do.” + +“You think, then,” said Mr. Dinneford, “that the true remedy for all +these dreadful social evils lies in restrictive legislation?” + +“Restrictive only on the principles of eternal right,” answered the +missionary. “Man's freedom over himself must not be touched. Only his +freedom to hurt his neighbor must be abridged. Here society has a right +to put bonds on its members--to say to each individual, You are free to +do anything by which your neighbor is served, but nothing to harm him. +Here is where the discrimination must be made; and when the mass of the +people come to see this, we shall have the beginning of a new day. There +will then be hope for such poor wretches as crowd this region; or if +most of them are so far lost as to be without hope, their places, +when they die, will not be filled with new recruits for the army of +perdition.” + +“If the laws we now have were only executed,” said Mr. Dinneford, +“there might be hope in our legislative restrictions. But the people +are defrauded of justice through defects in its machinery. There are +combinations to defeat good laws. There are men holding high office +notoriously in league with scoundrels who prey upon the people. Through +these, justice perpetually fails.” + +“The people are alone to blame,” replied the missionary. “Each is busy +with his farm and his merchandise with his own affairs, regardless +of his neighbor. The common good is nothing, so that his own good is +served. Each weakly folds his hands and is sorry when these troublesome +questions are brought to his notice, but doesn't see that he can do +anything. Nor can the people, unless some strong and influential leaders +rally them, and, like great generals, lead them to the battle. As I said +a little while ago, there are ten or twenty men in this city who, if +they could be made to feel their high responsibility--who, if they could +be induced to look away for a brief period from their great enterprises +and concentrate thought and effort upon these questions of social +evil, abuse of justice and violations of law--would in a single month +inaugurate reforms and set agencies to work that would soon produce +marvelous changes. They need not touch the rottenness of this half-dead +carcass with knife or poultice. Only let them cut off the sources +of pollution and disease, and the purified air will do the work of +restoration where moral vitality remains, or hasten the end in those who +are debased beyond hope.” + +“What could these men do? Where would their work begin?” asked Mr. +Dinneford. + +“Their own intelligence would soon discover the way to do this work if +their hearts were in it. Men who can organize and successfully conduct +great financial and industrial enterprises, who know how to control +the wealth and power of the country and lead the people almost at will, +would hardly be at fault in the adjustment of a matter like this. +What would be the money influence of 'whisky rings' and gambling +associations, set against the social and money influence of these +men? Nothing, sir, nothing! Do you think we should long have over six +thousand bars and nearly four hundred lottery-policy shops in our city +if the men to whom I refer were to take the matter in hand?” + +“Are there so many policy-shops?” asked Mr. Dinneford, in surprise. + +“There may be more. You will find them by scores in every locality +where poor and ignorant people are crowded together, sucking out +their substance, and in the neighborhood of all the market-houses and +manufactories, gathering in spoil. The harm they are doing is beyond +computation. The men who control this unlawful business are rich and +closely organized. They gather in their dishonest gains at the rate of +hundreds of thousands of dollars every year, and know how and where +to use this money for the protection of their agents in the work of +defrauding the people, and the people are helpless because our men +of wealth and influence have no time to give to public justice or the +suppression of great social wrongs. With them, as things now are, rests +the chief responsibility. They have the intelligence, the wealth and +the public confidence, and are fully equal to the task if they will put +their hands to the work. Let them but lift the standard and sound the +trumpet of reform, and the people will rally instantly at the call. +It must not be a mere spasmodic effort--a public meeting with wordy +resolutions and strong speeches only--but organized work based on true +principles of social order and the just rights of the people.” + +“You are very much in earnest about this matter,” said Mr. Dinneford, +seeing how excited the missionary had grown. + +“And so would you and every other good citizen become if, standing +face to face, as I do daily, with this awful debasement and crime and +suffering, you were able to comprehend something of its real character. +If I could get the influential citizens to whom I have referred to come +here and see for themselves, to look upon this pandemonium in their +midst and take in an adequate idea of its character, significance and +aggressive force, there would be some hope of making them see their +duty, of arousing them to action. But they stand aloof, busy with +personal and material interest, while thousands of men, women and +children are yearly destroyed, soul and body, through their indifference +to duty and ignorance of their fellows' suffering.” + +“It is easy to say such things,” answered Mr. Dinneford, who felt the +remarks of Mr. Paulding as almost personal. + +“Yes, it is easy to say them,” returned the missionary, his voice +dropping to a lower key, “and it may be of little use to say them. I am +sometimes almost in despair, standing so nearly alone as I do with my +feet on the very brink of this devastating flood of evil, and getting +back only faint echoes to my calls for help. But when year after year +I see some sheaves coming in as the reward of my efforts and of the few +noble hearts that work with me, I thank God and take courage, and I lift +my voice and call more loudly for help, trusting that I may be heard by +some who, if they would only come up to the help of the Lord against the +mighty, would scatter his foes like chaff on the threshing-floor. But +I am holding you back from your purpose to visit the mayor; I think +you had better act promptly if you would get possession of the child. +I shall be interested in the result, and will take it as a favor if you +will call at the mission again.” + + + + +CHAPTER XV. + + + +_WHEN_ Mr. Dinneford and the policeman sent by the mayor at his +solicitation visited Grubb's court, the baby was not to be found. The +room in which it had been seen by Mr. Paulding was vacant. Such a room +as it was!--low and narrow, with bare, blackened walls, the single +window having scarcely two whole panes of glass, the air loaded with the +foulness that exhaled from the filth-covered floor, the only furniture a +rough box and a dirty old straw bed lying in a corner. + +As Mr. Dinneford stood at the door of this room and inhaled its fetid +air, he grew sick, almost faint. Stepping back, with a shocked and +disgusted look on his face, he said to the policeman, + +“There must be a mistake. This cannot be the room.” + +Two or three children and a coarse, half-clothed woman, seeing a +gentleman going into the house accompanied by a policeman, had followed +them closely up stairs. + +“Who lives in this room?” asked the policeman, addressing the woman. + +“Don't know as anybody lives there now,” she replied, with evident +evasion. + +“Who did live here?” demanded the policeman. + +“Oh, lots!” returned the woman, curtly. + +“I want to know who lived here last,” said the policeman, a little +sternly. + +“Can't say--never keep the run of 'em,” answered the woman, with more +indifference than she felt. “Goin' and comin' all the while. Maybe it +was Poll Davis.” + +“Had she a baby?” + +The woman gave a vulgar laugh as she replied: “I rather think not.” + +“It was Moll Fling,” said one of the children, “and she had a baby.” + +“When was she here last?” inquired the policeman. + +The woman, unseen by the latter, raised her fist and threatened the +child, who did not seem to be in the least afraid of her, for she +answered promptly: + +“She went away about an hour ago.” + +“And took the baby?” + +“Yes. You see Mr. Paulding was here asking about the baby, and she got +scared.” + +“Why should that scare her?” + +“I don't know, only it isn't her baby.” + +“How do you know that?” + +“'Cause it isn't--I know it isn't. She's paid to take care of it.” + +“Who by?” + +“Pinky Swett.” + +“Who's Pinky Swett?” + +“Don't you know Pinky Swett?” and the child seemed half surprised. + +“Where does Pinky Swett live?” asked the policeman. + +“She did live next door for a while, but I don't know where she's gone.” + +Nothing beyond this could be ascertained. But having learned the names +of the women who had possession of the child, the policeman said there +would be no difficulty about discovering them. It might take a little +time, but they could not escape the vigilance of the police. + +With this assurance, Mr. Dinneford hastened from the polluted air of +Grubb's court, and made his way to the mission in Briar street, in order +to have some further conference with Mr. Paulding. + +“As I feared,” said the missionary, on learning that the baby could not +be found. “These creatures are as keen of scent as Indians, and know +the smallest sign of danger. It is very plain that there is something +wrong--that these women have no natural right to the child, and that +they are not using it to beg with.” + +“Do you know a woman called Pinky Swett?” asked the policeman. + +“I've heard of her, but do not know her by sight. She bears a hard +reputation even here, and adds to her many evil accomplishments the +special one of adroit robbery. A victim lured to her den rarely escapes +without loss of watch or pocket-book. And not one in a hundred dares to +give information, for this would expose him to the public, and so her +crimes are covered. Pinky Swett is not the one to bother herself about +a baby unless its parentage be known, and not then unless the knowledge +can be turned to advantage.” + +“The first thing to be done, then, is to find this woman,” said the +policeman. + +“That will not be very hard work. But finding the baby, if she thinks +you are after it, would not be so easy,” returned Mr. Paulding. “She's +as cunning as a fox.” + +“We shall see. If the chief of police undertakes to find the baby, it +won't be out of sight long. You'd better confer with the mayor again,” + added the policeman, addressing Mr. Dinneford. + +“I will do so without delay,” returned that gentleman. + +“I hope to see you here again soon,” said the missionary as Mr. +Dinneford was about going. “If I can help you in any way, I shall do so +gladly.” + +“I have no doubt but that you can render good service.” Then, in half +apology, and to conceal the real concern at his heart, Mr. Dinneford +added, “Somehow, and strangely enough when I come to think of it, I have +allowed myself to get drawn into this thing, and once in, the natural +persistence of my character leads me to go on to the end. I am one of +those who cannot bear to give up or acknowledge a defeat; and so, having +set my hand to this work, I am going to see it through.” + +When the little girl who had taken Edith to the mission-house in Briar +street got home and told her story, there was a ripple of excitement in +that part of Grubb's court where she lived, and a new interest was felt +in the poor neglected baby. Mr. Paulding's visit and inquiries added to +this interest. It had been several days since Pinky Swett's last visit +to the child to see that it was safe. On the morning after Edith's call +at the mission she came in about ten o'clock, and heard the news. In +less than twenty minutes the child and the woman who had charge of it +both disappeared from Grubb's court. Pinky sent them to her own room, +not many squares distant, and then drew from the little girl who was in +Edith's sewing-class all she knew about that young lady. It was not much +that the child could tell. She was very sweet and good and handsome, and +wore such beautiful clothes, was so kind and patient with the girls, but +she did not remember her name, thought it was Edith. + +“Now, see here,” said Pinky, and she put some money into the child's +hand; “I want you to find out for me what her name is and where she +lives. Mind, you must be very careful to remember.” + +“What do you want to know for?” asked the little girl. + +“That's none of your business. Do what I tell you,” returned Pinky, with +impatience; “and if you do it right, I'll give you a quarter more. When +do you go again?” + +“Next week, on Thursday.” + +“Not till next Thursday!” exclaimed Pinky, in a tone of disappointment. + +“The school's only once a week.” + +Pinky chafed a good deal, but it was of no use; she must wait. + +“You'll be sure and go next Thursday?” she said. + +“If Mother lets me,” replied the child. + +“Oh, I'll see to that; I'll make her let you. What time does the school +go in?” + +“At three o'clock.” + +“Very well. You wait for me. I'll come round here at half-past two, and +go with you. I want to see the young lady. They'll let me come into the +school and learn to sew, won't they?” + +“I don't know; you're too big, and you don't want to learn.” + +“How do you know I don't?” + +“Because I do.” + +Pinky laughed, and then said, + +“You'll wait for me?” + +“Yes, if mother says so.” + +“All right;” and Pinky hurried away to take measures for hiding the baby +from a search that she felt almost sure was about being made. The first +thing she did was to soundly abuse the woman in whose care she had +placed the hapless child for her neglect and ill treatment, both of +which were too manifest, and then to send her away under the new aspect +of affairs she did not mean to trust this woman, nor indeed to trust +anybody who knew anything of the inquiries which had been made about the +child. A new nurse must be found, and she must live as far away from the +old locality as possible. Pinky was not one inclined to put things off. +Thought and act were always close together. Scarcely had the woman been +gone ten minutes, before, bundling the baby in a shawl, she started off +to find a safer hiding-place. This time she was more careful about the +character and habits of the person selected for a nurse, and the baby's +condition was greatly improved. The woman in whose charge she placed it +was poor, but neither drunken nor depraved. Pinky arranged with her to +take the care of it for two dollars a week, and supplied it with clean +and comfortable clothing. Even she, wicked and vile as she was, could +not help being touched by the change that appeared in the baby's +shrunken face, and in its sad but beautiful eyes, after its wasted +little body had been cleansed and clothed in clean, warm garments and it +had taken its fill of nourishing food. + +“It's a shame, the way it has been abused,” said Pinky, speaking from an +impulse of kindness, such as rarely swelled in her evil heart. + +“A crying shame,” answered the woman as she drew the baby close against +her bosom and gazed down upon its pitiful face, and into the large brown +eyes that were lifted to hers in mute appeal. + +The real motherly tenderness that was in this woman's heart was quickly +perceived by the child, who did not move its eyes from hers, but lay +perfectly still, gazing up at her in a kind of easeful rest such as it +had never before known. She spoke to it in loving tones, touched its +thin cheeks with her finger in playful caresses, kissed it on its lips +and forehead, hugged it to her bosom; and still the eyes were fixed on +hers in a strange baby-wonder, though not the faintest glinting of a +smile played on its lips or over its serious face. Had it never learned +to smile? + +At last the poor thin lips curved a little, crushing out the lines of +suffering, and into the eyes there came a loving glance in place of the +fixed, wondering look that was almost a stare. A slight lifting of the +hands, a motion of the head, a thrill through the whole body came next, +and then a tender cooing sound. + +“Did you ever see such beautiful eyes?” said the woman. “It will be a +splendid baby when it has picked up a little.” + +“Let it pick up as fast as it can,” returned Pinky; “but mind what I +say: you are to be mum. Here's your pay for the first week, and you +shall have it fair and square always. Call it your own baby, if you +will, or your grandson. Yes, that's better. He's the child of your dead +daughter, just sent to you from somewhere out of town. So take good +care of him, and keep your mouth shut. I'll be round again in a little +while.” + +And with this injunction Pinky went away. On the next Thursday she +visited the St. John's mission sewing-school in company with the little +girl from Grubb's court, but greatly to her disappointment, Edith did +not make her appearance. There were four or five ladies in attendance +on the school, which, under the superintendence of one of them, a woman +past middle life, with a pale, serious face and a voice clear and sweet, +was conducted with an order and decorum not often maintained among a +class of children such as were there gathered together. + +It was a long time since Pinky had found herself so repressed and ill +at ease. There was a spiritual atmosphere in the place that did not +vitalize her blood. She felt a sense of constriction and suffocation. +She had taken her seat in the class taught usually by Edith, with the +intention of studying that young lady and finding out all she could +about her, not doubting her ability to act the part in hand with perfect +self-possession. But she had not been in the room a minute before +confidence began to die, and very soon she found herself ill at ease and +conscious of being out of her place. The bold, bad woman felt weak and +abashed. An unseen sphere of purity and Christian love surrounded and +touched her soul with as palpable an impression as outward things give +to the body. She had something of the inward distress and pain a devil +would feel if lifted into the pure air of heaven, and the same desire +to escape and plunge back into the dense and impure atmosphere in +which evil finds its life and enjoyment. If she had come with any good +purpose, it would have been different, but evil, and only evil, was in +her heart; and when this felt the sphere of love and purity, her breast +was constricted and life seemed going out of her. + +It was little less than torture to Pinky for the short time she +remained. As soon as she was satisfied that Edith would not be there, +she threw down the garment on which she had been pretending to sew, and +almost ran from the room. + +“Who is that girl?” asked the lady who was teaching the class, looking +in some surprise after the hurrying figure. + +“It's Pinky Swett,” answered the child from Grubb's court. “She wanted +to see our teacher.” + +“Who is your regular teacher?” was inquired. + +“Don't remember her name.” + +“It's Edith,” spoke up one of the girls. “Mrs. Martin called her that.” + +“What did this Pinky Swett want to see her about?” + +“Don't know,” answered the child as she remembered the money Pinky had +given her and the promise of more. + +The teacher questioned no further, but went on with her work in the +class. + + + + +CHAPTER XVI. + + + +_IT_ was past midday when Mr. Dinneford returned home after his +fruitless search. Edith, who had been waiting for hours in restless +suspense, heard his step in the hall, and ran down to meet him. + +“Did you see the baby?”' she asked, trying to keep her agitation down. + +Mr. Dinneford only shook his head, + +“Why, not, father?” Her voice choked. + +“It could not be found.” + +“You saw Mr. Paulding?” + +“Yes.” + +“Didn't he find the baby?” + +“Oh yes. But when I went to Grubb's court this morning, it was not +there, and no one could or would give any information about it. As the +missionary feared, those having possession of the baby had taken alarm +and removed it to another place. But I have seen the mayor and some of +the police, and got them interested. It will not be possible to hide the +child for any length of time.” + +“You said that Mr. Paulding saw it?” + +“Yes.” + +“What did he say?” Edith's voice trembled as she asked the question. + +“He thinks there is something wrong.” + +“Did he tell you how the baby looked?” + +“He said that it had large, beautiful brown eyes.” + +Edith clasped her hands, and drew them tightly against her bosom. + +“Oh, father! if it should be my baby!” + +“My dear, dear child,” said Mr. Dinneford, putting his arms about Edith +and holding her tightly, “you torture yourself with a wild dream. The +thing is impossible.” + +“It is somebody's baby,” sobbed Edith, her face on her father's breast, +“and it may be mine. Who knows?” + +“We will do our best to find it,” returned Mr. Dinneford, “and then do +what Christian charity demands. I am in earnest so far, and will leave +nothing undone, you may rest assured. The police have the mayor's +instructions to find the baby and give it into my care, and I do not +think we shall have long to wait.” + +An ear they thought not of, heard all this. Mrs. Dinneford's suspicions +had been aroused by many things in Edith's manner and conduct of late, +and she had watched her every look and word and movement with a keenness +of observation that let nothing escape. Careful as her husband and +daughter were in their interviews, it was impossible to conceal anything +from eyes that never failed in watchfulness. An unguarded word here, a +look of mutual intelligence there, a sudden silence when she appeared, +an unusual soberness of demeanor and evident absorbed interest in +something they were careful to conceal, had the effect to quicken all +Mrs. Dinneford's alarms and suspicions. + +She had seen from the top of the stairs a brief but excited interview +pass between Edith and her father as the latter stood in the vestibule +that morning, and she had noticed the almost wild look on her daughter's +face as she hastened back along the hall and ran up to her room. Here +she stayed alone for over an hour, and then came down to the parlor, +where she remained restless, moving about or standing by the window for +a greater part of the morning. + +There was something more than usual on hand. Guilt in its guesses came +near the truth. What could all this mean, if it had not something to +do with the cast-off baby? Certainty at last came. She was in the +dining-room when Edith ran down to meet her father in the hall, and +slipped noiselessly and unobserved into one of the parlors, where, +concealed by a curtain, she heard everything that passed between her +husband and daughter. + +Still as death she stood, holding down the strong pulses of her heart. +From the hall Edith and her father turned into one of the parlors--the +same in which Mrs. Dinneford was concealed behind the curtain--and sat +down. + +“It had large brown eyes?” said Edith, a yearning tenderness in her +voice. + +“Yes, and a finely-formed bead, showing good parentage,” returned the +father. + +“Didn't you find out who the women were--the two bad women the little +girl told me about? If we had their names, the police could find them. +The little girl's mother must know who they are.” + +“We have the name of one of them,” said Mr. Dinneford. “She is called +Pinky Swett, and it can't be long before the police are on her track. +She is said to be a desperate character. Nothing more can be done now; +we must wait until the police work up the affair. I will call at the +mayor's office in the morning and find out what has been done.” + +Mrs. Dinneford heard no more. The bell rang, and her husband and +daughter left the parlor and went up stairs. The moment they were beyond +observation she glided noiselessly through the hall, and reached her +chamber without being noticed. Soon afterward she came down dressed for +visiting, and went out hastily, her veil closely drawn. Her manner was +hurried. Descending the steps, she stood for a single moment, as if +hesitating which way to go, and then moved off rapidly. Soon she had +passed out of the fashionable neighborhood in which she lived. After +this she walked more slowly, and with the air of one whose mind was +in doubt or hesitation. Once she stopped, and turning about, slowly +retraced her steps for the distance of a square. Then she wheeled +around, as if from some new and strong resolve, and went on again. At +last she paused before a respectable-looking house of moderate size in a +neighborhood remote from the busier and more thronged parts of the city. +The shutters were all bowed down to the parlor, and the house had a +quiet, unobtrusive look. Mrs. Dinneford gave a quick, anxious glance up +and down the street, and then hurriedly ascended the steps and rang the +bell. + +“Is Mrs. Hoyt in?” she asked of a stupid-looking girl who came to the +door. + +“Yes, ma'am,” was answered. + +“Tell her a lady wants to see her;” and she passed into the +plainly-furnished parlor. There were no pictures on the walls nor +ornaments on the mantel-piece, nor any evidence of taste--nothing +home-like--in the shadowed room, the atmosphere of which was close and +heavy. She waited here for a few moments, when there was a rustle of +garments and the sound of light, quick feet on the stairs. A small, +dark-eyed, sallow-faced woman entered the parlor. + +“Mrs. Bray--no, Mrs. Hoyt.” + +“Mrs. Dinneford;” and the two women stood face to face for a few +moments, each regarding the other keenly. + +“Mrs. Hoyt--don't forget,” said the former, with a warning emphasis in +her voice. “Mrs. Bray is dead.” + +In her heart Mrs. Dinneford wished that it were indeed so. + +“Anything wrong?” asked the black-eyed little woman. + +“Do you know a Pinky Swett?” asked Mrs. Dinneford, abruptly. + +Mrs. Hoyt--so we must now call her--betrayed surprise at this +question, and was about answering “No,” but checked herself and gave a +half-hesitating “Yes,” adding the question, “What about her?” + +Before Mrs. Dinneford could reply, however, Mrs. Hoyt took hold of her +arm and said, “Come up to my room. Walls have ears sometimes, and I will +not answer for these.” + +Mrs. Dinneford went with her up stairs to a chamber in the rear part of +the building. + +“We shall be out of earshot here,” said Mrs. Hoyt as she closed the +door, locking it at the same time. “And now tell me what's up, and what +about Pinky Swett.” + +“You know her?” + +“Yes, slightly.” + +“More than slightly, I guess.” + +Mrs. Hoyt's eyes flashed impatiently. Mrs. Dinneford saw it, and took +warning. + +“She's got that cursed baby.” + +“How do you know?” + +“No matter how I know. It's enough that I know. Who is she?” + +“That question may be hard to answer. About all I know of her is that +she came from the country a few years ago, and has been drifting about +here ever since.” + +“What is she doing with that baby? and how did she get hold of it?” + +“Questions more easily asked than answered.” + +“Pshaw! I don't want any beating about the bush, Mrs. Bray.” + +“Mrs. Hoyt,” said the person addressed. + +“Oh, well, Mrs. Hoyt, then. We ought to understand each other by this +time.” + +“I guess we do;” and the little woman arched her brows. + +“I don't want any beating about the bush,” resumed Mrs. Dinneford. “I am +here on business.” + +“Very well; let's to business, then;” and Mrs. Hoyt leaned back in her +chair. + +“Edith knows that this woman has the baby,” said Mrs. Dinneford. + +“What!” and Mrs. Hoyt started to her feet. + +“The mayor has been seen, and the police are after her.” + +“How do you know?” + +“Enough that I know. And now, Mrs. Hoyt, this thing must come to an +end, and there is not an instant to be lost. Has Pinky Swett, as she is +called, been told where the baby came from?” + +“Not by me.” + +“By anybody?” + +“That is more than I can say.” + +“What has become of the woman I gave it to?” + +“She's about somewhere.” + +“When did you see her?” + +Mrs. Hoyt pretended to think for some moments, and then replied: + +“Not for a month or two.” + +“Had she the baby then?” + +“No; she was rid of it long before that.” + +“Did she know this Pinky Swett?” + +“Yes.” + +“Curse the brat! If I'd thought all this trouble was to come, I'd have +smothered it before it was half an hour old.” + +“Risky business,” remarked Mrs. Hoyt. + +“Safer than to have let it live,” said Mrs. Dinneford, a hard, evil +expression settling around her mouth. “And now I want the thing done. +You understand. Find this Pinky Swett. The police are after her, and may +be ahead of you. I am desperate, you see. Anything but the discovery and +possession of this child by Edith. It must be got out of the way. If it +will not starve, it must drown.” + +Mrs. Dinneford's face was distorted by the strength of her evil +passions. Her eyes were full of fire, flashing now, and now glaring like +those of a wild animal. + +“It might fall out of a window,” said Mrs. Hoyt, in a low, even voice, +and with a faint smile on her lips. “Children fall out of windows +sometimes.” + +“But don't always get killed,” answered Mrs. Dinneford, coldly. + +“Or, it might drop from somebody's arms into the river--off the deck of +a ferryboat, I mean,” added Mrs. Hoyt. + +“That's better. But I don't care how it's done, so it's done.” + +“Accidents are safer,” said Mrs. Hoyt. + +“I guess you're right about that. Let it be an accident, then.” + +It was half an hour from the time Mrs. Dinneford entered this house +before she came away. As she passed from the door, closely veiled, a +gentleman whom she knew very well was going by on the opposite side +of the street. From something in his manner she felt sure that he +had recognized her, and that the recognition had caused him no little +surprise. Looking back two or three times as she hurried homeward, she +saw, to her consternation, that he was following her, evidently with the +purpose of making sure of her identity. + +To throw this man off of her track was Mrs. Dinneford's next concern. +This she did by taking a street-car that was going in a direction +opposite to the part of the town in which she lived, and riding for +a distance of over a mile. An hour afterward she came back to her own +neighborhood, but not without a feeling of uneasiness. Just as she +was passing up to the door of her residence a gentleman came hurriedly +around the nearest corner. She recognized him at a glance. It seemed as +if the servant would never answer her ring. On he came, until the sound +of his steps was in her ears. He was scarcely ten paces distant when the +door opened and she passed in. When she gained her room, she sat down +faint and trembling. Here was a new element in the danger and disgrace +that were digging her steps so closely. + +As we have seen, Edith did not make her appearance at the mission +sewing-school on the following Thursday, nor did she go there for many +weeks afterward. The wild hope that had taken her to Briar street, the +nervous strain and agitation attendant on that visit, and the reaction +occasioned by her father's failure to get possession of the baby, were +too much for her strength, and an utter prostration of mind and body was +the consequence. There was no fever nor sign of any active disease--only +weakness, Nature's enforced quietude, that life and reason might be +saved. + + + + +CHAPTER XVII. + + + +_THE_ police were at fault. They found Pinky Swett, but were not able to +find the baby. Careful as they were in their surveillance, she managed +to keep them on the wrong track and to baffle every effort to discover +what had been done with the child. + +In this uncertainty months went by. Edith came up slowly from her +prostrate condition, paler, sadder and quieter, living in a kind of +waking dream. Her father tried to hold her back from her mission work +among the poor, but she said, “I must go, father; I will die if I do +not.” + +And so her life lost itself in charities. Now and then her mother +made an effort to draw her into society. She had not yet given up her +ambition, nor her hope of one day seeing her daughter take social rank +among the highest, or what she esteemed the highest. But her power over +Edith was entirely gone. She might as well have set herself to turn +the wind from its course as to influence her in anything. It was all in +vain. Edith had dropped out of society, and did not mean to go back. She +had no heart for anything outside of her home, except the Christian work +to which she had laid her hands. + +The restless, watchful, suspicious manner exhibited for a long time by +Mrs. Dinneford, and particularly noticed by Edith, gradually wore off. +She grew externally more like her old self, but with something new in +the expression of her face when in repose, that gave a chill to the +heart of Edith whenever she saw its mysterious record, that seemed in +her eyes only an imperfect effort to conceal some guilty secret. + +Thus the mother and daughter, though in daily personal contact, stood +far apart--were internally as distant from each other as the antipodes. + +As for Mr. Dinneford, what he had seen and heard on his first visit to +Briar street had aroused him to a new and deeper sense of his duty as +a citizen. Against all the reluctance and protests of his natural +feelings, he had compelled himself to stand face to face with the +appalling degradation and crime that festered and rioted in that almost +Heaven-deserted region. He had heard and read much about its evil +condition; but when, under the protection of a policeman, he went from +house to house, from den to den, through cellar and garret and hovel, +comfortless and filthy as dog-kennels and pig-styes, and saw the sick +and suffering, the utterly vile and debauched, starving babes and +children with faces marred by crime, and the legion of harpies who were +among them as birds of prey, he went back to his home sick at heart, and +with a feeling of helplessness and hopelessness out of which he found it +almost impossible to rise. + +We cannot stain our pages with a description of what he saw. It is so +vile and terrible, alas, so horrible, that few would credit it. The few +imperfect glimpses of life in that region which we have already given +are sad enough and painful enough, but they only hint at the real truth. + +“What can be done?” asked Mr. Dinneford of the missionary, at their next +meeting, in a voice that revealed his utter despair of a remedy. “To me +it seems as if nothing but fire could purify this region.” + +“The causes that have produced this would soon create another as bad,” + was answered. + +“What are the causes?” + +“The primary cause,” said Mr. Paulding, “is the effort of hell to +establish itself on the earth for the destruction of human souls; the +secondary cause lies in the indifference and supineness of the people. +'While the husband-men slept the enemy sowed tares.' Thus it was of +old, and thus it is to-day. The people are sleeping or indifferent, the +churches are sleeping or indifferent, while the enemy goes on sowing +tares for the harvest of death.” + +“Well may you say the harvest of death,” returned Mr. Dinneford, +gloomily. + +“And hell,” added the missionary, with a stern emphasis. “Yes, sir, it +is the harvest of death and hell that is gathered here, and such a +full harvest! There is little joy in heaven over the sheaves that are +garnered in this accursed region. What hope is there in fire, or any +other purifying process, if the enemy be permitted to go on sowing his +evil seed at will?” + +“How will you prevent it?” asked Mr. Dinneford. + +“Not by standing afar off and leaving the enemy in undisputed +possession--not by sleeping while he sows and reaps and binds into +bundles for the fires, his harvests of human souls! We must be as alert +and wise and ready of hand as he; and God being our helper, we can drive +him from the field!” + +“You have thought over this sad problem a great deal,” said Mr. +Dinneford. “You have stood face to face with the enemy for years, and +know his strength and his resources. Have you any well-grounded hope of +ever dislodging him from this stronghold?” + +“I have just said it, Mr. Dinneford. But until the churches and the +people come up to the help of the Lord against the mighty, he cannot be +dislodged. I am standing here, sustained in my work by a small band of +earnest Christian men and women, like an almost barren rock in the midst +of a down-rushing river on whose turbulent surface thousands are being +swept to destruction. The few we are able to rescue are as a drop in +the bucket to the number who are lost. In weakness and sorrow, almost +in despair sometimes, we stand on our rock, with the cry of lost souls +mingling with the cry of fiends in our ears, and wonder at the churches +and the people, that they stand aloof--nay, worse, turn from us coldly +often--when we press the claims of this worse than heathen people who +are perishing at their very doors. + +“Sir,” continued the missionary, warming on his theme, “I was in a +church last Sunday that cost its congregation over two hundred thousand +dollars. It was an anniversary occasion, and the collections for the day +were to be given to some foreign mission. How eloquently the preacher +pleaded for the heathen! What vivid pictures of their moral and +spiritual destitution he drew! How full of pathos he was, even to tears! +And the congregation responded in a contribution of over three thousand +dollars, to be sent somewhere, and to be disbursed by somebody of whom +not one in a hundred of the contributors knew anything or took the +trouble to inform themselves. I felt sick and oppressed at such a +waste of money and Christian sympathy, when heathen more destitute and +degraded than could be found in any foreign land were dying at home in +thousands every year, unthought of and uncared for. I gave no amens to +his prayers--I could not. They would have stuck in my throat. I said to +myself, in bitterness and anger, 'How dare a watchman on the walls +of Zion point to an enemy afar off, of whose movements and power and +organization he knows but little, while the very gates of the city are +being stormed and its walls broken down?' But you must excuse me, Mr. +Dinneford. I lose my calmness sometimes when these things crowd my +thoughts too strongly. I am human like the rest, and weak, and cannot +stand in the midst of this terrible wickedness and suffering year after +year without being stirred by it to the very inmost of my being. In my +intense absorption I can see nothing else sometimes.” + +He paused for a little while, and then said, in a quiet, business way, + +“In seeking a remedy for the condition of society found here, we must +let common sense and a knowledge of human nature go hand in hand with +Christian charity. To ignore any of these is to make failure certain. If +the whisky-and policy-shops were all closed, the task would be easy. In +a single month the transformation would be marvelous. But we cannot hope +for this, at least not for a long time to come--not until politics and +whisky are divorced, and not until associations of bad men cease to +be strong enough in our courts to set law and justice at defiance. Our +work, then, must be in the face of these baleful influences.” + +“Is the evil of lottery-policies so great that you class it with the +curse of rum?” asked Mr. Dinneford. + +“It is more concealed, but as all-pervading and almost as disastrous in +its effects. The policy-shops draw from the people, especially the poor +and ignorant, hundreds of thousands of dollars every year. There is no +more chance of thrift for one who indulges in this sort of gambling than +there is for one who indulges in drink. The vice in either case drags +its subject down to want, and in most cases to crime. I could point you +to women virtuous a year ago, but who now live abandoned lives; and they +would tell you, if you would question them, that their way downward +was through the policy-shops. To get the means of securing a hoped-for +prize--of getting a hundred or two hundred dollars for every single +one risked, and so rising above want or meeting some desperate +exigency--virtue was sacrificed in an evil moment.” + +“The whisky-shops brutalize, benumb and debase or madden with cruel and +murderous passions; the policy-shops, more seductive and fascinating in +their allurements, lead on to as deep a gulf of moral ruin and hopeless +depravity. I have seen the poor garments of a dying child sold at a +pawn-shop for a mere trifle by its infatuated mother, and the money +thrown away in this kind of gambling. Women sell or pawn their clothing, +often sending their little children to dispose of these articles, while +they remain half clad at home to await the daily drawings and receive +the prize they fondly hope to obtain, but which rarely, if ever, comes. + +“Children learn early to indulge this vice, and lie and steal in order +to obtain money to gratify it. You would be amazed to see the scores of +little boys and girls, white and black, who daily visit the policy-shops +in this neighborhood to put down the pennies they have begged or +received for stolen articles on some favorite numbers--quick-witted, +sharp, eager little wretches, who talk the lottery slang as glibly as +older customers. What hope is there in the future for these children? +Will their education in the shop of a policy-dealer fit them to become +honest, industrious citizens?” + +All this was so new and dreadful to Mr. Dinneford that he was stunned +and disheartened; and when, after an interview with the missionary +that lasted over an hour, he went away, it was with a feeling of utter +discouragement. He saw little hope of making head against the flood of +evil that was devastating this accursed region. + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII. + + + +_MRS. HOYT_, _alias_ Bray, found Pinky Swett, but she did not find the +poor cast-off baby. Pinky had resolved to make it her own capital in +trade. She parleyed and trifled with Mrs. Hoyt week after week, and each +did her best to get down to the other's secret, but in vain. Mutually +baffled, they parted at last in bitter anger. + +One day, about two months after the interview between Mrs. Dinneford +and Mrs. Hoyt described in another chapter, the former received in an +envelope a paragraph cut from a newspaper. It read as follows: + +“A CHILD DROWNED.--A sad accident occurred yesterday on board the +steamer Fawn as she was going down the river. A woman was standing with +a child in her arms near the railing on the lower deck forward. Suddenly +the child gave a spring, and was out of her arms in a moment. She caught +after it frantically, but in vain. Every effort was made to recover the +child, but all proved fruitless. It did not rise to the surface of the +water.” + +Mrs. Dinneford read the paragraph twice, and then tore it into little +bits. Her mouth set itself sternly. A long sigh of relief came up from +her chest. After awhile the hard lines began slowly to disappear, giving +place to a look of satisfaction and comfort. + +“Out of my way at last,” she staid, rising and beginning to move about +the room. But the expression of relief and confidence which had come +into her face soon died out. The evil counselors that lead the soul into +sin become its tormentors after the sin is committed, and torture it +with fears. So tortured they this guilty and wretched woman at every +opportunity. They led her on step by step to do evil, and then crowded +her mind with suggestions of perils and consequences the bare thought of +which filled her with terror. + +It was only a few weeks after this that Mrs. Dinneford, while looking +over a morning paper, saw in the court record the name of Pinky +Swett. This girl had been tried for robbing a man of his pocket-book, +containing five hundred dollars, found guilty, and sentenced to prison +for a term of two years. + +“Good again!” exclaimed Mrs. Dinneford, with satisfaction. “The wheel +turns.” + +After that she gradually rose above the doubts and dread of exposure +that haunted her continually, and set herself to work to draw her +daughter back again into society. But she found her influence over Edith +entirely gone. Indeed, Edith stood so far away from her that she seemed +more like a stranger than a child. + +Two or three times had Pinky Swett gone to the mission sewing-school in +order to get a sight of Edith. Her purpose was to follow her home, and +so find out her name and were she lived. With this knowledge in her +possession, she meant to visit Mrs. Bray, and by a sudden or casual +mention by name of Edith as the child's mother throw her off her guard, +and lead her to betray the fact if it were really so. But Edith was sick +at home, and did not go to the school. After a few weeks the little girl +who was to identify Edith as the person who had shown so much interest +in the baby was taken away from Grubb's court by her mother, and nobody +could tell where to find her. So, Pinky had to abandon her efforts in +this direction, and Edith, when she was strong enough to go back to +the sewing-school, missed the child, from whom she was hoping to hear +something that might give a clue to where the poor waif had been taken. + +Up to the time of her arrest and imprisonment, Pinky had faithfully paid +the child's board, and looked in now and then upon the woman who had it +in charge, to see that it was properly cared for. How marvelously the +baby had improved in these two or three months! The shrunken limb's were +rounded into beautiful symmetry, and the pinched face looked full and +rosy. The large brown eyes, in which you once saw only fear or a mystery +of suffering, were full of a happy light, and the voice rang out often +in merry child-laughter. The baby had learned to walk, and was daily +growing more and more lovable. + +But after Pinky's imprisonment there was a change. The woman--Mrs. Burke +by name--in whose care the child had been placed could not afford to +keep him for nothing. The two dollars week received for his board added +just enough to her income to enable her to remain at home. But failing +to receive this, she must go out for day's work in families at least +twice in every week. + +What, then, was to be done with little Andy, as the baby was called? +At first Mrs. Burke thought of getting him into one of the homes +for friendless children, but the pleasant child had crept into her +affections, and she could not bear the thought of giving him up. His +presence stirred in her heart old and tender things long buried out of +sight, and set the past, with its better and purer memories, side +by side with the present. She had been many times a mother, but her +children were all dead but one, and she--Alas! the thought of her, +whenever it came, made her heart heavy and sad. + +“I will keep him a while and see, how it comes out,” she said, on +getting the promise of a neighbor to let Andy play with her children and +keep an eye on him whenever she was out. He had grown strong, and could +toddle about and take care of himself wonderfully well for a child of +his age. + +And now began a new life for the baby--a life in which he must look +out for himself and hold his own in a hand-to-hand struggle. He had no +rights that the herd of children among whom he was thrown felt bound to +respect; and if he were not able to maintain his rights, he must go down +helplessly, and he did go down daily, often hourly. But he had will and +vital force, and these brought him always to his feet again, and with +strength increased rather than lost. On the days that Mrs. Burke went +out he lived for most of the time in the little street, playing with the +children that swarmed its pavements, often dragged from before wheels or +horses' hoofs by a friendly hand, or lifted from some gutter in which he +had fallen, dripping with mud. + +When Mrs. Burke came home on the evening of her first day out, the baby +was a sight to see. His clothes were stiff with dirt, his shoes and +stockings wet, and his face more like that of a chimney-sweep than +anything else. But this was not all; there was a great lump as large +as a pigeon's egg on the back of his head, a black-and-blue spot on his +forehead and a bad cut on his upper lip. His joy at seeing her and the +tearful cry he gave as he threw his arm's about her neck quite overcame +Mrs. Burke, and caused her eyes to grow dim. She was angry at the plight +in which she found him, and said some hard things to the woman who had +promised to look after the child, at which the latter grew angry in +turn, and told her to stay at home and take care of the brat herself, or +put him in one of the homes. + +The fresh care and anxiety felt by Mrs. Burke drew little Andy nearer +and made her reject more decidedly the thought of giving him up. She +remained at home on the day following, but did not find it so easy as +before to keep the baby quiet. He had got a taste of the free, wild life +of the street, of its companionship and excitement, and fretted to go +out. Toward evening she put by her work and went on the pavement with +Andy. It was swarming with children. At the sight of them he began to +scream with pleasure. Pulling his hand free from that of Mrs. Burke, +he ran in among them, and in a moment after was tumbled over on the +pavement. His head got a hard knock, but he didn't seem to mind it, for +he scrambled to his feet and commenced tossing his hands about, laughing +and crying out as wildly as the rest. In a little while, over he was +knocked again, and as he fell one of the children stepped on his hand +and hurt him so that he screamed with pain. Mrs. Burke caught him in her +arms; but when he found that she was going to take him in the house he +stopped crying and struggled to get down. He was willing to take the +knocks and falls. The pleasure of this free life among children was more +to him than any of the suffering it brought. + +On the next day Mrs. Burke had to go out again. Another neighbor +promised to look after Andy. When she returned at night, she found +things worse, if anything, than before. The child was dirtier, if that +were possible, and there were two great lumps on his head, instead of +one. He had been knocked down by a horse in the street, escaping death +by one of the narrowest of chances, and had been discovered and removed +from a ladder up which he had climbed a distance of twenty feet. + +What help was there? None that Mrs. Burke knew, except to give up the +child, and she was not unselfish enough for this. The thought of sending +him away was always attended with pain. It would take the light out of +her poor lonely life, into which he had brought a few stray sunbeams. + +She could not, she would not, give him up. He must take his chances. Ah, +but they were hard chances! Children mature fast under the stimulus +of street-training. Andy had a large brain and an active, nervous +organization. Life in the open air gave vigor and hardness to his +body. As the months went by he learned self-reliance, caution, +self-protection, and took a good many lessons in the art of aggression. +A rapidly-growing child needs a large amount of nutritious food to +supply waste and furnish material for the daily-increasing bodily +structure. Andy did not get this. At two years of age he had lost all +the roundness of babyhood. His limbs were slender, his body thin and his +face colorless and hungry-looking. + +About this time--that is, when Andy was two years old--Mrs. Burke took +sick and died. She had been failing for several months, and unable to +earn sufficient even to pay her rent. But for the help of neighbors and +an occasional supply of food or fuel from some public charity, she would +have starved. At her death Andy had no home and no one to care for him. +One pitying neighbor after another would take him in at night, or let +him share a meal with her children, but beyond this he was utterly cast +out and friendless. It was summer-time when Mrs. Burke died, and the +poor waif was spared for a time the suffering of cold. + +Now and then a mother's heart would be touched, and after a +half-reluctantly given supper and a place where he might sleep for the +night would mend and wash his soiled clothes and dry them by the fire, +ready for morning. The pleased look that she saw in his large, sad +eyes--for they had grown wistful and sad since the only one he had known +as a mother died--was always her reward, and something not to be put +out of her memory. Many of the children took kindly to Andy, and often +supplied him with food. + +“Andy is so hungry, mamma; can't I take him something to eat?” rarely +failed to bring the needed bread for the poor little cast-adrift. And +if he was discovered now and then sound asleep in bed with some pitying +child who had taken him in stealthily after dark, few were hard-hearted +enough to push him into the street, or make him go down and sleep on the +kitchen floor. Yet this was not unfrequently done. Poverty is sometimes +very cruel, yet often tender and compassionate. + +One day, a few months after Mrs. Burke's death, Andy, who was beginning +to drift farther and farther away from the little street, yet always +managing to get back into it as darkness came on, that he might lay his +tired body in some friendly place, got lost in strange localities. +He had wandered about for many hours, sitting now on some step or +cellar-door or horse-block, watching the children at play and sometimes +joining in their sports, when they would let him, with the spontaneous +abandon of a puppy or a kitten, and now enjoying some street-show or +attractive shop-window. There was nothing of the air of a lost child +about him. For all that his manner betrayed, his home might have been in +the nearest court or alley. So, he wandered along from street to +street without attracting the special notice of any--a bare-headed, +bare-footed, dirty, half-clad atom of humanity not three years old. + +Hungry, tired and cold, for the summer was gone and mid-autumn had +brought its chilly nights, Andy found himself, as darkness fell, in a +vile, narrow court, among some children as forlorn and dirty as himself. +It was Grubb's court--his old home--though in his memory there was of +course no record of the place. + +Too tired and hungry for play, Andy was sitting on the step of a +wretched hovel, when the door opened and a woman called sharply the +names of her two children. They answered a little way off. “Come in +this minute, and get your suppers,” she called again, and turning back +without noticing Andy, left the door open for her children. The poor +cast-adrift looked in and saw light and food and comfort--a home that +made him heartsick with longing, mean and disordered and miserable as +it would have appeared to your eyes and mine, reader. The two children, +coming at their mother's call, found him standing just on the threshold +gazing in wistfully; and as they entered, he, drawn by their attraction, +went in also. Then, turning toward her children, the mother saw Andy. + +“Out of this!” she cried, in quick anger, raising her hand and moving +hastily toward the child. “Off home with you!” + +Andy might well be frightened at the terrible face and threatening words +of this woman, and he was frightened. But he did not turn and fly, as +she meant that he should. He had learned, young as he was, that if he +were driven off by every rebuff, he would starve. It was only through +importunity and perseverance that he lived. So he held his ground, his +large, clear eyes fixed steadily on the woman's face as she advanced +upon him. Something in those eyes and in the firmly-set mouth checked +the woman's purpose if she had meant violence, but she thrust him out +into the damp street, nevertheless, though not roughly, and shut the +door against him. + +Andy did not cry; poor little baby that he was, he had long since +learned that for him crying did no good. It brought him nothing. Just +across the street a door stood open. As a stray kitten creeps in through +an open door, so crept he through this one, hoping for shelter and a +place of rest. + +“Who're you?” growled the rough but not unkindly voice of a man, coming +from the darkness. At the same moment a light gleamed out from a match, +and then the steadier flame of a candle lit up the small room, not more +than eight or nine feet square, and containing little that could be +called furniture. The floor was bare. In one corner were some old bits +of carpet and a blanket. A small table, a couple of chairs with the +backs broken off and a few pans and dishes made up the inventory of +household goods. + +As the light made all things clear in this poor room, Andy saw the +bloodshot eyes, and grizzly face of a man, not far past middle life. + +“Who are you, little one?” he growled again as the light gave him a view +of Andy's face. This growl had in it a tone of kindness and welcome to +the ears of Andy who came forward, saying, + +“I'm Andy.” + +“Indeed! You're Andy, are you?” and he reached out one of his hands. + +“Yes; I'm Andy,” returned the child, fixing his eyes with a look so +deep and searching on the man's face that they held him as by a kind of +fascination. + +“Well, Andy, where did you come from?” asked the man. + +“Don't know,” was answered. + +“Don't know!” + +Andy shook his head. + +“Where do you live?” + +“Don't live nowhere,” returned the child; “and I'm hungry.” + +“Hungry?” The man let the hand he was still holding drop, and getting up +quickly, took some bread from a closet and set it on the old table. + +Andy did not wait for an invitation, but seized upon the bread and +commenced eating almost ravenously. As he did so the man fumbled in his +pockets. There were a few pennies there. He felt them over, counting +them with his fingers, and evidently in some debate with himself. +At last, as he closed the debate, he said, with a kind of compelled +utterance, + +“I say, young one, wouldn't you like some milk with your bread?” + +“Milk! oh my I oh goody! yes,” answered the child, a gleam of pleasure +coming into his face. + +“Then you shall have some;” and catching up a broken mug, the man went +out. In a minute or two he returned with a pint of milk, into which he +broke a piece of bread, and then sat watching Andy as he filled himself +with the most delicious food he had tasted for weeks, his marred face +beaming with a higher satisfaction than he had known for a long time. + +“Is it good?” asked the man. + +“I bet you!” was the cheery answer. + +“Well, you're a little brick,” laughed the man as he stroked Andy's +head. “And you don't live anywhere?” + +“No.” + +“Is your mother dead?” + +“Yes.” + +“And your father?” + +“Hain't got no father.” + +“Would you like to live here?” + +Andy looked toward the empty bowl from which he had made such a +satisfying meal, and said, + +“Yes.” + +“It will hold us both. You're not very big;” and as he said this the man +drew his arm about the boy in a fond sort of way. + +“I guess you're tired,” he added, for Andy, now that an arm was drawn +around him, leaned against it heavily. + +“Yes, I'm tired,” said the child. + +“And sleepy too, poor little fellow! It isn't much of a bed I can give +you, but it's better than a door-step or a rubbish corner.” + +Then he doubled the only blanket he had, and made as soft a bed as +possible. On this he laid Andy, who was fast asleep almost as soon as +down. + +“Poor little chap!” said the man, in a tender, half-broken voice, as he +stood over the sleeping child, candle in hand. “Poor little chap!” + +The sight troubled him. He turned with a quick, disturbed movement and +put the candle down. The light streaming upward into his face showed +the countenance of a man so degraded by intemperance that everything +attractive had died out of it. His clothes were scanty, worn almost +to tatters, and soiled with the slime and dirt of many an ash-heap or +gutter where he had slept off his almost daily fits of drunkenness. +There was an air of irresolution about him, and a strong play of feeling +in his marred, repulsive face, as he stood by the table on which he +had set the candle. One hand was in his pocket, fumbling over the few +pennies yet remaining there. + +As if drawn by an attraction he could not resist, his eyes kept turning +to the spot where Andy lay sleeping. Once, as they came back, they +rested on the mug from which the child had taken his supper of bread and +milk. + +“Poor little fellow!” came from his lips, in a tone of pity. + +Then he sat down by the table and leaned his head on his hand. His face +was toward the corner of the room where the child lay. He still fumbled +the small coins in his pocket, but after a while his fingers ceased to +play with them, then his hand was slowly withdrawn from the pocket, a +deep sigh accompanying the act. + +After the lapse of several minutes he took up the candle, and going over +to the bed, crouched down and let the light fall on Andy's face. The +large forehead, soiled as it was, looked white to the man's eyes, and +the brown matted hair, as he drew it through his fingers, was soft and +beautiful. Memory had taken him back for years, and he was looking at +the fair forehead and touching the soft brown hair of another baby. His +eyes grew dim. He set the candle upon the floor, and putting his hands +over his face, sobbed two or three times. + +When this paroxysm of feeling went off, he got up with a steadier air, +and set the light back upon the table. The conflict going on in his +mind was not quite over, but another look at Andy settled the question. +Stooping with a hurried movement, he blew out the candle, then groped +his way over to the bed, and lying down, took the child in his arms and +drew him close to his breast. So the morning found them both asleep. + + + + +CHAPTER XIX. + + + +_MR. DINNEFORD_ had become deeply interested in the work that was going +on in Briar street, and made frequent visits to the mission house. +Sometimes he took heart in the work, but oftener he suffered great +discouragement of feeling. In one of his many conversations with Mr. +Paulding he said, + +“Looking as I do from the standpoint gained since I came here, I am +inclined to say there is no hope. The enemy is too strong for us.” + +“He is very strong,” returned the missionary, “but God is stronger, and +our cause is his cause. We have planted his standard here in the very +midst of the enemy's territory, and have not only held our ground for +years, but gained some victories. If we had the people, the churches and +the law-officers on our side, we could drive him out in a year. But we +have no hope of this--at least not for a long time to come; and so, as +wisely as we can, as earnestly as we can, and with the limited means at +our control, we are fighting the foe and helping the weak, and gaining a +little every year.” + +“And you really think there is gain?” + +“I know it,” answered the missionary, with a ringing confidence in his +voice. “It is by comparisons that we are able to get at true results. +Come with me into our school-room, next door.” + +They passed from the office of the mission into the street. + +“These buildings,” said Mr. Paulding, “erected by that true Christian +charity which hopeth all things, stand upon the very site of one of the +worst dens once to be found in this region. In them we have a chapel for +worship, two large and well ventilated school-rooms, where from two to +three hundred children that would not be admitted into any public school +are taught daily, a hospital and dispensary and bathrooms. Let me show +you the school. Then I will give you a measure of comparison.” + +Mr. Dinneford went up to the school-rooms. He found them crowded with +children, under the care of female teachers, who seemed to have but +little trouble in keeping them in order. Such a congregation of boys and +girls Mr. Dinneford had never seen before. It made his heart ache as he +looked into some of their marred and pinched, faces, most of which bore +signs of pain, suffering, want and evil. It moved him to tears when he +heard them sing, led by one of the teachers, a tender hymn expressive of +the Lord's love for poor neglected children. + +“The Lord Jesus came to seek and to save that which was lost,” said the +missionary as they came down from the school-room, “and we are trying to +do the same work. And that our labor is not all in vain will be evident +when I show you what this work was in the beginning. You have seen a +little of what it is now.” + +They went back to the office of the missionary. + +“It is nearly twenty years,” said Mr. Paulding, “since the organization +of our mission. The question of what to do for the children became +at once the absorbing one. The only building in which to open a +Sunday-school that could be obtained was an old dilapidated frame house +used as a receptacle for bones, rags, etc.; but so forbidding was its +aspect, and so noisome the stench arising from the putrefying bones +and rotting rags, that it was feared for the health of those who +might occupy it. However it was agreed to try the effect of scraping, +scrubbing, white-washing and a liberal use of chloride of lime. This +was attended with such good effects that, notwithstanding the place was +still offensive to the olfactories, the managers concluded to open in it +our first Sabbath-school. + +“No difficulty was experienced in gathering in a sufficient number of +children to compose a school; for, excited by such a novel spectacle +as a Sabbath-school in that region, they came in crowds. But such a +Sabbath-school as that first one was beyond all doubt the rarest thing +of the kind that any of those interested in its formation had ever +witnessed. The jostling, tumbling, scratching, pinching, pulling of +hair, little ones crying and larger ones punching each other's heads and +swearing most profanely, altogether formed a scene of confusion and +riot that disheartened the teachers in the start, and made them begin to +think they had undertaken a hopeless task. + +“As to the appearance of these young Ishmaelites, it was plain that they +had rarely made the acquaintance of soap and water. Hands, feet and +face exhibited a uniform crust of mud and filth. As it was necessary to +obtain order, the superintendent, remembering that 'music hath charms +to soothe the savage breast,' decided to try its effects on the untamed +group before him; and giving out a line of a hymn adapted to the tune of +'Lily Dale,' he commenced to sing. The effect was instantaneous. It was +like oil on troubled waters. The delighted youngsters listened to the +first line, and then joined in with such hearty good-will that the old +shanty rang again. + +“The attempt to engage and lead them in prayer was, however, a matter of +great difficulty. They seemed to regard the attitude of kneeling as very +amusing, and were reluctant to commit themselves so far to the ridicule +of their companions as to be caught in such a posture. After reading to +them a portion of the Holy Scriptures and telling them of Jesus, +they were dismissed, greatly pleased with their first visit to a +Sabbath-school. + +“As for ourselves, we had also received a lesson. We found--what indeed +we had expected--that the poor children were very ignorant, but we also +found what we did not expect--namely, such an acute intelligence and +aptitude to receive instruction as admonished us of the danger of +leaving them to grow up under evil influences to become master-spirits +in crime and pests to society. Many of the faces that we had just seen +were very expressive--indeed, painfully so. Some of them seemed to +exhibit an unnatural and premature development of those passions whose +absence makes childhood so attractive. + +“Hunger! ay, its traces were also plainly written there. It is painful +to see the marks of hunger on the human face, but to see the cheeks of +childhood blanched by famine, to behold the attenuated limbs and bright +wolfish eyes, ah! that is a sight. + +“The organization of a day-school came next. There were hundreds of +children in the district close about the mission who were wholly without +instruction. They were too dirty, vicious and disorderly to be admitted +into any of the public schools; and unless some special means of +education were provided, they must grow up in ignorance. It was +therefore resolved to open a day-school, but to find a teacher with her +heart in such a work was a difficulty hard to be met; moreover, it was +thought by many unsafe for a lady to remain in this locality alone, even +though a suitable one should offer. But one brave and self-devoted +was found, and one Sunday it was announced to the children in the +Sabbath-school that a day school would be opened in the same building at +nine o'clock on Monday morning. + +“About thirty neglected little ones from the lanes and alleys around +the mission were found at the schoolroom door at the appointed hour. But +when admitted, very few of them had any idea of the purpose for which +they were collected. The efforts of the teacher to seat them proved a +failure. The idea among them seemed to be that each should take some +part in amusing the company. One would jump from the back of a bench +upon which he had been seated, while others were creeping about the +floor; another, who deemed himself a proficient in turning somersaults, +would be trying his skill in this way, while his neighbor, equally +ambitious, would show the teacher how he could stand on his head. +Occasionally they would pause and listen to the singing of a hymn or the +reading of a little story; then all would be confusion again; and thus +the morning wore away. The first session having closed, the teacher +retired to her home, feeling that a repetition of the scenes through +which she had passed could scarcely be endured. + +“Two o'clock found her again at the door, and the children soon gathered +around her. Upon entering the schoolroom, most of them were induced +to be seated, and a hymn was sung which they had learned in the +Sabbath-school. When it was finished, the question was asked, 'Shall we +pray?' With one accord they answered, 'Yes.' 'And will you be quiet?' +They replied in the affirmative. All were then requested to be silent +and cover their faces. In this posture they remained until the prayer +was closed; and after resuming their seats, for some minutes order was +preserved. This was the only encouraging circumstance of the day. + +“For many weeks a stranger would scarcely have recognized a school in +this disorderly gathering which day after day met in the old gloomy +building. Very many difficulties which we may not name were met and +conquered. Fights were of common occurrence. A description of one may +give the reader an idea of what came frequently under our notice. + +“A rough boy about fourteen years of age, over whom some influence had +been gained, was chosen monitor one morning; and as he was a leader in +all the mischief, it was hoped that putting him upon his honor would +assist in keeping order. Talking aloud was forbidden. For a few minutes +matters went on charmingly, until some one, tired of the restraint, +broke silence. The monitor, feeling the importance of his position, and +knowing of but one mode of redress, instantly struck him a violent blow +upon the ear, causing him to scream with pain. In a moment the school +was a scene of confusion, the friends of each boy taking sides, and +before the cause of trouble could be ascertained most of the boys +were piled upon each other in the middle of the room, creating sounds +altogether indescribable. The teacher, realizing that she was alone, and +not well understanding her influence, feared for a moment to interfere; +but as matters were growing worse, something must be done. She made +an effort to gain the ear of the monitor, and asked why he did so. He, +confident of being in the right, answered, + +“'Teacher, he didn't mind you; he spoke, and I licked him; and I'll do +it again if he don't mind you.' + +“His services were of course no longer required, although he had done +his duty according to his understanding of the case. + +“Thus it was at the beginning of this work nearly twenty years ago,” + said the missionary. “Now we have an orderly school of over two hundred +children, who, but for the opportunity here given, would grow up without +even the rudiments of all education. Is not this a gain upon the enemy? +Think of a school like this doing its work daily among these neglected +little ones for nearly a score of years, and you will no longer feel as +if nothing had been done--as if no headway had been gained. Think, +too, of the Sabbath-school work in that time, and of the thousands of +children who have had their memories filled with precious texts from the +Bible, who have been told of the loving Saviour who came into the world +and suffered and died for them, and of his tender love and perpetual +care over his children, no matter how poor and vile and afar off +from him they may be. It is impossible that the good seed of the word +scattered here for so long a time should not have taken root in many +hearts. We know that they have, and can point to scores of blessed +instances--can take you to men and women, now good and virtuous +people, who, but for our day-and Sabbath-schools, would, in all human +probability, be now among the outcast, the vicious and the criminal. + +“So much for what has been done among the children. Our work with men +and women has not been so fruitful as might well be supposed, and yet +great good has been accomplished even among the hardened, the desperate +and the miserably vile and besotted. Bad as things are to-day--awful +to see and to contemplate, shocking and disgraceful to a Christian +community--they were nearly as bad again at the time this mission set +up the standard of God and made battle in his name. Our work began as a +simple religious movement, with street preaching.” + +“And with what effect?” asked Mr. Dinneford. + +“With good effect, in a limited number of cases, I trust. In a degraded +community like this there will always be some who had a different +childhood from that of the crowds of young heathen who swarm its courts +and alleys; some who in early life had religious training, and in whose +memories were stored up holy things from Scripture; some who have +tender and sweet recollection of a mother and home and family prayer and +service in God's temples. In the hearts of such God's Spirit in moving +could touch and quicken and flush with reviving life these old memories, +and through them bring conviction of sin, and an intense desire to rise +out of the horrible pit into which they had fallen and the clay wherein +their feet were mired. Angels could come near to these by what of good +and true was to be found half hidden, but not erased from their book of +life, and so help in the work of their recovery and salvation. + +“But, sir, beyond this class there is small hope, I fear, in preaching +and praying. The great mass of these wretched beings have had little or +no early religious instruction. There, are but few, if any, remains +of things pure and good and holy stored away since childhood in their +memories to be touched and quickened by the Spirit of God. And so we +must approach them in another and more external way. We must begin with +their physical evils, and lessen these as fast as possible; we must +remove temptation from their doors, or get them as far as possible +out of the reach of temptation, but in this work not neglecting the +religious element as an agency, of untold power. + +“Christ fed the hungry, and healed the sick, and clothed the naked, +and had no respect unto the persons of men. And we, if we would lift up +fallen humanity, must learn by his example. It is not by preaching and +prayer and revival meetings that the true Christian philanthropist can +hope to accomplish any great good among the people here, but by doing +all in his power to change their sad external condition and raise them +out of their suffering and degradation. Without some degree of external +order and obedience to the laws of natural life, it is, I hold, next to +impossible, to plant in the mind any seeds of spiritual truth. There +is no ground there. The parable of the sower that went forth to sow +illustrates this law. Only the seed that fell on good ground brought +forth fruit. Our true work, then, among this heathen people, of whom the +churches take so little care, is first to get the ground in order for +the planting, of heavenly seed. Failing in this, our hope is small.” + +“This mission has changed its attitude since the beginning,” said Mr. +Dinneford. + +“Yes. Good and earnest men wrought for years with the evil elements +around them, trusting in God's Spirit to change the hearts of the vile +and abandoned sinners among whom they preached and prayed. But there was +little preparation of the ground, and few seeds got lodgment except +in stony places, by the wayside and among thorns. Our work now is to +prepare the ground, and in this work, slowly as it is progressing, +we have great encouragement. Every year we can mark the signs of +advancement. Every year we make some head against the enemy. Every year +our hearts take courage and are refreshed by the smell of grasses and +the odor of flowers and the sight of fruit-bearing plants in once barren +and desolate places. The ground is surely being made ready for the +sower.” + +“I am glad to hear you speak so encouragingly,” returned Mr. Dinneford. +“To me the case looked desperate--wellnigh hopeless. Anything worse than +I have witnessed here seemed impossible.” + +“It is only by comparisons, as I said before, that we can get at the +true measure of change and progress,” answered the missionary. “Since +we have been at work in earnest to improve the external life of this +region, we have had much to encourage us. True, what we have done has +made only a small impression on the evil that exists here; but the value +of this impression lies in the fact that it shows what can be done +with larger agencies. Double our effective force, and we can double the +result. Increase it tenfold, and ten times as much can be done.” + +“What is your idea of this work?” said Mr. Dinneford. “In other words, +what do you think the best practical way to purify this region?” + +“If you draw burning brands and embers close together, your fire grows +stronger; if you scatter them apart, it will go out,” answered the +missionary. “Moral and physical laws correspond to each other. Crowd +bad men and women together, and they corrupt and deprave each other. +Separate them, and you limit their evil power and make more possible for +good the influence of better conditions. Let me give you an instance: A +man and his wife who had lived in a wretched way in one of the poorest +hovels in Briar street for two years, and who had become idle and +intemperate, disappeared from among us about six months ago. None of +their neighbors knew or cared much what had become of them. They had +two children. Last week, as I was passing the corner of a street in the +south-western part of the city in which stood a row of small new houses, +a neatly-dressed woman came out of a store with a basket in her hand. I +did not know her, but by the brightening look in her face I saw that she +knew me. + +“'Mr. Paulding,' she said, in a pleased way, holding out her hand; 'you +don't know me,' she added, seeing the doubt in my face. 'I am Mrs.--.' + +“'Impossible!' I could not help exclaiming. + +“'But it's true, Mr. Paulding,' she averred, a glow of pleasure on her +countenance. 'We've turned over a new leaf.' + +“'So I should think from your appearance,' I replied. 'Where do you +live?' + +“'In the third house from the corner,' pointing to the neat row of small +brick houses I have mentioned. 'Come and look at our new home. I want to +tell you about it!' + +“I was too much pleased to need a second invitation. + +“'I've got as clean steps as my neighbors,' she said, with pride in her +voice, 'and shades to my windows, and a bright door-knob. It wasn't so +in Briar street. One had no heart there. Isn't this nice?' + +“And she glanced around the little parlor we had entered. + +“It was nice, compared to the dirty and disorderly place they had called +their home in Briar street. The floor was covered with a new ingrain +carpet. There were a small table and six cane-seat chairs in the room, +shades at the windows, two or three small pictures on the walls and some +trifling ornaments on the mantel. Everything was clean and the air of +the room sweet. + +“'This is my little Emma,' she said as a cleanly-dressed child came into +the room; 'You remember she was in the school.' + +“I did remember her as a ragged, dirty-faced child, forlorn and +neglected, like most of the children about here. It was a wonderful +transformation. + +“'And now,' I said, 'tell me how all this has come about.' + +“'Well, you see, Mr. Paulding,' she answered, 'there was no use in John +and me trying to be anything down there. It was temptation on every +hand, and we were weak and easily tempted. There was nothing to make us +look up or to feel any pride. We lived like our neighbors, and you know +what kind of a way that was. + +“'One day John said to me, “Emma,” says he, “it's awful, the way we're +living; we'd better be dead.” His voice was shaky-like, and it kind of +made me feel bad. “I know it, John,” said I, “but what can we do?” “Go +'way from here,” he said. “But where?” I asked. “Anywhere. I'm not all +played out yet;” and he held up his hand and shut it tight. “There's +good stuff in me yet, and if you're willing to make a new start, I am.” + I put my hand in his, and said, “God helping me, I will try, John.” He +went off that very day and got a room in a decent neighborhood, and we +moved in it before night. We had only one cart-load, and a wretched load +of stuff it was. But I can't tell you how much better it looked when we +got it into our new room, the walls of which were nicely papered, and +the paint clean and white. I fixed up everything and made it as neat as +possible. John was so pleased. “It feels something like old times,” he +said. He had been knocking about a good while, picking up odd jobs and +not half working, but he took heart now, quit drinking and went to work +in good earnest, and was soon making ten dollars a week, every cent of +which he brought home. He now gets sixteen dollars. We haven't made a +back step since. But it wouldn't have been any use trying if we'd stayed +in Briar street. Pride helped us a good deal in the beginning, sir. I +was ashamed not to have my children looking as clean as my neighbors, +and ashamed not to keep things neat and tidy-like. I didn't care +anything about it in Briar street.' + +“I give you this instance, true in nearly every particular,” said the +missionary, “in order to show you how incurable is the evil condition of +the people here; unless we can get the burning brands apart, they help +to consume each other.” + +“But how to get them apart? that is the difficult question,” said Mr. +Dinneford. + +“There are two ways,” was replied--“by forcing the human brands apart, +and by interposing incombustible things between them. As we have no +authority to apply force, and no means at hand for its exercise if we +had the authority, our work has been in the other direction. We have +been trying to get in among these burning brands elements that would +stand the fire, and, so lessen the ardor of combustion.” + +“How are you doing this?” + +“By getting better houses for the people to live in. Improve the house, +make it more sightly and convenient, and in most cases you will improve +the person who lives in it. He will not kindle so easily, though he yet +remain close to the burning brands.” + +“And are you doing this?” + +“A little has been done. Two or three years ago a building association +was organized by a few gentlemen of means, with a view to the purchase +of property in this district and the erection of small but good houses, +to be rented at moderate cost to honest and industrious people. A number +of such houses have already been built, and they are now occupied +by tenants of a better class, whose influence on their neighbors is +becoming more and more apparent every day. Brady street--once the worst +place in all this district--has changed wonderfully. There is scarcely +a house in the two blocks through which it runs that does not show some +improvement since the association pulled down half a dozen of its worst +frame tenements and put neat brick dwellings in their places. It is no +uncommon thing now to see pavement sweeping and washing in front of +some of the smallest and poorest of the houses in Brady street where two +years ago the dirt would stick to your feet in passing. A clean muslin +half curtain, a paper shade or a pot of growing plants will meet your +eyes at a window here and there as you pass along. The thieves who once +harbored in this street, and hid their plunder in cellars and garrets +until it could be sold or pawned, have abandoned the locality. They +could not live side by side with honest industry.” + +“And all this change may be traced to the work of our building +association, limited as are its means and half-hearted as are its +operations. The worst of our population--the common herd of thieves, +beggars and vile women who expose themselves shamelessly on the +street--are beginning to feel less at home and more in danger of arrest +and exposure. The burning brands are no longer in such close contact, +and so the fires of evil are raging less fiercely. Let in the light, and +the darkness flees. Establish the good, and evil shrinks away, weak and +abashed.” + + + + +CHAPTER XX. + + + +_SO_ the morning found them fast asleep. The man awoke first and felt +the child against his bosom, soft and warm. It was some moments ere he +understood what it meant. It seemed as if the wretched life he had been +leading was all a horrible dream out of which he had awakened, and that +the child sleeping in his bosom was his own tenderly-loved baby. But +the sweet illusions faded away, and the hard, sorrowful truth stood out +sternly before him. + +Then Andy's eyes opened and looked into his face. There was nothing +scared in the look-hardly an expression of surprise. But the man saw a +mute appeal and a tender confidence that made his heart swell and yearn +toward the homeless little one. + +“Had a nice sleep?” he asked, in a tone of friendly encouragement. + +Andy nodded his head, and then gazed curiously about the room. + +“Want some breakfast?” + +The hungry face lit up with a flash of pleasure. + +“Of course you do, little one.” + +The man was on his feet by this time, with his hand in his pocket, +from which he drew a number of pennies. These he counted over carefully +twice. The number was just ten. If there had been only himself to +provide for, it would not have taken long to settle the question of +expenditure. Five cents at an eating-shop where the caterer supplied +himself from the hodge-podge of beggars' baskets would have given him +a breakfast fit for a dog or pig, while the remaining five cents would +have gone for fiery liquor to quench a burning thirst. + +But another mouth had too be fed. All at once this poor degraded man +had risen to a sense of responsibility, and was practicing the virtue of +self-denial. A little child was leading him. + +He had no toilette to make, no ablutions to practice. There was neither +pail nor wash-basin in his miserable kennel. So, without any delay of +preparation, he caught up the broken mug and went out, as forlorn a +looking wretch as was to be seen in all that region. Almost every house +that he passed was a grog-shop, and his nerves were all unstrung and his +mouth and throat dry from a night's abstinence. But he was able to go +by without a pause. In a few minutes he returned with a loaf of bread, a +pint of milk and a single dried sausage. + +What a good breakfast the two made. Not for a long time had the man so +enjoyed a meal. The sight of little Andy, as he ate with the fine relish +of a hungry child, made his dry bread and sausage taste sweeter than +anything that had passed his lips for weeks. + +Something more than the food he had taken steadied the man's nerves and +allayed his thirst. Love was beating back into his heart--love for this +homeless wanderer, whose coming had supplied the lost links in the chain +which bound him to the past and called up memories that had slept almost +the sleep of death for years. Good resolutions began forming in his +mind. + +“It may be,” he said to himself as new and better impressions than he +had known for a long time began to crowd upon him, “that God has led +this baby here.” + +The thought sent a strange thrill to his soul. He trembled with excess +of feeling. He had once been a religious man; and with the old instinct +of dependence on God, he clasped his hands together with a sudden, +desperate energy, and looking up, cried, in a half-despairing, +half-trustful voice, + +“Lord, help me!” + +No earnest cry like that ever goes up without an instant answer in the +gift of divine strength. The man felt it in a stronger purpose and a +quickening hope. He was conscious of a new power in himself. + +“God being my helper,” he said in the silence of his heart, “I will be a +man again.” + +There was a long distance between him and a true manhood. The way +back was over very rough and difficult places, and through dangers and +temptations almost impossible to resist. Who would have faith in him? +Who would help him in his great extremity? How was he to live? Not any +longer by begging or petty theft. He must do honest work. There was no +hope in anything else. If God were to be his helper, he must be honest, +and work. To this conviction he had come. + +But what was to be done with Andy while he was away trying to earn +something? The child might get hurt in the street or wander off in his +absence and never find his way back. The care he felt for the little one +was pleasure compared to the thought of losing him. + +As for Andy, the comfort of a good breakfast and the feeling that he +had a home, mean as it was, and somebody to care for him, made his heart +light and set his lips to music. + +When before had the dreary walls of that poor hovel echoed to the happy +voice of a light-hearted child? But there was another echo to the voice, +and from walls as long a stranger to such sounds as these--the walls in +the chambers of that poor man's memory. A wellnigh lost and ruined soul +was listening to the far-off voices of children. Sunny-haired little +ones were thronging about him; he was looking into their tender eyes; +their soft arms were clinging to his neck; he was holding them tightly +clasped to his bosom. + +“Baby,” he said. It was the word that came most naturally to his lips. + +Andy, who was sitting where a few sunbeams came in through a rent in +the wall, with the warm light on his head, turned and looked into the +bleared but friendly eyes gazing at him so earnestly. + +“I'm going out, baby. Will you stay here till I come back?” + +“Yes,” answered the child, “I'll stay.” + +“I won't be gone very long, and I'll bring you an apple and something +good for dinner.” + +Andy's face lit up and his eyes danced. + +“Don't go out until I come back. Somebody might carry you off, and then +I couldn't give you the nice red apple.” + +“I'll stay right here,” said Andy, in a positive tone. + +“And won't go into the street till I come back?” + +“No, I won't.” Andy knit his brows and closed his lips firmly. + +“All right, little one,” answered the man, in a cheery sort of voice +that was so strange to his own ears that it seemed like the voice of +somebody else. + +Still, he could not feel satisfied. He was living in the midst of +thieves to whom the most insignificant thing upon which they could lay +their hands was booty. Children who had learned to be hard and cruel +thronged the court, and he feared, if he left Andy alone in the hovel, +that it would not only be robbed of its meagre furniture, but the child +subjected to ill-treatment. He had always fastened the door on going +out, but hesitated now about locking Andy in. + +All things considered, it was safest, he felt, to lock the door. There +was nothing in the room that could bring harm to the child--no fire or +matches, no stairs to climb or windows out of which he could fall. + +“I guess I'd better lock the door, hadn't I, so that nobody can carry +off my little boy?” he asked of Andy. + +Andy made no objections. He was ready for anything his kind friend might +propose. + +“And you mustn't cry or make a noise. The police might break in if you +did.” + +“All right,” said Andy, with the self-assertion of a boy of ten. + +The man stroked the child's head and ran his fingers through his hair in +a fond way; then, as one who tore himself from an object of attraction, +went hastily out and locked the door. + +And now was to begin a new life. Friendless, debased, repulsive in +appearance, everything about him denoting the abandoned drunkard, this +man started forth to get honest bread. Where should he go? What could +he do? Who would give employment to an object like him? The odds were +fearfully against him--no, not that, either. In outward respects, +fearful enough were the odds, but on the other side agencies invisible +to mortal sight were organizing for his safety. In to his purpose +to lead a new life and help a poor homeless child God's strength was +flowing. Angels were drawing near to a miserable wreck of humanity with +hands outstretched to save. All heaven was coming to the rescue. + +He was shuffling along in the direction of a market-house, hoping to +earn a little by carrying home baskets, when he came face to face with +an old friend of his better days, a man with whom he had once held close +business relations. + +“Mr. Hall!” exclaimed this man in a tone of sorrowful surprise, +stopping and looking at him with an expression of deepest pity on his +countenance. “This is dreadful!” + +“You may well say that, Mr. Graham. It dreadful enough. No one knows +that better than I do,” was answered, with a bitterness that his old +friend felt to be genuine. + +“Why, then, lead this terrible life a day longer?” asked the friend. + +“I shall not lead it a day longer if God will help me,” was replied, +with a genuineness of purpose that was felt by Mr. Graham. + +“Give me your hand on that, Andrew Hall,” he exclaimed. Two hands closed +in a tight grip. + +“Where are you going now?” inquired the friend. + +“I'm in search of something to do--something that will give me honest +bread. Look at my hand.” + +He held it up. + +“It shakes, you see. I have not tasted liquor this morning. I could have +bought it, but I did not.” + +“Why?” + +“I said, 'God being my helper, I will be a man again,' and I am trying.” + +“Andrew Hall,” said his old friend, solemnly, as he laid his hand on his +shoulder, “if you are really in earnest--if you do mean, in the help of +God, to try--all will be well. But in his help alone is there any hope. +Have you seen Mr. Paulding?” + +“No.” + +“Why not?” + +“He has no faith in me. I have deceived him too often.” + +“What ground of faith is there now?” asked Mr. Graham. + +“This,” was the firm but hastily spoken answer. “Last night as I sat in +the gloom of my dreary hovel, feeling so wretched that I wished I could +die, a little child came in--a poor, motherless, homeless wanderer, +almost a baby--and crept down to my heart, and he is lying there still, +Mr. Graham, soft, and warm and precious, a sweet burden to bear. I +bought him a supper and a breakfast of bread and milk with the money, +I had saved for drink, and now, both for his sake and mine, I am out +seeking for work. I have locked him in, so that no one can harm or carry +him away while I earn enough to buy him his dinner, and maybe something +better to wear, poor little homeless thing!” + +There was a genuine earnestness and pathos about the man that could not +be mistaken. + +“I think,” said Mr. Graham, his voice not quite steady, “that God +brought us together this morning. I know Mr. Paulding. Let us go first +to the mission, and have some talk with him. You must have a bath +and better, and cleaner clothes before you are in a condition to get +employment.” + +The bath and a suit of partly-worn but good clean clothes were supplied +at the mission house. + +“Now come with me, and I will find you something to do,” said the old +friend. + +But Andrew Hall stood hesitating. + +“The little child--I told him I'd come back soon. He's locked up all +alone, poor baby!” + +He spoke with a quiver in his voice. + +“Oh, true, true!” answered Mr. Graham; “the baby must be looked after;” + and he explained to the missionary. + +“I will go round with you and get the child,” said Mr. Paulding. “My +wife will take care of him while you are away with Mr. Graham.” + +They found little Andy sitting patiently on the floor. He did not know +the friend who had given him a home and food and loving words, and +looked at him half scared and doubting. But his voice made the child +spring to his feet with a bound, and flushed his thin-face with the joy +of a glad recognition. + +Mrs. Paulding received him with a true motherly kindness, and soon a +bath and clean clothing wrought as great a change in the child as they +had done in the man. + +“I want your help in saving him,” said Mr. Graham, aside, to the +missionary. “He was once among our most respectable citizens, a good +church-member, a good husband and father, a man of ability and large +influence. Society lost much when it lost him. He is well worth saving, +and we must do it if possible. God sent him this little child to touch +his heart and flood it with old memories, and then he led me to come +down here that I might meet and help him just when his good purposes +made help needful and salvation possible. It is all of his loving care +and wise providence of his tender mercy, which is over the poorest +and weakest and most degraded of his children. Will you give him your +special care?” + +“It is the work I am here to do,” answered the missionary. “The Master +came to seek and to save that which was lost, and I am his humble +follower.” + +“The child will have to be provided for,” said Mr. Graham. “It cannot, +of course, be left with him. It needs a woman's care.” + +“It will not do to separate them,” returned the missionary. “As you +remarked just now, God sent him this little child to touch his heart and +lead him back from the wilderness in which he has strayed. His safety +depends on the touch of that hand. So long as he feels its clasp and its +pull, he will walk in the new way wherein God is setting his feet. No, +no; the child must be left with him--at least for the present. We will +take care of it while he is at work during the day, and at night it can +sleep in his arms, a protecting angel.” + +“What kind of a place does he live in?” asked Mr. Graham. + +“A dog might dwell there in comfort, but not a man,” replied the +missionary. + +Mr. Graham gave him money: “Provide a decent room. If more is required, +let me know.” + +He then went away, taking Mr. Hall with him. + +“You will find the little one here when you come back,” said Mr. +Paulding as he saw the anxious, questioning look that was cast toward +Andy. + +Clothed and in his right mind, but in no condition for work, was Andrew +Hall. Mr. Graham soon noticed, as he walked by his side, that he was in +a very nervous condition. + +“What had you for breakfast this morning” he asked, the right thought +coming into his mind. + +“Not much. Some bread and a dried sausage.” + +“Oh dear! that will never do! You must have something more nutritious--a +good beefsteak and a cup of coffee to steady your nerves. Come.” + +And in a few minutes they were in an eating-house. When they came out, +Hall was a different man. Mr. Graham then took him to his store and set +him to work to arrange and file a number of letters and papers, which +occupied him for several hours. He saw that he had a good dinner and at +five o'clock gave him a couple of dollars for his day's work, aid after +many kind words of advice and assurance told him to come back in the +morning, and he would find something else for him to do. + +Swiftly as his feet would carry him, Andrew Hall made his way to the +Briar street mission. He did not at first know the clean, handsome child +that lifted his large brown eyes to his face as he came in, nor did the +child know him until he spoke. Then a cry of pleasure broke from the +baby's lips, and he ran to the arms reached out to clasp him. + +“We'll go home now,” he said, as if anxious to regain possession of the +child. + +“Not back to Grubb's court,” was answered by Mr. Paulding. “If you are +going to be a new man, you must have a new and better home, and I've +found one for you just a little way from here. It's a nice clean room, +and I'll take you there. The rent is six dollars a month, but you can +easily pay that when you get fairly to work.” + +The room was in the second story of a small house, better kept than most +of its neighbors, and contained a comfortable bed, with other needed +furniture, scanty, but clean and good. It was to Mr. Hall like the +chamber of a prince compared with what he had known for a long time; and +as he looked around him and comprehended something of the blessed change +that was coming over his life, tears filled his eyes. + +“Bring Andy around in the morning,” said the missionary as he turned to +go. “Mrs. Paulding will take good care of him.” + +That night, after undressing the child and putting on him the clean +night-gown which good Mrs. Paulding had not forgotten, he said, + +“And now Andy will say his prayers.” + +Andy looked at him with wide-open, questioning eyes. Mr. Hall saw that +he was not understood. + +“You know, 'Now I lay me'?” he said. + +“No, don't know it,” replied Andy. + +“'Our Father,' then?” + +The child knit his brow. It was plain that he did not understand what +his good friend meant. + +“You've said your prayers?” + +Andy shook his head in a bewildered way. + +“Never said your prayers!” exclaimed Mr. Hall, in a voice so full of +surprise and pain that Andy grew half frightened. + +“Poor baby!” was said, pityingly, a moment after. Then the question, +“Wouldn't you like to say your prayers?” brought the quick answer, +“Yes.” + +“Kneel down, then, right here.” Andy knelt, looking up almost +wonderingly into the face that bent over him. + +“We have a good Father in heaven,” said Mr. Hall, with tender reverence +in his tone, pointing upward as he spoke, “He loves us and takes care of +us. He brought you to me, and told me to love you and take care of you +for him, and I'm going to do it. Now, I want you to say a little prayer +to this good and kind Father before you go to bed. Will you?” + +“Yes, I will,” came the ready answer. + +“Say it over after me. 'Now I lay me down to sleep.'” + +Andy repeated the words, his little hands clasped together, and followed +through the verse which thousands of little children in thousands of +Christian homes were saying at the very same hour. + +There was a subdued expression on the child's face as he rose from his +knees; and when Mr. Hall lifted him from the floor to lay him in bed, he +drew his arms about his neck and hugged him tightly. + +How beautiful the child looked as he lay with shut eyes, the long brown +lashes fringing his flushed cheeks, that seemed already to have gained +a healthy roundness! The soft breath came through his parted lips, about +which still lingered the smile of peace that rested there after his +first prayer was said; his little hands lay upon his breast. + +As Mr. Hall sat gazing at this picture there came a rap on his door. +Then the missionary entered. Neither of the men spoke for some moments. +Mr. Paulding comprehended the scene, and felt its sweet and holy +influence. + +“Blessed childhood!” he said, breaking the silence. “Innocent childhood! +The nearer we come to it, the nearer we get to heaven.” Then, after a +pause, he added, “And heaven is our only hope, Mr. Hall.” + +“I have no hope but in God's strength,” was answered, in a tone of +solemn earnestness. + +“God is our refuge, our rock of defence, our hiding-place, our sure +protector. If we trust in him, we shall dwell in safety,” said the +mission. “I am glad to hear you speak of hoping in God. He will give you +strength if you lean upon him, and there is not power enough in all hell +to drag you down if you put forth this God-given strength. But remember, +my friend, that you must use it as if it were your own. You must resist. +God's strength outside of our will and effort is of no use to any of us +in temptation. But looking to our Lord and Saviour in humble yet earnest +prayer for help in the hour of trial and need if we put forth our +strength in resistance of evil, small though it be, then into our weak +efforts will come an influx of divine power that shall surely give us +the victory. Have you a Bible?” + +Mr. Hall shook his head. + +“I have brought you one;” and the missionary drew a small Bible from his +pocket. “No man is safe without a Bible.” + +“Oh, I am glad! I was just wishing for a Bible,” said Hall as he reached +out his hand to receive the precious book. + +“If you read it every night and morning--if you treasure its holy +precepts in your memory, and call them up in times of trial, or when +evil enticements are in your way--God can come near to your soul to +succor and to save, for the words of the holy book are his words, and +he is present in them. If we take them into our thoughts, reverently +seeking to obey them, we make a dwelling-place for the Lord, so that he +can abide with us; and in his presence there is safety.” + +“And nowhere else,” responded Hall, speaking from a deep sense of +personal helplessness. + +“Nowhere else,” echoed the missionary. “And herein lies the hope or the +despair of men. It is pitiful, it is heart-aching, to see the vain but +wild and earnest efforts made by the slaves of intemperance to get free +from their cruel bondage. Thousands rend their fetters every year after +some desperate struggle, and escape. But, alas! how many are captured +and taken back into slavery! Appetite springs upon them in some +unguarded moment, and in their weakness there is none to succor. They do +not go to the Strong for strength, but trust in themselves, and are cast +down. Few are ever redeemed from the slavery of intemperance but those +who pray to God and humbly seek his aid. And so long as they depend on +him, they are safe. He will be as a wall of fire about them.” + +As the missionary talked, the face of Mr. Hall underwent a remarkable +change. It grew solemn and very thoughtful. His hands drew together and +the fingers clasped. At the last words of Mr. Paulding a deep groan came +from his heart; and lifting his gaze upward, he cried out, + +“Lord, save me, or I perish!” + +“Let us pray,” said the missionary, and the two men knelt together, +one with bowed head and crouching body, the other with face uplifted, +tenderly talking to Him who had come down to the lowliest and the vilest +that he might make them pure as the angels, about the poor prodigal now +coming back to his Father's house. + +After the prayer, Mr. paulding read a chapter from the Bible aloud, and +then, after words of hope and comfort, went away. + + + + +CHAPTER XXI. + + + +“_I TAKE_ reproof to myself,” said Mr. Dinneford. “As one of your board +of managers, I ought to have regarded my position as more than a nominal +one. I understand better now what you said about the ten or twenty of +our rich and influential men who, if they could be induced to look away +for a brief period from their great enterprises, and concentrate thought +and effort upon the social evils, abuse of justice, violations of law, +poverty and suffering that exist here and in other parts of our city, +would inaugurate reforms and set beneficent agencies at work that would +soon produce marvelous changes for good.” + +“Ah, yes,” sighed Mr. Paulding. “If we had for just a little while the +help of our strong men--the men of brains and will and money, the men +who are used to commanding success, whose business it is to organize +forces and set impediments at defiance, the men whose word is a kind +of law to the people--how quickly, and as if by magic, would all this +change! + +“But we cannot now hope to get this great diversion in our favor. Until +we do we must stand in the breach, small in numbers and weak though we +are--must go on doing our best and helping when we may. Help is help and +good is good, be it ever so small. If I am able to rescue but a single +life where many are drowning, I make just so much head against death and +destruction. Shall I stand off and refuse to put forth my hand because I +cannot save a score? + +“Take heart, Mr. Dinneford. Our work is not in vain. Its fruits may be +seen all around. Bad as you find everything, it is not so bad as it was. +When our day-school was opened, the stench from the filthy children who +were gathered in was so great that the teachers were nauseated. They +were dirty in person as well as dirty in their clothing. This would +not do. There was no hope of moral purity while such physical impurity +existed. So the mission set up baths, and made every child go in and +thoroughly wash his body. Then they got children's clothing--new and +old--from all possible sources, and put clean garments on their little +scholars. From the moment they were washed and cleanly clad, a new and +better spirit came upon them. They were more orderly and obedient, and +more teachable. There was, or seemed to be, a tenderer quality in their +voices as they sang their hymns of praise.” + +Just then there came a sudden outcry and a confusion of voices from +the street. Mr. Dinneford arose quickly and went to the window. A man, +apparently drunk and in a rage, was holding a boy tightly gripped by the +collar with one hand and cuffing him about the head and face with the +other. + +“It's that miserable Blind Jake!” said Mr. Paulding. + +In great excitement, Mr. Dinneford threw up the window and called for +the police. At this the man stopped beating the boy, but swore at +him terribly, his sightless eyes rolling and his face distorted in a +frightful way. A policeman who was not far off came now upon the scene. + +“What's all this about?” he asked, sternly. + +“Jake's drunk again, that's the row,” answered a voice. + +“Lock him up, lock him up!” cried two or three from the crowd. + +An expression of savage defiance came into the face of the blind man, +and he moved his arms and clenched his fist like one who was bent on +desperate resistance. He was large and muscular, and, now that he was +excited by drink and bad passions, had a look that was dangerous. + +“Go home and behave yourself,” said the policeman, not caring to have a +single-handed tussle with the human savage, whose strength and desperate +character he well knew. + +Blind Jake, as he was called, stood for a few moments half defiant, +growling and distorting his face until it looked more like a wild +animal's than a man's, then jerked out the words, + +“Where's that Pete?” with a sound like the crack of a whip. + +The boy he had been beating in his drunken fury, and who did not seem to +be much hurt, came forward from the crowd, and taking him by the hand, +led him away. + +“Who is this blind man? I have seen him before,” said Mr. Dinneford. + +“You may see him any day standing at the street corners, begging, a +miserable-looking object, exciting the pity of the humane, and gathering +in money to spend in drunken debauchery at night. He has been known to +bring in some days as high as ten and some fifteen dollars, all of which +is wasted in riot before the next morning. He lives just over the way, +and night after night I can hear his howls and curses and laughter +mingled with those of the vile women with whom he herds.” + +“Surely this cannot be?” said Mr. Dinneford. + +“Surely it is,” was replied. “I know of what I speak. There is hardly a +viler wretch in all our city than this man, who draws hundreds--I +might say, without exaggeration, thousands--of dollars from weak and +tender-hearted people every year to be spent as I have said; and he +is not the only one. Out of this district go hundreds of thieves and +beggars every day, spreading themselves over the city and gathering in +their harvests from our people. I see them at the street corners, coming +out of yards and alley-gates, skulking near unguarded premises and +studying shop-windows. They are all impostors or thieves. Not one of +them is deserving of charity. He who gives to them wastes his money and +encourages thieving and vagrancy. One half of the successful burglaries +committed on dwelling-houses are in consequence of information gained by +beggars. Servant-girls are lured away by old women who come in the guise +of alms-seekers, and by well-feigned poverty and a seeming spirit +of humble thankfulness--often of pious trust in God--win upon their +sympathy and confidence. Many a poor weak girl has thus been led to +visit one of these poor women in the hope of doing her some good, +and many a one has thus been drawn into evil ways. If the people only +understood this matter as I understand it, they would shut hearts and +hands against all beggars. I add beggary as a vice to drinking and +policy-buying as the next most active agency in the work of making +paupers and criminals.” + +“But there are deserving poor,” said Dinneford. “We cannot shut our +hearts against all who seek for help.” + +“The deserving poor,” replied Mr. Paulding, “are never common +beggars--never those who solicit in the street or importune from house +to house. They try always to help themselves, and ask for aid only when +in great extremity. They rarely force themselves on your attention; they +suffer and die often in dumb despair. We find them in these dreary and +desolate cellars and garrets, sick and starving and silent, often dying, +and minister to them as best we can. If the money given daily to idle +and vicious beggars could be gathered into a fund and dispensed with a +wise Christian charity, it would do a vast amount of good; now it does +only evil.” + +“You are doubtless right in this,” returned Mr. Dinneford. “Some one has +said that to help the evil is to hurt the good, and I guess his saying +is near the truth.” + +“If you help the vicious and the idle,” was answered, “you simply +encourage vice and idleness, and these never exist without doing a hurt +to society. Withhold aid, and they will be forced to work, and so not +only do something for the common good, but be kept out of the evil ways +into which idleness always leads. + +“So you see, sir, how wrong it is to give alms to the vast crew of +beggars that infest our cities, and especially to the children who are +sent out daily to beg or steal as opportunity offers. + +“But there is another view of the case,” continued Mr. Paulding, “that +few consider, and which would, I am sure, arouse the people to immediate +action if they understood it as I do. We compare the nation to a great +man. We call it a 'body politic.' We speak of its head, its brain, its +hands, its feet, its arteries and vital forces. We know that no part +of the nation can be hurt without all the other parts feeling in some +degree the shock and sharing the loss or suffering. What is true of the +great man of the nation is true of our smaller communities, our States +and cities and towns. Each is an aggregate man, and the health and +well-being of this man depend on the individual men and the groups +and societies of men by which it is constituted. There cannot be an +unhealthy organ in the human system without a communication of disease +to the whole body. A diseased liver or heart or lung, a useless hand +or foot, an ulcer or local obstruction, cannot exist without injury and +impediment to the whole. In the case of a malignant ulcer, how soon the +blood gets poisoned! + +“Now, here is a malignant ulcer in the body politic of our city. Is it +possible, do you think, for it to exist, and in the virulent condition +we find it, and not poison the blood of our whole community? Moral and +spiritual laws are as unvarying in their action, out of natural sight +though they be, as physical laws. Evil and good are as positive entities +as fire, and destroy or consume as surely. As certainly as an ulcer +poisons with its malignant ichor this blood that visits every part of +the body, so surely is this ulcer poisoning every part of our community. +Any one who reflects for a moment will see that it cannot be otherwise. +From this moral ulcer there flows out daily and nightly an ichor as +destructive as that from a cancer. Here theft and robbery and murder +have birth, nurture and growth until full formed and organized, and then +go forth to plunder and destroy. The life and property of no citizen is +safe so long as this community exists. It has its schools of instruction +for thieves and housebreakers, where even little children are educated +to the business of stealing and robbery. Out from it go daily hundreds +of men and women, boys and girls, on their business of beggary, theft +and the enticement of the weak and unwary into crime. In it congregate +human vultures and harpies who absorb most of the plunder that is gained +outside, and render more brutal and desperate the wretches they rob in +comparative safety. + +“Let me show you how this is done. A man or a woman thirsting for liquor +will steal anything to get money for whisky. The article stolen may be +a coat, a pair of boots or a dress--something worth from five to twenty +dollars. It is taken to one of these harpies, and sold for fifty cents +or a dollar--anything to get enough for a drunken spree. I am speaking +only of what I know. Then, again, a man or a woman gets stupidly drunk +in one of the whisky-shops. Before he or she is thrown out upon the +street, the thrifty liquor-seller 'goes through' the pockets of the +insensible wretch, and confiscates all he finds. Again, a vile woman has +robbed one of her visitors, and with the money in her pocket goes to a +dram-shop. The sum may be ten dollars or it may be two hundred. A glass +or so unlooses her tongue; she boasts of her exploit, and perhaps shows +her booty. Not once in a dozen times will she take this booty away. +If there are only a few women in the shop, the liquor-seller will most +likely pounce on her at once and get the money by force. There is no +redress. To inform the police is to give information against herself. He +may give her back a little to keep her quiet or he may not, just as he +feels about it. If he does not resort to direct force, he will manage in +some other way to get the money. I could take you to the dram-shop of a +man scarcely a stone's throw from this place who came out of the State's +prison less than four years ago and set up his vile trap where it now +stands. He is known to be worth fifty thousand dollars to-day. How did +he make this large sum? By the profits of his bar? No one believes this. +It has been by robbing his drunken and criminal customers whenever he +could get them in his power.” + +“I am oppressed by all this,” said Mr. Dinneford. “I never dreamed of +such a state of things.” + +“Nor does one in a hundred of our good citizens, who live in quiet +unconcern with this pest-house of crime and disease in their midst. And +speaking of disease, let me give you another fact that should be widely +known. Every obnoxious epidemic with which our city has been visited in +the last twenty years has originated here--ship fever, relapsing fever +and small-pox--and so, getting a lodgment in the body politic, have +poured their malignant poisons into the blood and diseased the whole. +Death has found his way into the homes of hundreds of our best citizens +through the door opened for him here.” + +“Can this be so?” exclaimed Mr. Dinneford. + +“It is just as I have said,” was replied. “And how could it be +otherwise? Whether men take heed or not, the evil they permit to lie at +their doors will surely do them harm. Ignorance of a statute, a moral +or a physical law gives no immunity from consequence if the law be +transgressed--a fact that thousands learn every year to their sorrow. +There are those who would call this spread of disease, originating here, +all over our city, a judgment from God, to punish the people for that +neglect and indifference which has left such a hell as this in their +midst. I do not so read it. God has no pleasure in punishments and +retributions. The evil comes not from him. It enters through the door +we have left open, just as a thief enters our dwellings, invited through +our neglect to make the fastenings sure. It comes under the operations +of a law as unvarying as any law in physics. And so long as we have this +epidemic-breeding district in the very heart of our city, we must expect +to reap our periodical harvests of disease and death. What it is to be +next year, or the next, none can tell.” + +“Does not your perpetual contact with all this give your mind an +unhealthy tone--a disposition to magnify its disastrous consequences?” + said Mr. Dinneford. + +The missionary dropped his eyes. The flush and animation went out of his +face. + +“I leave you to judge for yourself,” he answered, after a brief silence, +and in a voice that betrayed a feeling of disappointment. “You have the +fact before you in the board of health, prison, almshouse, police, house +of refuge, mission and other reports that are made every year to the +people. If they hear not these, neither will they believe, though one +rose from the dead.” + +“All is too dreadfully palpable for unbelief,” returned Mr. Dinneford. +“I only expressed a passing thought.” + +“My mind may take an unhealthy tone--does often, without doubt,” said +Mr. Paulding. “I wonder, sometimes, that I can keep my head clear and my +purposes steady amid all this moral and physical disorder and suffering. +But exaggeration of either this evil or its consequences is impossible. +The half can never be told.” + +Mr. Dinneford rose to go. As he did so, two little Italian children, a +boy and a girl, not over eight years of age, tired, hungry, pinched and +starved-looking little creatures, the boy with a harp slung over his +shoulder, and the girl carrying a violin, went past on the other side. + +“Where in the world do all of these little wretches come from?” asked +Mr. Dinneford. “They are swarming our streets of late. Yesterday I saw +a child who could not be over two years of age tinkling her triangle, +while an older boy and girl were playing on a harp and violin. She +seemed so cold and tired that it made me sad to look at her. There is +something wrong about this.” + +“Something very wrong,” answered the missionary. “Doubtless you think +these children are brought here by their parents or near relatives. No +such thing. Most of them are slaves. I speak advisedly. The slave-trade +is not yet dead. Its abolition on the coast of Africa did not abolish +the cupidity that gave it birth. And the 'coolie' trade, one of its new +forms, is not confined to the East.” + +“I am at a loss for your meaning,” said Mr. Dinneford. + +“I am not surprised. The new slave-trade, which has been carried on +with a secresy that is only now beginning to attract attention, has its +source of supply in Southern Italy, from which large numbers of children +are drawn every year and brought to this country. + +“The headquarters of this trade--cruel enough in some of its features +to bear comparison with the African slave-trade itself--are in New York. +From this city agents are sent out to Southern Italy every year, where +little intelligence and great poverty exist. These agents tell grand +stories of the brilliant prospects offered to the young in America. Let +me now read to you from the published testimony of one who has made a +thorough investigation of this nefarious business, so that you may get a +clear comprehension of its extent and iniquity. + +“He says: 'One of these agents will approach the father of a family, and +after commenting upon the beauty of his children, will tell him that his +boys “should be sent at once to America, where they must in time become +rich.” “There are no poor in America.” “The children should go when +young, so that they may grow up with the people and the better acquire +the language.” “None are too young or too old to go to America.” The +father, of course, has not the means to go himself or to send his +children to this delightful country. The agent then offers to take the +children to America, and to pay forty or fifty dollars to the father +upon his signing an indenture abandoning all claims upon them. He often, +also, promises to pay a hundred or more at the end of a year, but, of +course, never does it. + +“'After the agent has collected a sufficient number of children, they +are all supplied with musical instruments, and the trip on foot through +Switzerland and France begins. They are generally shipped to Genoa, +and often to Marseilles, and accomplish the remainder of the journey to +Havre or Calais by easy stages from village to village. Thus they +become a paying investment from the beginning. This journey occupies +the greater portion of the summer months; and after a long trip in the +steerage of a sailing-vessel, the unfortunate children land at Castle +Garden. As the parents never hear from them again, they do not know +whether they are doing well or not. + +“'They are too young and ignorant to know how to get themselves +delivered from oppression; they do not speak our language, and find +little or no sympathy among the people whom they annoy. They are +thus left to the mercy of their masters, who treat them brutally, and +apparently without fear of the law or any of its officers. They are +crowded into small, ill-ventilated, uncarpeted rooms, eighteen or twenty +in each, and pass the night on the floor, with only a blanket to protect +them from the severity of the weather. In the mornings they are fed by +their temporary guardian with maccaroni, served in the filthiest manner +in a large open dish in the centre of the room, after which they are +turned out into the streets to beg or steal until late at night. + +“'More than all this, when the miserable little outcasts return to their +cheerless quarters, they are required to deliver every cent which they +have gathered during the day; and if the same be deemed insufficient, +the children are carefully searched and soundly beaten. + +“'The children are put through a kind of training in the arts of +producing discords on their instruments, and of begging, in the whole of +which the cruelty of the masters and the stolid submission of the pupils +are the predominant features. The worst part of all is that the children +become utterly unfitted for any occupation except vagrancy and theft.' + +“You have the answer to your question, 'Where do all these little +wretches come from?'” said the missionary as he laid aside the paper +from which he had been reading. “Poor little slaves!” + + + + +CHAPTER XXII. + + + +_EDITH'S_ life, as we have seen, became lost, so to speak, in charities. +Her work lay chiefly with children, She was active in mission-schools +and in two or three homes for friendless little ones, and did much to +extend their sphere of usefulness. Her garments were plain and sombre, +her fair young face almost colorless, and her aspect so nun-like as +often to occasion remark. + +Her patience and tender ways with poor little children, especially +with the youngest, were noticed by all who were associated with her. +Sometimes she would show unusual interest in a child just brought to one +of the homes, particularly if it were a boy, and only two or three years +old. She would hover about it and ask it questions, and betray an eager +concern that caused a moment's surprise to those who noticed her. Often, +at such times, the pale face would grow warm with the flush of blood +sent out by her quicker heartbeats, and her eyes would have a depth of +expression and a brightness that made her beauty seem the reflection of +some divine beatitude. Now and then it was observed that her manner +with these little waifs and cast-adrifts that were gathered in from the +street had in it an expression of pain, that her eyes looked at them +sadly, sometimes tearfully. Often she came with light feet and a manner +almost cheery, to go away with eyes cast down and lips set and curved +and steps that were slow and heavy. + +Time had not yet solved the mystery of her baby's life or death; and +until it was solved, time had no power to abate the yearning at her +heart, to dull the edge of anxious suspense or to reconcile her to a +Providence that seemed only cruel. In her daily prayers this thought +of cruelty in God often came in to hide his face from her, and she rose +from her knees more frequently in a passion of despairing tears than +comforted. How often she pleaded with God, weeping bitter tears, that he +would give her certainty in place of terrible doubts! Again, she would +implore his loving care over her poor baby, wherever it might be. + +So the days wore on, until nearly three years had elapsed since Edith's +child was born. + +It was Christmas eve, but there were no busy hands at work, made light +by loving hearts, in the home of Mr. Dinneford. All its chambers were +silent. And yet the coming anniversary was not to go uncelebrated. +Edith's heart was full of interest for the children of the poor, the +lowly, the neglected and the suffering, whom Christ came to save and to +bless. Her anniversary was to be spent with them, and she was looking +forward to its advent with real pleasure. + +“We have made provision for four hundred children, said her father. “The +dinner is to be at twelve o'clock, and we must be there by nine or +ten. We shall be busy enough getting everything ready. There are forty +turkeys to cut up and four hundred plates to fill.” + +“And many willing hands to do it,” remarked Edith, with a quiet smile; +“ours among the rest.” + +“You'd better keep away from there,” spoke up Mrs. Dinneford, with a jar +in her voice. “I don't see what possesses you. You can find poor little +wretches anywhere, if you're so fond of them, without going to Briar +street. You'll bring home the small-pox or something worse.” + +Neither Edith nor her father made any reply, and there fell a silence +on the group that was burdensome to all. Mrs. Dinneford felt it most +heavily, and after the lapse of a few minutes withdrew from the room. + +“A good dinner to four hundred hungry children, some of them half +starved,” said Edith as her mother shut the door. “I shall enjoy the +sight as much as they will enjoy the feast.” + +A little after ten o'clock on the next morning, Mr. Dinneford and Edith +took their way to the mission-school in Briar street. They found from +fifteen to twenty ladies and gentlemen already there, and at work +helping to arrange the tables, which were set in the two long upper +rooms. There were places for nearly four hundred children, and in front +of each was an apple, a cake and a biscuit, and between every four a +large mince pie. The forty turkeys were at the baker's, to be ready at +a little before twelve o'clock, the dinner-hour, and in time for the +carvers, who were to fill the four hundred plates for the expected +guests. + +At eleven o'clock Edith and her father went down to the chapel on the +first floor, where the children had assembled for the morning exercises, +that were to continue for an hour. + +Edith had a place near the reading-desk where she could see the +countenances of all those children who were sitting side by side in +row after row and filling every seat in the room, a restless, eager, +expectant crowd, half disciplined and only held quiet by the order and +authority they had learned to respect. Such faces as she looked into! +In scarcely a single one could she find anything of true childhood, and +they were so marred by suffering and evil! In vain she turned from one +to another, searching for a sweet, happy look or a face unmarked by pain +or vice or passion. It made her heart ache. Some were so hard and brutal +in their expression, and so mature in their aspect, that they seemed +like the faces of debased men on which a score of years, passed in +sensuality and crime, had cut their deep deforming lines, while others +were pale and wasted, with half-scared yet defiant eyes, and thin, +sharp, enduring lips, making one tearful to look at them. Some were +restless as caged animals, not still for a single instant, hands moving +nervously and bodies swaying to and fro, while others sat stolid and +almost as immovable as stone, staring at the little group of men and +women in front who were to lead them in the exercises of the morning. + +At length one face of the many before her fixed the eyes of Edith. It +was the face of a little boy scarcely more than three years old. He was +only a few benches from her, and had been hidden from view by a larger +boy just in front of him. When Edith first noticed this child, he was +looking at her intently from a pair of large, clear brown eyes that had +in them a wistful, hungry expression. His hair, thick and wavy, had +been smoothly brushed by some careful hand, and fell back from a large +forehead, the whiteness and smoothness of which was noticeable in +contrast with those around him. His clothes were clean and good. + +As Edith turned again and again to the face of this child, the youngest +perhaps in the room, her heart began to move toward him. Always she +found him with his great earnest eyes upon her. There seemed at last to +be a mutual fascination. His eyes seemed never to move from her face; +and when she tried to look away and get interested in other faces, +almost unconsciously to herself her eyes would wander back, and she +would find herself gazing at the child. + +At eleven o'clock Mr. Paulding announced that the exercises for the +morning would begin, when silence fell on the restless company of +undisciplined children. A hymn was read, and then, as the leader struck +the tune, out leaped the voices of these four hundred children, each +singing with a strange wild abandon, many of them swaying their heads +and bodies in time to the measure. As the first lines of the hymn, + + “Jesus, gentle Shepherd, lead us, + Much we need thy tender care,” + +swelled up from the lips of those poor neglected children, the eyes of +Edith grew blind with tears. + +After a prayer was offered up, familiar addresses, full of kindness and +encouragement, were made to the children, interspersed with singing and +other appropriate exercises. These were continued for an hour. At their +close the children were taken up stairs to the two long school-rooms, +in which their dinner was to be served. Here were Christmas trees loaded +with presents, wreaths of evergreen on the walls and ceilings, and +illuminated texts hung here and there, and everything was provided to +make the day's influence as beautiful and pleasant as possible to the +poor little ones gathered in from cheerless and miserable homes. + +Meantime, the carvers had been very busy at work on the forty +turkeys--large, tender fellows, full of dressing and cooked as nicely as +if they had been intended for a dinner of aldermen--cutting them up and +filling the plates. There was no stinting of the supply. Each plate +was loaded with turkey, dressing, potatoes that had been baked with the +fowls, and a heaping spoonful of cranberry sauce, and as fast as filled +conveyed to the tables by the lady attendants, who had come, many of +them, from elegant homes, to assist the good missionary's wife and the +devoted teachers of the mission-school in this labor of love. And so, +when the four hundred hungry children came streaming into the rooms, +they found tables spread with such bounty as the eyes of many of them +had never looked upon, and kind gentlemen and beautiful ladies already +there to place them at these tables and serve them while eating. + +It was curious and touching, and ludicrous sometimes, to see the many +ways in which the children accepted this bountiful supply of food. A +few pounced upon it like hungry dogs, devouring whole platefuls in a few +minutes, but most of them kept a decent restraint upon themselves in the +presence of the ladies and gentlemen, for whom they could not but feel +an instinctive respect. Very few of them could use at fork except in the +most awkward manner. Some tried to cut their meat, but failing in the +task, would seize it with their hands and eagerly convey it to their +hungry mouths. Here and there would be seen a mite of a boy sitting in +a kind of maze before a heaped-up dinner-plate, his hands, strangers, no +doubt, to knife or fork, lying in his lap, and his face wearing a kind +of helpless look. But he did not have to wait long. Eyes that were on +the alert soon saw him; ready hands cut his food, and a cheery voice +encouraged him to eat. If these children had been the sons and daughters +of princes, they could not have been ministered to with a more gracious +devotion to their wants and comfort than was shown by their volunteer +attendants. + +Edith, entering into the spirit of the scene, gave herself to the work +in hand with an interest that made her heart glow with pleasure. She had +lost sight of the little boy in whom she had felt so sudden and strong +an interest, and had been searching about for him ever since the +children came up from the chapel. At last she saw him, shut in and +hidden between two larger boys, who were eating with a hungry eagerness +and forgetfulness of everything around them almost painful to see. He +was sitting in front of his heaped-up plate, looking at the tempting +food, with his knife and fork lying untouched on the table. There was a +dreamy, half-sad, half-bewildered look about him. + +“Poor little fellow!” exclaimed Edith as soon as she saw him, and in a +moment she was behind his chair. + +“Shall I cut it up for you?” she asked as she lifted his knife and fork +from the table. + +The child turned almost with a start, and looked up at her with a quick +flash of feeling on his face. She saw that he remembered her. + +“Let me fix it all nicely,” she said as she stooped over him and +commenced cutting up his piece of turkey. The child did not look at his +plate while she cut the food, but with his head turned kept his large +eyes on her countenance. + +“Now it's all right,” said Edith, encouragingly, as she laid the knife +and fork on his plate, taking a deep breath at the same time, for her +heart beat so rapidly that her lungs was oppressed with the inflowing +of blood. She felt, at the same time, an almost irresistible desire to +catch him up into her arms and draw him lovingly to her bosom. The child +made no attempt to eat, and still kept looking at her. + +“Now, my little man,” she said, taking his fork and lifting a piece of +the turkey to his mouth. It touched his palate, and appetite asserted +its power over him; his eyes went down to his plate with a hungry +eagerness. Then Edith put the fork into his hand, but he did not know +how to use it, and made but awkward attempts to take up the food. + +Mrs. Paulding, the missionary's wife, came by at the moment, and seeing +the child, put her hand on him, and said, kindly, + +“Oh, it's little Andy,” and passed on. + +“So your name's Andy?” + +“Yes, ma'am.” It was the first time Edith had heard his voice. It fell +sweet and tender on her ears, and stirred her heart strangely. + +“Where do you live?” + +He gave the name of a street she had never heard of before. + +“But you're not eating your dinner. Come, take your fork just so. There! +that's the way;” and Edith took his hand, in which he was still +holding the fork, and lifted two or three mouthfuls, which he ate with +increasing relish. After that he needed no help, and seemed to forget in +the relish of a good dinner the presence of Edith, who soon found others +who needed her service. + +The plentiful meal was at last over, and the children, made happy for +one day at least, were slowly dispersing to their dreary homes, drifting +away from the better influences good men and women had been trying to +gather about them even for a little while. The children were beginning +to leave the tables when Edith, who had been busy among them, remembered +the little boy who had so interested her, and made her way to the place +where he had been sitting. But he was not there. She looked into the +crowd of boys and girls who were pressing toward the door, but could not +see the child. A shadow of disappointment came over her feelings, and a +strange heaviness weighed over her heart. + +“Oh, I'm so sorry,” she said to herself. “I wanted to see him again.” + +She pressed through the crowd of children, and made her way down among +them to the landing below and out upon the street, looking this way and +that, but could not see the child. Then she returned to the upper rooms, +but her search was in vain. Remembering that Mrs. Paulding had called +him by name, she sought for the missionary's wife and made inquiry about +him. + +“Do you mean the little fellow I called Andy?” said Mrs. Paulding. + +“Yes, that's the one,” returned Edith. + +“A beautiful boy, isn't he?” + +“Indeed he is. I never saw such eyes in a child. Who is he, Mrs. +Paulding, and what is he doing here? He cannot be the child of depraved +or vicious parents.” + +“I do not think he is. But from whence he came no one knows. He drifted +in from some unknown land of sorrow to find shelter on our inhospitable +coast. I am sure that God, in his wise providence, sent him here, for +his coming was the means of saving a poor debased man who is well worth +the saving.” + +Then she told in a few words the story of Andy's appearance at Mr. +Hall's wretched hovel and the wonderful changes that followed--how a +degraded drunkard, seemingly beyond the reach of hope and help, had +been led back to sobriety and a life of honest industry by the hand of a +little child cast somehow adrift in the world, yet guarded and guided +by Him who does not lose sight in his good providence of even a single +sparrow. + +“Who is this man, and where does he live?” asked Mr. Dinneford, who had +been listening to Mrs. Paulding's brief recital. + +“His name is Andrew Hall,” was replied. + +“Andrew Hall!” exclaimed Mr. Dinneford, with a start and a look of +surprise. + +“Yes, sir. That is his name, and he is now living alone with the child +of whom we have been speaking, not very far from here, but in a much +better neighborhood. He brought Andy around this morning to let him +enjoy the day, and has come for him, no doubt, and taken him home.” + +“Give me the street and number, if you please, Mr. Paulding,” said Mr. +Dinneford, with much repressed excitement. “We will go there at once,” + he added, turning to his daughter. + +Edith's face had become pale, and her father felt her hand tremble as +she laid it on his arm. + +At this moment a man came up hurriedly to Mrs. Paulding, and said, with +manifest concern, + +“Have you seen Andy, ma'am? I've been looking all over, but can't find +him.” + +“He was here a little while ago,” answered the missionary's wife. “We +were just speaking of him. I thought you'd taken him home.” + +“Mr. Hall!” said Edith's father, in a tone of glad recognition, +extending his hand at the same time. + +“Mr. Dinneford!” The two men stood looking at each other, with shut lips +and faces marked by intense feeling, each grasping tightly the other's +hand. + +“It is going to be well with you once more, my dear old friend!” said +Mr. Dinneford. + +“God being my helper, yes!” was the firm reply. “He has taken my feet +out of the miry clay and set them on firm ground, and I have promised +him that they shall not go down into the pit again. But Andy! I must +look for him.” + +And he was turning away. + +“I saw Andy a little while ago,” now spoke up a woman who had come in +from the street and heard the last remark. + +“Where?” asked Mr. Hall. + +“A girl had him, and she was going up Briar street on the run, fairly +dragging Andy after her. She looked like Pinky Swett, and I do believe +it was her. She's been in prison, you know but I guess her time's up.” + +Mr. Hall stopped to hear no more, but ran down stairs and up the street, +going in the direction said to have been taken by the woman. Edith sat +down, white and faint. + +“Pinky Swett!” exclaimed Mrs. Paulding. “Why, that's the girl who had +the child you were looking after a long time ago, Mr. Dinneford.” + +“Yes; I remember the name, and no doubt this is the very child she had +in her possession at that time. Are you sure she has been in prison +for the last two years?” and Mr. Dinneford turned to the woman who had +mentioned her name. + +“Oh yes, Sir; I remember all about it,” answered the woman. “She stole a +man's pocket-book, and got two years for it.” + +“You know her?” + +“Oh yes, indeed! And she's a bad one, I can tell you. She had somebody's +baby round in Grubb's court, and it was 'most starved to death. I heard +it said it belonged to some of the big people up town, and that she was +getting hush-money for it, but I don't know as it was true. People will +talk.” + +“Do you know what became of that baby?” asked Edith, with ill-repressed +excitement. Her face was still very pale, and her forehead contracted as +by pain. + +“No, ma'am. The police came round asking questions, and the baby wasn't +seen in Grubb's court after that.” + +“You think it was Pinky Swett whom you saw just now?” + +“I'm dead sure of it, sir,” turning to Mr. Dinneford, who had asked the +question. + +“And you are certain it was the little boy named Andy that she had with +her?” + +“I'm as sure as death, sir.” + +“Did he look frightened?” + +“Oh dear, yes, sir--scared as could be. He pulled back all his might, +but she whisked him along as if he'd been only a chicken. I saw them go +round the corner of Clayton street like the wind.” + +Mr. Paulding now joined them, and became advised of what had happened. +He looked very grave. + +“We shall find the little boy,” he said. “He cannot be concealed by this +wretched woman as the baby was; he is too old for that. The police will +ferret him out. But I am greatly concerned for Mr. Hall. That child is +the bond which holds him at safe anchorage. Break this bond, and he may +drift to sea again. I must go after him.” + +And the missionary hurried away. + +For over an hour Edith and her father remained at the mission waiting +for some news of little Andy. At the end of this time Mr. Paulding came +back with word that nothing could be learned beyond the fact that a +woman with a child answering to the description of Andy had been seen +getting into an up-town car on Clayton street about one o'clock. She +came, it was said by two or three who professed to have seen her, from +the direction of Briar street. The chief of police had been seen, and he +had already telegraphed to all the stations. Mr. Hall was at the central +station awaiting the result. + +After getting a promise from Mr. Paulding to send a messenger the moment +news of Andy was received, Mr. Dinneford and Edith returned home. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIII. + + + +_AS_ Edith glanced up, on arriving before their residence, she saw for +a moment her mother's face at the window. It vanished like the face of +a ghost, but not quick enough to prevent Edith from seeing that it was +almost colorless and had a scared look. They did not find Mrs. Dinneford +in the parlor when they came in, nor did she make her appearance until +an hour afterward, when dinner was announced. Then it was plain to both +her husband and daughter that something had occurred since morning to +trouble her profoundly. The paleness noticed by Edith at the window and +the scared look remained. Whenever she turned her eyes suddenly upon +her mother, she found her looking at her with a strange, searching +intentness. It was plain that Mrs. Dinneford saw in Edith's face as +great a change and mystery as Edith saw in hers, and the riddle of her +husband's countenance, so altered since morning, was harder even than +Edith's to solve. + +A drearier Christmas dinner, and one in which less food was taken +by those who ate it, could hardly have been found in the city. The +Briar-street feast was one of joy and gladness in comparison. The +courses came and went with unwonted quickness, plates bearing off the +almost untasted viands which they had received. Scarcely a word was +spoken during the meal. Mrs. Dinneford asked no question about the +dinner in Briar street, and no remark was made about it by either +Edith or her father. In half the usual time this meal was ended. Mrs. +Dinneford left the table first, and retired to her own room. As she did +so, in taking her handkerchief from her pocket, she drew out a letter, +which fell unnoticed by her upon the floor. Mr. Dinneford was about +calling her attention to it when Edith, who saw his purpose and was near +enough to touch his hand, gave a quick signal to forbear. The instant +her mother was out of the room she sprang from her seat, and had just +secured the letter when the dining-room door was pushed open, and Mrs. +Dinneford came in, white and frightened. She saw the letter in Edith's +hand, and with a cry like some animal in pain leaped upon her and tried +to wrest it from her grasp. But Edith held it in her closed hand with +a desperate grip, defying all her mother's efforts to get possession of +it. In her wild fear and anger Mrs. Dinneford exclaimed, + +“I'll kill you if you don't give me that letter!” and actually, in +her blind rage, reached toward the table as if to get a knife. Mr. +Dinneford, who had been for a moment stupefied, now started forward, +and throwing his arms about his wife, held her tightly until Edith +could escape with the letter, not releasing her until the sound of his +daughter's retiring feet were no longer heard. By this time she had +ceased to struggle; and when he released her, she stood still in a +passive, dull sort of way, her arms falling heavily to her sides. He +looked into her face, and saw that the eyes were staring wildly and +the muscles in a convulsive quiver. Then starting and reaching out +helplessly, she fell forward. Catching her in his arms, Mr. Dinneford +drew her toward a sofa, but she was dead before he could raise her from +the floor. + +When Edith reached her room, she shut and locked the door. Then all her +excitement died away. She sat down, and opening the letter with hands +that gave no sign of inward agitation or suspense, read it through. It +was dated at Havana, and was as follows: + +“MRS. HELEN DINNEFORD: MADAM--My physician tells me that I cannot live a +week--may die at any moment; and I am afraid to die with one unconfessed +and unatoned sin upon my conscience--a sin into which I was led by you, +the sharer of my guilt. I need not go into particulars. You know to what +I refer--the ruin of an innocent, confiding young man, your daughter's +husband. I do not wonder that he lost his reason! But I have information +that his insanity has taken on the mildest form, and that his friends +are only keeping him at the hospital until they can get a pardon from +the governor. It is in your power and mine to establish his innocence +at once. I leave you a single mouth in which to do this, and at the same +time screen yourself, if that be possible. If, at the end of a month, it +is not done, then a copy of this letter, with a circumstantial statement +of the whole iniquitous affair, will be placed in the hands of your +husband, and another in the hands of your daughter. I have so provided +for this that no failure can take place. So be warned and make the +innocence of George Granger as clear as noonday. + +“LLOYD FREELING.” + +Twice Edith read this letter through before a sign of emotion was +visible. She looked about the room, down at herself, and again at the +letter. + +“Am I really awake?” she said, beginning to tremble. Then the glad +but terrible truth grappled with her convictions, and through the wild +struggle and antagonism, of feeling that shook her soul there shone into +her face a joy so great that the pale features grew almost radiant. + +“Innocent! innocent!” fell from her lips, over which crept a smile of +ineffable love. But it faded out quickly, and left in its place a shadow +of ineffable pain. + +“Innocent! innocent!” she repeated, now clasping her hands and lifting +her eyes heavenward. “Dear Lord and Saviour! My heart is full of +thankfulness! Innocent! Oh, let it be made as clear as noonday! And my +baby, Lord--oh, my baby, my baby! Give him back to me!” + +She fell forward upon her bed, kneeling, her face hidden among the +pillows, trembling and sobbing. + +“Edith! Edith!” came the agitated voice of her father from without. She +rose quickly, and opening the door, saw his pale, convulsed countenance. + +“Quick! quick! Your mother!” and Mr. Dinneford turned and ran down +stairs, she following. On reaching the dining-room, Edith found her +mother lying on a sofa, with the servants about her in great excitement. +Better than any one did she comprehend what she saw. + +“Dead,” fell almost coldly from her lips. + +“I have sent for Dr. Radcliffe. It may only be a fainting fit,” answered +Mr. Dinneford. + +Edith stood a little way off from her mother, as if held from personal +contact by an invisible barrier, and looked upon her ashen face without +any sign of emotion. + +“Dead, and better so,” she said, in an undertone heard only by her +father. + +“My child! don't, don't!” exclaimed Mr. Dinneford in a deprecating +whisper. + +“Dead, and better so,” she repeated, firmly. + +While the servants chafed the hands and feet of Mrs. Dinneford, and did +what they could in their confused way to bring her back to life, Edith +stood a little way off, apparently undisturbed by what she saw, and +not once touching her mother's body or offering a suggestion to the +bewildered attendants. + +When Dr. Radcliffe came and looked at Mrs. Dinneford, all saw by his +countenance that he believed her dead. A careful examination proved the +truth of his first impression. She was done with life in this world. + +As to the cause of her death, the doctor, gathering what he could from +her husband, pronounced it heart disease. The story told outside was +this--so the doctor gave it, and so it was understood: Mrs. Dinneford +was sitting at the table when her head was seen to sink forward, and +before any one could get to her she was dead. It was not so stated to +him by either Mr. Dinneford or Edith, but he was a prudent man, and +careful of the good fame of his patients. Family affairs he held as +sacred trusts. We'll he knew that there had been a tragedy in this +home--a tragedy for which he was in part, he feared, responsible; and he +did not care to look into it too closely. But of all that was involved +in this tragedy he really knew little. Social gossip had its guesses +at the truth, often not very remote, and he was familiar with these, +believing little or much as it suited him. + +It is not surprising that Edith's father, on seeing the letter of Lloyd +Freeling, echoed his daughter's words, “Better so!” + +Not a tear was shed on the grave of Mrs. Dinneford. Husband and daughter +saw her body carried forth and buried out of sight with a feeling of +rejection and a sense of relief. Death had no power to soften their +hearts toward her. Charity had no mantle broad enough to cover her +wickedness; filial love was dead, and the good heart of her husband +turned away at remembrance with a shudder of horror. + +Yes, it was “better so!” They had no grief, but thankfulness, that she +was dead. + +On the morning after the funeral there came a letter from Havana +addressed to Mr. Dinneford. It was from the man Freeling. In it he +related circumstantially all the reader knows about the conspiracy to +destroy Granger. The letter enclosed an affidavit made by Freeling, and +duly attested by the American consul, in which he stated explicitly +that all the forgeries were made by himself, and that George Granger was +entirely ignorant of the character of the paper he had endorsed with the +name of the firm. + +Since the revelation made to Edith by Freeling's letter to her mother, +all the repressed love of years, never dead nor diminished, but only +chained, held down, covered over, shook itself free from bonds and the +wrecks and debris of crushed hopes. It filled her heart with an agony +of fullness. Her first passionate impulse was to go to him and throw +herself into his arms. But a chilling thought came with the impulse, and +sent all the outgoing heart-beats back. She was no longer the wife of +George Granger. In a weak hour she had yielded to the importunities of +her father, and consented to an application for divorce. No, she was no +longer the wife of George Granger. She had no right to go to him. If it +were true that reason had been in part or wholly restored, would he not +reject her with scorn? The very thought made her heart stand still. It +would be more than she could bear. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIV. + + + +_NO_ other result than the one that followed could have been hoped for. +The strain upon Edith was too great. After the funeral of her +mother mind and body gave way, and she passed several weeks in a +half-unconscious state. + +Two women, leading actors in this tragedy of life, met for the first +time in over two years--Mrs. Hoyt, _alias_ Bray, and Pinky Swett. It had +not gone very well with either of them during that period. Pinky, as the +reader knows, had spent the time in prison, and Mrs. Bray, who had also +gone a step too far in her evil ways, was now hiding from the police +under a different name from any heretofore assumed. They met, by what +seemed an accident, on the street. + +“Pinky!” + +“Fan!” + +Dropped from their lips in mutual surprise and pleasure. A little while +they held each other's hands, and looked into each other's faces with +keenly-searching, sinister eyes, one thought coming uppermost in the +minds of both--the thought of that long-time-lost capital in trade, the +cast-adrift baby. + +From the street they went to Mrs. Bray's hiding-place a small +ill-furnished room in one of the suburbs of the city--and there took +counsel together. + +“What became of that baby?” was one of Mrs. Bray's first questions. + +“It's all right,” answered Pinky. + +“Do you know where it is?” + +“Yes.” + +“And can you put your hand on it?” + +“At any moment.” + +“Not worth the trouble of looking after now,” said Mrs. Bray, assuming +an indifferent manner. + +“Why?” Pinky turned on her quickly. + +“Oh, because the old lady is dead.” + +“What old lady?” + +“The grandmother.” + +“When did she die?” + +“Three or four weeks ago.” + +“What was her name?” asked Pinky. + +Mrs. Bray closed her lips tightly and shook her head. + +“Can't betray thatt secret,” she replied. + +“Oh, just as you like;” and Pinky gave her head an impatient toss. “High +sense of honor! Respect for the memory of a departed friend! But it +won't go down with me, Fan. We know each other too well. As for the +baby--a pretty big one now, by the way, and as handsome a boy as you'll +find in all this city--he's worth something to somebody, and I'm on that +somebody's track. There's mother as well as a grandmother in the case, +Fan.” + +Mrs. Bray's eyes flashed, and her face grew red with an excitement she +could not hold back. Pinky watched her keenly. + +“There's somebody in this town to-day who would give thousands to get +him,” she added, still keeping her eyes on her companion. “And as I was +saying, I'm on that somebody's track. You thought no one but you and +Sal Long knew anything, and that when she died you had the secret all to +yourself. But Sal didn't keep mum about it.” + +“Did she tell you anything?” demanded Mrs. Bray, thrown off her guard by +Pinky's last assertion. + +“Enough for me to put this and that together and make it nearly all +out,” answered Pinky, with great coolness. “I was close after the game +when I got caught myself. But I'm on the track once more, and don't mean +to be thrown off. A link or two in the chain of evidence touching the +parentage of this child, and I am all right. You have these missing +links, and can furnish them if you will. If not, I am bound to find +them. You know me, Fan. If I once set my heart on doing a thing, heaven +and earth can't stop me.” + +“You're devil enough for anything, I know, and can lie as fast as you +can talk,” returned Mrs. Bray, in considerable irritation. “If I could +believe a word you said! But I can't.” + +“No necessity for it,” retorted Pinky, with a careless toss of her head. +“If you don't wish to hunt in company, all right. I'll take the game +myself.” + +“You forget,” said Mrs. Bray, “I can spoil your game.” + +“Indeed! how?” + +“By blowing the whole thing to Mr.--” + +“Mr. who?” asked Pinky, leaning forward eagerly as her companion paused +without uttering the name that was on her lips. + +“Wouldn't you like to know?” Mrs. Bray gave a low tantalizing laugh. + +“I'm not sure that I would, from you. I'm bound to know somehow, and it +will be cheapest to find out for myself,” replied Pinky, hiding her real +desire, which was to get the clue she sought from Mrs. Bray, and which +she alone could give. “As for blowing on me, I wouldn't like anything +better. I wish you'd call on Mr. Somebody at once, and tell him I've +got the heir of his house and fortune, or on Mrs. Somebody, and tell her +I've got her lost baby. Do it, Fan; that's a deary.” + +“Suppose I were to do so?” asked Mrs. Bray, repressing the anger that +was in her heart, and speaking with some degree of calmness. + +“What then?” + +“The police would be down on you in less than an hour.” + +“And what then?” + +“Your game would be up.” + +Pinky laughed derisively: + +“The police are down on me now, and have been coming down on me for +nearly a month past. But I'm too much for them. I know how to cover my +tracks.” + +“Down on you! For what?” + +“They're after the boy.” + +“What do they know about him? Who set them after him?” + +“I grabbed him up last Christmas down in Briar street after being on his +track for a week, and them that had him are after him sharp.” + +“Who had him?” + +“I'm a little puzzled at the rumpus it has kicked up,” said Pinky, in +reply. “It's stirred things amazingly.” + +“How?” + +“Oh, as I said, the police are after me sharp. They've had me before the +mayor twice, and got two or three to swear they saw me pick up the child +in Briar street and run off with him. But I denied it all.” + +“And I can swear that you confessed it all to me,” said Mrs. Bray, with +ill-concealed triumph. + +“It won't do, Fan,” laughed Pinky. “They'll not be able to find him +any more then than now. But I wish you would. I'd like to know this Mr. +Somebody of whom you spoke. I'll sell out to him. He'll bid high, I'm +thinking.” + +Baffled by her sharper accomplice, and afraid to trust her with the +secret of the child's parentage lest she should rob her of the last gain +possible to receive out of this great iniquity, Mrs. Bray became wrought +up to a state of ungovernable passion, and in a blind rage pushed Pinky +from her room. The assault was sudden and unexpected---so sudden that +Pinky, who was the stronger, had no time to recover herself and take +the offensive before she was on the outside and the door shut and locked +against her. A few impotent threats and curses were interchanged between +the two infuriated women, and then Pinky went away. + +On the day following, as Mr. Dinneford was preparing to go out, he was +informed that a lady had called and was waiting down stairs to see him. +She did not send her card nor give her name. On going into the room +where the visitor had been shown, he saw a little woman with a dark, +sallow complexion. She arose and came forward a step or two in evident +embarrassment. + +“Mr. Dinneford?” she said. + +“That is my name, madam,” was replied. + +“You do not know me?” + +Mr. Dinneford looked at her closely, and then answered, + +“I have not that pleasure, madam.” + +The woman stood for a moment or two, hesitating. + +“Be seated, madam,” said Mr. Dinneford. + +She sat down, seeming very ill at ease. He took a chair in front of her. + +“You wish to see me?” + +“Yes, sir, and on a matter that deeply concerns you. I was your +daughter's nurse when her baby was born.” + +She paused at this. Mr. Dinneford had caught his breath. She saw the +almost wild interest that flushed his face. + +After waiting a moment for some response, she added, in a low, steady +voice, + +“That baby is still alive, and I am the only person who can clearly +identify him.” + +Mr. Dinneford did not reply immediately. He saw by the woman's face +that she was not to be trusted, and that in coming to him she had only +sinister ends in view. Her story might be true or false. He thought +hurriedly, and tried to regain exterior calmness. As soon as he felt +that he could speak without betraying too much eagerness, he said, with +an appearance of having recognized her, + +“You are Mrs.----?” + +He paused, but she did not supply the name. + +“Mrs.----? Mrs.----? what is it?” + +“No matter, Mr. Dinneford,” answered Mrs. Bray, with the coolness and +self-possession she had now regained. “What I have just told you is +true. If you wish to follow up the matter--wish to get possession of +your daughter's child--you have the opportunity; if not, our interview +ends, of course;” and she made a feint, as if going to rise. + +“Is it the child a woman named Pinky Swett stole away from Briar street +on Christmas day?” asked Mr. Dinneford, speaking from a thought that +flashed into his mind, and so without premeditation. He fixed his eyes +intently on Mrs. Bray's face, and saw by its quick changes and blank +surprise that he had put the right question. Before she could recover +herself and reply, he added, + +“And you are, doubtless, this same Pinky Swett.” + +The half smile, half sneer, that curved the woman's lips, told Mr. +Dinneford that he was mistaken. + +“No, sir,” was returned, with regained coolness. “I am not 'this same +Pinky Swett.' You are out there.” + +“But you know her?” + +“I don't know anything just now, sir,” answered the woman, with a chill +in her tones. She closed her lips tightly, and shrunk back in her chair. + +“What, then, are your here for?” asked Mr. Dinneford, showing +considerable sternness of manner. + +“I thought you understood,” returned the woman. “I was explicit in my +statement.” + +“Oh, I begin to see. There is a price on your information,” said Mr. +Dinneford. + +“Yes, sir. You might have known that from the first. I will be frank +with you.” + +“But why have you kept this secret for three years? Why did you not come +before?” asked Mr. Dinneford. + +“Because I was paid to keep the secret. Do you understand?” + +Too well did Mr. Dinneford understand, and it was with difficulty he +could suppress a groan as his head drooped forward and his eyes fell to +the floor. + +“It does not pay to keep it any longer,” added the woman. + +Mr. Dinneford made no response. + +“Gain lies on the other side. The secret is yours, if you will have it.” + +“At what price?” asked Mr. Dinneford, without lifting his eyes. + +“One thousand dollars, cash in hand.” + +“On production of the child and proof of its identity?” + +Mrs. Bray took time to answer. “I do not mean to have any slip in this +matter,” she said. “It was a bad business at the start, as I told Mrs. +Dinneford, and has given me more trouble than I've been paid for, ten +times over. I shall not be sorry to wash my hands clean of it; but +whenever I do so, there must be compensation and security. I haven't the +child, and you may hunt me to cover with all the police hounds in the +city, and yet not find him.” + +“If I agree to pay your demand,” replied Mr. Dinneford, “it can only be +on production and identification of the child.” + +“After which your humble servant will be quickly handed over to the +police,” a low, derisive laugh gurgling in the woman's throat. + +“The guilty are ever in dread, and the false always in fear of +betrayal,” said Mr. Dinneford. “I can make no terms with you for any +antecedent reward. The child must be in my possession and his parentage +clearly proved before I give you a dollar. As to what may follow to +yourself, your safety will lie in your own silence. You hold, and will +still hold, a family secret that we shall not care to have betrayed. If +you should ever betray it, or seek, because of its possession, to annoy +or prey upon us, I shall consider all honorable contract we may have at +an end, and act accordingly.” + +“Will you put in writing, an obligation to pay me one thousand dollars +in case I bring the child and prove its identity?” + +“No; but I will give you my word of honor that this sum shall be placed +in your hands whenever you produce the child.” + +Mrs. Bray remained silent for a considerable time, then, as if +satisfied, arose, saying, + +“You will hear from me by to-morrow or the day after, at farthest. +Good-morning.” + +As she was moving toward the door Mr. Dinneford said, + +“Let me have your name and residence, madam.” + +The woman quickened her steps, partly turning her head as she did so, +and said, with a sinister curl of the lip, + +“No, I thank you, sir.” + +In the next moment she was gone. + + + + +CHAPTER XXV. + + + +_NOTHING_ of all this was communicated to Edith. After a few weeks +of prostration strength came slowly back to mind and body, and with +returning strength her interest in her old work revived. Her feet went +down again into lowly ways, and her hands took hold of suffering. + +Immediately on receipt of Freeling's letter and affidavit, Mr. Dinneford +had taken steps to procure a pardon for George Granger. It came within +a few days after the application was made, and the young man was taken +from the asylum where he had been for three years. + +Mr. Dinneford went to him with Freeling's affidavit and the pardon, and +placing them in his hands, watched him closely to see the effect they +would produce. He found him greatly changed in appearance, looking older +by many years. His manner was quiet, as that of one who had learned +submission after long suffering. But his eyes were clear and steady, and +without sign of mental aberration. He read Freeling's affidavit first, +folded it in an absent kind of way, as if he were dreaming, reopened and +read it through again. Then Mr. Dinneford saw a strong shiver pass over +him; he became pale and slightly convulsed. His face sunk in his hands, +and he sat for a while struggling with emotions that he found it almost +impossible to hold back. + +When he looked up, the wild struggle was over. + +“It is too late,” he said. + +“No, George, it is never too late,” replied Mr. Dinneford. “You have +suffered a cruel wrong, but in the future there are for you, I doubt +not, many compensations.” + +He shook his head in a dreary way, murmuring, + +“I have lost too much.” + +“Nothing that may not be restored. And in all you have not lost a good +conscience.” + +“No, thank God!” answered the young man, with a sudden flush in his +face. “But for that anchor to my soul, I should have long ago drifted +out to sea a helpless wreck. No thank God! I have not lost a good +conscience.” + +“You have not yet read the other paper,” said Mr. Dinneford. “It is your +pardon.” + +“Pardon!” An indignant flash came into Granger's eyes. “Oh, sir, that +hurts too deeply. Pardon! I am not a criminal.” + +“Falsely so regarded in the eyes of the law, but now proved to be +innocent, and so expressed by the governor. It is not a pardon in any +sense of remission, but a declaration of innocence and sorrow for the +undeserved wrongs you have suffered.” + +“It is well,” he answered, gloomily--“the best that can be done; and I +should be thankful.” + +“You cannot be more deeply thankful than I am, George.” Mr. Dinneford +spoke with much feeling. “Let us bury this dreadful past out of our +sight, and trust in God for a better future. You are free again, and +your innocence shall, so far as I have power to do it, be made as clear +as noonday. You are at liberty to depart from here at once. Will you go +with me now?” + +Granger lifted a half-surprised look to Mr. Dinneford's face. + +“Thank you,” he replied, after a few moments' thought. “I shall never +forget your kindness, but I prefer remaining here for a few days, until +I can confer with my friends and make some decision as to the future.” + +Granger's manner grew reserved, almost embarrassed. Mr. Dinneford was +not wrong in his impression of the cause. How could he help thinking of +Edith, who, turning against him with the rest, had accepted the theory +of guilt and pronounced her sentence upon him, hardest of all to bear? +So it appeared to him, for he had nothing but the hard fact before him +that she had applied for and obtained a divorce. + +Yes, it was the thought of Edith that drew Granger back and covered him +with reserve. What more could Mr. Dinneford say? He had not considered +all the hearings of this unhappy case; but now that he remembered the +divorce, he began to see, how full of embarrassment it was, and how +delicate the relation he bore to this unhappy victim of his wife's +dreadful crime. + +What could he say for Edith? Nothing! He knew that her heart had never +turned itself away from this man, though she had, under a pressure she +was not strong enough to resist, turned her back upon him and cast aside +his dishonored name, thus testifying to the world that she believed him +base and criminal. If he should speak of her, would not the young man +answer with indignant scorn? + +“Give me the address of your friends, and I will call upon them +immediately,” said Mr. Dinneford, replying, after a long silence, to +Granger's last remark. “I am here to repair, to any extent that in me +lies the frightful wrongs you have suffered. I shall make your cause my +own, and never rest until every false tarnish shall be wiped from your +name. In honor and conscience I am bound to this.” + +Looking at the young man intently, he saw a grateful response in the +warmer color that broke into his face and in the moisture that filled +his eyes. + +“I would be base if I were not thankful, Mr. Dinneford,” Granger +replied. “But you cannot put yourself in my place, cannot know what I +have suffered, cannot comprehend the sense of wrong and cruel rejection +that has filled my soul with the very gall of bitterness. To be cast out +utterly, suddenly and without warning from heaven into hell, and for no +evil thought or act! Ah, sir! you do not understand.” + +“It was a frightful ordeal, George,” answered Mr. Dinneford, laying his +hand on Granger with the tenderness of a father. “But, thank God! it +is over. You have stood the terrible heat, and now, coming out of the +furnace, I shall see to it that not even the smell of fire remain upon +your garments.” + +Still the young man could not be moved from his purpose to remain at the +asylum until he had seen and conferred with his friends, in whose hands +Mr. Dinneford placed the governor's pardon and the affidavit of Lloyd +Freeling setting forth his innocence. + +Mrs. Bray did not call on Mr. Dinneford, as she had promised. She had +quarreled with Pinky Swett, as the reader will remember, and in a fit +of blind anger thrust her from the room. But in the next moment she +remembered that she did not know where the girl lived, and if she lost +sight of her now, might not again come across her for weeks or months. +So putting on her hat and cloak hurriedly, she waited until she heard +Pinky going down stairs, and then came out noiselessly, and followed her +into the street. She had to be quick in her movements, for Pinky, hot +with anger, was dashing off at a rapid speed. For three or four blocks +Mrs. Bray kept her in view; but there being only a few persons in the +street, she had to remain at a considerable distance behind, so as not +to attract her attention. Suddenly, she lost sight of Pinky. She had +looked back on hearing a noise in the street; turning again, she could +see nothing of the girl. Hurrying forward to the corner which Pinky had +in all probability turned, Mrs. Bray looked eagerly up and down, but to +her disappointment Pinky was not in sight. + +“Somewhere here. I thought it was farther off,” said Mrs. Bray to +herself. “It's too bad that I should have lost sight of her.” + +She stood irresolute for a little while, then walked down one of the +blocks and back on the other side. Halfway down, a small street or alley +divided the block. + +“It's in there, no doubt,” said Mrs. Bray, speaking to herself again. +On the corner was a small shop in which notions and trimmings were sold. +Going into this, she asked for some trifling articles, and while looking +over them drew the woman who kept the shop into conversation. + +“What kind of people live in this little street?” she inquired, in a +half-careless tone. + +The woman smiled as she answered, with a slight toss of the head, + +“Oh, all kinds.” + +“Good, bad and indifferent?” + +“Yes, white sheep and black.” + +“So I thought. The black sheep will get in. You can't keep 'em out.” + +“No, and 'tisn't much use trying,” answered the shop-keeper, with a +levity of manner not unmarked by Mrs. Bray, who said, + +“The black sheep have to live as well as the white ones.” + +“Just so. You hit the nail there.” + +“And I suppose you find their money as good as that of the whitest?” + +“Oh yes.” + +“And quite as freely spent?” + +“As to that,” answered the woman, who was inclined to be talkative and +gossipy, “we make more out of the black sheep than out of the white +ones. They don't higgle so about prices. Not that we have two prices, +but you see they don't try to beat us down, and never stop to worry +about the cost of a thing if they happen to fancy it. They look and buy, +and there's the end of it.” + +“I understand,” remarked Mrs. Bray, with a familiar nod. “It may be +wicked to say so; but if I kept a store like this, I'd rather have the +sinners for customers than the saints.” + +She had taken a seat at the counter; and now, leaning forward upon her +arms and looking at the shop-woman in a pleasant, half-confidential way, +said, + +“You know everybody about here?” + +“Pretty much.” + +“The black sheep as well as the white?” + +“As customers.” + +“Of course; that's all I mean,” was returned. “I'd be sorry if you knew +them in any other way--some of them, at least.” Then, after a pause, “Do +you know a girl they call Pinky?” + +“I may know her, but not by that name. What kind of a looking person is +she?” + +“A tall, bold-faced, dashing, dare-devil sort of a girl, with a snaky +look in her eyes. She wears a pink hat with a white feather.” + +“Yes, I think I have seen some one like that, but she's not been around +here long.” + +“When did you see her last?” + +“If it's the same one you mean, I saw her go by here not ten minutes +ago. She lives somewhere down the alley.” + +“Do you know the house?” + +“I do not; but it can be found, no doubt. You called her Pinky.” + +“Yes. Her name is Pinky Swett.” + +“O-h! o-h!” ejaculated the shop-woman, lifting her eyebrows in a +surprised way. “Why, that's the girl the police were after. They said +she'd run off with somebody's child.” + +“Did they arrest her?” asked Mrs. Bray, repressing, as far as possible, +all excitement. + +“They took her off once or twice, I believe, but didn't make anything +out of her. At any rate, the child was not found. It belonged, they +said, to a rich up-town family that the girl was trying to black-mail. +But I don't see how that could be.” + +“The child isn't about here?” + +“Oh dear, no! If it was, it would have been found long before this, for +the police are hunting around sharp. If it's all as they say, she's got +it hid somewhere else.” + +While Mrs. Bray talked with the shop-woman, Pinky, who had made a +hurried call at her room, only a hundred yards away, was going as fast +as a street-car could take her to a distant part of the city. On leaving +the car at the corner of a narrow, half-deserted street, in which the +only sign of life was a child or two at play in the snow and a couple +of goats lying on a cellar-door, she walked for half the distance of +a block, and then turned into a court lined on both sides with small, +ill-conditioned houses, not half of them tenanted. Snow and ice blocked +the little road-way, except where a narrow path had been cut along close +to the houses. + +Without knocking, Pinky entered one of these poor tenements. As she +pushed open the door, a woman who was crouching down before a small +stove, on which something was cooking, started up with a look of +surprise that changed to one of anxiety and fear the moment she +recognized her visitor. + +“Is Andy all right?” cried Pinky, alarm in her face. + +The woman tried to stammer out something, but did not make herself +understood. At this, Pinky, into whose eyes flashed a fierce light, +caught her by the wrists in a grip that almost crushed the bones. + +“Out with it! where is Andy?” + +Still the frightened woman could not speak. + +“If that child isn't here, I'll murder you!” said Pinky, now white with +anger, tightening her grasp. + +At this, with a desperate effort, the woman flung her off, and catching +up a long wooden bench, raised it over her head. + +“If there's to be any murder going on,” she said, recovering her powers +of speech, “I'll take the first hand! As for the troublesome brat, he's +gone. Got out of the window and climbed down the spout. Wonder he wasn't +killed. Did fall--I don't know how far--and must have hurt himself, +for I heard a noise as if something heavy had dropped in the yard, but +thought it was next door. Half an hour afterward, in going up stairs +and opening the door of the room where I kept him locked in, I found it +empty and the window open. That's the whole story. I ran out and looked +everywhere, but he was off. And now, if the murder is to come, I'm going +to be in first.” + +And she still kept the long wooden bench poised above her head. + +Pinky saw a dangerous look in the woman's eyes. + +“Put that thing down,” she cried, “and don't be a fool. Let me see;” + and she darted past the woman and ran up stairs. She found the window +of Andy's prison open and the print of his little fingers on the +snow-covered sill outside, where he had held on before dropping to the +ground, a distance of many feet. There was no doubt now in her mind as +to the truth of the woman's story. The child had made his escape. + +“Have you been into all the neighbors' houses?” asked Pinky as she came +down hastily. + +“Into some, but not all,” she replied. + +“How long is it since he got away?” + +“More than two hours.” + +“And you've been sticking down here, instead of ransacking every hole +and corner in the neighborhood. I can hardly keep my hands off of you.” + +The woman was on the alert. Pinky saw this, and did not attempt to put +her threat into execution. After pouring out her wrath in a flood +of angry invectives, she went out and began a thorough search of the +neighborhood, going into every house for a distance of three or four +blocks in all directions. But she could neither find the child nor get +the smallest trace of him. He had dropped out of sight, so far as she +was concerned, as completely as if he had fallen into the sea. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVI. + + + +_DAY_ after day Mr. Dinneford waited for the woman who was to restore +the child of Edith, but she did not come. Over a week elapsed, but she +neither called nor sent him a sign or a word. He dared not speak +about this to Edith. She was too weak in body and mind for any further +suspense or strain. + +Drew Hall had been nearly thrown down again by the events of that +Christmas day. The hand of a little child was holding him fast to a +better life; but when that hand was torn suddenly away from his grasp, +he felt the pull of evil habits, the downward drift of old currents. His +steps grew weak, his knees trembled. But God did not mean that he should +be left alone. He had reached down to him through the hand of a little +child, had lifted him up and led him into a way of safety; and now that +this small hand, the soft, touch of which had gone to his heart and +stirred him with old memories, sad and sweet and holy, had dropped away +from him, and he seemed to be losing his hold of heaven, God sent +him, in Mr. Dinneford, an angel with a stronger hand. There were old +associations that held these men together. They had been early and +attached friends, and this meeting, after many years of separation, +under such strange circumstances, and with a common fear and anxiety +at heart, could not but have the effect of arousing in the mind of Mr. +Dinneford the deepest concern for the unhappy man. He saw the new peril +into which he was thrown by the loss of Andy, and made it his first +business to surround him with all possible good and strengthening +influences. So the old memories awakened by the coming of Andy did not +fade out and lose their power over the man. He had taken hold of the +good past again, and still held to it with the tight grasp of one +conscious of danger. + +“We shall find the child--no fear of that,” Mr. Dinneford would say to +him over and over again, trying to comfort his own heart as well, as +the days went by and no little Andy could be found. “The police have the +girl under the sharpest surveillance, and she cannot baffle them much +longer.” + +George Granger left the asylum with his friends, and dropped out +of sight. He did not show himself in the old places nor renew old +associations. He was too deeply hurt. The disaster had been too great +for any attempt on his part at repairing the old dwelling-places of his +life. His was not what we call a strong nature, but he was susceptible +of very deep impressions. He was fine and sensitive, rather than strong. +Rejected by his wife and family without a single interview with her or +even an opportunity to assert his innocence, he felt the wrong so deeply +that he could not get over it. His love for his wife had been profound +and tender, and when it became known to him that she had accepted the +appearances of guilt as conclusive, and broken with her own hands the +tie that bound them, it was more than he had strength to bear, and a +long time passed before he rallied from this hardest blow of all. + +Edith knew that her father had seen Granger after securing his pardon, +and she had learned from him only, particulars of the interview. Beyond +this nothing came to her. She stilled her heart, aching with the +old love that crowded all its chambers, and tried to be patient and +submissive. It was very hard. But she was helpless. Sometimes, in the +anguish and wild agitation of soul that seized her, she would resolve +to put in a letter all she thought and felt, and have it conveyed to +Granger; but fear and womanly delicacy drove her back from this. What +hope had she that he would not reject her with hatred and scorn? It was +a venture she dared not make, for she felt that such a rejection would +kill her. But for her work among the destitute and the neglected, Edith +would have shut herself up at home. Christian charity drew her forth +daily, and in offices of kindness and mercy she found a peace and rest +to which she would otherwise have been stranger. + +She was on her way home one afternoon from a visit to the mission-school +where she had first heard of the poor baby in Grubb's court. All that +day thoughts of little Andy kept crowding into her mind. She could not +push aside his image as she saw it on Christmas, when he sat among the +children, his large eyes resting in such a wistful look upon her face. +Her eyes often grew dim and her heart full as she looked upon that +tender face, pictured for her as distinctly as if photographed to +natural sight. + +“Oh my baby, my baby!” came almost audibly from her lips, in a burst +of irrepressible feeling, for ever since she had seen this child, the +thought of him linked itself with that of her lost baby. + +Up to this time her father had carefully concealed his interview +with Mrs. Bray. He was in so much doubt as to the effect that woman's +communication might produce while yet the child was missing that he +deemed it best to maintain the strictest silence until it could be +found. + +Walking along with heart and thought where they dwelt for so large a +part of her time, Edith, in turning a corner, came upon a woman who +stopped at sight of her as if suddenly fastened to the ground--stopped +only for an instant, like one surprised by an unexpected and unwelcome +encounter, and then made a motion to pass on. But Edith, partly from +memory and partly from intuition, recognized her nurse, and catching +fast hold of her, said in a low imperative voice, while a look of wild +excitement spread over her face, + +“Where is my baby?” + +The woman tried to shake her off, but Edith held her with a grasp that +could not be broken. + +“For Heaven's sake,” exclaimed the woman “let go of me! This is the +public street, and you'll have a crowd about us in a moment, and the +police with them.” + +But Edith kept fast hold of her. + +“First tell me where I can find my baby,” she answered. + +“Come along,” said the woman, moving as she spoke in the direction Edith +was going when they met. “If you want a row with the police, I don't.” + +Edith was close to her side, with her hand yet upon her and her voice in +her ears. + +“My baby! Quick! Say! Where can I find my baby?” + +“What do I know of your baby? You are a fool, or mad!” answered the +woman, trying to throw her off. “I don't know you.” + +“But I know you, Mrs. Bray,” said Edith, speaking the name at a venture +as the one she remembered hearing the servant give to her mother. + +At this the woman's whole manner changed, and Edith saw that she was +right--that this was, indeed, the accomplice of her mother. + +“And now,” she added, in voice grown calm and resolute, “I do not mean +to let you escape until I get sure knowledge of my child. If you fly +from me, I will follow and call for the police. If you have any of +the instincts of a woman left, you will know that I am desperately +in earnest. What is a street excitement or a temporary arrest by the +police, or even a station-house exposure, to me, in comparison with the +recovery of my child? Where is he?” + +“I do not know,” replied Mrs. Bray. “After seeing your father--” + +“My father! When did you see him?” exclaimed Edith, betraying in her +surprised voice the fact that Mr. Dinneford had kept so far, even from +her, the secret of that brief interview to which she now referred. + +“Oh, he hasn't told you! But it's no matter--he will do that in good +time. After seeing your father, I made an effort to get possession of +your child and restore him as I promised to do. But the woman who had +him hidden somewhere managed to keep out of my way until this morning. +And now she says he got off from her, climbed out of a second-story +window and disappeared, no one knows where.” + +“This woman's name is Pinky Swett?” said Edith. + +“Yes.” + +Mrs. Bray felt the hand that was still upon her arm shake as if from a +violent chill. + +“Do you believe what she says?--that the child has really escaped from +her?” + +“Yes.” + +“Where does she live?” + +Mrs. Bray gave the true directions, and without hesitation. + +“Is this child the one she stole from the Briar-street mission on +Christmas day?” asked Edith. + +“He is,” answered Mrs. Bray. + +“How shall I know he is mine? What proof is there that little Andy, as +he is called, and my baby are the same?” + +“I know him to be your child, for I have never lost sight of him,” + replied the woman, emphatically. “You may know him by his eyes and mouth +and chin, for they are yours. Nobody can mistake the likeness. But there +is another proof. When I nursed you, I saw on your arm, just above the +elbow, a small raised mark of a red color, and noticed a similar one on +the baby's arm. You will see it there whenever you find the child that +Pinky Swett stole from the mission-house on Christmas day. Good-bye!” + +And the woman, seeing that her companion was off of her guard, sprang +away, and was out of sight in the crowd before Edith could rally herself +and make an attempt to follow. How she got home she could hardly tell. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVII. + + + +_FOR_ weeks the search for Andy was kept up with unremitting vigilance, +but no word of him came to the anxious searchers. A few days after the +meeting with Mrs. Bray, the police report mentioned the arrest of both +Pinky Swett and Mrs. Bray, _alias_ Hoyt, _alias_ Jewett, charged with +stealing a diamond ring of considerable value from a jewelry store. They +were sent to prison, in default of bail, to await trial. Mr. Dinneford +immediately went to the prison and had an interview with the two women, +who could give him no information about Andy beyond what Mrs. Bray had +already communicated in her hurried talk with Edith. Pinky could get no +trace of him after he had escaped. Mr. Dinneford did not leave the two +women until he had drawn from them a minute and circumstantial account +of all they knew of Edith's child from the time it was cast adrift. When +he left them, he had no doubt as to its identity with Andy. There was no +missing link in the chain of evidence. + +The new life that had opened to little Andy since the dreary night on +which, like a stray kitten, he had crept into Andrew Hall's miserable +hovel, had been very pleasant. To be loved and caressed was a strange +and sweet experience. Poor little heart! It fluttered in wild terror, +like a tiny bird in the talons of a hawk, when Pinky Swett swooped down +and struck her foul talons into the frightened child and bore him off. + +“If you scream, I'll choke you to death!” she said, stooping to his ear, +as she hurried him from the mission-house. Scared into silence, Andy did +not cry out, and the arm that grasped and dragged him away was so strong +that he felt resistance to be hopeless. Passing from Briar street, Pinky +hurried on for a distance of a block, when she signaled a street-car. +As she lifted Andy upon the platform, she gave him another whispered +threat: + +“Mind! if you cry, I'll kill you!” + +There were but few persons in the car, and Pinky carried the child +to the upper end and sat him down with his face turned forward to the +window, so as to keep it as much out of observation as possible. He sat +motionless, stunned with surprise and fear. Pinky kept her eyes upon +him. His hands were laid across his breast and held against it tightly. +They had not gone far before Pinky saw great tear-drops falling upon the +little hands. + +“Stop crying!” she whispered, close to his ear; “I won't have it! You're +not going to be killed.” + +Andy tried to keep back the tears, but in spite of all he could do they +kept blinding his eyes and falling over his hands. + +“What's the matter with your little boy?” asked a sympathetic, motherly +woman who had noticed the child's distress. + +“Cross, that's all.” Pinky threw out the sentence in at snappish, +mind-your-own-business tone. + +The motherly woman, who had leaned forward, a look of kindly interest on +her face, drew back, chilled by this repulse, but kept her eyes upon the +child, greatly to Pinky's annoyance. After riding for half a mile, Pinky +got out and took another car. Andy was passive. He had ceased crying, +and was endeavoring to get back some of the old spirit of brave +endurance. He was beginning to feel like one who had awakened from a +beautiful dream in which dear ideals had almost reached fruition, to +the painful facts of a hard and suffering life, and was gathering up +his patience and strength to meet them. He sat motionless by the side of +Pinky, with his eyes cast down, his chin on his breast and his lips shut +closely together. + +Another ride of nearly half a mile, when Pinky left the car and struck +away from the common thoroughfare into a narrow alley, down which she +walked for a short distance, and then disappeared in one of the small +houses. No one happened to observe her entrance. Through a narrow +passage and stairway she reached a second-story room. Taking a key from +her pocket, she unlocked the door and went in. There was a fire in +a small stove, and the room was comfortable. Locking the door on the +inside she said to Andy, in a voice changed and kinder, + +“My! your hands are as red as beets. Go up to the stove and warm +yourself.” + +Andy obeyed, spreading out his little hands, and catching the grateful +warmth, every now and then looking up into Pinky's face, and trying with +a shrewder insight than is usually given to a child of his age to read +the character and purposes it half concealed and half made known. + +“Now, Andy,” said Pinky, in a mild but very decided way--“your name's +Andy?” + +“Yes, ma'am,” answered the child, fixing his large, intelligent eyes on +her face. + +“Well, Andy, if you'll be a good and quiet boy, you needn't be afraid of +anything--you won't get hurt. But if you make a fuss, I'll throw you at +once right out of the window.” + +Pinky frowned and looked so wicked as she uttered the last sentence that +Andy was frightened. It seemed as if a devouring beast glared at him out +of her eyes. She saw the effect of her threat, and was satisfied. + +The short afternoon soon passed away. The girl did not leave the room, +nor talk with the child except in very low tones, so as not to attract +the attention of any one in the house. As the day waned snow began to +fall, and by the time night set in it was coming down thick and fast. As +soon as it was fairly dark, Pinky wrapped a shawl about Andy, pinning it +closely, so as to protect him from the cold, and quietly left the house. +He made no resistance. A car was taken, in which they rode for a long +distance, until they were on the outskirts of the city. The snow had +already fallen to a depth of two or three inches, and the storm was +increasing. When she left the car in that remote neighborhood, not a +person was to be seen on the street. Catching Andy into her arms, Pinky +ran with him for the distance of half a block, and then turned into a +close alley with small houses on each side. At the lower end she stopped +before one of these houses, and without knocking pushed open the door. + +“Who's that?” cried a voice from an upper room, the stairway to which +led up from the room below. + +“It's me. Come down, and be quiet,” answered Pinky, in a warning voice. + +A woman, old and gray, with all the signs of a bad life on her wrinkled +face, came hastily down stairs and confronted Pinky. + +“What now? What's brought you here?” she demanded, in no friendly tones. + +“There, there, Mother Peter! smooth down your feathers. I've got +something for you to do, and it will pay,” answered Pinky, who had shut +the outside door and slipped the bolt. + +At this, the manner of Mother Peter, as Pinky had called her, softened, +and she said, + +“What's up? What deviltry are you after now, you huzzy?” + +Without replying to this, Pinky began shaking the snow from Andy and +unwinding the shawl with which she had bound him up. After he was free +from his outside wrappings, she said, looking toward the woman, + +“Now, isn't he a nice little chap? Did you ever see such eyes?” + +The worn face of the woman softened as she turned toward the beautiful +child, but not with pity. To that feeling she had long been a stranger. + +“I want you to keep him for a few days,” said Pinky, speaking in +the woman's ears. “I'll tell you more about it after he's in bed and +asleep.” + +“He's to be kept shut up out of sight, mind,” was Pinky's injunction, +in the conference that followed. “Not a living soul in the neighborhood +must know he's in the house, for the police will be sharp after him. +I'll pay you five dollars a week, and put it down in advance. Give him +plenty to eat, and be as good to him as you can, for you see it's a fat +job, and I'll make it fatter for you if all comes out right.” + +The woman was not slow to promise all that Pinky demanded. The house in +which she lived had three rooms, one below and two smaller ones above. +From the room below a stove-pipe went up through the floor into a +sheet-iron drum in the small back chamber, and kept it partially heated. +It was arranged that Andy should be made a close prisoner in this room, +and kept quiet by fear. It had only one window, looking out upon the +yard, and there was no shed or porch over the door leading into the yard +below upon which he could climb out and make his escape. In order to +have things wholly secure the two women, after Andy was asleep, pasted +paper over the panes of glass in the lower sash, so that no one could +see his face at the window, and fastened the sash down by putting a nail +into a gimlet-hole at the top. + +“I guess thatt will fix him,” said Pinky, in a tone of satisfaction. +“All you've got to do now is to see that he doesn't make a noise.” + +On the next morning Andy was awake by day-dawn. At first he did not know +where he was, but he kept very still, looking around the small room and +trying to make out what it all meant. Soon it came to him, and a vague +terror filled his heart. By his side lay the woman into whose hands +Pinky had given him. She was fast asleep, and her face, as he gazed in +fear upon it, was even more repulsive than it had looked on the night +before. His first impulse, after comprehending his situation, was to +escape if possible. Softly and silently he crept out of bed, and made +his way to the door. It was fastened. He drew the bolt back, when it +struck the guard with a sharp click. In an instant the old woman was +sitting up in bed and glaring at him. + +“You imp of Satan!” she cried, springing after him with a singular +agility for one of her age, and catching him by the arm with a vice-like +grip that bruised the tender flesh and left it marked for weeks, drew +him back from the door and flung him upon the bed. + +“Stay there till I tell you to get up,” she added, with a cruel threat +in her voice. “And mind you, there's to be no fooling with me.” + +The frightened child crept under the bed-clothes, and hid his face +beneath them. Mother Peter did not lie down again, but commenced +dressing herself, muttering and grumbling as she did so. + +“Keep where you are till I come back,” she said to Andy, with the same +cruel threat in her voice. Going out, she bolted the door on the other +side. It was nearly half an hour before the woman returned, bringing a +plate containing two or three slices of bread and butter and a cup of +milk. + +“Now get up and dress yourself,” was her sharply-spoken salutation to +Andy as she came into the room. “And you're to be just as still as a +mouse, mind. There's your breakfast.” She set the plate on a table and +went out, bolting, as before, the door on the other side. Andy did not +see her again for over an hour. Left entirely alone in his prison, +his restless spirit chafed for freedom. He moved about the apartment, +examining everything it contained with the closest scrutiny, yet without +making any noise, for the woman's threat, accompanied as it had been +with such a wicked look, was not forgotten. He had seen in that look a +cruel spirit of which he was afraid. Two or three times he thought he +heard a step and a movement in the adjoining chamber, and waited, almost +holding his breath, with his eyes upon the door, expecting every moment +to see the scowling face of his jailer. But no hand touched the door. + +Tired at last with everything in the room, he went to the window and +sought to look out, as he had already done many times. He could not +understand why this window, was so different from any he had ever seen, +and puzzled over it in his weak, childish way. As he moved from pane to +pane, trying to see through, he caught a glimpse of something outside, +but it was gone in a moment. He stepped back, then came up quickly to +the glass, all the dull quietude of manner leaving him. As he did so a +glimpse of the outside world came again, and now he saw a little hole in +the paper not larger than a pin's head. To scrape at this was a simple +instinct. In a moment he saw it enlarging, as the paper peeled off +from the glass. Scraping away with his finger-nail, the glass was soon +cleared of paper for the space of an inch in diameter, and through this +opening he stood gazing out upon the yards, below, and the houses that +came up to them from a neighboring street. There was a woman in one +of these yards, and she looked up toward the window where Andy stood, +curiously. + +“You imp of Satan!” were the terrible words that fell upon his ears at +this juncture, and he felt himself caught up as by a vulture. He knew +the cruel voice and the grip of the cruel hands that had already left +their marks in his tender flesh. Mother Peter, her face red with passion +and her eyes slowing like coals of fire, held him high in the air, +and shook him with savage violence. She did not strike, but continued +shaking him until the sudden heat of her passion had a little cooled. + +“Didn't I tell you not to meddle with anything in this room?” and with +another bruising grip of Andy's arms, she threw him roughly upon the +floor. + +The little hole in the paper was then repaired by pasting another piece +of paper over it, after which Andy was left alone, but with a threat +from Mother Peter that if he touched the window again she would beat the +life out of him. She had no more trouble with him that day. Every half +hour or so she would come up stairs noiselessly, and listen at the door, +or break in upon the child suddenly and without warning. But she did not +find him again at the window. The restlessness at first exhibited had +died out, and he sat or lay upon the floor in a kind of dull, despairing +stupor. So that day passed. + +On the second day of Andy's imprisonment he distinctly heard the old +woman go out at the street door and lock it after her. He listened for a +long time, but could hear no sound in the house. A feeling of relief and +a sense of safety came over him. He had not been so long in his prison +alone without the minutest examination of every part, and it had not +escaped his notice that the panes of glass in the upper sash of the +window were not covered with paper, as were those below. But for the +fear of one of Mother Peter's noiseless pouncings in upon him, he would +long since have climbed upon the sill and taken a look through the upper +sash. He waited now for full half an hour to be sure that his jailer had +left the house, and then, climbing to the window-sill with the agility +of a squirrel, held on to the edge of the lower sash and looked out +through the clear glass above. Dreary and unsightly as was all that lay +under his gaze, it was beautiful in the eyes of the child. His little +heart swelled and glowed; he longed, as a prisoner, for freedom. As he +stood there he saw that a nail held down the lower sash, which he had so +often tried, but in vain, to lift. Putting his finger on this nail, he +felt it move. It had been placed loosely in a gimlet-hole, and could +be drawn out easily. For a little while he stood there, taking out and +putting in the nail. While doing this he thought he heard a sound below, +and instantly dropped noiselessly from the window. He had scarcely done +so when the door of his room opened and Mother Peter came in. She looked +at him sharply, and then retired without speaking. + +All the next day Andy listened after Mother Peter, waiting to hear her +go out. But she did not leave the house until after he was asleep in the +evening. + +On the next day, after waiting until almost noon, the child's impatience +of confinement grew so strong that he could no longer defer his +meditated escape from the window, for ever since he had looked over the +sash and discovered how it was fastened down, his mind had been running +on this thing. He had noticed that Mother Peter's visits to his room +were made after about equal intervals of time, and that after she gave +him his dinner she did not come up stairs again for at least an hour. +This had been brought, and he was again alone. + +For nearly five minutes after the woman went out, he sat by the untasted +food, his head bent toward the door, listening. Then he got up quietly, +climbed upon the window-sill and pulled the nail out. Dropping back upon +the floor noiselessly, he pushed his hands upward against the sash, and +it rose easily. Like an animal held in unwilling confinement, he did +not stop to think of any danger that might lie in the way of escape +when opportunity for escape offered. The fear behind was worse than any +imagined fear that could lie beyond. Pushing up the sash, Andy, without +looking down from the window, threw himself across the sill and dropped +his body over, supporting himself with his hands on the snow-encrusted +ledge for a moment, and then letting himself fall to the ground, a +distance of nearly ten feet. He felt his breath go as he swept through +the air, and lost his senses for an instant or two. + +Stunned by the fall, he did not rise for several minutes. Then he got +up with a slow, heavy motion and looked about him anxiously. He was in +a yard from which there was no egress except by way of the house. It +was bitter cold, and he had on nothing but the clothing worn in the room +from which he had just escaped. His head was bare. + +The dread of being found here by Mother Peter soon lifted him above +physical impediment or suffering. Through a hole in the fence he saw an +alley-way; and by the aid of an old barrel that stood in the yard, he +climbed to the top of the fence and let himself down on the other side, +falling a few feet. A sharp pain was felt in one of his ankles as his +feet touched the ground. He had sprained it in his leap from the window, +and now felt the first pangs attendant on the injury. + +Limping along, he followed the narrow alley-way, and in a little while +came out upon a street some distance from the one in which Mother Peter +lived. There were very few people abroad, and no one noticed or spoke to +him as he went creeping along, every step sending a pain from the hurt +ankle to his heart. Faint with suffering and chilled to numbness, Andy +stumbled and fell as he tried, in crossing a street, to escape from a +sleigh that turned a corner suddenly. It was too late for the driver to +rein up his horse. One foot struck the child, throwing him out of the +track of the sleigh. He was insensible when taken up, bleeding and +apparently dead. A few people came out of the small houses in the +neighborhood, attracted by the accident, but no one knew the child or +offered to take him in. + +There were two ladies in the sleigh, and both were greatly pained and +troubled. After a hurried consultation, one of them reached out her +hands for the child, and as she received and covered him with the +buffalo-robe said something to the driver, who turned his horse's head +and drove off at a rapid speed. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVIII. + + + +_EVERY_ home for friendless children, every sin or poverty-blighted ward +and almost every hovel, garret and cellar where evil and squalor shrunk +from observation were searched for the missing child, but in vain. No +trace of him could be found. The agony of suspense into which Edith's +mind was brought was beginning to threaten her reason. It was only by +the strongest effort at self-compulsion that she could keep herself to +duty among the poor and suffering, and well for her it was that she did +not fail here; it was all that held her to safe mooring. + +One day, as she was on her way home from some visit of mercy, a lady +who was passing in a carriage called to her from the window, at the same +time ordering her driver to stop. The carriage drew up to the sidewalk. + +“Come, get in,” said the lady as she pushed open the carriage door. “I +was thinking of you this very moment, and want to have some talk about +our children's hospital. We must have you on our ladies' visiting +committee.” + +Edith shook her head, saying, “It won't be possible, Mrs. Morton. I am +overtaxed now, and must lessen, instead of increasing, my work.” + +“Never mind, about that now. Get in. I want to have some talk with you.” + +Edith, who knew the lady intimately, stepped into the carriage and took +a seat by her side. + +“I don't believe you have ever been to our hospital,” said the lady as +the carriage rolled on. “I'm going there now, and want to show you how +admirably everything is conducted, and what a blessing it is to poor +suffering children.” + +“It hurts me so to witness suffering in little children,” returned +Edith, “that it seems as if I couldn't bear it much longer. I see so +much of it.” + +“The pain is not felt as deeply when we are trying to relieve that +suffering,” answered her friend. “I have come away from the hospital +many times after spending an hour or two among the beds, reading and +talking to the children, with an inward peace in my soul too deep for +expression. I think that Christ draws very near to us while we are +trying to do the work that he did when he took upon himself our nature +in, the world and stood face to face visibly with men--nearer to us, +it may be, than at any other time; and in his presence there is +peace--peace that passeth understanding.” + +They were silent for a little while, Edith not replying. “We have now,” + resumed the lady, “nearly forty children under treatment--poor +little things who, but for this charity, would have no tender care or +intelligent ministration. Most of them would be lying in garrets or +miserable little rooms, dirty and neglected, disease eating out their +lives, and pain that medical skill now relieves, racking their poor worn +bodies. I sat by the bed of a little girl yesterday who has been in the +hospital over six months. She has hip disease. When she was brought here +from one of the vilest places in the city, taken away from a drunken +mother, she was the saddest-looking child I ever saw. Dirty, emaciated, +covered with vermin and pitiable to behold, I could hardly help crying +when I saw her brought in. Now, though still unable to leave her +bed, she has as bright and happy a face as you ever saw. The care and +tenderness received since she came to us have awakened a new life in her +soul, and she exhibits a sweetness of temper beautiful to see. After +I had read a little story for her yesterday, she put her arms about +my neck and kissed me, saying, in her frank, impulsive way, 'Oh, Mrs. +Morton, I do love you so!' I had a great reward. Never do I spend an +hour among these children without thanking God that he put it into the +hearts of a few men and women who could be touched with the sufferings +of children to establish and sustain so good an institution.” + +The carriage stopped, and the driver swung open the door. They were +at the children's hospital. Entering a spacious hall, the two ladies +ascended to the second story, where the wards were located. There were +two of these on opposite sides of the hall, one for boys and one for +girls. Edith felt a heavy pressure on her bosom as they passed into the +girls' ward. She was coming into the presence of disease and pain, of +suffering and weariness, in the persons of little children. + +There were twenty beds in the room. Everything was faultlessly clean, +and the air fresh and pure. On most of these beds lay, or sat up, +supported by pillows, sick or crippled children from two years of age +up to fifteen or sixteen, while a few were playing about the room. Edith +caught her breath and choked back a sob that came swiftly to her throat +as she stood a few steps within the door and read in a few quick glances +that passed from face to face the sorrowful records that pain had +written upon them. + +“Oh, there's Mrs. Morton!” cried a glad voice, and Edith saw a girl who +was sitting up in one of the beds clap her hands joyfully. + +“That's the little one I was telling you about,” said the lady, and she +crossed to the bed, Edith following. The child reached up her arms and +put them about Mrs. Morton's neck, kissing her as she did so. + +It took Edith some time to adjust herself to the scene before her. Mrs. +Morton knew all the children, and had a word of cheer or sympathy for +most of them as she passed from bed to bed through the ward. Gradually +the first painful impressions wore off, and Edith felt herself drawn to +the little patients, and before five minutes had passed her heart was +full of a strong desire to do whatever lay in her power to help and +comfort them. After spending half an hour with the girls, during which +time Edith talked and read to a number of them, Mrs. Morton said, + +“Now let us go into the boys' ward.” + +They crossed the hall together, and entered the room on the other side. +Here, as in the opposite ward, Mrs. Morton was recognized as welcome +visitor. Every face that happened to be turned to the door brightened at +her entrance. + +“There's a dear child in this ward,” said Mrs. Morton as they stood for +a moment in the door looking about the room. “He was picked up in the +street about a week ago, hurt by a passing vehicle, and brought here. We +have not been able to learn anything about him.” + +Edith's heart gave a sudden leap, but she held it down with all the +self-control she could assume, trying to be calm. + +“Where is he?” she asked, in a voice so altered from its natural tone +that Mrs. Morton turned and looked at her in surprise. + +“Over in that corner,” she answered, pointing down the room. + +Edith started forward, Mrs. Morton at her side. + +“Here he is,” said the latter, pausing at a bed on which child with +fair face, blue eyes and golden hair was lying. A single glance sent the +blood back to Edith's heart. A faintness came over her; everything grew +dark. She sat down to keep from falling. + +As quickly as possible and by another strong effort of will she rallied +herself. + +“Yes,” she said, in a faint undertone in which was no apparent interest, +“he is a dear little fellow.” + +As she spoke she laid her hand softly on the child's head, but not in a +way to bring any response. He looked at her curiously, and seemed half +afraid. + +Meanwhile, a child occupying a bed only a few feet off had started up +quickly on seeing Edith, and now sat with his large brown eyes fixed +eagerly upon her, his lips apart and his hands extended. But Edith did +not notice him. Presently she got up from beside the bed and was turning +away when the other child, with a kind of despairing look in his face, +cried out, + +“Lady, lady! oh, lady!” + +The voice reached Edith's ears. She turned, and saw the face of Andy. +Swift as a flash she was upon him, gathering him in her arms and crying +out, in a wild passion of joy that could not be repressed, + +“Oh, my baby! my baby! my boy! my boy! Bless God! thank God! oh, my +baby!” + +Startled by this sudden outcry, the resident physician and two nurses +who were in the ward hurried down the room to see what it meant. Edith +had the child hugged tightly to her bosom, and resisted all their +efforts to remove him. + +“My dear madam,” said the doctor, “you will do him some harm if you +don't take care.” + +“Hurt my baby? Oh no, no!” she answered, relaxing her hold and gazing +down upon Andy as she let him fall away from her bosom. Then lifting her +eyes to the physician, her face so flooded with love and inexpressible +joy that it seemed like some heavenly transfiguration, she murmured, in +a low voice full of the deepest tenderness, + +“Oh no. I will not do my baby any harm.” + +“My dear, dear friend,” said Mrs. Morton, recovering from the shock of +her first surprise and fearing that Edith had suddenly lost her mind, +“you cannot mean what you say;” and she reached down for the child and +made a movement as if she were going to lift him away from her arms. + +A look of angry resistance swept across Edith's pale face. There was a +flash of defiance in her eyes. + +“No, no! You must not touch him,” she exclaimed; “I will die before +giving him up. My baby!” + +And now, breaking down from her intense excitement, she bent over +the child again, weeping and sobbing. Waiting until this paroxysm had +expended itself, Mrs. Morton, who had not failed to notice that Andy +never turned his eyes for an instant away from Edith, nor resisted her +strained clasp or wild caresses, but lay passive against her with a look +of rest and peace in his face, said, + +“How shall we know that he is your baby?” + +At this Edith drew herself up, the light on her countenance fading +out. Then catching at the child's arm, she pulled the loose sleeve that +covered it above the elbow with hands that shook like aspens. Another +cry of joy broke from her as she saw a small red mark standing out clear +from the snowy skin. She kissed it over and over again, sobbing, + +“My baby! Yes, thank God! my own long-lost baby!” + +And still the child showed no excitement, but lay very quiet, looking at +Edith whenever he could see her countenance, the peace and rest on his +face as unchanging as if it were not really a living and mobile face, +but one cut into this expression by the hands of an artist. + +“How shall you know?” asked Edith, now remembering the question of Mrs. +Morton. And she drew up her own sleeve and showed on one of her arms a +mark as clearly defined and bright as that on the child's arm. + +No one sought to hinder Edith as she rose to her feet holding Andy, +after she had wrapped the bed-clothes about him. + +“Come!” she spoke to her friend, and moved away with her precious +burden. + +“You must go with us,” said Mrs. Morton to the physician. + +They followed as Edith hurried down stairs, and entering the carriage +after her, were driven away from the hospital. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIX. + + + +_ABOUT_ the same hour that Edith entered the boys' ward of the +children's hospital, Mr. Dinneford met Granger face to face in the +street. The latter tried to pass him, but Mr. Dinneford stopped, and +taking his almost reluctant hand, said, as he grasped it tightly, + +“George Granger!” in a voice that had in it a kind of helpless cry. + +The young man did not answer, but stood looking at him in a surprised, +uncertain way. + +“George,” said Mr. Dinneford, his utterance broken, “we want you!” + +“For what?” asked Granger, whose hand still lay in that of Mr. +Dinneford. He had tried to withdraw it at first, but now let it remain. + +“To help us find your child.” + +“My child! What of my child?” + +“Your child and Edith's,” said Mr. Dinneford. “Come!” and he drew his +arm within that of Granger, the two men moving away together. “It has +been lost since the day of its birth--cast adrift through the same +malign influence that cursed your life and Edith's. We are on its track, +but baffled day by day. Oh, George, we want you, frightfully wronged as +you have been at our hands--not Edith's. Oh no, George! Edith's heart +has never turned from you for an instant, never doubted you, though in +her weakness and despair she was driven to sign that fatal application +for a divorce. If it were not for the fear of a scornful rejection, she +would be reaching out her hands to you now and begging for the old sweet +love, but such a rejection would kill her, and she dare not brave the +risk.” + +Mr. Dinneford felt the young man's arm begin to tremble violently. + +“We want you, George,” he pursued. “Edith's heart is calling out for +you, that she may lean it upon your heart, so that it break not in this +great trial and suspense. Your lost baby is calling for you out of some +garret or cellar or hovel where it lies concealed. Come, my son. The +gulf that lies between the dreadful past and the blessed future can be +leaped at a single bound if you choose to make it. We want you--Edith +and I and your baby want you.” + +Mr. Dinneford, in his great excitement, was hurrying the young man along +at a rapid speed, holding on to his arm at the same time, as if afraid +he would pull it away and escape. + +Granger made no response, but moved along passively, taking in every +word that was said. A great light seemed to break upon his soul, a great +mountain to be lifted off. He did not pause at the door from which, +when he last stood there, he had been so cruelly rejected, but went in, +almost holding his breath, bewildered, uncertain, but half realizing the +truth of what was transpiring, like one in a dream. + +“Wait here,” said Mr. Dinneford, and he left him in the parlor and ran +up stairs to find Edith. + +George Granger had scarcely time to recognize the objects around him, +when a carriage stopped at the door, and in a moment afterward the bell +rang violently. + +The image that next met his eyes was that of Edith standing in the +parlor door with a child all bundled up in bed-clothing held closely in +her arms. Her face was trembling with excitement. He started forward on +seeing her with an impulse of love and joy that he could not restrain. +She saw him, and reading his soul in his eyes, moved to meet him. + +“Oh, George, and you too!” she exclaimed. “My baby and my husband, all +at once! It is too much. I cannot bear if all!” + +Granger caught her in his arms as she threw herself upon him and laid +the child against his breast. + +“Yours and mine,” she sobbed. “Yours and mine, George!” and she put up +her face to his. Could he do less than cover it with kisses? + +A few hours later, and a small group of very near friends witnessed a +different scene from this. Not another tragedy as might well be feared, +under the swift reactions that came upon Edith. No, no! She did not die +from a excess of joy, but was filled with new life and strength. Two +hands broken asunder so violently a few years ago were now clasped +again, and the minister of God as he laid them together pronounced in +trembling tones the marriage benediction. + +This was the scene, and here we drop the curtain. + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Cast Adrift, by T. S. 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Thus, we do not necessarily +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + + +Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: + + http://www.gutenberg.org + +This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. diff --git a/4592-0.zip b/4592-0.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..6f4bad7 --- /dev/null +++ b/4592-0.zip diff --git a/4592-h.zip b/4592-h.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..6842c2c --- /dev/null +++ b/4592-h.zip diff --git a/4592-h/4592-h.htm b/4592-h/4592-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..330b718 --- /dev/null +++ b/4592-h/4592-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,13558 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <title> + Cast Adrift, by T. S. Arthur + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Cast Adrift, by T. S. Arthur + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Cast Adrift + +Author: T. S. Arthur + +Release Date: December 8, 2009 [EBook #4592] +Last Updated: March 14, 2018 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CAST ADRIFT *** + + + + +Produced by Charles Aldarondo, and David Widger + + + + + + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h1> + CAST ADRIFT + </h1> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h2> + By T. S. Arthur + </h2> + <h4> + Author Of “Three Years In A Man-Trap,” “Orange Blossoms,” Etc., Etc. + </h4> + <p> + <br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Philadelphia: + Cincinnati: + New York: + Boston: + Chicago, Ills.: + New Castle, Pa.: + San Francisco, Cal.: + </pre> + <h5> + 1873 + </h5> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <h3> + TO THE READER. + </h3> + <p> + IN this romance of real life, in which the truth is stranger than the + fiction, I have lifted only in part the veil that hides the victims of + intemperance and other terrible vices—after they have fallen to the + lower deeps of degradation to be found in our large cities, where the vile + and degraded herd together more like wild beasts than men and women—and + told the story of sorrow, suffering, crime and debasement as they really + exist in Christian America with all the earnestness and power that in me + lies. + </p> + <p> + Strange and sad and terrible as are some of the scenes from which I hare + drawn this veil, I have not told the half of what exists. My book, apart + from the thread of fiction that runs through its pages, is but a series of + photographs from real life, and is less a work of the imagination than a + record of facts. + </p> + <p> + If it stirs the hearts of American readers profoundly, and so awakens the + people to a sense of their duty; if it helps to inaugurate more earnest + and radical modes of reform for a state of society of which a + distinguished author has said, “There is not a country throughout the + earth on which it would not bring a curse; there is no religion upon the + earth that it would not deny; there is no people upon the earth it would + not put to shame;”—then will not my work be in vain. + </p> + <p> + Sitting in our comfortable homes with well-fed, well-clothed and + happy-hearted children about us—children who have our tenderest + care, whose cry of pain from a pin-prick or a fall on the carpeted floor + hurts us like a blow—-how few of us know or care anything about the + homes in which some other children dwell, or of the hard and cruel battle + for life they are doomed to fight from the very beginning! + </p> + <p> + To get out from these comfortable homes and from the midst of tenderly + cared-for little ones, and stand face to face with squalor and hunger, + with suffering, debasement and crime, to look upon the starved faces of + children and hear their helpless cries, is what scarcely one in a thousand + will do. It is too much for our sensibilities. And so we stand aloof, and + the sorrow, and suffering, the debasement, the wrong and the crime, go on, + and because we heed it not we vainly imagine that no responsibility lies + at our door; and yet there is no man or woman who is not, according to the + measure of his or her influence, responsible for the human debasement and + suffering I have portrayed. + </p> + <p> + The task I set for myself has not been a pleasant one. It has hurt my + sensibilities and sickened my heart many times as I stood face to face + with the sad and awful degradation that exists in certain regions of our + larger cities; and now that my work is done, I take a deep breath of + relief. The result is in your hands, good citizen, Christian reader, + earnest philanthropist! If it stirs your heart in the reading as it + stirred mine in the writing, it will not die fruitless. + </p> + <p> + THE AUTHOR. <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <blockquote> + <p class="toc"> + <big><b>CONTENTS</b></big> + </p> + <p> + <br /> <a href="#link2H_TOC"> DETAILED CONTENTS. </a><br /><br /> <a + href="#link2H_4_0001"> <b>CAST ADRIFT.</b> </a><br /><br /><br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0001"> CHAPTER I. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0002"> CHAPTER II. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0003"> CHAPTER III. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0004"> CHAPTER IV. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0005"> CHAPTER V. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0006"> CHAPTER VI. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0007"> CHAPTER VII. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0008"> CHAPTER VIII. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0009"> CHAPTER IX. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0010"> CHAPTER X. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0011"> CHAPTER XI. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0012"> CHAPTER XII. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0013"> CHAPTER XIII. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0014"> CHAPTER XIV. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0015"> CHAPTER XV. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0016"> CHAPTER XVI. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0017"> CHAPTER XVII. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0018"> CHAPTER XVIII. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0019"> CHAPTER XIX. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0020"> CHAPTER XX. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0021"> CHAPTER XXI. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0022"> CHAPTER XXII. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0023"> CHAPTER XXIII. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0024"> CHAPTER XXIV. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0025"> CHAPTER XXV. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0026"> CHAPTER XXVI. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0027"> CHAPTER XXVII. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0028"> CHAPTER XXVIII. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0029"> CHAPTER XXIX. </a> + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_TOC" id="link2H_TOC"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <h2> + DETAILED CONTENTS. + </h2> + <blockquote> + <p> + CHAPTER I. The unwelcome babe—The defrauded young mother—The + struggle <br /> between life and death—“Your baby is in heaven”—A + brief retrospect—A <br /> marriage for social position—An + ambitious wife and a disappointed <br /> husband—The young daughter—The + matrimonial market—The Circassian <br /> slaves of modern society—The + highest bidder—Disappearance—The old sad <br /> story—Secret + marriage—The letters—Disappointed ambition—Interview + <br /> between the parents—The mother's purpose—“Baffled, but + not <br /> defeated”—The father's surprise—The returned + daughter—Forgiven—“I am <br /> not going away again, father + dear”—Insecurity and distrust <br /> CHAPTER II. The hatred of a + bad woman—Mrs. Dinneford's plans for the <br /> destruction of + Granger—Starting in business—Plots of Mrs. Dinneford <br /> + and Freeling—The discounted notes—The trap—Granger's + suspicions <br /> aroused—Forgery—Mrs. Dinneford relentless—The + arrest—Fresh evidence <br /> of crime upon Granger's person—The + shock to Edith—“That night her baby <br /> was born” <br /> CHAPTER + III. “It is a splendid boy”—A convenient, non-interfering <br /> + family doctor—Cast adrift—Into the world in a basket, + unnamed <br /> and disowned—Edith's second struggle back to life—Her + mind a <br /> blank—Granger convicted of forgery—Seeks to + gain knowledge of his <br /> child—The doctor's evasion and + ignorance—An insane asylum instead of <br /> State's prison—Edith's + slow return to intelligence—“There's something <br /> I can't + understand, mother”—“Where is my baby?”—“What of George?”—No + <br /> longer a child, but a broken hearted woman—The divorce <br /> + CHAPTER IV. Sympathy between father and daughter—Interest in + public <br /> charities—A dreadful sight—A sick babe in the + arms of a half-drunken <br /> woman—“Is there no law to meet such + cases?”—-“The poor baby has no <br /> vote!”—Edith seeks for + the grave of her child, but cannot find <br /> it—She questions her + mother, who baffles her curiosity—Mrs. Bray's <br /> visit—Interview + between Mrs. Dinneford and Mrs. Bray—“The baby <br /> isn't + living?”—“Yes; I saw it day before yesterday in the arms of a + <br /> beggar-woman”—Edith's suspicions aroused—Determined to + discover the <br /> fate of her child—Visits the doctor—“Your + baby is in heaven”—“Would <br /> to God it were so, for I saw a + baby in hell not long ago!” <br /> CHAPTER V. Mrs. Dinneford visits Mrs. + Bray—“The woman to whom you <br /> gave that baby was here + yesterday”—The woman must be put out of the <br /> way—Exit + Mrs. Dinneford, enter Pinky Swett—“You know your fate—New + <br /> Orleans and the yellow fever”—“All I want of you is to keep + track of <br /> the baby”—Division of the spoils—Lucky dreams—Consultation + of the <br /> dream-book for lucky figures—Sam McFaddon and his + backer, who “drives <br /> in the Park and wears a two thousand dollar + diamond pin”—The fate of a <br /> baby begged with—The baby + must not die—The lottery-policies <br /> CHAPTER VI. Rottenness at + the heart of a great city—Pinky Swett's <br /> attempted rescue of + a child from cruel beating—The fight—Pinky's <br /> arrest—Appearance + of the “queen”—Pinky's release at her command—The <br /> + queen's home—The screams of children being beaten—The rescue + of <br /> “Flanagan's Nell”—Death the great rescuer—“They + don't look after <br /> things in here as they do outside—Everybody's + got the screws on, and <br /> things must break sometimes, but it isn't + called murder—The coroner <br /> understands it all” <br /> CHAPTER + VII. Pinky Swett at the mercy of the crowd in the street—Taken + <br /> to the nearest station-house—Mrs. Dinneford visits Mrs. Bray + <br /> again—Fresh alarms—“She's got you in her power”—-“Money + is of no <br /> account”—The knock at the door—Mrs. Dinneford + in hiding—The visitor <br /> gone—Mrs. Bray reports the woman + insatiable in her demands—Must have <br /> two hundred dollars by + sundown—No way of escape except through police <br /> interference—“People + who deal with the devil generally have the devil <br /> to pay”—Suspicion—A + mistake—Sound of feet upon the stairs—Mrs. <br /> Dinneford + again in hiding—Enter Pinky Swett—Pinky disposed of—Mrs. + <br /> Dinneford again released—Mrs. Bray's strategy—“Let us + be friends <br /> still, Mrs. Bray”—Mrs. Dinneford's deprecation + and humiliation—Mrs. <br /> Bray's triumph <br /> CHAPTER VIII. Mrs. + Bray receives a package containing two hundred <br /> dollars—“Poor + baby! I must see better to its comfort”—Pinky meets a <br /> young + girl from the country—The “Ladies' Restaurant”—Fried oysters + <br /> and sangaree—The “bindery” girl—“My head feels + strangely”—Through <br /> the back alley—The ten-cent lodging + house—Robbery—A second robbery—A <br /> veil drawn—A + wild prolonged cry of a woman—The policeman listens only <br /> for + a moment, and then passes on—Foul play—“In all our large + <br /> cities are savages more cruel and brutal in their instincts than + the <br /> Comanches”—Who is responsible? <br /> CHAPTER IX. + Valuation of the spoils—The receiver—The “policy-shop” and + <br /> its customers—A victim of the lottery mania <br /> CHAPTER X. + “Policy-drunkards”—A newly-appointed policeman's <br /> blunder—The + end of a “policy-drunkard”—Pinky and her friend in <br /> + consultation over “a cast-off baby in Dirty alley”—“If you can't + get <br /> hush-money out of its mother, you can bleed Fanny Bray”—The + way to <br /> starve a baby—Pinky moves her quarters without the + use of “a dozen <br /> furniture cars”—A baby's home—The + baby's night nurse—The baby's <br /> supper—The baby's bed—How + the baby's money is spent—Where the baby's <br /> nurse passes the + night—The baby's disappearance <br /> CHAPTER XI. Reserve between + mother and daughter—Mrs. Dinneford <br /> disapproves of Edith's + charitable visits—Mrs. Dinneford meets Freeling <br /> by + appointment at a hotel—“There's trouble brewing”—“A letter + from <br /> George Granger”—Accused of conspiracy—Possibility + of Granger's pardon <br /> by the governor—An ugly business—In + great peril—Freeling's threats of <br /> exposure—A hint of + an alternative <br /> CHAPTER XII. Mr. Freeling fails to appear at his + place of <br /> business—Examination of his bank accounts—It + is discovered that he has <br /> borrowed largely of his friends—Mrs. + Dinneford has supplied him $20,000 <br /> from her private purse—Mrs. + Dinneford falls sick, and temporarily <br /> loses her reason—“I + told you her name was Gray—Gray, not Bray”—Half <br /> + disclosures—Recovery—Mother and daughter mutually suspicious—The + <br /> visitor—Mrs. Dinneford equal to the emergency—Edith + thrown off the <br /> track <br /> CHAPTER XIII. Edith is satisfied that + her babe is alive—She has a <br /> desire to teach the children of + the poor—“My baby may become like one <br /> of these”—She + hears of a baby which has been stolen—Resolves to go <br /> and see + it, and to apply to Mr. Paulding of the Briar street mission for <br /> + assistance in her attempt—Mr. Paulding persuades her that it is + best <br /> not to see the child, and promises that he himself will look + after <br /> it—Returns home—Her father remonstrates with + her, finally promises to <br /> help her <br /> CHAPTER XIV. Mr. Dinneford + sets out for the mission-house—An incident <br /> on the way—Encounters + Mr. Paulding—Mr. Paulding makes his report—“The <br /> + vicious mark their offspring with unmistakable signs of moral depravity; + <br /> this baby has signs of a better origin”—A profitable + conversation—“I <br /> think you had better act promptly” <br /> + CHAPTER XV. Mr. Dinneford with a policeman goes in quest of the <br /> + baby—The baby is gone—Inquiries—Mr. Dinneford resolves + to <br /> persevere—Cause of the baby's disappearance—Pinky + Swett's <br /> curiosity—Change of baby's nurse—Baby's + improved condition—Baby's <br /> first experience of motherly + tenderness—Baby's first smile—“Such <br /> beautiful eyes”—Pinky + Swett visits the St. John mission-school—Edith <br /> is not there + <br /> CHAPTER XVI. Mr. Dinneford's return, and Edith's disappointment—“It + <br /> is somebody's baby, and it may be mine”—An unsuspected + listener—Mrs. <br /> Dinneford acts promptly—Conference + between Mrs. Dinneford and Mrs. <br /> Hoyt, <i>alias</i> Bray—The + child must be got out of the way—“If it will <br /> not starve, it + must drown”—Mrs. Dinneford sees an acquaintance as <br /> she + leaves Mrs. Hoyt's, and endeavors to escape his observation—A new + <br /> danger and disgrace awaiting her <br /> CHAPTER XVII. Mental + conditions of mother and daughter—Mr. Dinneford <br /> aroused to a + sense of his moral responsibilities—The heathen in <br /> our midst—The + united evil of policy-lotteries and whisky-shops—The <br /> + education of the policy-shops <br /> CHAPTER XVIII. News item: “A child + drowned”—Another news item: Pinky <br /> Swett sentenced to prison + for robbery—Baby's improved <br /> condition—Mrs. Burke's + efforts to retain the baby after Pinky Swett's <br /> imprisonment—Baby + Andy's rough life in the street—Mrs. Burke's <br /> death—Cast + upon the world—Andy's adventures—He finds a home and a <br /> + friend <br /> CHAPTER XIX. Mr. Dinneford visits the mission-school—A + comparison of <br /> the present with the past—The first + mission-school—Reminiscences of <br /> the school in its early days—The + zealous scholar—Good effects of <br /> the mission—“Get the + burning brands apart, or interpose incombustible <br /> things between + them”—An illustration—“Let in light, and the darkness <br /> + flees” <br /> CHAPTER XX. “The man awoke and felt the child against his + bosom, soft <br /> and warm”—Led by a little child—“God being + my helper, I will be a man <br /> again”—A new life—Meeting + of an old friend—A friend in need—Food, <br /> clothes, work—A + new home—God's strength our only safety <br /> CHAPTER XXI. + Intimate relations of physical and moral purity—Blind <br /> Jake—The + harvest of the thieves and beggars—Inconsiderate <br /> charity—Beggary + a vice—“The deserving poor are never common <br /> beggars”—“To + help the evil is to hurt the good” The malignant ulcer <br /> in the body + politic of our city—The breeding-places of epidemics and <br /> + malignant diseases—Little Italian street musicians—The + existence of <br /> slavery in our midst—Facts in regard to it + <br /> CHAPTER XXII. Edith's continued interest in the children of the + <br /> poor—Christmas dinner at the mission-house—Edith + perceives Andy, <br /> and feels a strange attraction toward him—Andy's + disappearance after <br /> dinner—Pinky Swett has been seen + dragging him away—Lost sight of <br /> CHAPTER XXIII. Christmas + dinner at Mr. Dinneford's—The dropped <br /> letter—It is + missed—A scene of wild excitement—Mrs. Dinneford's <br /> + sudden death—Edith reads the letter—A revelation—“Innocent!”—Edith + <br /> is called to her mother—“Dead, and better so!”—Granger's + innocence <br /> established—An agony of affection—No longer + Granger's wife <br /> CHAPTER XXIV. Edith's sickness—Meeting of + Mrs. Bray and Pinky Swett—A <br /> trial of sharpness, in which + neither gains the advantage—Mr. Dinneford <br /> receives a call + from a lady—The lady, who is Mrs. Bray, offers <br /> information—Mr. + Dinneford surprises her into admitting an important <br /> fact—Mrs. + Bray offers to produce the child for a price—Mr. Dinneford <br /> + consents to pay the price on certain stipulations—Mrs. Bray + departs, <br /> promising to come again <br /> CHAPTER XXV. Granger's + pardon procured—How he receives his pardon—Mrs. <br /> Bray + tries to trace Pinky home—Loses sight of her in the street—Mrs. + <br /> Bray interviews a shop-woman—Pinky's destination—The + child is gone <br /> CHAPTER XXVI. Mrs. Bray does not call on Mr. + Dinneford, as she <br /> promised—Peril to Andrew Hall through loss + of the child—Help—Edith <br /> longs to see or write to + Granger, but does not—Edith encounters Mrs. <br /> Bray in the + street—“Where is my baby?”—Disappointment—How to + identify <br /> the child if found <br /> CHAPTER XXVII. No trace of Andy—Account + of Andy's abduction—Andy's <br /> prison—An outlook from + prison—A loose nail—The escape—The sprained <br /> + ankle—The accident <br /> CHAPTER XXVIII. Edith's visit to the + children's hospital—“Oh, my baby! <br /> thank God! my baby!”—The + identification <br /> CHAPTER XXIX. Meeting of Mr. Dinneford and George + Granger—“We want you <br /> to help us find your child”—“Edith's + heart is calling out for you”—The <br /> meeting—The marriage + benediction <br /> + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <h1> + CAST ADRIFT. + </h1> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <h2> + CHAPTER I. + </h2> + <p> + <i>A BABY</i> had come, but he was not welcome. Could anything be sadder? + </p> + <p> + The young mother lay with her white face to the wall, still as death. A + woman opened the chamber door noiselessly and came in, the faint rustle of + her garments disturbing the quiet air. + </p> + <p> + A quick, eager turning of the head, a look half anxious, half fearful, and + then the almost breathless question, + </p> + <p> + “Where is my baby?” + </p> + <p> + “Never mind about the baby,” was answered, almost coldly; “he's well + enough. I'm more concerned about you.” + </p> + <p> + “Have you sent word to George?” + </p> + <p> + “George can't see you. I've said that before.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, mother! I must see my husband.” + </p> + <p> + “Husband!” The tone of bitter contempt with which the word was uttered + struck the daughter like a blow. She had partly risen in her excitement, + but now fell back with a low moan, shutting her eyes and turning her face + away. Even as she did so, a young man stepped back from the door of the + elegant house in which she lay with a baffled, disappointed air. He looked + pale and wretched. + </p> + <p> + “Edith!” Two hours afterward the doctor stood over the young mother, and + called her name. She did not move nor reply. He laid his hand on her + cheek, and almost started, then bent down and looked at her intently for a + moment or two. She had fever. A serious expression came into his face, and + there was cause. + </p> + <p> + The sweet rest and heavenly joy of maternity had been denied to his young + patient. The new-born babe had not been suffered to lie even for one + blissful moment on her bosom. Hard-hearted family pride and cruel + worldliness had robbed her of the delight with which God ever seeks to + dower young motherhood, and now the overtaxed body and brain had given + way. + </p> + <p> + For many weeks the frail young creature struggled with delirium—struggled + and overcame. + </p> + <p> + “Where is my baby?” + </p> + <p> + The first thought of returning consciousness was of her baby. + </p> + <p> + A woman who sat in a distant part of the chamber started up and crossed to + the bed. She was past middle life, of medium stature, with small, clearly + cut features and cold blue eyes. Her mouth was full, but very firm. + Self-poise was visible even in her surprised movements. She bent over the + bed and looked into Edith's wistful eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Where is my baby, mother?” Mrs. Dinneford put her fingers lightly on + Edith's lips. + </p> + <p> + “You must be very quiet,” she said, in a low, even voice. “The doctor + forbids all excitement. You have been extremely ill.” + </p> + <p> + “Can't I see my baby, mother? It won't hurt me to see my baby.” + </p> + <p> + “Not now. The doctor—” + </p> + <p> + Edith half arose in bed, a look of doubt and fear coming into her face. + </p> + <p> + “I want my baby, mother,” she said, interrupting her. + </p> + <p> + A hard, resolute expression came into the cold blue eyes of Mrs. + Dinneford. She put her hand firmly against Edith and pressed her back upon + the pillow. + </p> + <p> + “You have been very ill for nearly two months,” she said, softening her + voice. “No one thought you could live. Thank God! the crisis is over, but + not the danger.” + </p> + <p> + “Two months! Oh, mother!” + </p> + <p> + The slight flush that had come into Edith's wan face faded out, and the + pallor it had hidden for a few moments became deeper. She shut her eyes + and lay very still, but it was plain from the expression of her face that + thought was busy. + </p> + <p> + “Not two whole months, mother?” she said, at length, in doubtful tones. + “Oh no! it cannot be.” + </p> + <p> + “It is just as I have said, Edith; and now, my dear child, as you value + your life, keep quiet; all excitement is dangerous.” + </p> + <p> + But repression was impossible. To Edith's consciousness there was no lapse + of time. It seemed scarcely an hour since the birth of her baby and its + removal from her sight. The inflowing tide of mother-love, the pressure + and yearning sweetness of which she had begun to feel when she first + called for the baby they had not permitted to rest, even for an instant, + on her bosom, was now flooding her heart. Two months! If that were so, + what of the baby? To be submissive was impossible. + </p> + <p> + Starting up half wildly, a vague terror in her face, she cried, piteously, + </p> + <p> + “Oh, mother, bring me my baby. I shall die if you do not!” + </p> + <p> + “Your baby is in heaven,” said Mrs. Dinneford, softening her voice to a + tone of tender regret. + </p> + <p> + Edith caught her breath, grew very white, and then, with a low, wailing + cry that sent a shiver through Mrs. Dinneford's heart, fell back, to all + appearance dead. + </p> + <p> + The mother did not call for help, but sat by the bedside of her daughter, + and waited for the issue of this new struggle between life and death. + There was no visible excitement, but her mouth was closely set and her + cold blue eyes fixed in a kind of vacant stare. + </p> + <p> + Edith was Mrs. Dinneford's only child, and she had loved her with the + strong, selfish love of a worldly and ambitious woman. In her own marriage + she had not consulted her heart. Mr. Dinneford's social position and + wealth were to her far more than his personal endowments. She would have + rejected him without a quicker pulse-beat if these had been all he had to + offer. He was disappointed, she was not. Strong, self-asserting, yet + politic, Mrs Dinneford managed her good husband about as she pleased in + all external matters, and left him to the free enjoyment of his personal + tastes, preferences and friendships. The house they lived in, the + furniture it contained, the style and equipage assumed by the family, were + all of her choice, Mr. Dinneford giving merely a half-constrained or + half-indifferent consent. He had learned, by painful and sometimes + humiliating experience, that any contest with Mrs. Helen Dinneford upon + which he might enter was sure to end in his defeat. + </p> + <p> + He was a man of fine moral and intellectual qualities. His wealth gave him + leisure, and his tastes, feelings and habits of thought drew him into the + society of some of the best men in the city where he lived—best in + the true meaning of that word. In all enlightened social reform movements + you would be sure of finding Mr. Howard Dinneford. He was an active and + efficient member in many boards of public charity, and highly esteemed in + them all for his enlightened philanthropy and sound judgment. Everywhere + but at home he was strong and influential; there he was weak, submissive + and of little account. He had long ago accepted the situation, making a + virtue of necessity. A different man—one of stronger will and a more + imperious spirit—would have held his own, even though it wrought + bitterness and sorrow. But Mr. Dinneford's aversion to strife, and + gentleness toward every one, held him away from conflict, and so his home + was at least tranquil. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Dinneford had her own way, and so long as her husband made no strong + opposition to that way all was peaceful. + </p> + <p> + For Edith, their only child, who was more like her father than her mother, + Mr. Dinneford had the tenderest regard. The well-springs of love, choked + up so soon after his marriage, were opened freely toward his daughter, and + he lived in her a new, sweet and satisfying life. The mother was often + jealous of her husband's demonstrative tenderness for Edith. A yearning + instinct of womanhood, long repressed by worldliness and a mean social + ambition, made her crave at times the love she had cast away, and then her + cup of life was very bitter. But fear of Mr. Dinneford's influence over + Edith was stronger than any jealousy of his love. She had high views for + her daughter. In her own marriage she had set aside all considerations but + those of social rank. She had made it a stepping-stone to a higher place + in society than the one to which she was born. Still, above them stood + many millionaire families, living in palace-homes, and through her + daughter she meant to rise into one of them. It mattered not for the + personal quality of the scion of the house; he might be as coarse and + common as his father before him, or weak, mean, selfish, and debased by + sensual indulgence. This was of little account. To lift Edith to the + higher social level was the all in all of Mrs. Dinneford's ambition. + </p> + <p> + But Mr. Dinneford taught Edith a nobler life-lesson than this, gave her + better views of wedlock, pictured for her loving heart the bliss of a true + marriage, sighing often as he did so, but unconsciously, at the lost + fruition of his own sweet hopes. He was careful to do this only when alone + with Edith, guarding his speech when Mrs. Dinneford was present. He had + faith in true principles, and with these he sought to guard her life. He + knew that she would be pushed forward into society, and knew but too well + that one so pure and lovely in mind as well as person would become a + centre of attraction, and that he, standing on the outside as it were, + would have no power to save her from the saddest of all fates if she were + passive and her mother resolute. Her safety must lie in herself. + </p> + <p> + Edith was brought out early. Mrs. Dinneford could not wait. At seventeen + she was thrust into society, set up for sale to the highest bidder, her + condition nearer that of a Circassian than a Christian maiden, with her + mother as slave-dealer. + </p> + <p> + So it was and so, it is. You may see the thing every day. But it did not + come out according to Mrs. Dinneford's programme. There was a highest + bidder; but when he came for his slave, she was not to be found. + </p> + <p> + Well, the story is trite and brief—the old sad story. Among her + suitors was a young man named Granger, and to him Edith gave her heart. + But the mother rejected him with anger and scorn. He was not rich, though + belonging to a family of high character, and so fell far below her + requirements. Under a pressure that almost drove the girl to despair, she + gave her consent to a marriage that looked more terrible than death. A + month before the time fixed for, its consummation, she barred the contract + by a secret union with Granger. + </p> + <p> + Edith knew her mother's character too well to hope for any reconciliation, + so far as Mr. Granger was concerned. Coming in as he had done between her + and the consummation of her highest ambition, she could never feel toward + him anything but the most bitter hatred; and so, after remaining at home + for about a week after her secret marriage, she wrote this brief letter to + her mother and went away: + </p> + <p> + “My DEAR MOTHER: I do not love Spencer Wray, and would rather die than + marry him, and so I have made the marriage to which my heart has never + consented, an impossibility. You have left me no other alternative but + this. I am the wife of George Granger, and go to cast my lot with his. + </p> + <p> + “Your loving daughter, + </p> + <p> + “EDITH.” + </p> + <p> + To her father she wrote: + </p> + <p> + “My DEAR, DEAR FATHER: If I bring sorrow to your good and loving heart by + what I have done, I know that it will be tempered with joy at my escape + from a union with one from whom my soul has ever turned with irrepressible + dislike. Oh, my father, you can understand, if mother cannot, into what a + desperate strait I have been brought. I am a deer hunted to the edge of a + dizzy chasm, and I leap for life over the dark abyss, praying for strength + to reach the farther edge. If I fail in the wild effort, I can only meet + destruction; and I would rather be bruised to death on the jagged rocks + than trust myself to the hounds and hunters. I write passionately—you + will hardly recognize your quiet child; but the repressed instincts of my + nature are strong, and peril and despair have broken their bonds. I did + not consult you about the step I have taken, because I dared not trust you + with my secret. You would have tried to hold me back from the perilous + leap, fondly hoping for some other way of escape. I had resolved on + putting an impassable gulf between me and danger, if I died in the + attempt. I have taken the leap, and may God care for me! + </p> + <p> + “I have laid up in my heart of hearts, dearest of fathers, the precious + life-truths that so often fell from your lips. Not a word that you ever + said about the sacredness of marriage has been forgotten. I believe with + you that it is a little less than crime to marry when no love exists—that + she who does so, sells her heart's birthright for some mess of pottage, + sinks down from the pure level of noble womanhood, and traffics away her + person, is henceforth meaner in quality if not really vile. + </p> + <p> + “And so, my father, to save myself from such a depth of degradation and + misery, I take my destiny into my own hands. I have grown very strong in + my convictions and purposes in the last four weeks. My sight has become + suddenly clear. I am older by many years. + </p> + <p> + “As for George Granger, all I can now say is that I love him, and believe + him to be worthy of my love. I am willing to trust him, and am ready to + share his lot, however humble. + </p> + <p> + “Still hold me in your heart, my precious father, as I hold you in mine. + </p> + <p> + “EDITH.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Dinneford read this letter twice. It took him some time, his eyes were + so full of tears. In view of her approaching marriage with Spencer Wray, + his heart had felt very heavy. It was something lighter now. Young Granger + was not the man he would have chosen for Edith, but he liked him far + better than he did the other, and felt that his child was safe now. + </p> + <p> + He went to his wife's room, and found her with Edith's letter crushed in + her hand. She was sitting motionless, her face pale and rigid, her eyes + fixed and stony and her lips tight against her teeth. She did not seem to + notice his presence until he put his hand upon her, which he did without + speaking. At this she started up and looked at him with a kind of fierce + intentness. + </p> + <p> + “Are you a party to this frightful things?” she demanded. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Dinneford weakly handed her the letter he had received from Edith. She + read it through in half the time it had taken his tear-dimmed eyes to make + out the touching sentences. After she had done so, she stood for a few + moments as if surprised or baffled. Then she sat down, dropping her head, + and remained for a long time without speaking. + </p> + <p> + “The bitter fruit, Mr. Dinneford,” she said, at last, in a voice so + strange and hard that it seemed to his ears as if another had spoken. All + passion had died out of it. + </p> + <p> + He waited, but she added nothing more. After a long silence she waved her + hand slightly, and without looking at her husband, said, + </p> + <p> + “I would rather be alone.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Dinneford took Edith's letter from the floor, where it had dropped + from his wife's hand, and withdrew from her presence. She arose quickly as + he did so, crossed the room and silently turned the key, locking herself + in. Then her manner changed; she moved about the room in a half-aimless, + half-conscious way, as though some purpose was beginning to take shape in + her mind. Her motions had an easy, cat-like grace, in contrast with their + immobility a little while before. Gradually her step became quicker, while + ripples of feeling began to pass over her face, which was fast losing its + pallor. Gleams of light began shooting from her eyes, that were so dull + and stony when her husband found her with Edith's letter crushed in her + grasp. Her hands opened and shut upon themselves nervously. This went on, + the excitement of her forming purpose, whatever it was, steadily + increasing, until she swept about the room like a fury, talking to herself + and gesticulating as one half insane from the impelling force of an evil + passion. + </p> + <p> + “Baffled, but not defeated.” The excitement had died out. She spoke these + words aloud, and with a bitter satisfaction in her voice, then sat down, + resting her face in her hands, and remaining for a long time in deep + thought. + </p> + <p> + When she met her husband, an hour afterward, there was a veil over her + face, and he tried in vain to look beneath it. She was greatly changed; + her countenance had a new expression—something he had never seen + there before. For years she had been growing away from him; now she seemed + like one removed to a great distance—to have become almost stranger. + He felt half afraid of her. She did not speak of Edith, but remained cold, + silent and absorbed. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Dinneford gave no sign of what was in her heart for many weeks. The + feeling of distance and strangeness perceived by her husband went on + increasing, until a vague feeling of mystery and fear began to oppress + him. Several times he had spoken of Edith, but his wife made no response, + nor could he read in her veiled face the secret purposes she was hiding + from him. + </p> + <p> + No wonder that Mr. Dinneford was greatly surprised and overjoyed, on + coming home one day, to meet his daughter, to feel her arms about his + neck, and to hold her tearful face on his bosom. + </p> + <p> + “And I'm not going away again, father dear,” she said as she kissed him + fondly. “Mother has sent for me, and George is to come. Oh, we shall be so + happy, so happy!” + </p> + <p> + And father and daughter cried together, like two happy children, in very + excess of gladness. They had met alone, but Mrs. Dinneford came in, her + presence falling on them like a cold shadow. + </p> + <p> + “Two great babies,” she said, a covert sneer in her chilling voice. + </p> + <p> + The joy went slowly out of their faces, though not out of their hearts. + There it nestled, and warmed the renewing blood. But a vague, questioning + fear began to creep in, a sense of insecurity, a dread of hidden danger. + The daughter did not fully trust her mother, nor the husband his wife. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER II. + </h2> + <p> + <i>THE</i> reception of young Granger was as cordial as Mrs. Dinneford + chose to make it. She wanted to get near enough to study his character + thoroughly, to discover its weaknesses and defects, not its better + qualities, so that she might do for him the evil work that was in her + heart. She hated him with a bitter hatred, and there is nothing so subtle + and tireless and unrelenting as the hatred of a bad woman. + </p> + <p> + She found him weak and unwary. His kindly nature, his high sense of honor, + his upright purpose, his loving devotion to Edith, were nothing in her + eyes. She spurned them in her thoughts, she trampled them under her feet + with scorn. But she studied his defects, and soon knew every weak point in + his character. She drew him out to speak of himself, of his aims and + prospects, of his friends and associates, until she understood him + altogether. Then she laid her plans for his destruction. + </p> + <p> + Granger was holding a clerkship at the time of his marriage, but was + anxious to get a start for himself. He had some acquaintance with a man + named Lloyd Freeling, and often spoke of him in connection with business. + Freeling had a store on one of the best streets, and, as represented by + himself, a fine run of trade, but wanted more capital. One day he said to + Granger, + </p> + <p> + “If I could find the right man with ten thousand dollars, I would take him + in. We could double this business in a year.” + </p> + <p> + Granger repeated the remark at home, Mrs. Dinneford listened, laid it up + in her thought, and on the next day called at the store of Mr. Freeling to + see what manner of man he was. + </p> + <p> + Her first impression was favorable—she liked him. On a second visit + she likes him better. She was not aware that Freeling knew her; in this he + had something of the advantage. A third time she dropped in, asking to see + certain goods and buying a small bill, as before. This time she drew Mr. + Freeling into conversation about business, and put some questions the + meaning of which he understood quite as well as she did. + </p> + <p> + A woman like Mrs. Dinneford can read character almost as easily as she can + read a printed page, particularly a weak or bad character. She knew + perfectly, before the close of this brief interview, that Freeling was a + man without principle, false and unscrupulous, and that if Granger were + associated with him in business, he could, if he chose, not only involve + him in transactions of a dishonest nature, but throw upon him the odium + and the consequences. + </p> + <p> + “Do you think,” she said to Granger, not long afterward, “that your + friend, Mr. Freeling, would like to have you for a partner in business?” + </p> + <p> + The question surprised and excited him. + </p> + <p> + “I know it,” he returned; “he has said so more than once.” + </p> + <p> + “How much capital would he require?” + </p> + <p> + “Ten thousand dollars.” + </p> + <p> + “A large sum to risk.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; but I do not think there will be any risk. The business is well + established.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you know about Mr. Freeling?” + </p> + <p> + “Not a great deal; but if I am any judge of character, he is fair and + honorable.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Dinneford turned her head that Granger might not see the expression + of her face. + </p> + <p> + “You had better talk with Mr. Dinneford,” she said. + </p> + <p> + But Mr. Dinneford did not favor it. He had seen too many young men go into + business and fail. + </p> + <p> + So the matter was dropped for a little while. But Mrs. Dinneford had set + her heart on the young man's destruction, and no better way of + accomplishing the work presented itself than this. He must be involved in + some way to hurt his good name, to blast his reputation and drive him to + ruin. Weak, trusting and pliable, a specious villain in whom he had + confidence might easily get him involved in transactions that were + criminal under the law. She would be willing to sacrifice twice ten + thousand dollars to accomplish this result. + </p> + <p> + Neither Mr. Dinneford nor Edith favored the business connection with + Freeling, and said all they could against it. In weak natures we often + find great pertinacity. Granger had this quality. He had set his mind on + the copartnership, and saw in it a high road to fortune, and no argument + of Mr. Dinneford, nor opposition of Edith, had power to change his views, + or to hold him back from the arrangement favored by Mrs. Dinneford, and + made possible by the capital she almost compelled her husband to supply. + </p> + <p> + In due time the change from clerk to merchant was made, and the new + connection announced, under the title of “FREELING & GRANGER.” + </p> + <p> + Clear seeing as evil may be in its schemes for hurting others, it is + always blind to the consequent exactions upon itself; it strikes fiercely + and desperately, not calculating the force of a rebound. So eager was Mrs. + Dinneford to compass the ruin of Granger that she stepped beyond the limit + of common prudence, and sought private interviews with Freeling, both + before and after the completion of the partnership arrangement. These took + place in the parlor of a fashionable hotel, where the gentleman and lady + seemed to meet accidentally, and without attracting attention. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Dinneford was very confidential in these interviews not concealing + her aversion to Granger. He had come into the family, she said, as an + unwelcome intruder; but now that he was there, they had to make the best + of him. Not in spoken words did Mrs. Dinneford convey to Freeling the + bitter hatred that was in her heart, nor in spoken words let him know that + she desired the young man's utter ruin, but he understood it all before + the close of their first private interview. Freeling was exceedingly + deferential in the beginning and guarded in his speech. He knew by the + quick intuitions of his nature that Mrs. Dinneford cherished an evil + purpose, and had chosen him as the agent for its accomplishment. She was + rich, and occupied a high social position, and his ready conclusion was + that, be the service what it might, he could make it pay. To get such a + woman in his power was worth an effort. + </p> + <p> + One morning—it was a few months after the date of the copartnership—Mrs. + Dinneford received a note from Freeling. It said, briefly, + </p> + <p> + “At the usual place, 12 M. to-day. Important.” There was no signature. + </p> + <p> + The sharp knitting of her brows and the nervous crumpling of the note in + her hand showed that she was not pleased at the summons. She had come + already to know her partner in evil too well. At 12 M. she was in the + hotel parlor. Freeling was already there. They met in external cordiality, + but it was very evident from the manner of Mrs. Dinneford, that she felt + herself in the man's power, and had learned to be afraid of him. + </p> + <p> + “It will be impossible to get through to-morrow,” he said, in a kind of + imperative voice, that was half a threat, “unless we have two thousand + dollars.” + </p> + <p> + “I cannot ask Mr. Dinneford for anything more,” Mrs. Dinneford replied; + “we have already furnished ten thousand dollars beyond the original + investment.” + </p> + <p> + “But it is all safe enough—that is, if we do not break down just + here for lack of so small a sum.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Dinneford gave a start. + </p> + <p> + “Break down!” She repeated the words in a husky, voice, with a paling + face. “What do you mean?” + </p> + <p> + “Only that in consequence of having in store a large stock of unsalable + goods bought by your indiscreet son-in-law, who knows no more about + business than a child, we are in a temporary strait.” + </p> + <p> + “Why did you trust him to buy?” asked Mrs. Dinneford. + </p> + <p> + “I didn't trust him. He bought without consulting me,” was replied, almost + rudely. + </p> + <p> + “Will two thousand be the end of this thing?” + </p> + <p> + “I think so.” + </p> + <p> + “You only think so?” + </p> + <p> + “I am sure of it.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well; I will see what can be done. But all this must have an end, + Mr. Freeling. We cannot supply any more money. You must look elsewhere if + you have further need. Mr. Dinneford is getting very much annoyed and + worried. You surely have other resources.” + </p> + <p> + “I have drawn to the utmost on all my resources,” said the man, coldly. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Dinneford remained silent for a good while, her eyes upon the floor. + Freeling watched her face intently, trying to read what was in her + thoughts. At last she said, in a suggestive tone, + </p> + <p> + “There are many ways of getting money known to business-men—a little + risky some of them, perhaps, but desperate cases require desperate + expedients. You understand me?” + </p> + <p> + Freeling took a little time to consider before replying. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” he said, at length, speaking slowly, as one careful of his words. + “But all expedients are 'risky,' as you say—some of them very risky. + It takes a long, cool head to manage them safely.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't know a longer or cooler head than yours,” returned Mrs. + Dinneford, a faint smile playing about her lips. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you for the compliment,” said Freeling, his lips reflecting the + smile on hers. + </p> + <p> + “You must think of some expedient.” Mrs. Dinneford's manner grew + impressive. She spoke with emphasis and deliberation. “Beyond the sum of + two thousand dollars, which I will get for you by to-morrow, I shall not + advance a single penny. You may set that down as sure. If you are not + sharp enough and strong enough, with the advantage you possess, to hold + your own, then you must go under; as for me, I have done all that I can or + will.” + </p> + <p> + Freeling saw that she was wholly in earnest, and understood what she meant + by “desperate expedients.” Granger was to be ruined, and she was growing + impatient of delay. He had no desire to hurt the young man—he rather + liked him. Up to this time he had been content with what he could draw out + of Mrs. Dinneford. There was no risk in this sort of business. Moreover, + he enjoyed his interviews and confidences with the elegant lady, and of + late the power he seemed to be gaining over her; this power he regarded as + capital laid up for another use, and at another time. + </p> + <p> + But it was plain that he had reached the end of his present financial + policy, and must decide whether to adopt the new one suggested by Mrs. + Dinneford or make a failure, and so get rid of his partner. The question + he had to settle with himself was whether he could make more by a failure + than by using Granger a while longer, and then throwing him overboard, + disgraced and ruined. Selfish and unscrupulous as he was, Freeling + hesitated to do this. And besides, the “desperate expedients” he would + have to adopt in the new line of policy were fraught with peril to all who + took part in them. He might fall into the snare set for another—might + involve himself so deeply as not to find a way of escape. + </p> + <p> + “To-morrow we will talk this matter over,” he said in reply to Mrs. + Dinneford's last remark; “in the mean time I will examine the ground + thoroughly and see how it looks.” + </p> + <p> + “Don't hesitate to make any use you can of Granger,” suggested the lady. + “He has done his part toward getting things tangled, and must help to + untangle them.” + </p> + <p> + “All right, ma'am.” + </p> + <p> + And they separated, Mrs. Dinneford reaching the street by one door of the + hotel, and Freeling by another. + </p> + <p> + On the following day they met again, Mrs. Dinneford bringing the two + thousand dollars. + </p> + <p> + “And now what next?” she asked, after handing over the money and taking + the receipt of “Freeling & Granger.” Her eyes had a hard glitter, and + her face was almost stern in its expression. “How are you going to raise + money and keep afloat?” + </p> + <p> + “Only some desperate expedient is left me now,” answered Freeling, though + not in the tone of a man who felt himself at bay. It was said with a + wicked kind of levity. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Dinneford looked at him keenly. She was beginning to mistrust the + man. They gazed into each other's faces in silence for some moments, each + trying to read what was in the other's thought. At length Freeling said, + </p> + <p> + “There is one thing more that you will have to do, Mrs. Dinneford.” + </p> + <p> + “What?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “Get your husband to draw two or three notes in Mr. Granger's favor. They + should not be for less than five hundred or a thousand dollars each. The + dates must be short—not over thirty or sixty days.” + </p> + <p> + “It can't be done,” was the emphatic answer. + </p> + <p> + “It must be done,” replied Freeling; “they need not be for the business. + You can manage the matter if you will; your daughter wants an India shawl, + or a set of diamonds, or a new carriage—anything you choose. Mr. + Dinneford hasn't the ready cash, but we can throw his notes into bank and + get the money; don't you see?” + </p> + <p> + But Mrs. Dinneford didn't see. + </p> + <p> + “I don't mean,” said Freeling, “that we are to use the money. Let the + shawl, or the diamond, or the what-not, be bought and paid for. We get the + discounts for your use, not ours.” + </p> + <p> + “All very well,” answered Mrs. Dinneford; “but how is that going to help + you?” + </p> + <p> + “Leave that to me. You get the notes,” said Freeling. + </p> + <p> + “Never walk blindfold, Mr. Freeling,” replied the lady, drawing herself + up, with a dignified air. “We ought to understand each other by this time. + I must see beyond the mere use of these notes.” + </p> + <p> + Freeling shut his mouth tightly and knit his heavy brows. Mrs. Dinneford + watched him, closely. + </p> + <p> + “It's a desperate expedient,” he said, at length. + </p> + <p> + “All well as far as that is concerned; but if I am to have a hand in it, I + must know all about it,” she replied, firmly. “As I said just now, I never + walk blindfold.” + </p> + <p> + Freeling leaned close to Mrs. Dinneford, and uttered a few sentences in a + low tone, speaking rapidly. The color went and came in her face, but she + sat motionless, and so continued for some time after he had ceased + speaking. + </p> + <p> + “You will get the notes?” Freeling put the question as one who has little + doubt of the answer. + </p> + <p> + “I will get them,” replied Mrs. Dinneford. + </p> + <p> + “When?” + </p> + <p> + “It will take time.” + </p> + <p> + “We cannot wait long. If the thing is done at all, it must be done + quickly. 'Strike while the iron is hot' is the best of all maxims.” + </p> + <p> + “There shall be no needless delay on my part. You may trust me for that,” + was answered. + </p> + <p> + Within a week Mrs. Dinneford brought two notes, drawn by her husband in + favor of George Granger—one for five hundred and the other for one + thousand dollars. The time was short—thirty and sixty days. On this + occasion she came to the store and asked for her son-in-law. The meeting + between her and Freeling was reserved and formal. She expressed regret for + the trouble she was giving the firm in procuring a discount for her use, + and said that if she could reciprocate the favor in any way she would be + happy to do so. + </p> + <p> + “The notes are drawn to your order,” remarked Freeling as soon as the lady + had retired. Granger endorsed them, and was about handing them to his + partner, when the latter said: + </p> + <p> + “Put our name on them while you are about it.” And the young man wrote + also the endorsement of the firm. + </p> + <p> + After this, Mr. Freeling put the bank business into Granger's hands. + Nearly all checks were drawn and all business paper endorsed by the + younger partner, who became the financier of the concern, and had the + management of all negotiations for money in and out of bank. + </p> + <p> + One morning, shortly after the first of Mr. Dinneford's notes was paid, + Granger saw his mother-in-law come into the store. Freeling was at the + counter. They talked together for some time, and then Mrs. Dinneford went + out. + </p> + <p> + On the next day Granger saw Mrs. Dinneford in the store again. After she + had gone away, Freeling came back, and laying a note-of-hand on his + partner's desk, said, in a pleased, confidential way. + </p> + <p> + “Look at that, my friend.” + </p> + <p> + Granger read the face of the note with a start of surprise. It was drawn + to his order, for three thousand dollars, and bore the signature of Howard + Dinneford. + </p> + <p> + “A thing that is worth having is worth asking for,” said Freeling. “We + obliged your mother-in-law, and now she has returned the favor. It didn't + come very easily, she said, and your father-in-law isn't feeling rather + comfortable about it; so she doesn't care about your speaking of it at + home.” + </p> + <p> + Granger was confounded. + </p> + <p> + “I can't understand it,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “You can understand that we have the note, and that it has come in the + nick of time,” returned Freeling. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I can see all that.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, don't look a gift-horse in the mouth, but spring into the saddle + and take a ride. Your mother-in-law is a trump. If she will, she will, you + may depend on't.” + </p> + <p> + Freeling was unusually excited. Granger looked the note over and over in a + way that seemed to annoy his partner, who said, presently, with a shade of + ill-nature in his voice, + </p> + <p> + “What's the matter? Isn't the signature all right?” + </p> + <p> + “That's right enough,” returned the young man, after looking at it + closely. “But I can't understand it.” + </p> + <p> + “You will when you see the proceeds passed to our accounted in bank—ha! + ha!” + </p> + <p> + Granger looked up at his partner quickly, the laugh had so strange a + sound, but saw nothing new in his face. + </p> + <p> + In about a month Freeling had in his possession another note, signed by + Mr. Dinneford and drawn to the order of George Granger. This one was for + five thousand dollars. He handed it to his partner soon after the latter + had observed Mrs. Dinneford in the store. + </p> + <p> + A little over six weeks from this time Mrs. Dinneford was in the store + again. After she had gone away, Freeling handed Granger three more notes + drawn by Mr. Dinneford to his order, amounting in all to fifteen thousand + dollars. They were at short dates. + </p> + <p> + Granger took these notes without any remark, and was about putting them in + his desk, when Freeling said, + </p> + <p> + “I think you had better offer one in the People's Bank and another in the + Fourth National. They discount to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + “Our line is full in both of these banks,” replied Granger. + </p> + <p> + “That may or may not be. Paper like this is not often thrown out. Call on + the president of the Fourth National and the cashier of the People's Bank. + Say that we particularly want the money, and would like them to see that + the notes go through. Star & Giltedge can easily place the other.” + </p> + <p> + Granger's manner did not altogether please his partner. The notes lay + before him on his desk, and he looked at them in a kind of dazed way. + </p> + <p> + “What's the matter?” asked Freeling, rather sharply. + </p> + <p> + “Nothing,” was the quiet answer. + </p> + <p> + “You saw Mrs. Dinneford in the store just now. I told her last week that I + should claim another favor at her hands. She tried to beg off, but I + pushed the matter hard. It must end here, she says. Mr. Dinneford won't go + any farther.” + </p> + <p> + “I should think not,” replied Granger. “I wouldn't if I were he. The + wonder to me is that he has gone so far. What about the renewal of these + notes?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, that is all arranged,” returned Freeling, a little hurriedly. Granger + looked at him for some moments. He was not satisfied. + </p> + <p> + “See that they go in bank,” said Freeling, in a positive way. + </p> + <p> + Granger took up his pen in an abstracted manner and endorsed the notes, + after which he laid them in his bank-book. An important customer coming in + at the moment, Freeling went forward to see him. After Granger was left + alone, he took the notes from his bank-book and examined them with great + care. Suspicion was aroused. He felt sure that something was wrong. A good + many things in Freeling's conduct of late had seemed strange. After + thinking for a while, he determined to take the notes at once to Mr. + Dinneford and ask him if all was right. As soon as his mind had reached + this conclusion he hurried through the work he had on hand, and then + putting his bank-book in his pocket, left the store. + </p> + <p> + On that very morning Mr. Dinneford received notice that he had a note for + three thousand dollars falling due at one of the banks. He went + immediately and asked to see the note. When it was shown to him, he was + observed to become very pale, but he left the desk of the note-clerk + without any remark, and returned home. He met his wife at the door, just + coming in. + </p> + <p> + “What's the matter?” she asked, seeing how pale he was. “Not sick, I + hope?” + </p> + <p> + “Worse than sick,” he replied as they passed into the house together. + “George has been forging my name.” + </p> + <p> + “Impossible!” exclaimed Mrs. Dinneford. + </p> + <p> + “I wish it were,” replied Mr. Dinneford, sadly; “but, alas! it is too + true. I have just returned from the Fourth National Bank. They have a note + for three thousand dollars, bearing my signature. It is drawn to the order + of George Granger, and endorsed by him. The note is a forgery.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Dinneford became almost wild with excitement. Her fair face grew + purple. Her eyes shone with a fierce light. + </p> + <p> + “Have you had him arrested?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “Oh no, no, no!” Mr. Dinneford answered. “For poor Edith's sake, if for + nothing else, this dreadful business must be kept secret. I will take up + the note when due, and the public need be none the wiser.” + </p> + <p> + “If,” said Mrs. Dinneford, “he has forged your name once, he has, in all + probability, done it again and again. No, no; the thing can't be hushed + up, and it must not be. Is he less a thief and a robber because he is our + son-in-law? My daughter the wife of a forger! Great heavens! has it come + to this Mr. Dinneford?” she added, after a pause, and with intense + bitterness and rejection in her voice. “The die is cast! Never again, if I + can prevent it, shall that scoundrel cross our threshold. Let the law have + its course. It is a crime to conceal crime.” + </p> + <p> + “It will kill our poor child!” answered Mr. Dinneford in a broken voice. + </p> + <p> + “Death is better than the degradation of living with a criminal,” replied + his wife. “I say it solemnly, and I mean it; the die is cast! Come what + will, George Granger stands now and for ever on the outside! Go at once + and give information to the bank officers. If you do not, I will.” + </p> + <p> + With a heavy heart Mr. Dinneford returned to the bank and informed the + president that the note in question was a forgery. He had been gone from + home a little over half an hour, when Granger, who had come to ask him + about the three notes given him that morning by Freeling, put his key in + the door, and found, a little to his surprise, that the latch was down. He + rang the bell, and in a few moments the servant appeared. Granger was + about passing in, when the man said, respectfully but firmly, as he held + the door partly closed, + </p> + <p> + “My orders are not to let you come in.” + </p> + <p> + “Who gave you those orders?” demanded Granger, turning white. + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. Dinneford.” + </p> + <p> + “I wish to see Mr. Dinneford, and I must see him immediately.” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Dinneford is not at home,” answered the servant. + </p> + <p> + “Shut that door instantly!” + </p> + <p> + It was the voice of Mrs. Dinneford, speaking from within. Granger heard + it; in the next moment the door was shut in his face. + </p> + <p> + The young man hardly knew how he got back to the store. On his arrival he + found himself under arrest, charged with forgery, and with fresh evidence + of the crime on his person in the three notes received that morning from + his partner, who denied all knowledge of their existence, and appeared as + a witness against him at the hearing before a magistrate. Granger was held + to bail to answer the charge at the next term of court. + </p> + <p> + It would have been impossible to keep all this from Edith, even if there + had been a purpose to do so. Mrs. Dinneford chose to break the dreadful + news at her own time and in her own way. The shock was fearful. On the + night that followed her baby was born. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER III. + </h2> + <p> + “<i>IT</i> is a splendid boy,” said the nurse as she came in with the + new-born baby in her arms, “and perfect as a bit of sculpture. Just look + at that hand.” + </p> + <p> + “Faugh!” ejaculated Mrs. Dinneford, to whom this was addressed. Her + countenance expressed disgust. She turned her head away. “Hide the thing + from my sight!” she added, angrily. “Cover it up! smother it if you will!” + </p> + <p> + “You are still determined?” said the nurse. + </p> + <p> + “Determined, Mrs. Bray; I am not the woman to look back when I have once + resolved. You know me.” Mrs. Dinneford said this passionately. + </p> + <p> + The two women were silent for a little while. Mrs. Bray, the nurse, kept + her face partly turned from Mrs. Dinneford. She was a short, dry, wiry + little woman, with French features, a sallow complexion and very black + eyes. + </p> + <p> + The doctor looked in. Mrs. Dinneford went quickly to the door, and putting + her hand on his arm, pressed him back, going out into the entry with him + and closing the door behind them. They talked for a short time very + earnestly. + </p> + <p> + “The whole thing is wrong,” said the doctor as he turned to go, “and I + will not be answerable for the consequences.” + </p> + <p> + “No one will require them at your hand, Doctor Radcliffe,” replied Mrs. + Dinneford. “Do the best you can for Edith. As for the rest, know nothing, + say nothing. You understand.” + </p> + <p> + Doctor Burt Radcliffe had a large practice among rich and fashionable + people. He had learned to be very considerate of their weaknesses, + peculiarities and moral obliquities. His business was to doctor them when + sick, to humor them when they only thought themselves sick, and to get the + largest possible fees for his, services. A great deal came under his + observation that he did not care to see, and of which he saw as little as + possible. From policy he had learned to be reticent. He held family + secrets enough to make, in the hands of a skillful writer, more than a + dozen romances of the saddest and most exciting character. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Dinneford knew him thoroughly, and just how far to trust him. “Know + nothing, say nothing” was a good maxim in the case, and so she divulged + only the fact that the baby was to be cast adrift. His weak remonstrance + might as well not have been spoken, and he knew it. + </p> + <p> + While this brief interview was in progress, Nurse Bray sat with the baby + on her lap. She had taken the soft little hands into her own; and evil and + cruel though she was, an impulse of tenderness flowed into her heart from + the angels who were present with the innocent child. It grew lovely in her + eyes. Its helplessness stirred in her a latent instinct of protection. “No + no, it must not be,” she was saying to herself, when the door opened and + Mrs. Dinneford came back. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Bray did not lift her head, but sat looking down at the baby and + toying with its hands. + </p> + <p> + “Pshaw!” ejaculated Mrs. Dinneford, in angry disgust, as she noticed this + manifestation of interest. “Bundle the thing up and throw into that + basket. Is the woman down stairs?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” replied Mrs. Bray as she slowly drew a light blanket over the baby. + </p> + <p> + “Very well. Put it in the basket, and let her take it away.” + </p> + <p> + “She is not a good woman,” said the nurse, whose heart was failing her at + the last moment. + </p> + <p> + “She may be the devil for all I care,” returned Mrs. Dinneford. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Bray did as she was ordered, but with an evident reluctance that + irritated Mrs. Dinneford. + </p> + <p> + “Go now and bring up the woman,” she said, sharply. + </p> + <p> + The woman was brought. She was past the prime of life, and had an evil + face. You read in it the record of bad passions indulged and the signs of + a cruel nature. She was poorly clad, and her garments unclean. + </p> + <p> + “You will take this child?” said Mrs. Dinneford abruptly, as the woman + came into her presence. + </p> + <p> + “I have agreed to do so,” she replied, looking toward Mrs. Bray. + </p> + <p> + “She is to have fifty dollars,” said the nurse. + </p> + <p> + “And that is to be the last of it!” Mrs. Dinneford's face was pale, and + she spoke in a hard, husky voice. + </p> + <p> + Opening her purse, she took from it a small roll of bills, and as she held + out the money said, slowly and with a hard emphasis, + </p> + <p> + “You understand the terms. I do not know you—not even your name. I + don't wish to know you. For this consideration you take the child away. + That is the end of it between you and me. The child is your own as much as + if he were born to you, and you can do with him as you please. And now + go.” Mrs. Dinneford waved her hand. + </p> + <p> + “His name?” queried the woman. + </p> + <p> + “He has no name!” Mrs. Dinneford stamped her foot in angry impatience. + </p> + <p> + The woman stooped down, and taking up the basket, tucked the covering that + had been laid over the baby close about its head, so that no one could see + what she carried, and went off without uttering another word. + </p> + <p> + It was some moments before either Mrs. Dinneford or the nurse spoke. Mrs. + Bray was first to break silence. + </p> + <p> + “All this means a great deal more than you have counted on,” she said, in + a voice that betrayed some little feeling. “To throw a tender baby out + like that is a hard thing. I am afraid—” + </p> + <p> + “There, there! no more of that,” returned Mrs. Dinneford, impatiently. + “It's ugly work, I own, but it had to be done—like cutting off a + diseased limb. He will die, of course, and the sooner it is over, the + better for him and every one else.” + </p> + <p> + “He will have a hard struggle for life, poor little thing!” said the + nurse. “I would rather see him dead.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Dinneford, now that this wicked and cruel deed was done, felt ill at + ease. She pushed the subject away, and tried to bury it out of sight as we + bury the dead, but did not find the task an easy one. + </p> + <p> + What followed the birth and removal of Edith's baby up to the time of her + return to reason after long struggle for life, has already been told. Her + demand to have her baby—“Oh, mother, bring me my baby! I shall die + if you do not!” and the answer, “Your baby is in heaven!”—sent the + feeble life-currents back again upon her heart. There was another long + period of oblivion, out of which she came very slowly, her mind almost as + much a blank as the mind of a child. + </p> + <p> + She had to learn again the names of things, and to be taught their use. It + was touching to see the untiring devotion of her father, and the pleasure + he took in every new evidence of mental growth. He went over the alphabet + with her, letter by letter, many times each day, encouraging her and + holding her thought down to the unintelligible signs with a patient + tenderness sad yet beautiful to see; and when she began to combine letters + into words, and at last to put words together, his delight was unbounded. + </p> + <p> + Very slowly went on the new process of mental growth, and it was months + before thought began to reach out beyond the little world that lay just + around her. + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile, Edith's husband had been brought to trial for forgery, + convicted and sentenced to the State's prison for a term of years. His + partner came forward as the chief witness, swearing that he had believed + the notes genuine, the firm having several times had the use of Mr. + Dinneford's paper, drawn to the order of Granger. + </p> + <p> + Ere the day of trial came the poor young man was nearly broken-hearted. + Public disgrace like this, added to the terrible private wrongs he was + suffering, was more than he had the moral strength to bear. Utterly + repudiated by his wife's family, and not even permitted to see Edith, he + only knew that she was very ill. Of the birth of his baby he had but a + vague intimation. A rumor was abroad that it had died, but he could learn + nothing certain. In his distress and uncertainty he called on Dr. + Radcliffe, who replied to his questions with a cold evasion. “It was put + out to nurse,” said the doctor, “and that is all I know about it.” Beyond + this he would say nothing. + </p> + <p> + Granger was not taken to the State's prison after his sentence, but to an + insane asylum. Reason gave way under the terrible ordeal through which he + had been made to pass. + </p> + <p> + “Mother,” said Edith, one day, in a tone that caused Mrs. Dinneford's + heart to leap. She was reading a child's simple story-book, and looked up + as she spoke. Her eyes were wide open and full of questions. + </p> + <p> + “What, my dear?” asked Mrs. Dinneford, repressing her feelings and trying + to keep her voice calm. + </p> + <p> + “There's something I can't understand, mother.” She looked down at + herself, then about the room. Her manner was becoming nervous. + </p> + <p> + “What can't you understand?” + </p> + <p> + Edith shut her hands over her eyes and remained very still. When she + removed them, and her mother looked into her face the childlike sweetness + and content were all gone, and a conscious woman was before her. The + transformation was as sudden as it was marvelous. + </p> + <p> + Both remained silent for the space of nearly a minute. Mrs. Dinneford knew + not what to say, and waited for some sign from her daughter. + </p> + <p> + “Where is my baby, mother?” Edith said this in a low, tremulous whisper, + leaning forward as she spoke, repressed and eager. + </p> + <p> + “Have you forgotten?” asked Mrs. Dinneford, with regained composure. + </p> + <p> + “Forgotten what?” + </p> + <p> + “You were very ill after your baby was born; no one thought you could + live; you were ill for a long time. And the baby—” + </p> + <p> + “What of the baby, mother?” asked Edith, beginning to tremble violently. + Her mother, perceiving her agitation, held back the word that was on her + lips. + </p> + <p> + “What of the baby, mother?” Edith repeated the question. + </p> + <p> + “It died,” said Mrs. Dinneford, turning partly away. She could not look at + her child and utter this cruel falsehood. + </p> + <p> + “Dead! Oh, mother, don't say that! The baby can't be dead!” + </p> + <p> + A swift flash of suspicion came into her eyes. + </p> + <p> + “I have said it, my child,” was the almost stern response of Mrs. + Dinneford. “The baby is dead.” + </p> + <p> + A weight seemed to fall on Edith. She bent forward, crouching down until + her elbows rested on her knees and her hands supported her head. Thus she + sat, rocking her body with a slight motion. Mrs. Dinneford watched her + without speaking. + </p> + <p> + “And what of George?” asked Edith, checking her nervous movement at last. + </p> + <p> + Her mother did not reply. Edith waited a moment, and then lifted herself + erect. + </p> + <p> + “What of George?” she demanded. + </p> + <p> + “My poor child!” exclaimed Mrs. Dinneford, with a gush of genuine pity, + putting her arms about Edith and drawing her head against her bosom. “It + is more than you have strength to bear.” + </p> + <p> + “You must tell me,” the daughter said, disengaging herself. “I have asked + for my husband.” + </p> + <p> + “Hush! You must not utter that word again;” and Mrs. Dinneford put her + fingers on Edith's lips. “The wretched man you once called by that name is + a disgraced criminal. It is better that you know the worst.” + </p> + <p> + When Mr. Dinneford came home, instead of the quiet, happy child he had + left in the morning, he found a sad, almost broken-hearted woman, refusing + to be comforted. The wonder was that under the shock of this terrible + awakening, reason had not been again and hopelessly dethroned. + </p> + <p> + After a period of intense suffering, pain seemed to deaden sensibility. + She grew calm and passive. And now Mrs. Dinneford set herself to the + completion of the work she had begun. She had compassed the ruin of + Granger in order to make a divorce possible; she had cast the baby adrift + that no sign of the social disgrace might remain as an impediment to her + first ambition. She would yet see her daughter in the position to which + she had from the beginning resolved to lift her, cost what it might. But + the task was not to be an easy one. + </p> + <p> + After a period of intense suffering, as we have said, Edith grew calm and + passive. But she was never at ease with her mother, and seemed to be + afraid of her. To her father she was tender and confiding. Mrs. Dinneford + soon saw that if Edith's consent to a divorce from her husband was to be + obtained, it must come through her father's influence; for if she but + hinted at the subject, it was met with a flash of almost indignant + rejection. So her first work was to bring her husband over to her side. + This was not difficult, for Mr. Dinneford felt the disgrace of having for + a son-in-law a condemned criminal, who was only saved from the State's + prison by insanity. An insane criminal was not worthy to hold the relation + of husband to his pure and lovely child. + </p> + <p> + After a feeble opposition to her father's arguments and persuasions, Edith + yielded her consent. An application for a divorce was made, and speedily + granted. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IV. + </h2> + <p> + <i>OUT</i> of this furnace Edith came with a new and purer spirit. She had + been thrust in a shrinking and frightened girl; she came out a woman in + mental stature, in feeling and self-consciousness. + </p> + <p> + The river of her life, which had cut for itself a deeper channel, lay now + so far down that it was out of the sight of common observation. Even her + mother failed to apprehend its drift and strength. Her father knew her + better. To her mother she was reserved and distant; to her father, warm + and confiding. With the former she would sit for hours without speaking + unless addressed; with the latter she was pleased and social, and grew to + be interested in what interested him. As mentioned, Mr. Dinneford was a + man of wealth and leisure, and active in many public charities. He had + come to be much concerned for the neglected and cast-off children of poor + and vicious parents, thousands upon thousands of whom were going to + hopeless ruin, unthought of and uncared for by Church or State, and their + condition often formed the subject of his conversation as well at home as + elsewhere. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Dinneford had no sympathy with her husband in this direction. A + dirty, vicious child was an offence to her, not an object of pity, and she + felt more like, spurning it with her foot than touching it with her hand. + But it was not so with Edith; she listened to her father, and became + deeply interested in the poor, suffering, neglected little ones whose sad + condition he could so vividly portray, for the public duties of charity to + which he was giving a large part of his time made him familiar with much + that was sad and terrible in human suffering and degradation. + </p> + <p> + One day Edith said to her father, + </p> + <p> + “I saw a sight this morning that made me sick. It has haunted me ever + since. Oh, it was dreadful!” + </p> + <p> + “What was it?” asked Mr. Dinneford. + </p> + <p> + “A sick baby in the arms of a half-drunken woman. It made me shiver to + look at its poor little face, wasted by hunger and sickness and purple + with cold. The woman sat at the street corner begging, and the people went + by, no one seeming to care for the helpless, starving baby in her arms. I + saw a police-officer almost touch the woman as he passed. Why did he not + arrest her?” + </p> + <p> + “That was not his business,” replied Mr. Dinneford. “So long as she did + not disturb the peace, the officer had nothing to do with her.” + </p> + <p> + “Who, then, has?” + </p> + <p> + “Nobody.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, father!” exclaimed Edith. “Nobody?” + </p> + <p> + “The woman was engaged in business. She was a beggar, and the sick, + half-starved baby was her capital in trade,” replied Mr. Dinneford. “That + policeman had no more authority to arrest her than he had to arrest the + organ-man or the peanut-vender.” + </p> + <p> + “But somebody should see after a poor baby like that. Is there no law to + meet such cases?” + </p> + <p> + “The poor baby has no vote,” replied Mr. Dinneford, “and law-makers don't + concern themselves much about that sort of constituency; and even if they + did, the executors of law would be found indifferent. They are much more + careful to protect those whose business it is to make drunken beggars like + the one you saw, who, if men, can vote and give them place and power. The + poor baby is far beneath their consideration.” + </p> + <p> + “But not of Him,” said Edith, with eyes full of tears, “who took little + children in his arms and blessed them, and said, Suffer them to come unto + me and forbid them not, for of such is the kingdom of heaven.” + </p> + <p> + “Our law-makers are not, I fear, of his kingdom,” answered Mr. Dinneford, + gravely, “but of the kingdom of this world.” + </p> + <p> + A little while after, Edith, who had remained silent and thoughtful, said, + with a tremor in her voice, + </p> + <p> + “Father, did you see my baby?” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Dinneford started at so unexpected a question, surprised and + disturbed. He did not reply, and Edith put the question again. + </p> + <p> + “No, my dear,” he answered, with a hesitation of manner that was almost + painful. + </p> + <p> + After looking into his face steadily for some moments, Edith dropped her + eyes to the floor, and there was a constrained silence between them for a + good while. + </p> + <p> + “You never saw it?” she queried, again lifting her eyes to her father's + face. Her own was much paler than when she first put the question. + </p> + <p> + “Never.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” asked Edith. + </p> + <p> + She waited for a little while, and then said, + </p> + <p> + “Why don't you answer me, father?” + </p> + <p> + “It was never brought to me.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, father!” + </p> + <p> + “You were very ill, and a nurse was procured immediately.” + </p> + <p> + “I was not too sick to see my baby,” said Edith, with white, quivering + lips. “If they had laid it in my bosom as soon as it was born, I would + never have been so ill, and the baby would not have died. If—if—” + </p> + <p> + She held back what she was about saying, shutting her lips tightly. Her + face remained very pale and strangely agitated. Nothing more was then + said. + </p> + <p> + A day or two afterward, Edith asked her mother, with an abruptness that + sent the color to her face, “Where was my baby buried?” + </p> + <p> + “In our lot at Fairview,” was replied, after a moment's pause. + </p> + <p> + Edith said no more, but on that very day, regardless of a heavy rain that + was falling, went out to the cemetery alone and searched in the family lot + for the little mound that covered her baby—searched, but did not + find it. She came back so changed in appearance that when her mother saw + her she exclaimed, + </p> + <p> + “Why, Edith! Are you sick?” + </p> + <p> + “I have been looking for my baby's grave and cannot find it,” she + answered. “There is something wrong, mother. What was done with my baby? I + must know.” And she caught her mother's wrists with both of her hands in a + tight grip, and sent searching glances down through her eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Your baby is dead,” returned Mrs. Dinneford, speaking slowly and with a + hard deliberation. “As for its grave—well, if you will drag up the + miserable past, know that in my anger at your wretched <i>mesalliance</i> + I rejected even the dead body of your miserable husband's child, and would + not even suffer it to lie in our family ground. You know how bitterly I + was disappointed, and I am not one of the kind that forgets or forgives + easily. I may have been wrong, but it is too late now, and the past may as + well be covered out of sight.” + </p> + <p> + “Where, then, was my baby buried?” asked Edith, with a calm resolution of + manner that was not to be denied. + </p> + <p> + “I do not know. I did not care at the time, and never asked.” + </p> + <p> + “Who can tell me?” + </p> + <p> + “I don't know.” + </p> + <p> + “Who took my baby to nurse?” + </p> + <p> + “I have forgotten the woman's name. All I know is that she is dead. When + the child died, I sent her money, and told her to bury it decently.” + </p> + <p> + “Where did she live?” + </p> + <p> + “I never knew precisely. Somewhere down town.” + </p> + <p> + “Who brought her here? who recommended her?” said Edith, pushing her + inquiries rapidly. + </p> + <p> + “I have forgotten that also,” replied Mrs. Dinneford, maintaining her + coldness of manner. + </p> + <p> + “My nurse, I presume,” said Edith. “I have a faint recollection of her—a + dark little woman with black eyes whom I had never seen before. What was + her name?” + </p> + <p> + “Bodine,” answered Mrs. Dinneford, without a moment's hesitation. + </p> + <p> + “Where does she live?” + </p> + <p> + “She went to Havana with a Cuban lady several months ago.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you know the lady's name?” + </p> + <p> + “It was Casteline, I think.” + </p> + <p> + Edith questioned no further. The mother and daughter were still sitting + together, both deeply absorbed in thought, when a servant opened the door + and said to Mrs. Dinneford, + </p> + <p> + “A lady wishes to see you.” + </p> + <p> + “Didn't she give you her card?” + </p> + <p> + “No ma'am.” + </p> + <p> + “Nor send up her name?” + </p> + <p> + “No, ma'am.” + </p> + <p> + “Go down and ask her name.” + </p> + <p> + The servant left the room. On returning, she said, + </p> + <p> + “Her name is Mrs. Bray.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Dinneford turned her face quickly, but not in time to prevent Edith + from seeing by its expression that she knew her visitor, and that her call + was felt to be an unwelcome one. She went from the room without speaking. + On entering the parlor, Mrs. Dinneford said, in a low, hurried voice, + </p> + <p> + “I don't want you to come here, Mrs. Bray. If you wish to see me send me + word, and I will call on you, but you must on no account come here.” + </p> + <p> + “Why? Is anything wrong?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “What?” + </p> + <p> + “Edith isn't satisfied about the baby, has been out to Fairview looking + for its grave, wants to know who her nurse was.” + </p> + <p> + “What did you tell her?” + </p> + <p> + “I said that your name was Mrs. Bodine, and that you had gone to Cuba.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you think she would know me?” + </p> + <p> + “Can't tell; wouldn't like to run the risk of her seeing you here. Pull + down your veil. There! close. She said, a little while ago, that she had a + faint recollection of you as a dark little woman with black eyes whom she + had never seen before.” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed!” and Mrs. Bray gathered her veil close about her face. + </p> + <p> + “The baby isn't living?” Mrs. Dinneford asked the question in a whisper. + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, it can't be! Are you sure?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; I saw it day before yesterday.” + </p> + <p> + “You did! Where?” + </p> + <p> + “On the street, in the arms of a beggar-woman.” + </p> + <p> + “You are deceiving me!” Mrs. Dinneford spoke with a throb of anger in her + voice. + </p> + <p> + “As I live, no! Poor little thing! half starved and half frozen. It 'most + made me sick.” + </p> + <p> + “It's impossible! You could not know that it was Edith's baby.” + </p> + <p> + “I do know,” replied Mrs. Bray, in a voice that left no doubt on Mrs. + Dinneford's mind. + </p> + <p> + “Was the woman the same to whom we gave the baby?” + </p> + <p> + “No; she got rid of it in less than a month.” + </p> + <p> + “What did she do with it?” + </p> + <p> + “Sold it for five dollars, after she had spent all the money she received + from you in drink and lottery-policies.” + </p> + <p> + “Sold it for five dollars!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, to two beggar-women, who use it every day, one in the morning and + the other in the afternoon, and get drunk on the money they receive, lying + all night in some miserable den.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Dinneford gave a little shiver. + </p> + <p> + “What becomes of the baby when they are not using it?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “They pay a woman a dollar a week to take care of it at night.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you know where this woman lives?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Were you ever there?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “What kind of a place is it?” + </p> + <p> + “Worse than a dog-kennel.” + </p> + <p> + “What does all this mean?” demanded Mrs. Dinneford, with repressed + excitement. “Why have you so kept on the track of this baby, when you knew + I wished it lost sight of?” + </p> + <p> + “I had my own reasons,” replied Mrs. Bray. “One doesn't know what may come + of an affair like this, and it's safe to keep well up with it.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Dinneford bit her lips till the blood almost came through. A faint + rustle of garments in the hall caused her to start. An expression of alarm + crossed her face. + </p> + <p> + “Go now,” she said, hurriedly, to her visitor; “I will call and see you + this afternoon.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Bray quietly arose, saying, as she did so, “I shall expect you,” and + went away. + </p> + <p> + There was a menace in her tone as she said, “I shall expect you,” that did + not escape the ears of Mrs. Dinneford. + </p> + <p> + Edith was in the hall, at some distance from the parlor door. Mrs. Bray + had to pass her as she went out. Edith looked at her intently. + </p> + <p> + “Who is that woman?” she asked, confronting her mother, after the visitor + was gone. + </p> + <p> + “If you ask the question in a proper manner, I shall have no objection to + answer,” said Mrs. Dinneford, with a dignified and slightly offended air; + “but my daughter is assuming rather, too much.” + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. Bray, the servant said.” + </p> + <p> + “No, Mrs. Gray.” + </p> + <p> + “I understood her to say Mrs. Bray.” + </p> + <p> + “I can't help what you understood.” The mother spoke with some asperity of + manner. “She calls herself Gray, but you can have it anything you please; + it won't change her identity.” + </p> + <p> + “What did she want?” + </p> + <p> + “To see me.” + </p> + <p> + “I know.” Edith was turning away with an expression on her face that Mrs. + Dinneford did not like, so she said, + </p> + <p> + “She is in trouble, and wants me to help her, if you must know. She used + to be a dressmaker, and worked for me before you were born; she got + married, and then her troubles began. Now she is a widow with a house full + of little children, and not half bread enough to feed them. I've helped + her a number of times already, but I'm getting tired of it; she must look + somewhere else, and I told her so.” + </p> + <p> + Edith turned from her mother with an unsatisfied manner, and went up + stairs. Mrs. Dinneford was surprised, not long afterward, to meet her at + her chamber door, dressed to go out. This was something unusual. + </p> + <p> + “Where are you going?” she asked, not concealing her surprise. + </p> + <p> + “I have a little errand out,” Edith replied. + </p> + <p> + This was not satisfactory to her mother. She asked other questions, but + Edith gave only evasive answers. + </p> + <p> + On leaving the house, Edith walked quickly, like one in earnest about + something; her veil was closely drawn. Only a few blocks from where she + lived was the office of Dr. Radcliffe. Hither she directed her steps. + </p> + <p> + “Why, Edith, child!” exclaimed the doctor, not concealing the surprise he + felt at seeing her. “Nobody sick, I hope?” + </p> + <p> + “No one,” she answered. + </p> + <p> + There was a momentary pause; then Edith said, abruptly, + </p> + <p> + “Doctor, what became of my baby?” + </p> + <p> + “It died,” answered Doctor Radcliffe, but not without betraying some + confusion. The question had fallen upon him too suddenly. + </p> + <p> + “Did you see it after it was dead?” She spoke in a firm voice, looking him + steadily in the face. + </p> + <p> + “No,” he replied, after a slight hesitation. + </p> + <p> + “Then how do you know that it died?” Edith asked. + </p> + <p> + “I had your mother's word for it,” said the doctor. + </p> + <p> + “What was done with my baby after it was born?” + </p> + <p> + “It was given out to nurse.” + </p> + <p> + “With your consent?” + </p> + <p> + “I did not advise it. Your mother had her own views in the case. It was + something over which I had no control.” + </p> + <p> + “And you never saw it after it was taken away?” + </p> + <p> + “Never.” + </p> + <p> + “And do not really know whether it be dead or living?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, it's dead, of course, my child. There is no doubt of that,” said the + doctor, with sudden earnestness of manner. + </p> + <p> + “Have you any evidence of the fact?” + </p> + <p> + “My dear, dear child,” answered the doctor, with much feeling, “it is all + wrong. Why go back over this unhappy ground? why torture yourself for + nothing? Your baby died long ago, and is in heaven.” + </p> + <p> + “Would God I could believe it!” she exclaimed, in strong agitation. “If it + were so, why is not the evidence set before me? I question my mother; I + ask for the nurse who was with me when my baby was born, and for the nurse + to whom it was given afterward, and am told that they are dead or out of + the country. I ask for my baby's grave, but it cannot be found. I have + searched for it where my mother told me it was, but the grave is not + there. Why all this hiding and mystery? Doctor, you said that my baby was + in heaven, and I answered, 'Would God it were so!' for I saw a baby in + hell not long ago!” + </p> + <p> + The doctor was scared. He feared that Edith was losing her mind, she + looked and spoke so wildly. + </p> + <p> + “A puny, half-starved, half-frozen little thing, in the arms of a drunken + beggar,” she added. “And, doctor, an awful thought has haunted me ever + since.” + </p> + <p> + “Hush, hush!” said the doctor, who saw what was in her mind. “You must not + indulge such morbid fancies.” + </p> + <p> + “It is that I may not indulge them that I have come to you. I want + certainty, Dr. Radcliffe. Somebody knows all about my baby. Who was my + nurse?” + </p> + <p> + “I never saw her before the night of your baby's birth, and have never + seen her since. Your mother procured her.” + </p> + <p> + “Did you hear her name?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “And so you cannot help me at all?” said Edith, in a disappointed voice. + </p> + <p> + “I cannot, my poor child,” answered the doctor. + </p> + <p> + All the flush and excitement died out of Edith's face. When she arose to + go, she was pale and haggard, like one exhausted by pain, and her steps + uneven, like the steps of an invalid walking for the first time. Dr. + Radcliffe went with her in silence to the door. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, doctor,” said Edith, in a choking voice, as she lingered a moment on + the steps, “can't you bring out of this frightful mystery something for my + heart to rest upon? I want the truth. Oh, doctor, in pity help me to find + the truth!” + </p> + <p> + “I am powerless to help you,” the doctor replied. “Your only hope lies in + your mother. She knows all about it; I do not.” + </p> + <p> + And he turned and left her standing at the door. Slowly she descended the + steps, drawing her veil as she did so about her face, and walked away more + like one in a dream than conscious of the tide of life setting so strongly + all about her. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER V. + </h2> + <p> + <i>MEANTIME</i>, obeying the unwelcome summons, Mrs. Dinneford had gone to + see Mrs. Bray. She found her in a small third-story room in the lower part + of the city, over a mile away from her own residence. The meeting between + the two women was not over-gracious, but in keeping with their relations + to each other. Mrs. Dinneford was half angry and impatient; Mrs. Bray cool + and self-possessed. + </p> + <p> + “And now what is it you have to say?” asked the former, almost as soon as + she had entered. + </p> + <p> + “The woman to whom you gave that baby was here yesterday.” + </p> + <p> + A frightened expression came into Mrs. Dinneford's face. Mrs. Bray watched + her keenly as, with lips slightly apart, she waited for what more was to + come. + </p> + <p> + “Unfortunately, she met me just as I was at my own door, and so found out + my residence,” continued Mrs. Bray. “I was in hopes I should never see her + again. We shall have trouble, I'm afraid.” + </p> + <p> + “In what way?” + </p> + <p> + “A bad woman who has you in her power can trouble you in many ways,” + answered Mrs. Bray. + </p> + <p> + “She did not know my name—you assured me of that. It was one of the + stipulations.” + </p> + <p> + “She does know, and your daughter's name also. And she knows where the + baby is. She's deeper than I supposed. It's never safe to trust such + people; they have no honor.” + </p> + <p> + Fear sent all the color out of Mrs. Dinneford's face. + </p> + <p> + “What does she want?” + </p> + <p> + “Money.” + </p> + <p> + “She was paid liberally.” + </p> + <p> + “That has nothing to do with it. These people have no honor, as I said; + they will get all they can.” + </p> + <p> + “How much does she want?” + </p> + <p> + “A hundred dollars; and it won't end there, I'm thinking. If she is + refused, she will go to your house; she gave me that alternative—would + have gone yesterday, if good luck had not thrown her in my way. I promised + to call on you and see what could be done.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Dinneford actually groaned in her fear and distress. + </p> + <p> + “Would you like to see her yourself?” coolly asked Mrs. Bray. + </p> + <p> + “Oh dear! no, no!” and the lady put up her hands in dismay. + </p> + <p> + “It might be best,” said her wily companion. + </p> + <p> + “No, no, no! I will have nothing to do with her! You must keep her away + from me,” replied Mrs. Dinneford, with increasing agitation. + </p> + <p> + “I cannot keep her away without satisfying her demands. If you were to see + her yourself, you would know just what her demands were. If you do not see + her, you will only have my word for it, and I am left open to + misapprehension, if not worse. I don't like to be placed in such a + position.” + </p> + <p> + And Mrs. Bray put on a dignified, half-injured manner. + </p> + <p> + “It's a wretched business in every way,” she added, “and I'm sorry that I + ever had anything to do with it. It's something dreadful, as I told you at + the time, to cast a helpless baby adrift in such a way. Poor little soul! + I shall never feel right about it.” + </p> + <p> + “That's neither here nor there;” and Mrs. Dinneford waved her hand + impatiently. “The thing now in hand is to deal with this woman.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, that's it—and as I said just now, I would rather have you deal + with her yourself; you may be able to do it better than I can.” + </p> + <p> + “It's no use to talk, Mrs. Bray. I will not see the woman.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well; you must be your own judge in the case.” + </p> + <p> + “Can't you bind her up to something, or get her out of the city? I'd pay + almost anything to have her a thousand miles away. See if you can't induce + her to go to New Orleans. I'll pay her passage, and give her a hundred + dollars besides, if she'll go.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Bray smiled a faint, sinister smile: + </p> + <p> + “If you could get her off there, it would be the end of her. She'd never + stand the fever.” + </p> + <p> + “Then get her off, cost what it may,” said Mrs. Dinneford. + </p> + <p> + “She will be here in less than half an hour.” Mrs. Bray looked at the face + of a small cheap clock that stood on the mantel. + </p> + <p> + “She will?” Mrs. Dinneford became uneasy, and arose from her chair. + </p> + <p> + “Yes; what shall I say to her?” + </p> + <p> + “Manage her the best you can. Here are thirty dollars—all the money + I have with me. Give her that, and promise more if necessary. I will see + you again.” + </p> + <p> + “When?” asked Mrs. Bray. + </p> + <p> + “At any time you desire.” + </p> + <p> + “Then you had better come to-morrow morning. I shall not go out.” + </p> + <p> + “I will be here at eleven o'clock. Induce her if possible to leave the + city—to go South, so that she may never come back.” + </p> + <p> + “The best I can shall be done,” replied Mrs. Bray as she folded the + bank-bills she had received from Mrs. Dinneford in a fond, tender sort of + way and put them into her pocket. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Dinneford retired, saying as she did so, + </p> + <p> + “I will be here in the morning.” + </p> + <p> + An instant change came over the shallow face of the wiry little woman as + the form of Mrs. Dinneford vanished through the door. A veil seemed to + fall away from it. All its virtuous sobriety was gone, and a smile of evil + satisfaction curved about her lips and danced in her keen black eyes. She + stood still, listening to the retiring steps of her visitor, until she + heard the street door shut. Then, with a quick, cat-like step, she crossed + to the opposite side of the room, and pushed open a door that led to an + adjoining chamber. A woman came forward to meet her. This woman was taller + and stouter than Mrs. Bray, and had a soft, sensual face, but a resolute + mouth, the under jaw slightly protruding. Her eyes were small and close + together, and had that peculiar wily and alert expression you sometimes + see, making you think of a serpent's eyes. She was dressed in common + finery and adorned by cheap jewelry. + </p> + <p> + “What do you think of that, Pinky Swett?” exclaimed Mrs. Bray, in a voice + of exultation. “Got her all right, haven't I?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, you have!” answered the woman, shaking all over with unrestrained + laughter. “The fattest pigeon I've happened to see for a month of Sundays. + Is she very rich?” + </p> + <p> + “Her husband is, and that's all the same. And now, Pinky”—Mrs. Bray + assumed a mock gravity of tone and manner—“you know your fate—New + Orleans and the yellow fever. You must pack right off. Passage free and a + hundred dollars for funeral expenses. Nice wet graves down there—keep + off the fire;” and she gave a low chuckle. + </p> + <p> + “Oh yes; all settled. When does the next steamer sail?” and Pinky almost + screamed with merriment. She had been drinking. + </p> + <p> + “H-u-s-h! h-u-s-h! None of that here, Pinky. The people down stairs are + good Methodists, and think me a saint.” + </p> + <p> + “You a saint? Oh dear!” and she shook with repressed enjoyment. + </p> + <p> + After this the two women grew serious, and put their heads together for + business. + </p> + <p> + “Who is this woman, Fan? What's her name, and where does she live?” asked + Pinky Swett. + </p> + <p> + “That's my secret, Pinky,” replied Mrs. Bray, “and I can't let it go; it + wouldn't be safe. You get a little off the handle sometimes, and don't + know what you say—might let the cat out of the bag. Sally Long took + the baby away, and she died two months ago; so I'm the only one now in the + secret. All I want of you is to keep track of the baby. Here is a + five-dollar bill; I can't trust you with more at a time. I know your + weakness, Pinky;” and she touched her under the chin in a familiar, + patronizing way. + </p> + <p> + Pinky wasn't satisfied with this, and growled a little, just showing her + teeth like an unquiet dog. + </p> + <p> + “Give me ten,” she said; “the woman gave you thirty. I heard her say so. + And she's going to bring you seventy to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + “You'll only waste it, Pinky,” remonstrated Mrs. Bray. “It will all be + gone before morning.” + </p> + <p> + “Fan,” said the woman, leaning toward Mrs. Bray and speaking in a low, + confidential tone, “I dreamed of a cow last night, and that's good luck, + you know. Tom Oaks made a splendid hit last Saturday—drew twenty + dollars—and Sue Minty got ten. They're all buzzing about it down in + our street, and going to Sam McFaddon's office in a stream.” + </p> + <p> + “Do they have good luck at Sam McFaddon's?” asked Mrs. Bray, with + considerable interest in her manner. + </p> + <p> + “It's the luckiest place that I know. Never dreamed of a cow or a hen that + I didn't make a hit, and I dreamed of a cow last night. She was giving + such a splendid pail of milk, full to the brim, just as old Spot and + Brindle used to give. You remember our Spot and Brindle, Fan?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh yes.” There was a falling inflection in Mrs. Bray's voice, as if the + reference had sent her thoughts away back to other and more innocent days. + </p> + <p> + The two women sat silent for some moments after that; and when Pinky + spoke, which she did first, it was in lower and softer tones: + </p> + <p> + “I don't like to think much about them old times, Fan; do you? I might + have done better. But it's no use grizzling about it now. What's done's + done, and can't be helped. Water doesn't run up hill again after it's once + run down. I've got going, and can't stop, you see. There's nothing to + catch at that won't break as soon as you touch it. So I mean to be jolly + as I move along.” + </p> + <p> + “Laughing is better than crying at any time,” returned Mrs. Bray; “here + are five more;” and she handed Pinky Swett another bank-bill. “I'm going + to try my luck. Put half a dollar on ten different rows, and we'll go + shares on what is drawn. I dreamed the other night that I saw a flock of + sheep, and that's good luck, isn't it?” + </p> + <p> + Pinky thrust her hand into her pocket and drew out a worn and soiled + dream-book. + </p> + <p> + “A flock of sheep; let me see;” and she commenced turning over the leaves. + “Sheep; here it is: 'To see them is a sign of sorrow—11, 20, 40, 48. + To be surrounded by many sheep denotes good luck—2, 11, 55.' That's + your row; put down 2, 11, 55. We'll try that. Next put down 41 11, 44—that's + the lucky row when you dream of a cow.” + </p> + <p> + As Pinky leaned toward her friend she dropped her parasol. + </p> + <p> + “That's for luck, maybe,” she said, with a brightening face. “Let's see + what it says about a parasol;” and she turned over her dream-book. + </p> + <p> + “For a maiden to dream she loses her parasol shows that her sweetheart is + false and will never marry her—5, 51, 56.” + </p> + <p> + “But you didn't dream about a parasol, Pinky.” + </p> + <p> + “That's no matter; it's just as good as a dream. 5, 51, 56 is the row. Put + that down for the second, Fan.” + </p> + <p> + As Mrs. Bray was writing out these numbers the clock on the mantel struck + five. + </p> + <p> + “8, 12, 60,” said Pinky, turning to the clock; “that's the clock row.” + </p> + <p> + And Mrs. Bray put down these figures also. + </p> + <p> + “That's three rows,” said Pinky, “and we want ten.” She arose, as she + spoke, and going to the front window, looked down upon the street. + </p> + <p> + “There's an organ-grinder; it's the first thing I saw;” and she came back + fingering the leaves of her dream-book. “Put down 40, 50, 26.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Bray wrote the numbers on her slip of paper. + </p> + <p> + “It's November; let's find the November row.” Pinky consulted her book + again. “Signifies you will have trouble through life—7, 9, 63. + That's true as preaching; I was born in November, and I've had it all + trouble. How many rows does that make?” + </p> + <p> + “Five.” + </p> + <p> + “Then we will cut cards for the rest;” and Pinky drew a soiled pack from + her pocket, shuffled the cards and let her friends cut them. + </p> + <p> + “Ten of diamonds;” she referred to the dream-book. “10, 13, 31; put that + down.” + </p> + <p> + The cards were shuffled and cut again. + </p> + <p> + “Six of clubs—6, 35, 39.” + </p> + <p> + Again they were cut and shuffled. This time the knave of clubs was turned + up. + </p> + <p> + “That's 17, 19, 28,” said Pinky, reading from her book. + </p> + <p> + The next cut gave the ace of clubs, and the policy numbers were 18, 63, + 75. + </p> + <p> + “Once more, and the ten rows will be full;” and the cards were cut again. + </p> + <p> + “Five of hearts—5, 12, 60;” and the ten rows were complete. + </p> + <p> + “There's luck there, Fan; sure to make a hit,” said Pinky, with almost + childish confidence, as she gazed at the ten rows of figures. “One of 'em + can't help coming out right, and that would be fifty dollars—twenty-five + for me and twenty-five for you; two rows would give a hundred dollars, and + the whole ten a thousand. Think of that, Fan! five hundred dollars + apiece.” + </p> + <p> + “It would break Sam McFaddon, I'm afraid,” remarked Mrs. Bray. + </p> + <p> + “Sam's got nothing to do with it,” returned Pinky. + </p> + <p> + “He hasn't?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “Who has, then?” + </p> + <p> + “His backer.” + </p> + <p> + “What's that?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I found it all out—I know how it's done. Sam's got a backer—a + man that puts up the money. Sam only sells for his backer. When there's a + hit, the backer pays.” + </p> + <p> + “Who's Sam's backer, as you call him?” + </p> + <p> + “Couldn't get him to tell; tried him hard, but he was close as an oyster. + Drives in the Park and wears a two thousand dollar diamond pin; he let + that out. So he's good for the hits. Sam always puts the money down, fair + and square.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well; you get the policy, and do it right off, Pinky, or the + money'll slip through your fingers.” + </p> + <p> + “All right,” answered Pinky as she folded the slip of paper containing the + lucky rows. “Never you fear. I'll be at Sam McFaddon's in ten minutes + after I leave here.” + </p> + <p> + “And be sure,” said Mrs. Bray, “to look after the baby to-night, and see + that it doesn't perish with cold; the air's getting sharp.” + </p> + <p> + “It ought to have something warmer than cotton rags on its poor little + body,” returned Pinky. “Can't you get it some flannel? It will die if you + don't.” + </p> + <p> + “I sent it a warm petticoat last week,” said Mrs. Bray. + </p> + <p> + “You did?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; I bought one at a Jew shop, and had it sent to the woman.” + </p> + <p> + “Was it a nice warm one?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + Pinky drew a sigh. “I saw the poor baby last night; hadn't anything on but + dirty cotton rags. It was lying asleep in a cold cellar on a little heap + of straw. The woman had given it something, I guess, by the way it slept. + The petticoat had gone, most likely, to Sam McFaddon's. She spends + everything she can lay her hands on in policies and whisky.” + </p> + <p> + “She's paid a dollar a week for taking care of the baby at night and on + Sundays,” said Mrs. Bray. + </p> + <p> + “It wouldn't help the baby any if she got ten dollars,” returned Pinky. + “It ought to be taken away from her.” + </p> + <p> + “But who's to do that? Sally Long sold it to the two beggar women, and + they board it out. I have no right to interfere; they own the baby, and + can do as they please with it.” + </p> + <p> + “It could be got to the almshouse,” said Pinky; “it would be a thousand + times better off.” + </p> + <p> + “It mustn't go to the almshouse,” replied Mrs. Bray; “I might lose track + of it, and that would never do.” + </p> + <p> + “You'll lose track of it for good and all before long, if you don't get it + out of them women's bands. No baby can hold out being begged with long; + it's too hard on the little things. For you know how it is, Fan; they must + keep 'em half starved and as sick as they will bear without dying right + off, so as to make 'em look pitiful. You can't do much at begging with a + fat, hearty-looking baby.” + </p> + <p> + “What's to be done about it?” asked Mrs. Bray. “I don't want that baby to + die.” + </p> + <p> + “Would its mother know it if she saw it?” asked Pinky. + </p> + <p> + “No; for she never set eyes on it.” + </p> + <p> + “Then, if it dies, get another baby, and keep track of that. You can steal + one from a drunken mother any night in the week. I'll do it for you. One + baby is as good as another.” + </p> + <p> + “It will be safer to have the real one,” replied Mrs. Bray. “And now, + Pinky that you have put this thing into my head, I guess I'll commission + you to get the baby away from that woman.” + </p> + <p> + “All right!” + </p> + <p> + “But what are we to do with it? I can't have it here.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course you can't. But that's easily managed, if your're willing to pay + for it.” + </p> + <p> + “Pay for it?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; if it isn't begged with, and made to pay its way and earn something + into the bargain, it's got to be a dead weight on somebody. So you see how + it is, Fan. Now, if you'll take a fool's advice, you'll let 'it go to the + almshouse, or let it alone to die and get out of its misery as soon as + possible. You can find another baby that will do just as well, if you + should ever need one.” + </p> + <p> + “How much would it cost, do you think, to have it boarded with some one + who wouldn't abuse it? She might beg with it herself, or hire it out two + or three times a week. I guess it would stand that.” + </p> + <p> + “Beggars don't belong to the merciful kind,” answered Pinky; “there's no + trusting any of them. A baby in their hands is never safe. I've seen 'em + brought in at night more dead than alive, and tossed on a dirty rag-heap + to die before morning. I'm always glad when they're out of their misery, + poor things! The fact is, Fan, if you expect that baby to live, you've got + to take it clean out of the hands of beggars.” + </p> + <p> + “What could I get it boarded for outright?” asked Mrs. Bray. + </p> + <p> + “For 'most anything, 'cording to how it's done. But why not, while you're + about it, bleed the old lady, its grandmother, a little deeper, and take a + few drops for the baby?” + </p> + <p> + “Guess you're kind o' right about that, Fan; anyhow, we'll make a start on + it. You find another place for the brat.” + </p> + <p> + “'Greed; when shall I do it?” + </p> + <p> + “The sooner, the better. It might die of cold any night in that horrible + den. Ugh!” + </p> + <p> + “I've been in worse places. Bedlow street is full of them, and so is Briar + street and Dirty alley. You don't know anything about it.” + </p> + <p> + “Maybe not, and maybe I don't care to know. At present I want to settle + about this baby. You'll find another place for it?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “And then steal it from the woman who has it now?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; no trouble in the world. She's drunk every night,” answered Pinky + Swett, rising to go. + </p> + <p> + “You'll see me to-morrow?” said Mrs. Bray. + </p> + <p> + “Oh yes.” + </p> + <p> + “And you won't forget about the policies?” + </p> + <p> + “Not I. We shall make a grand hit, or I'm a fool. Day-day!” Pinky waved + her hand gayly, and then retired. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0006" id="link2HCH0006"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VI. + </h2> + <p> + <i>A COLD</i> wet drizzling rain was beginning to fall when Pinky Swett + emerged from the house. Twilight was gathering drearily. She drew her thin + shawl closely, and shivered as the east wind struck her with a chill. + </p> + <p> + At hurried walk of five or ten minutes brought her to a part of the town + as little known to its citizens generally as if it were in the centre of + Africa—a part of the town where vice, crime, drunkenness and beggary + herd together in the closest and most shameless contact; where men and + women, living in all foulness, and more like wild beasts than human + beings, prey greedily upon each other, hurting, depraving and marring + God's image in all over whom they can get power or influenced—<i>a + very hell upon the earth!</i>—at part of the town where theft and + robbery and murder are plotted, and from which prisons and almshouses draw + their chief population. + </p> + <p> + That such a herding together, almost in the centre of a great Christian + city, of the utterly vicious and degraded, should be permitted, when every + day's police and criminal records give warning of its cost and danger, is + a marvel and a reproach. Almost every other house, in portions of this + locality, is a dram-shop, where the vilest liquors are sold. + Policy-offices, doing business in direct violation of law, are in every + street and block, their work of plunder and demoralization going on with + open doors and under the very eyes of the police. Every one of them is + known to these officers. But arrest is useless. A hidden and malign + influence, more potent than justice, has power to protect the traffic and + hold the guilty offenders harmless. Conviction is rarely, if ever, + reached. + </p> + <p> + The poor wretches, depraved and plundered through drink and + policy-gambling, are driven into crime. They rob and steal and debase + themselves for money with which to buy rum and policies, and sooner or + later the prison or death removes the greater number of them from their + vile companions. But drifting toward this fatal locality under the + attraction of affinity, or lured thither by harpies in search of new + supplies of human victims to repair the frightful waste perpetually made, + the region keeps up its dense population, and the work of destroying human + souls goes on. It is an awful thing to contemplate. Thousands of men and + women, boys and girls, once innocent as the babes upon whom Christ laid + his hand in blessing, are drawn into this whirlpool of evil every year, + and few come out except by the way of prison or death. + </p> + <p> + It was toward this locality that Pinky Swett directed her feet, after + parting with Mrs. Bray. Darkness was beginning to settle down as she + turned off from one of the most populous streets, crowded at the time by + citizens on their way to quiet and comfortable homes, few if any of whom + had ever turned aside to look upon and get knowledge of the world or crime + and wretchedness so near at hand, but girdled in and concealed from common + observation. + </p> + <p> + Down a narrow street she turned from the great thoroughfare, walking with + quick steps, and shivering a little as the penetrating east wind sent a + chill of dampness through the thin shawl she drew closer and closer about + her shoulders. Nothing could be in stronger contrast than the rows of + handsome dwellings and stores that lined the streets through which she had + just passed, and the forlorn, rickety, unsightly and tumble-down houses + amid which she now found herself. + </p> + <p> + Pinky had gone only a little way when the sharp cries of a child cut the + air suddenly, the shrill, angry voice of a woman and the rapid fall of + lashes mingled with the cries. The child begged for mercy in tones of + agony, but the loud voice, uttering curses and imprecations, and the cruel + blows, ceased not. Pinky stopped and shivered. She felt the pain of these + blows, in her quickly-aroused sympathy, almost as much as if they had been + falling on her own person. Opposite to where she had paused was a + one-story frame house, or enclosed shed, as unsightly without as a + pig-pen, and almost as filthy within. It contained two small rooms with + very low ceilings. The only things in these rooms that could be called + furniture were an old bench, two chairs from which the backs had been + broken, a tin cup black with smoke and dirt, two or three tin pans in the + same condition, some broken crockery and an iron skillet. Pinky stood + still for a moment, shivering, as we have said. She knew what the blows + and the curses and the cries of pain meant; she had heard them before. A + depraved and drunken woman and a child ten years old, who might or might + not be her daughter, lived there. The child was sent out every day to beg + or steal, and if she failed to bring home a certain sum of money, was + cruelly beaten by the woman. Almost every day the poor child was cut with + lashes, often on the bare flesh; almost every day her shrieks rang out + from the miserable hovel. But there was no one to interfere, no one to + save her from the smarting blows, no one to care what she suffered. + </p> + <p> + Pinky Swett could stand it no longer. She had often noticed the ragged + child, with her pale, starved face and large, wistful eyes, passing in and + out of this miserable woman's den, sometimes going to the liquor-shops and + sometimes to the nearest policy-office to spend for her mother, if such + the woman really was, the money she had gained by begging. + </p> + <p> + With a sudden impulse, as a deep wail and a more piteous cry for mercy + smote upon her ears, Pinky sprang across the street and into the hovel. + The sight that met her eyes left no hesitation in her mind. Holding up + with one strong arm the naked body of the poor child—she had drawn + the clothes over her head—the infuriated woman was raining down + blows from a short piece of rattan upon the quivering flesh, already + covered with welts and bruises. + </p> + <p> + “Devil!” cried Pinky as she rushed upon this fiend in human shape and + snatched the little girl from her arm. “Do you want to kill the child?” + </p> + <p> + She might almost as well have assaulted a tigress. + </p> + <p> + The woman was larger, stronger, more desperate and more thoroughly given + over to evil passions than she. To thwart her in anything was to rouse her + into a fury. A moment she stood in surprise and bewilderment; in the next, + and ere Pinky had time to put herself on guard, she had sprung upon her + with a passionate cry that sounded more like that of a wild beast than + anything human. Clutching her by the throat with one hand, and with the + other tearing the child from her grasp, she threw the frightened little + thing across the room. + </p> + <p> + “Devil, ha!” screamed the woman; “devil!” and she tightened her grasp on + Pinky's throat, at the same time striking her in the face with her + clenched fist. + </p> + <p> + Like a war-horse that snuffs the battle afar off and rushes to the + conflict, so rushed the inhabitants of that foul neighborhood to the spot + from whence had come to their ears the familiar and not unwelcome sound of + strife. Even before Pinky had time to shake off her assailant, the door of + the hovel was darkened by a screen of eager faces. And such faces! How + little of God's image remained in them to tell of their divine + origination!—bloated and scarred, ashen pale and wasted, hollow-eyed + and red-eyed, disease looking out from all, yet all lighted up with the + keenest interest and expectancy. + </p> + <p> + Outside, the crowd swelled with a marvelous rapidity. Every cellar and + room and garret, every little alley and hidden rookery, “hawk's nest” and + “wren's nest,” poured out its unseemly denizens, white and black, old and + young, male and female, the child of three years old, keen, alert and + self-protective, running to see the “row” side by side with the toothless + crone of seventy; or most likely passing her on the way. Thieves, beggars, + pick-pockets, vile women, rag-pickers and the like, with the harpies who + prey upon them, all were there to enjoy the show. + </p> + <p> + Within, a desperate fight was going on between Pinky Swett and the woman + from whose hands she had attempted to rescue the child—a fight in + which Pinky was getting the worst of it. One garment after another was + torn from her person, until little more than a single one remained. + </p> + <p> + “Here's the police! look out!” was cried at this juncture. + </p> + <p> + “Who cares for the police? Let 'em come,” boldly retorted the woman. “I + haven't done nothing; it's her that's come in drunk and got up a row.” + </p> + <p> + Pushing the crowd aside, a policeman entered the hovel. + </p> + <p> + “Here she is!” cried the woman, pointing toward Pinky, from whom she had + sprung back the moment she heard the word police. “She came in here drunk + and got up a row. I'm a decent woman, as don't meddle with nobody. But + she's awful when she gets drunk. Just look at her—been tearing her + clothes off!” + </p> + <p> + At this there was a shout of merriment from the crowd who had witnessed + the fight. + </p> + <p> + “Good for old Sal! she's one of 'em! Can't get ahead of old Sal, drunk or + sober!” and like expressions were shouted by one and another. + </p> + <p> + Poor Pinky, nearly stripped of her clothing, and with a great bruise + swelling under one of her eyes, bewildered and frightened at the aspect of + things around her, could make no acceptable defence. + </p> + <p> + “She ran over and pitched into Sal, so she did! I saw her! She made the + fight, she did!” testified one of the crowd; and acting on this testimony + and his own judgment of the case, the policeman said roughly, as he laid + his hand on Pinky. + </p> + <p> + “Pick up your duds and come along.” + </p> + <p> + Pinky lifted her torn garments from the dirty floor and gathered them + about her person as best she could, the crowd jeering all the time. A pin + here and there, furnished by some of the women, enabled her to get them + into a sort of shape and adjustment. Then she tried to explain the affair + to the policeman, but he would not listen. + </p> + <p> + “Come!” he said, sternly. + </p> + <p> + “What are you going to do with me?” she asked, not moving from where she + stood. + </p> + <p> + “Lock you up,” replied the policeman. “So come along.” + </p> + <p> + “What's the matter here?” demanded a tall, strongly-built woman, pressing + forward. She spoke with a foreign accent, and in a tone of command. The + motley crowd, above whom she towered, gave way for her as she approached. + Everything about the woman showed her to be superior in mind and moral + force to the unsightly wretches about her. She had the fair skin, blue + eyes and light hair of her nation. Her features were strong, but not + masculine. You saw in them no trace of coarse sensuality or vicious + indulgence. + </p> + <p> + “Here's Norah! here's the queen!” shouted a voice from the crowd. + </p> + <p> + “What's the matter here?” asked the woman as she gained an entrance to the + hovel. + </p> + <p> + “Going to lock up Pinky Swett,” said a ragged little girl who had forced + her way in. + </p> + <p> + “What for?” demanded the woman, speaking with the air of one in authority. + </p> + <p> + “'Cause she wouldn't let old Sal beat Kit half to death,” answered the + child. + </p> + <p> + “Ho! Sal's a devil and Pinky's a fool to meddle with her.” Then turning to + the policeman, who still had his hand on the girl, she said, + </p> + <p> + “What're you goin' to do, John?” + </p> + <p> + “Goin' to lock her up. She's drunk an' bin a-fightin'.” + </p> + <p> + “You're not goin' to do any such thing.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm not drunk, and it's a lie if anybody says so,” broke in Pinky. “I + tried to keep this devil from beating the life out of poor little Kit, and + she pitched into me and tore my clothes off. That's what's the matter.” + </p> + <p> + The policeman quietly removed his hand from Pinky's shoulder, and glanced + toward the woman named Sal, and stood as if waiting orders. + </p> + <p> + “Better lock <i>her</i> up,” said the “queen,” as she had been called. Sal + snarled like a fretted wild beast. + </p> + <p> + “It's awful, the way she beats poor Kit,” chimed in the little girl who + had before spoken against her. “If I was Kit, I'd run away, so I would.” + </p> + <p> + “I'll wring your neck off,” growled Sal, in a fierce undertone, making a + dash toward the girl, and swearing frightfully. But the child shrank to + the side of the policeman. + </p> + <p> + “If you lay a finger on Kit to-night,” said the queen, “I'll have her + taken away, and you locked up into the the bargain.” + </p> + <p> + Sal responded with another snarl. + </p> + <p> + “Come.” The queen moved toward the door. Pinky followed, the policeman + offering no resistance. A few minutes later, and the miserable crowd of + depraved human beings had been absorbed again into cellar and garret, + hovel and rookery, to take up the thread of their evil and sensual lives, + and to plot wickedness, and to prey upon and deprave each other—to + dwell as to their inner and real lives among infernals, to be in hell as + to their spirits, while their bodies yet remained upon the earth. + </p> + <p> + Pinky and her rescuer passed down the street for a short distance until + they came to another that was still narrower. On each side dim lights + shone from the houses, and made some revelation of what was going on + within. Here liquor was sold, and there policies. Here was a junk-shop, + and there an eating-saloon where for six cents you could make a meal out + of the cullings from beggars' baskets. Not very tempting to an ordinary + appetite was the display inside, nor agreeable to the nostrils the odors + that filled the atmosphere. But hunger like the swines', that was not + over-nice, satisfied itself amid these disgusting conglomerations, and + kept off starvation. + </p> + <p> + Along this wretched street, with scarcely an apology for a sidewalk, moved + Pinky and the queen, until they reached a small two-story frame house that + presented a different aspect from the wretched tenements amid which it + stood. It was clean upon the outside, and had, as contrasted with its + neighbors, an air of superiority. This was the queen's residence. Inside, + all was plain and homely, but clean and in order. + </p> + <p> + The excitement into which Pinky had been thrown was nearly over by this + time. + </p> + <p> + “You've done me a good turn, Norah,” she said as the door closed upon + them, “and I'll not soon forget you.” + </p> + <p> + “Ugh!” ejaculated Norah as she looked into Pinky's bruised face; “Sal's + hit you square in the eye; it'll be black as y'r boot by morning. I'll get + some cold water.” + </p> + <p> + A basin of cold water was brought, and Pinky held a wet cloth to the + swollen spot for a long time, hoping thereby not only to reduce the + swelling, but to prevent discoloration. + </p> + <p> + “Y'r a fool to meddle with Sal,” said Norah as she set the basin of water + before Pinky. + </p> + <p> + “Why don't you meddle with her? Why do you let her beat poor little Kit + the way she does?” demanded Pinky. + </p> + <p> + Norah shrugged her shoulders, and answered with no more feeling in her + voice than if she had been speaking of inanimate things: + </p> + <p> + “She's got to keep Kit up to her work.” + </p> + <p> + “Up to her work!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; that's just it. Kit's lazy and cheats—buys cakes and candies; + and Sal has to come down on her; it's the way, you know. If Sal didn't + come down sharp on her all the while, Kit wouldn't bring her ten cents a + day. They all have to do it—so much a day or a lickin'; and a little + lickin' isn't any use—got to 'most kill some of 'em. We're used to + it in here. Hark!” + </p> + <p> + The screams of a child in pain rang out wildly, the sounds coming from + across the narrow street. Quick, hard strokes of a lash were heard at the + same time. Pinky turned a little pale. + </p> + <p> + “Only Mother Quig,” said Norah, with an indifferent air; “she has to do it + 'most every night—no getting along any other way with Tom. It beats + all how much he can stand.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Norah, won't she never stop?” cried Pinky, starting up. “I can't bear + it a minute longer.” + </p> + <p> + “Shut y'r ears. You've got to,” answered the woman, with some impatience + in her voice. “Tom has to be kept to his work as well as the rest of 'em. + Half the fuss he's making is put on, anyhow; he doesn't mind a beating any + more than a horse. I know his hollers. There's Flanagan's Nell getting it + now,” added Norah as the cries and entreaties of another child were heard. + She drew herself up and listened, a slight shade of concern drifting + across her face. + </p> + <p> + A long, agonizing wail shivered through the air. + </p> + <p> + “Nell's Sick, and can't do her work.” The woman rose as she spoke. “I saw + her goin' off to-day, and told Flanagan she'd better keep her at home.” + </p> + <p> + Saying this, Norah went out quickly, Pinky following. With head erect and + mouth set firmly, the queen strode across the street and a little way down + the pavement, to the entrance of a cellar, from which the cries and sounds + of whipping came. Down the five or six rotten and broken steps she + plunged, Pinky close after her. + </p> + <p> + “Stop!” shouted Norah, in a tone of command. + </p> + <p> + Instantly the blows ceased, and the cries were hushed. + </p> + <p> + “You'll be hanged for murder if you don't take care,” said Norah. “What's + Nell been doin'?” + </p> + <p> + “Doin', the slut!” ejaculated the woman, a short, bloated, revolting + creature, with scarcely anything human in her face. “Doin', did ye say? + It's nothin' she's been doin', the lazy, trapsing huzzy! Who's that + intrudin' herself in here?” she added fiercely, as she saw Pinky, making + at the same time a movement toward the girl. “Get out o' here, or I'll + spile y'r pictur'!” + </p> + <p> + “Keep quiet, will you?” said Norah, putting her hand on the woman and + pushing her back as easily as if she had been a child. “Now come here, + Nell, and let me look at you.” + </p> + <p> + Out of the far corner of the cellar into which Flanagan had thrown her + when she heard Norah's voice, and into the small circle of light made by a + single tallow candle, there crept slowly the figure of a child literally + clothed in rags. Norah reached out her hand to her as she came up—there + was a scared look on her pinched face—and drew her close to the + light. + </p> + <p> + “Gracious! your hand's like an ice-ball!” exclaimed Norah. + </p> + <p> + Pinky looked at the child, and grew faint at heart. She had large hazel + eyes, that gleamed with a singular lustre out of the suffering, grimed and + wasted little face, so pale and sad and pitiful that the sight of it was + enough to draw tears from any but the brutal and hardened. + </p> + <p> + “Are you sick?” asked Norah. + </p> + <p> + “No, she's not sick; she's only shamming,” growled Flanagan. + </p> + <p> + “You shut up!” retorted Norah. “I wasn't speaking to you.” Then she + repeated her question: + </p> + <p> + “Are you sick, Nell?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Where?” + </p> + <p> + “I don't know.” + </p> + <p> + Norah laid her hand on the child's head: + </p> + <p> + “Does it hurt here?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh yes! It hurts so I can't see good,” answered Nell. + </p> + <p> + “It's all a lie! I know her; she's shamming.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh no, Norah!” cried the child, a sudden hope blending with the fear in + her voice. “I ain't shamming at all. I fell down ever so many times in the + street, and 'most got run over. Oh dear! oh dear!” and she clung to the + woman with a gesture of despair piteous to see. + </p> + <p> + “I don't believe you are, Nell,” said Norah, kindly. Then, to the woman, + “Now mind, Flanagan, Nell's sick; d'ye hear?” + </p> + <p> + The woman only uttered a defiant growl. + </p> + <p> + “She's not to be licked again to-night.” Norah spoke as one having + authority. + </p> + <p> + “I wish ye'd be mindin' y'r own business, and not come interfarin' wid me. + She's my gal, and I've a right to lick her if I plaze.” + </p> + <p> + “Maybe she is and maybe she isn't,” retorted Norah. + </p> + <p> + “Who says she isn't my gal?” screamed the woman, firing up at this and + reaching out for Nell, who shrunk closer to Norah. + </p> + <p> + “Maybe she is and maybe she isn't,” said the queen, quietly repeating her + last sentence; “and I think maybe she isn't. So take care and mind what I + say. Nell isn't to be licked any more to-night.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Norah,” sobbed the child, in a husky, choking voice, “take me, won't + you? She'll pinch me, and she'll hit my head on the wall, and she'll choke + me and knock me. Oh, Norah, Norah!” + </p> + <p> + Pinky could stand this no longer. Catching up the bundle of rags in her + arms, she sprang out of the cellar and ran across the street to the + queen's house, Norah and Flanagan coming quickly after her. At the door, + through which Pinky had passed, Norah paused, and turning to the + infuriated Irish woman, said, sternly, + </p> + <p> + “Go back! I won't have you in here; and if you make a row, I'll tell John + to lock you up.” + </p> + <p> + “I want my Nell,” said the woman, her manner changing. There was a shade + of alarm in her voice. + </p> + <p> + “You can't have her to-night; so that's settled. And if there's any row, + you'll be locked up.” Saying which, Norah went in and shut the door, + leaving Flanagan on the outside. + </p> + <p> + The bundle of dirty rags with the wasted body of a child inside, the body + scarcely heavier than the rags, was laid by Pinky in the corner of a + settee, and the unsightly mass shrunk together like something inanimate. + </p> + <p> + “I thought you'd had enough with old Sal,” said Norah, in a tone of + reproof, as she came in. + </p> + <p> + “Couldn't help it,” replied Pinky. “I'm bad enough, but I can't stand to + see a child abused like that—no, not if I die for it.” + </p> + <p> + Norah crossed to the settee and spoke to Nell. But there was no answer, + nor did the bundle of rags stir. + </p> + <p> + “Nell! Nell!” She called to deaf ears. Then she put her hand on the child + and raised one of the arms. It dropped away limp as a withered stalk, + showing the ashen white face across which it had lain. + </p> + <p> + The two women manifested no excitement. The child had fainted or was dead—which, + they did not know. Norah straightened out the wasted little form and + turned up the face. The eyes were shut, the mouth closed, the pinched + features rigid, as if still giving expression to pain, but there was no + mistaking the sign that life had gone out of them. It might be for a brief + season, it might be for ever. + </p> + <p> + A little water was thrown into the child's face. Its only effect was to + streak the grimy skin. + </p> + <p> + “Poor little thing!” said Pinky. “I hope she's dead.” + </p> + <p> + “They're tough. They don't die easy,” returned Norah. + </p> + <p> + “She isn't one of the tough kind.” + </p> + <p> + “Maybe not. They say Flanagan stole her when she was a little thing, just + toddling.” + </p> + <p> + “Don't let's do anything to try to bring her to,” said Pinky. + </p> + <p> + Norah stood for some moment's with an irresolute air, then bent over the + child and examined her more carefully. She could feel no pulse beat, nor + any motion of the heart, + </p> + <p> + “I don't want the coroner here,” she said, in a tone of annoyance. “Take + her back to Flanagan; it's her work, and she must stand by it.” + </p> + <p> + “Is she really dead?” asked Pinky. + </p> + <p> + “Looks like it, and serves Flanagan right. I've told her over and over + that Nell wouldn't stand it long if she didn't ease up a little. Flesh + isn't iron.” + </p> + <p> + Again she examined the child carefully, but without the slightest sign of + feeling. + </p> + <p> + “It's all the same now who has her,” she said, turning off from the + settee. “Take her back to Flanagan.” + </p> + <p> + But Pinky would not touch the child, nor could threat or persuasion lead + her to do so. While they were contending, Flanagan, who had fired herself + up with half a pint of whisky, came storming through the door in a blind + rage and screaming out, + </p> + <p> + “Where's my Nell? I want my Nell!” + </p> + <p> + Catching sight of the child's inanimate form lying on the settee, she + pounced down upon it like some foul bird and bore it off, cursing and + striking the senseless clay in her insane fury. + </p> + <p> + Pinky, horrified at the dreadful sight, and not sure that the child was + really dead, and so insensible to pain, made a movement to follow, but + Norah caught her arm with a tight grip and held her back. + </p> + <p> + “Are you a fool?” said the queen, sternly. “Let Flanagan alone. Nell's out + of her reach, and I'm glad of it.” + </p> + <p> + “If I was only sure!” exclaimed Pinky. + </p> + <p> + “You may be. I know death—I've seen it often enough. They'll have + the coroner over there in the morning. It's Flanagan's concern, not yours + or mine, so keep out of it if you know when you're well off.” + </p> + <p> + “I'll appear against her at the inquest,” said Pinky. + </p> + <p> + “You'll do no such thing. Keep your tongue behind your teeth. It's time + enough to show it when it's pulled out. Take my advice, and mind your own + business. You'll have enough to do caring for your own head, without + looking after other people's.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm not one of that kind,” answered Pinky, a little tartly; “and if + there's any way to keep Flanagan from murdering another child, I'm going + to find it out.” + </p> + <p> + “You'll find out something else first,” said Norah, with a slight curl of + her lip. + </p> + <p> + “What?” + </p> + <p> + “The way to prison.” + </p> + <p> + “Pshaw! I'm not afraid.” + </p> + <p> + “You'd better be. If you appear against Flanagan, she'll have you caged + before to-morrow night.” + </p> + <p> + “How can she do it?” + </p> + <p> + “Swear against you before an alderman, and he'll send you down if it's + only to get his fee. She knows her man.” + </p> + <p> + “Suppose murder is proved against her?” + </p> + <p> + “Suppose!” Norah gave a little derisive laugh. + </p> + <p> + “They don't look after things in here as they do outside. Everybody's got + the screws on, and things must break sometimes, but it isn't called + murder. The coroner understands it all. He's used to seeing things break.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0007" id="link2HCH0007"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VII. + </h2> + <p> + <i>FOR</i> a short time the sounds of cruel exultation came over from + Flanagan's; then all was still. + </p> + <p> + “Sal's put her mark on you,” said Norah, looking steadily into Pinky's + face, and laughing in a cold, half-amused way. + </p> + <p> + Pinky raised her hand to her swollen cheek. “Does it look very bad?” she + asked. + </p> + <p> + “Spoils your beauty some.” + </p> + <p> + “Will it get black?” + </p> + <p> + “Shouldn't wonder. But what can't be helped, can't. You'll mind your own + business next time, and keep out of Sal's way. She's dangerous. What's the + matter?” + </p> + <p> + “Got a sort of chill,” replied the girl, who from nervous reaction was + beginning to shiver. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, want something to warm you up.” Norah brought out a bottle of + spirits. Pinky poured a glass nearly half full, added some water, and then + drank off the fiery mixture. + </p> + <p> + “None of your common stuff,” said Norah, with a smile, as Pinky smacked + her lips. The girl drew her handkerchief from her pocket, and as she did + so a piece of paper dropped on the floor. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, there it is!” she exclaimed, light flashing into her face. “Going to + make a splendid hit. Just look at them rows.” + </p> + <p> + Norah threw an indifferent glance on the paper. + </p> + <p> + “They're lucky, every one of them,” said Pinky. “Going to put half a + dollar on each row—sure to make a hit.” + </p> + <p> + The queen gave one of her peculiar shrugs. + </p> + <p> + “Going to break Sam McFaddon,” continued Pinky, her spirits rising under + the influence of Norah's treat. + </p> + <p> + “Soft heads don't often break hard rocks,” returned the woman, with a + covert sneer. + </p> + <p> + “That's an insult!” cried Pinky, on whom the liquor she had just taken was + beginning to have a marked effect, “and I won't stand an insult from you + or anybody else.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I wouldn't if I was you,” returned Norah, coolly. A hard expression + began settling about her mouth. + </p> + <p> + “And I don't mean to. I'm as good as you are, any day!” + </p> + <p> + “You may be a great deal better, for all I care,” answered Norah. “Only + take my advice, and keep a civil tongue in your head.” There was a + threatening undertone in the woman's voice. She drew her tall person more + erect, and shook herself like a wild beast aroused from inaction. + </p> + <p> + Pinky was too blind to see the change that had come so suddenly. A + stinging retort fell from her lips. But the words had scarcely died on the + air ere she found herself in the grip of vice-like hands. Resistance was + of no more avail than if she had been a child. In what seemed but a moment + of time she was pushed back through the door and dropped upon the + pavement. Then the door shut, and she was alone on the outside—no, + not alone, for scores of the denizens who huddle together in that foul + region were abroad, and gathered around her as quickly as flies about a + heap of offal, curious, insolent and aggressive. As she arose to her feet + she found herself hemmed in by a jeering crowd. + </p> + <p> + “Ho! it's Pinky Swett!” cried a girl, pressing toward her. “Hi, Pinky! + what's the matter? What's up?” + </p> + <p> + “Norah pitched her out! I saw it!” screamed a boy, one of the young + thieves that harbored in the quarter. + </p> + <p> + “It's a lie!” Pinky answered back as she confronted the crowd. + </p> + <p> + At this moment another boy, who had come up behind Pinky, gave her dress + so violent a jerk that she fell over backward on the pavement, striking + her head on a stone and cutting it badly. She lay there, unable to rise, + the crowd laughing with as much enjoyment as if witnessing a dog-fight. + </p> + <p> + “Give her a dose of mud!” shouted one of the boys; and almost as soon as + the words were out of his mouth her face was covered with a paste of + filthy dirt from the gutter. This, instead of exciting pity, only gave a + keener zest to the show. The street rang with shouts and peals of + merriment, bringing a new and larger crowd to see the fun. With them came + one or two policemen. + </p> + <p> + Seeing that it was only a drunken woman, they pushed back the crowd and + raised her to her feet. As they did so the blood streamed from the back of + her head and stained her dress to the waist. She was taken to the nearest + station-house. + </p> + <p> + At eleven o'clock on the next morning, punctual to the minute, came Mrs. + Dinneford to the little third-story room in which she had met Mrs. Bray. + She repeated her rap at the door before it was opened, and noticed that a + key was turned in the lock. + </p> + <p> + “You have seen the woman?” she said as she took an offered seat, coming at + once to the object of her visit. + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Well?” + </p> + <p> + “I gave her the money.” + </p> + <p> + “Well?” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Bray shook her head: + </p> + <p> + “Afraid I can't do much with her.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” an anxious expression coming into Mrs. Dinneford's face. + </p> + <p> + “These people suspect everybody; there is no honor nor truth in them, and + they judge every one by themselves. She half accused me of getting a + larger amount of money from you, and putting her off with the paltry sum + of thirty dollars.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Bray looked exceedingly hurt and annoyed. + </p> + <p> + “Threatened,” she went on, “to go to you herself—didn't want any + go-betweens nor brokers. I expected to hear you say that she'd been at + your house this morning.” + </p> + <p> + “Good Gracious! no!” Mrs. Dinneford's face was almost distorted with + alarm. + </p> + <p> + “It's the way with all these people,” coolly remarked Mrs. Bray. “You're + never safe with them.” + </p> + <p> + “Did you hint at her leaving the city?—going to New Orleans, for + instance?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh dear, no! She isn't to be managed in that way—is deeper and more + set than I thought. The fact is, Mrs. Dinneford”—and Mrs. Bray + lowered her voice and looked shocked and mysterious—“I'm beginning + to suspect her as being connected with a gang.” + </p> + <p> + “With a gang? What kind of a gang?” Mrs. Dinneford turned slightly pale. + </p> + <p> + “A gang of thieves. She isn't the right thing; I found that out long ago. + You remember what I said when you gave her the child. I told you that she + was not a good woman, and that it was a cruel thing to put a helpless, + new-born baby into her hands.” + </p> + <p> + “Never mind about that.” Mrs. Dinneford waved her hand impatiently. “The + baby's out of her hands, so far as that is concerned. A gang of thieves!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I'm 'most sure of it. Goes to people's houses on one excuse and + another, and finds out where the silver is kept and how to get in. You + don't know half the wickedness that's going on. So you see it's no use + trying to get her away.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Bray was watching the face of her visitor with covert scrutiny, + gauging, as she did so, by its weak alarms, the measure of her power over + her. + </p> + <p> + “Dreadful! dreadful!” ejaculated Mrs. Dinneford, with dismay. + </p> + <p> + “It's bad enough,” said Mrs. Bray, “and I don't see the end of it. She's + got you in her power, and no mistake, and she isn't one of the kind to + give up so splendid an advantage. I'm only surprised that she's kept away + so long.” + </p> + <p> + “What's to be done about it?” asked Mrs. Dinneford, her alarm and distress + increasing. + </p> + <p> + “Ah! that's more than I can tell,” coolly returned Mrs. Bray. “One thing + is certain—I don't want to have anything more to do with her. It + isn't safe to let her come here. You'll have to manage her yourself.” + </p> + <p> + “No, no, no, Mrs. Bray! You mustn't desert me!” answered Mrs. Dinneford, + her face growing pallid with fear. “Money is of no account. I'll pay 'most + anything, reasonable or unreasonable, to have her kept away.” + </p> + <p> + And she drew out her pocket-book while speaking. At this moment there came + two distinct raps on the door. It had been locked after Mrs. Dinneford's + entrance. Mrs. Bray started and changed countenance, turning her face + quickly from observation. But she was self-possessed in an instant. + Rising, she said in a whisper, + </p> + <p> + “Go silently into the next room, and remain perfectly still. I believe + that's the woman now. I'll manage her as best I can.” + </p> + <p> + Almost as quick as thought, Mrs. Dinneford vanished through a door that + led into an adjoining room, and closing it noiselessly, turned a key that + stood in the lock, then sat down, trembling with nervous alarm. The room + in which she found herself was small, and overlooked the street; it was + scantily furnished as a bed-room. In one corner, partly hid by a curtain + that hung from a hoop fastened to the wall, was an old wooden chest, such + as are used by sailors. Under the bed, and pushed as far back as possible, + was another of the same kind. The air of the room was close, and she + noticed the stale smell of a cigar. + </p> + <p> + A murmur of voices from the room she had left so hastily soon reached her + ears; but though she listened intently, standing close to the door, she + was not able to distinguish a word. Once or twice she was sure that she + heard the sound of a man's voice. It was nearly a quarter of an hour by + her watch—it seemed two hours—before Mrs. Bray's visitor or + visitors retired; then there came a light rap on the door. She opened it, + and stood face to face again with the dark-eyed little woman. + </p> + <p> + “You kept me here a long time,” said Mrs. Dinneford, with ill-concealed + impatience. + </p> + <p> + “No longer than I could help,” replied Mrs. Bray. “Affairs of this kind + are not settled in a minute.” + </p> + <p> + “Then it was that miserable woman?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, what did you make out of her?” + </p> + <p> + “Not much; she's too greedy. The taste of blood has sharpened her + appetite.” + </p> + <p> + “What does she want?” + </p> + <p> + “She wants two hundred dollars paid into her hand to-day, and says that if + the money isn't here by sundown, you'll have a visit from her in less than + an hour afterward.” + </p> + <p> + “Will that be the end of it?” + </p> + <p> + A sinister smile curved Mrs. Bray's lips slightly. + </p> + <p> + “More than I can say,” she answered. + </p> + <p> + “Two hundred dollars?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. She put the amount higher, but I told her she'd better not go for + too big a slice or she might get nothing—that there was such a thing + as setting the police after her. She laughed at this in such a wicked, + sneering way that I felt my flesh creep, and said she knew the police, and + some of their masters, too, and wasn't afraid of them. She's a dreadful + woman;” and Mrs. Bray shivered in a very natural manner. + </p> + <p> + “If I thought this would be the last of it!” said Mrs. Dinneford as she + moved about the room in a disturbed way, and with an anxious look on her + face. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps,” suggested her companion, “it would be best for you to grapple + with this thing at the outset—to take our vampire by the throat and + strangle her at once. The knife is the only remedy for some forms of + disease. If left to grow and prey upon the body, they gradually suck away + its life and destroy it in the end.” + </p> + <p> + “If I only knew how to do it,” replied Mrs. Dinneford. “If I could only + get her in my power, I'd make short works of her.” Her eyes flashed with a + cruel light. + </p> + <p> + “It might be done.” + </p> + <p> + “How?” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Dinneford knows the chief of police.” + </p> + <p> + The light went out of Mrs. Dinneford's eyes: + </p> + <p> + “It can't be done in that way, and you know it as well as I do.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Dinneford turned upon Mrs. Bray sharply, and with a gleam of + suspicion in her face. + </p> + <p> + “I don't know any other way, unless you go to the chief yourself,” replied + Mrs. Bray, coolly. “There is no protection in cases like this except + through the law. Without police interference, you are wholly in this + woman's power.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Dinneford grew very pale. + </p> + <p> + “It is always dangerous,” went on Mrs. Bray, “to have anything to do with + people of this class. A woman who for hire will take a new-born baby and + sell it to a beggar-woman will not stop at anything. It is very + unfortunate that you are mixed up with her.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm indebted to you for the trouble,” replied. Mrs. Dinneford, with + considerable asperity of manner. “You ought to have known something about + the woman before employing her in a delicate affair of this kind.” + </p> + <p> + “Saints don't hire themselves to put away new-born babies,” retorted Mrs. + Bray, with an ugly gurgle in her throat. “I told you at the time that she + was a bad woman, and have not forgotten your answer.” + </p> + <p> + “What did I answer?” + </p> + <p> + “That she might be the devil for all you cared!” + </p> + <p> + “You are mistaken.” + </p> + <p> + “No; I repeat your very words. They surprised and shocked me at the time, + and I have not forgotten them. People who deal with the devil usually have + the devil to pay; and your case, it seems, is not to be an exception.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Bray had assumed an air of entire equality with her visitor. + </p> + <p> + A long silence followed, during which Mrs. Dinneford walked the floor with + the quick, restless motions of a caged animal. + </p> + <p> + “How long do you think two hundred dollars will satisfy her?” she asked, + at length, pausing and turning to her companion. + </p> + <p> + “It is impossible for me to say,” was answered; “not long, unless you can + manage to frighten her off; you must threaten hard.” + </p> + <p> + Another silence followed. + </p> + <p> + “I did not expect to be called on for so large a sum,” Mrs. Dinneford said + at length, in a husky voice, taking out her pocket-book as she spoke. “I + have only a hundred dollars with me. Give her that, and put her off until + to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + “I will do the best I can with her,” replied Mrs. Bray, reaching out her + hand for the money, “but I think it will be safer for you to let me have + the balance to-day. She will, most likely, take it into her head that I + have received the whole sum from you, and think I am trying to cheat her. + In that case she will be as good as her word, and come down on you.” + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. Bray!” exclaimed Mrs. Dinneford, suspicion blazing from her eyes. + “Mrs. Bray!”—and she turned upon her and caught her by the arms with + a fierce grip—“as I live, you are deceiving me. There is no woman + but yourself. You are the vampire!” + </p> + <p> + She held the unresisting little woman in her vigorous grasp for some + moments, gazing at her in stern and angry accusation. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Bray stood very quit and with scarcely a change of countenance until + this outburst of passion had subsided. She was still holding the money she + had taken from Mrs. Dinneford. As the latter released her she extended her + hand, saying, in a low resolute voice, in which not the faintest thrill of + anger could be detected, + </p> + <p> + “Take your money.” She waited for a moment, and then let the little roll + of bank-bills fall at Mrs. Dinneford's feet and turned away. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Dinneford had made a mistake, and she saw it—saw that she was + now more than ever in the power of this woman, whether she was true or + false. If false, more fatally in her power. + </p> + <p> + At this dead-lock in the interview between these women there came a + diversion. The sound of feet was heard on the stairs, then a hurrying + along the narrow passage; a hand was on the door, but the key had been + prudently turned on the inside. + </p> + <p> + With a quick motion, Mrs. Bray waved her hand toward the adjoining + chamber. Mrs. Dinneford did not hesitate, but glided in noiselessly, + shutting and locking the door behind her. + </p> + <p> + “Pinky Swett!” exclaimed Mrs. Bray, in a low voice, putting her finger to + her lips, as she admitted her visitor, at the same time giving a warning + glance toward the other room. Eyeing her from head to foot, she added, + “Well, you are an object!” + </p> + <p> + Pinky had drawn aside a close veil, exhibiting a bruised and swollen face. + A dark band lay under one of her eyes, and there was a cut with red, angry + margins on the cheek. + </p> + <p> + “You are an object,” repeated Mrs. Bray as Pinky moved forward into the + room. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I am, and no mistake,” answered Pinky, with a light laugh. She had + been drinking enough to overcome the depression and discomfort of her + feelings consequent on the hard usage she had received and a night in one + of the city station-houses. “Who's in there?” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Bray's finger went again to her lips. “No matter,” was replied. “You + must go away until the coast is clear. Come back in half an hour.” + </p> + <p> + And she hurried Pinky out of the door, locking it as the girl retired. + When Mrs. Dinneford came out of the room into which he had gone so + hastily, the roll of bank-notes still lay upon the floor. Mrs. Bray had + prudently slipped them into her pocket before admitting Pinky, but as soon + as she was alone had thrown them down again. + </p> + <p> + The face of Mrs. Dinneford was pale, and exhibited no ordinary signs of + discomfiture and anxiety. + </p> + <p> + “Who was that?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “A friend,” replied Mrs. Bray, in a cold, self-possessed manner. + </p> + <p> + A few moments of embarrassed silence followed. Mrs. Bray crossed the room, + touching with her foot the bank-bills, as if they were of no account to + her. + </p> + <p> + “I am half beside myself,” said Mrs. Dinneford. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Bray made no response, did not even turn toward her visitor. + </p> + <p> + “I spoke hastily.” + </p> + <p> + “A vampire!” Mrs. Bray swept round upon her fiercely. “A blood-sucker!” + and she ground her teeth in well-feigned passion. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Dinneford sat down trembling. + </p> + <p> + “Take your money and go,” said Mrs. Bray, and she lifted the bills from + the floor and tossed them into her visitor's lap. “I am served right. It + was evil work, and good never comes of evil.” + </p> + <p> + But Mrs. Dinneford did not stir. To go away at enmity with this woman was, + so far as she could see, to meet exposure and unutterable disgrace. + Anything but that. + </p> + <p> + “I shall leave this money, trusting still to your good offices,” she said, + at length, rising. Her manner was much subdued. “I spoke hastily, in a + sort of blind desperation. We should not weigh too carefully the words + that are extorted by pain or fear. In less than an hour I will send you a + hundred dollars more.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Dinneford laid the bank-bills on a table, and then moved to the door, + but she dared not leave in this uncertainty. Looking back, she said, with + an appealing humility of voice and manner foreign to her character, + </p> + <p> + “Let us be friends still, Mrs. Bray; we shall gain nothing by being + enemies. I can serve you, and you can serve me. My suspicions were ill + founded. I felt wild and desperate, and hardly knew what I was saying.” + </p> + <p> + She stood anxiously regarding the little dark-eyed woman, who did not + respond by word or movement. + </p> + <p> + Taking her hand from the door she was about opening, Mrs. Dinneford came + back into the room, and stood close to Mrs. Bray: + </p> + <p> + “Shall I send you the money?” + </p> + <p> + “You can do as you please,” was replied, with chilling indifference. + </p> + <p> + “Are you implacable?” + </p> + <p> + “I am not used to suspicion, much less denunciation and assault. A + vampire! Do you know what that means?” + </p> + <p> + “It meant, as used by me, only madness. I did not know what I was saying. + It was a cry of pain—nothing more. Consider how I stand, how much I + have at stake, in what a wretched affair I have become involved. It is all + new to me, and I am bewildered and at fault. Do not desert me in this + crisis. I must have some one to stand between me and this woman; and if + you step aside, to whom can I go?” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Bray relented just a little. Mrs. Dinneford pleaded and humiliated + herself, and drifted farther into the toils of her confederate. + </p> + <p> + “You are not rich, Mrs. Bray,” she said, at parting, “independent in + spirit as you are. I shall add a hundred dollars for your own use; and if + ever you stand in need, you will know where to find an unfailing friend.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Bray put up her hands, and replied, “No, no, no; don't think of such + a thing. I am not mercenary. I never serve a friend for money.” + </p> + <p> + But Mrs. Dinneford heard the “yes” which flushed into the voice that said + “no.” She was not deceived. + </p> + <p> + A rapid change passed over Mrs. Bray on the instant her visitor left the + room. Her first act was to lock the door; her next, to take the roll of + bank-bills from the table and put it into her pocket. Over her face a + gleam of evil satisfaction had swept. + </p> + <p> + “Got you all right now, my lady!” fell with a chuckle from her lips. “A + vampire, ha!” The chuckle was changed for a kind of hiss. “Well, have it + so. There is rich blood in your veins, and it will be no fault of mine if + I do not fatten upon it. As for pity, you shall have as much of it as you + gave to that helpless baby. Saints don't work in this kind of business, + and I'm not a saint.” + </p> + <p> + And she chuckled and hissed and muttered to herself, with many signs of + evil satisfaction. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0008" id="link2HCH0008"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VIII. + </h2> + <p> + <i>FOR</i> an hour Mrs. Bray waited the reappearance of Pinky Swett, but + the girl did not come back. At the end of this time a package which had + been left at the door was brought to her room. It came from Mrs. + Dinneford, and contained two hundred dollars. A note that accompanied the + package read as follows: + </p> + <p> + “Forgive my little fault of temper. It is your interest to be my friend. + The woman must not, on any account, be suffered to come near me.” + </p> + <p> + Of course there was no signature. Mrs. Bray's countenance was radiant as + she fingered the money. + </p> + <p> + “Good luck for me, but bad for the baby,” she said, in a low, pleased + murmur, talking to herself. “Poor baby! I must see better to its comfort. + It deserves to be looked after. I wonder why Pinky doesn't come?” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Bray listened, but no sound of feet from the stairs or entries, no + opening or shutting of doors, broke the silence that reigned through the + house. + </p> + <p> + “Pinky's getting too low down—drinks too much; can't count on her + any more.” Mrs. Bray went on talking to herself. “No rest; no quiet; never + satisfied; for ever knocking round, and for ever getting the worst of it. + She was a real nice girl once, and I always liked her. But she doesn't + take any care of herself.” + </p> + <p> + As Pinky went out, an hour before, she met a fresh-looking girl, not over + seventeen, and evidently from the country. She was standing on the + pavement, not far from the house in which Mrs. Bray lived, and had a + traveling-bag in her hand. Her perplexed face and uncertain manner + attracted Pinky's attention. + </p> + <p> + “Are you looking for anybody?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “I'm trying to find a Mrs. Bray,” the girl answered. “I'm a stranger from + the country.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, you are?” said Pinky, drawing her veil more tightly so that her + disfigured face could not be seen. + </p> + <p> + “Yes I'm from L——.” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed? I used to know some people there.” + </p> + <p> + “Then you've been in L——?” said the girl, with a pleased, + trustful manner, as of one who had met a friend at the right time. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I've visited there.” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed? Who did you know in L——?” + </p> + <p> + “Are you acquainted with the Cartwrights?” + </p> + <p> + “I know of them. They are among our first people,” returned the girl. + </p> + <p> + “I spent a week in their family a few years ago, and had a very pleasant + time,” said Pinky. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I'm glad to know that,” remarked the girl. “I'm a stranger here; and + if I can't find Mrs. Bray, I don't see what I am to do. A lady from here + who was staying at the hotel gave me at letter to Mrs. Bray. I was living + at the hotel, but I didn't like it; it was too public. I told the lady + that I wanted to learn a trade or get into a store, and she said the city + was just the place for me, and that she would give me a letter to a + particular friend, who would, on her recommendation, interest he self for + me. It's somewhere along here that she lived, I'm sure;” and she took a + letter from her pocket and examined the direction. + </p> + <p> + The girl was fresh and young and pretty, and had an artless, confiding + manner. It was plain she knew little of the world, and nothing of its + evils and dangers. + </p> + <p> + “Let me see;” and Pinky reached out her hand for the letter. She put it + under her veil, and read, + </p> + <p> + “MRS. FANNY BRAY, “No. 631——street, “—— + </p> + <p> + “By the hand of Miss Flora Bond.” + </p> + <p> + “Flora Bond,” said Pinky, in a kind, familiar tone. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, that is my name,” replied the girl; “isn't this——street?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; and there, is the number you are looking for.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, thank you! I'm so glad to find the place. I was beginning to feel + scared.” + </p> + <p> + “I will ring the bell for you,” said Pinky, going to the door of No. 631. + A servant answered the summons. + </p> + <p> + “Is Mrs. Bray at home?” inquired Pinky. + </p> + <p> + “I don't know,” replied the servant, looking annoyed. “Her rooms are in + the third story;” and she held the door wide open for them to enter. As + they passed into the hall Pinky said to her companion, + </p> + <p> + “Just wait here a moment, and I will run up stairs and see if she is in.” + </p> + <p> + The girl stood in the hall until Pinky came back. + </p> + <p> + “Not at home, I'm sorry to say.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh dear! that's bad; what shall I do?” and the girl looked distressed. + </p> + <p> + “She'll be back soon, no doubt,” said Pinky, in a light, assuring voice. + “I'll go around with you a little and see things.” + </p> + <p> + The girl looked down at her traveling-bag. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, that's nothing; I'll help you to carry it;” and Pinky took it from + her hand. + </p> + <p> + “Couldn't we leave it here?” asked Flora. + </p> + <p> + “It might not be safe; servants are not always to be trusted, and Mrs. + Bray's rooms are locked; we can easily carry it between us. I'm strong—got + good country blood in my veins. You see I'm from the country as well as + you; right glad we met. Don't know what you would have done.” + </p> + <p> + And she drew the girl out, talking familiarly, as they went. + </p> + <p> + “Haven't had your dinner yet?” + </p> + <p> + “No; just arrived in the cars, and came right here.” + </p> + <p> + “You must have something to eat, then. I know a nice place; often get + dinner there when I'm out.” + </p> + <p> + The girl did not feel wholly at ease. She had not yet been able to get + sight of Pinky's closely-veiled features, and there was something in her + voice that made her feel uncomfortable. + </p> + <p> + “I don't care for any dinner,” she said; “I'm not hungry.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I am, then, so come. Do you like oysters?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Cook them splendidly. Best place in the city. And you'd like to get into + a store or learn a trade?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “What trade did you think of?” + </p> + <p> + “None in particular.” + </p> + <p> + “How would you like to get into a book-bindery? I know two or three girls + in binderies, and they can make from five to ten dollars a week. It's the + nicest, cleanest work I know of.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, do you?” returned Flora, with newly-awakening interest. + </p> + <p> + “Yes; we'll talk it all over while we're eating dinner. This way.” + </p> + <p> + And Pinky turned the corner of a small street that led away from the more + crowded thoroughfare along which they had been passing. + </p> + <p> + “It's a quiet and retired place, where only the nicest kind of people go,” + she added. “Many working-girls and girls in stores get their dinners + there. We'll meet some of them, no doubt; and if any that I know should + happen in, we might hear of a good place. Just the thing, isn't it? I'm + right glad I met you.” + </p> + <p> + They had gone halfway down the square, when Pinky stopped before the shop + of a confectioner. In the window was a display of cakes, pies and candies, + and a sign with the words, “LADIES' RESTAURANT.” + </p> + <p> + “This is the place,” she said, and opening the door, passed in, the young + stranger following. + </p> + <p> + A sign of caution, unseen by Flora, was made to a girl who stood behind + the counter. Then Pinky turned, saying, + </p> + <p> + “How will you have your oysters? stewed, fried, broiled or roasted?” + </p> + <p> + “I'm not particular—any way,” replied Flora. + </p> + <p> + “I like them fried. Will you have them the same way?” + </p> + <p> + Flora nodded assent. + </p> + <p> + “Let them be fried, then. Come, we'll go up stairs. Anybody there?” + </p> + <p> + “Two or three only.” + </p> + <p> + “Any girls from the bindery?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; I think so.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh. I'm glad of that! Want to see some of them. Come, Miss Bond.” + </p> + <p> + And Pinky, after a whispered word to the attendant, led the way to a room + up stairs in which were a number of small tables. At one of these were two + girls eating, at another a girl sitting by herself, and at another a young + man and a girl. As Pinky and her companion entered, the inmates of the + room stared at them familiarly, and then winked and leered at each other. + Flora did not observe this, but she felt a sudden oppression and fear. + They sat down at a table not far from one of the windows. Flora looked for + the veil to be removed, so that she might see the face of her new friend. + But Pinky kept it closely down. + </p> + <p> + In about ten minutes the oysters were served. Accompanying them were two + glasses of some kind of liquor. Floating on one of these was a small bit + of cork. Pinky took this and handed the other to her companion, saying, + </p> + <p> + “Only a weak sangaree. It will refresh you after your fatigue; and I + always like something with oysters, it helps to make them lay lighter on + the stomach.” + </p> + <p> + Meantime, one of the girls had crossed over and spoken to Pinky. After + word or two, the latter said, + </p> + <p> + “Don't you work in a bindery, Miss Peter?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” was answered, without hesitation. + </p> + <p> + “I thought so. Let me introduce you to my friend, Miss Flora Bond. She's + from the country, and wants to get into some good establishment. She + talked about a store, but I think a bindery is better.” + </p> + <p> + “A great deal better,” was replied by Miss Peter. “I've tried them both, + and wouldn't go back to a store again on any account. If I can serve your + friend, I shall be most happy.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you!” returned Flora; “you are very kind.” + </p> + <p> + “Not at all; I'm always glad when I can be of service to any one. You + think you'd like to go into a bindery?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. I've come to the city to get employment, and haven't much choice.” + </p> + <p> + “There's no place like the city,” remarked the other. “I'd die in the + country—nothing going on. But you won't stagnate here. When did you + arrive?” + </p> + <p> + “To-day.” + </p> + <p> + “Have you friends here?” + </p> + <p> + “No. I brought a letter of introduction to a lady who resides in the + city.” + </p> + <p> + “What's her name?” + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. Bray.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Peter turned her head so that Flora could not see her face. It was + plain from its expression that she knew Mrs. Bray. + </p> + <p> + “Have you seen her yet?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “No. She was out when I called. I'm going back in a little while.” + </p> + <p> + The girl sat down, and went on talking while the others were eating. Pinky + had emptied her glass of sangaree before she was half through with her + oysters, and kept urging Flora to drink. + </p> + <p> + “Don't be afraid of it, dear,” she said, in a kind, persuasive way; + “there's hardly a thimbleful of wine in the whole glass. It will soothe + your nerves, and make you feel ever so much better.” + </p> + <p> + There was something in the taste of the sangaree that Flora did not like—a + flavor that was not of wine. But urged repeatedly by her companion, whose + empty glass gave her encouragement and confidence, she sipped and drank + until she had taken the whole of it. By this time she was beginning to + have a sense of fullness and confusion in the head, and to feel oppressed + and uncomfortable. Her appetite suddenly left her, and she laid down her + knife and fork and leaned her head upon her hand. + </p> + <p> + “What's the matter?” asked Pinky. + </p> + <p> + “Nothing,” answered the girl; “only my head feels a little strangely. It + will pass off in a moment.” + </p> + <p> + “Riding in the cars, maybe,” said Pinky. “I always feel bad after being in + the cars; it kind of stirs me up.” + </p> + <p> + Flora sat very quietly at the table, still resting her head upon her + hands. Pinky and the girl who had joined them exchanged looks of + intelligence. The former had drawn her veil partly aside, yet concealing + as much as possible the bruises on her face. + </p> + <p> + “My! but you're battered!” exclaimed Miss Peter, in a whisper that was + unheard by Flora. + </p> + <p> + Pinky only answered by a grimace. Then she said to Flora, with + well-affected concern, + </p> + <p> + “I'm afraid you are ill, dear? How do you feel?” + </p> + <p> + “I don't know,” answered the poor girl, in a voice that betrayed great + anxiety, if not alarm. “It came over me all at once. I'm afraid that wine + was too strong; I am not used to taking anything.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh dear, no! it wasn't that. I drank a glass, and don't feel it any more + than if it had been water.” + </p> + <p> + “Let's go,” said Flora, starting up. “Mrs. Bray must be home by this + time.” + </p> + <p> + “All right, if you feel well enough,” returned Pinky, rising at the same + time. + </p> + <p> + “Oh dear! how my head swims!” exclaimed Flora, putting both hands to her + temples. She stood for a few moments in an uncertain attitude, then + reached out in a blind, eager way. + </p> + <p> + Pinky drew quickly to her side, and put one arm about her waist. + </p> + <p> + “Come,” she said, “the air is too close for you here;” and with the + assistance of the girl who had joined them, she steadied Flora down + stairs. + </p> + <p> + “Doctored a little too high,” whispered Miss Peter, with her mouth close + to Pinky's ear. + </p> + <p> + “All right,” Pinky whispered back; “they know how to do it.” + </p> + <p> + At the foot of the stairs Pinky said, + </p> + <p> + “You take her out through the yard, while I pay for the oysters. I'll be + with you in a moment.” + </p> + <p> + Poor Flora, was already too much confused by the drugged liquor she had + taken to know what they were doing with her. + </p> + <p> + Hastily paying for the oysters and liquor, Pinky was on hand in a few + moments. From the back door of the house they entered a small yard, and + passed from this through a gate into a narrow private alley shut in on + each side by a high fence. This alley ran for a considerable distance, and + had many gates opening into it from yards, hovels and rear buildings, all + of the most forlorn and wretched character. It terminated in a small + street. + </p> + <p> + Along this alley Pinky and the girl she had met at the restaurant + supported Flora, who was fast losing strength and consciousness. When + halfway down, they held a brief consultation. + </p> + <p> + “It won't do,” said Pinky, “to take her through to——street. + She's too far gone, and the police will be down on us and carry her off.” + </p> + <p> + “Norah's got some place in there,” said the other, pointing to an old + wooden building close by. + </p> + <p> + “I'm out with Norah,” replied Pinky, “and don't mean to have anything more + to do with her.” + </p> + <p> + “Where's your room?” + </p> + <p> + “That isn't the go. Don't want her there. Pat Maley's cellar is just over + yonder. We can get in from the alley.” + </p> + <p> + “Pat's too greedy a devil. There wouldn't be anything left of her when he + got through. No, no, Pinky; I'll have nothing to do with it if she's to go + into Pat Maley's cellar.” + </p> + <p> + “Not much to choose between 'em,” answered Pinky. “But it won't do to + parley here. We must get her in somewhere.” + </p> + <p> + And she pushed open a gate as she spoke. It swung back on one hinge and + struck the fence with a bang, disclosing a yard that beggared description + in its disorder and filth. In the back part of this yard was a + one-and-a-half-story frame building, without windows, looking more like an + old chicken-house or pig-stye than a place for human beings to live in. + The loft over the first story was reached by ladder on the outside. Above + and below the hovel was laid off in kind of stalls or bunks furnished with + straw. There were about twenty of these. It was a ten-cent lodging-house, + filled nightly. If this wretched hut or stye—call it what you will—had + been torn down, it would not have brought ten dollars as kindling-wood. + Yet its owner, a gentleman (?) living handsomely up town, received for it + the annual rent of two hundred and fifty dollars. Subletted at an average + of two dollars a night, it gave an income of nearly seven hundred dollars + a year. It was known as the “Hawk's Nest,” and no bird of prey ever had a + fouler nest than this. + </p> + <p> + As the gate banged on the fence a coarse, evil-looking man, wearing a + dirty Scotch cap and a red shirt, pushed his head up from the cellar of + the house that fronted on the street. + </p> + <p> + “What's wanted?” he asked, in a kind of growl, his upper lip twitching and + drawing up at one side in a nervous way, letting his teeth appear. + </p> + <p> + “We want to get this girl in for a little while,” said Pinky. “We'll take + her away when she comes round. Is anybody in there?” and she pointed to + the hovel. + </p> + <p> + The man shook his head. + </p> + <p> + “How much?” asked Pinky. + </p> + <p> + “Ten cents apiece;” and he held out his hand. + </p> + <p> + Pinky gave him thirty cents. He took a key from his pocket, and opened the + door that led into the lower room. The stench that came out as the door + swung back was dreadful. But poor Flora Bond was by this time so relaxed + in every muscle, and so dead to outward things, that it was impossible to + get her any farther. So they bore her into this horrible den, and laid her + down in one of the stalls on a bed of loose straw. Inside, there was + nothing but these stalls and straw—not a table or chair, or any + article of furniture. They filled up nearly the entire room, leaving only + a narrow passage between them. The only means of ventilation was by the + door. + </p> + <p> + As soon as Pinky and her companion in this terrible wickedness were alone + with their victim, they searched her pocket for the key of her + traveling-bag. On finding it, Pinky was going to open it, when the other + said, + </p> + <p> + “Never mind about that; we can examine her baggage in safer place. Let's + go for the movables.” + </p> + <p> + And saying this, she fell quickly to work on the person of Flora, slipping + out the ear-rings first, then removing her breast-pin and finger-rings, + while Pinky unbuttoned the new gaiter boots, and drew off both boots and + stockings, leaving upon the damp straw the small, bare feet, pink and soft + almost as a baby's. + </p> + <p> + It did not take these harpies five minutes to possess themselves of + everything but the poor girl's dress and undergarments. Cloth oversack, + pocket-book, collar, linen cuffs, hat, shoes and stockings—all these + were taken. + </p> + <p> + “Hallo!” cried the keeper of this foul den as the two girls hurried out + with the traveling-bag and a large bundle sooner than he had expected; and + he came quickly forth from the cellar in which he lived like a cruel + spider and tried to intercept them, but they glided through the gate and + were out of his reach before he could get near. He could follow them only + with obscene invectives and horrible oaths. Well he knew what had been + done—that there had been a robbery in the “Hawk's Nest,” and he not + in to share the booty. + </p> + <p> + Growling like a savage dog, this wretch, in whom every instinct of + humanity had long since died—this human beast, who looked on + innocence and helplessness as a wolf looks upon a lamb—strode across + the yard and entered the den. Lying in one of the stalls upon the foul, + damp straw he found Flora Bond. Cruel beast that he was, even he felt + himself held back as by an invisible hand, as he looked at the pure face + of the insensible girl. Rarely had his eyes rested on a countenance so + full of innocence. But the wolf has no pity for the lamb, nor the hawk for + the dove. The instinct of his nature quickly asserted itself. + </p> + <p> + Avarice first. From the face his eyes turned to see what had been left by + the two girls. An angry imprecation fell from his lips when he saw how + little remained for him. But when he lifted Flora's head and unbound her + hair, a gleam of pleasure came info his foul face. It was a full suit of + rich chestnut brown, nearly three feet long, and fell in thick masses over + her breast and shoulders. He caught it up eagerly, drew it through his + great ugly hands, and gloated over it with something of a miser's pleasure + as he counts his gold. Then taking a pair of scissors from his pocket, he + ran them over the girl's head with the quickness and skill of a barber, + cutting close down, that he might not lose even the sixteenth part of an + inch of her rich tresses. An Indian scalping his victim could not have + shown more eagerness. An Indian's wild pleasure was in his face as he + lifted the heavy mass of brown hair and held it above his head. It was not + a trophy—not a sign of conquest and triumph over an enemy—but + simply plunder, and had a market value of fifteen or twenty dollars. + </p> + <p> + The dress was next examined; it was new, but not of a costly material. + Removing this, the man went out with his portion of the spoils, and locked + the door, leaving the half-clothed, unconscious girl lying on the damp, + filthy straw, that swarmed with vermin. It was cold as well as damp, and + the chill of a bleak November day began creeping into her warm blood. But + the stupefying draught had been well compounded, and held her senses + locked. + </p> + <p> + Of what followed we cannot write, and we shiver as we draw a veil over + scenes that should make the heart of all Christendom ache—scenes + that are repeated in thousands of instances year by year in our large + cities, and no hand is stretched forth to succor and no arm to save. Under + the very eyes of the courts and the churches things worse than we have + described—worse than the reader can imagine—are done every + day. The foul dens into which crime goes freely, and into which innocence + is betrayed, are known to the police, and the evil work that is done is + ever before them. From one victim to another their keepers pass + unquestioned, and plunder, debauch, ruin and murder with an impunity + frightful to contemplate. As was said by a distinguished author, speaking + of a kindred social enormity, “There is not a country throughout the earth + on which a state of things like this would not bring a curse. There is no + religion upon earth that it would not deny; there is no people on earth + that it would not put to shame.” + </p> + <p> + And we are Christians! + </p> + <p> + No. Of what followed we cannot write. Those who were near the “Hawk's + Nest” heard that evening, soon after nightfall, the single wild, prolonged + cry of a woman. It was so full of terror and despair that even the + hardened ears that heard it felt a sudden pain. But they were used to such + things in that region, and no one took the trouble to learn what it meant. + Even the policeman moving on his beat stood listening for only a moment, + and then passed on. + </p> + <p> + Next day, in the local columns of a city paper, appeared the following: + </p> + <p> + “FOUL PLAY.—About eleven o'clock last night the body of a beautiful + young girl, who could not have been over seventeen years of age, was + discovered lying on the pavement in——street. No one knew how + she came there. She was quite dead when found. There was nothing by which + she could be identified. All her clothes but a single undergarment had + been removed, and her hair cut off close to her head. There were marks of + brutal violence on her person. The body was placed in charge of the + coroner, who will investigate the matter.” + </p> + <p> + On the day after, this paragraph appeared: + </p> + <p> + “SUSPICION OF FOUL PLAY.—The coroner's inquest elicited nothing in + regard to the young girl mentioned yesterday as having been found dead and + stripped of her clothing in——street. No one was able to + identify her. A foul deed at which the heart shudders has been done; but + the wretches by whom it was committed have been able to cover their + tracks.” + </p> + <p> + And that was the last of it. The whole nation gives a shudder of fear at + the announcement of an Indian massacre and outrage. But in all our large + cities are savages more cruel and brutal in their instincts than the + Comanches, and they torture and outrage and murder a hundred poor victims + for every one that is exposed to Indian brutality, and there comes no + succor. Is it from ignorance of the fact? No, no, no! There is not a Judge + on the bench, not a lawyer at the bar, not a legislator at the State + capital, not a mayor or police-officer, not a minister who preaches the + gospel of Christ, who came to seek and to save, not an intelligent + citizen, but knows of all this. + </p> + <p> + What then? Who is responsible? The whole nation arouses itself at news of + an Indian assault upon some defenseless frontier settlement, and the + general government sends troops to succor and to punish. But who takes + note of the worse than Indian massacres going on daily and nightly in the + heart of our great cities? Who hunts down and punishes the human wolves in + our midst whose mouths are red with the blood of innocence? Their deeds of + cruelty outnumber every year a hundred—nay, a thousand—fold + the deeds of our red savages. Their haunts are known, and their work is + known. They lie in wait for the unwary, they gather in the price of human + souls, none hindering, at our very church doors. Is no one responsible for + all this? Is there no help? Is evil stronger than good, hell stronger than + heaven? Have the churches nothing to do in this matter? Christ came to + seek and to save that which was lost—came to the lowliest, the + poorest and the vilest, to those over whom devils had gained power, and + cast out the devils. Are those who call themselves by his name diligent in + the work to which he put his blessed hands? Millions of dollars go yearly + into magnificent churches, but how little to the work of saving and + succoring the weak, the helpless, the betrayed, the outcast and the dying, + who lie uncared for at the mercy of human fiends, and often so near to the + temples of God that their agonized appeals for help are drowned by the + organ and choir! + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IX. + </h2> + <p> + <i>THE</i> two girls, on leaving the “Hawk's Nest” with their plunder, did + not pass from the narrow private alley into the small street at its + termination, but hurried along the way they had come, and re-entered the + restaurant by means of the gate opening into the yard. Through the back + door they gained a small, dark room, from which a narrow stairway led to + the second and third stories of the rear building. They seemed to be + entirely familiar with the place. + </p> + <p> + On reaching the third story, Pinky gave two quick raps and then a single + rap on a closed door. No movement being heard within, she rapped again, + reversing the order—that is, giving one distinct rap, and then two + in quick succession. At this the door came slowly open, and the two girls + passed in with their bundle of clothing and the traveling-bag. + </p> + <p> + The occupant of this room was a small, thin, well-dressed man, with cold, + restless gray eyes and the air of one who was alert and suspicious. His + hair was streaked with gray, as were also his full beard and moustache. A + diamond pin of considerable value was in his shirt bosom. The room + contained but few articles. There was a worn and faded carpet on the + floor, a writing-table and two or three chairs, and a small bookcase with + a few books, but no evidence whatever of business—not a box or + bundle or article of merchandise was to be seen. + </p> + <p> + As the two girls entered he, shut the door noiselessly, and turned the key + inside. Then his manner changed; his eyes lighted, and there was an + expression of interest in his face. He looked toward the bag and bundle. + </p> + <p> + Pinky sat down upon the floor and hurriedly unlocked the traveling-bag. + Thrusting in her hand, she drew out first a muslin nightgown and threw it + down, then a light shawl, a new barege dress, a pair of slippers, collars, + cuffs, ribbons and a variety of underclothing, and last of all a small + Bible and a prayer-book. These latter she tossed from her with a low + derisive laugh, which was echoed by her companion, Miss Peter. + </p> + <p> + The bundle was next opened, and the cloth sacque, the hat, the boots and + stockings and the collar and cuffs thrown upon the floor with the contents + of the bag. + </p> + <p> + “How much?” asked Pinky, glancing up at the man. + </p> + <p> + They were the first words that had been spoken. At this the man knit his + brows in an earnest way, and looked business. He lifted each article from + the floor, examined it carefully and seemed to be making a close estimate + of its value. The traveling-bag was new, and had cost probably five + dollars. The cloth sacque could not have been made for less than twelve + dollars. A fair valuation of the whole would have been near forty dollars. + </p> + <p> + “How much?” repeated Pinky, an impatient quiver in her voice. + </p> + <p> + “Six dollars,” replied the man. + </p> + <p> + “Six devils!” exclaimed Pinky, in a loud, angry voice. + </p> + <p> + “Six devils! you old swindler!” chimed in Miss Peter. + </p> + <p> + “You can take them away. Just as you like,” returned the man, with cool + indifference. “Perhaps the police will give you more. It's the best I can + do.” + </p> + <p> + “But see here, Jerkin,” said Pinky: “that sacque is worth twice the + money.” + </p> + <p> + “Not to me. I haven't a store up town. I can't offer it for sale in the + open market. Don't you understand?” + </p> + <p> + “Say ten dollars.” + </p> + <p> + “Six.” + </p> + <p> + “Here's a breast-pin and a pair of ear-rings,” said Miss Peter; “we'll + throw them in;” and she handed Jerkin, as he was called, the bits of + jewelry she had taken from the person of Flora Bond. He looked at them + almost contemptuously as he replied, + </p> + <p> + “Wouldn't give you a dollar for the set.” + </p> + <p> + “Say eight dollars for the whole,” urged Pinky. + </p> + <p> + “Six fifty, and not a cent more,” answered Jerkin. + </p> + <p> + “Hand over, then, you old cormorant!” returned the girl, fretfully. “It's + a shame to swindle us in this way.” + </p> + <p> + The man took out his pocket-book and paid the money, giving half to each + of the girls. + </p> + <p> + “It's just a swindle!” repeated Pinky. “You're an old hard-fisted + money-grubber, and no better than a robber. Three dollars and a quarter + for all that work! It doesn't pay for the trouble. We ought to have had + ten apiece.” + </p> + <p> + “You can make it ten or twenty, or maybe a hundred, if you will,” said + Jerkin, with a knowing twinkle in his eyes. He gave his thumb a little + movement over his shoulder as he spoke. + </p> + <p> + “That's so!” exclaimed Pinky, her manner undergoing a change, and her face + growing bright—at least as much of it as could brighten. “Look here, + Nell,” speaking to Miss Peter, and drawing a piece of paper from her + pocket, “I've got ten rows here. Fanny Bray gave me five dollars to go a + half on each row. Meant to have gone to Sam McFaddon's last night, but got + into a muss with old Sal and Norah, and was locked up.” + </p> + <p> + “They make ten hits up there to one at Sam McFaddon's,” said Jerkin, again + twitching his thumb over his shoulder. “It's the luckiest office I ever + heard of. Two or three hits every day for a week past—got a lucky + streak, somehow. If you go in anywhere, take my advice and go in there,” + lifting his hand and twitching his thumb upward and over his shoulder + again. + </p> + <p> + The two girls passed from the room, and the door was shut and locked + inside. No sooner had they done so than Jerkin made a new examination of + the articles, and after satisfying himself as to their value proceeded to + put them out of sight. Lifting aside a screen that covered the fireplace, + he removed from the chimney back, just above the line of sight, a few + loose bricks, and through the hole thus made thrust the articles he had + bought, letting them drop into a fireplace on the other side. + </p> + <p> + On leaving the room of this professional receiver of stolen goods, Pinky + and her friend descended to the second story, and by a door which had been + cut through into the adjoining property passed to the rear building of the + house next door. They found themselves on a landing, or little square + hall, with a stairway passing down to the lower story and another leading + to the room above. A number of persons were going up and coming down—a + forlorn set, for the most part, of all sexes, ages and colors. Those who + were going up appeared eager and hopeful, while those who were coming down + looked disappointed, sorrowful, angry or desperate. There was a “policy + shop” in one of the rooms above, and these were some of its miserable + customers. It was the hour when the morning drawings of the lotteries were + received at the office, or “shop,” and the poor infatuated dupes who had + bet on their favorite “rows” were crowding in to learn the result. + </p> + <p> + Poor old men and women in scant or wretched clothing, young girls with + faces marred by evil, blotched and bloated creatures of both sexes, with + little that was human in their countenances, except the bare features, + boys and girls not yet in their teens, but old in vice and crime, and + drunkards with shaking nerves,—all these were going up in hope and + coming down in disappointment. Here and there was one of a different + quality, a scantily-dressed woman with a thin, wasted face and hollow + eyes, who had been fighting the wolf and keeping fast hold of her + integrity, or a tender, innocent-looking girl, the messenger of a weak and + shiftless mother, or a pale, bright-eyed boy whose much-worn but clean and + well-kept garments gave sad evidence of a home out of which prop and stay + had been removed. The strong and the weak, the pure and the defiled, were + there. A poor washerwoman who in a moment of weakness has pawned the + garments entrusted to her care, that she might venture upon a “row” of + which she had dreamed, comes shrinking down with a pale, frightened face, + and the bitterness of despair in her heart. She has lost. What then? She + has no friend from whom she can borrow enough money to redeem the + clothing, and if it is not taken home she may be arrested as a thief and + sent to prison. She goes away, and temptation lies close at her feet. It + is her extremity and the evil one's opportunity. So far she has kept + herself pure, but the disgrace of a public prosecution and a sentence to + prison are terrible things to contemplate. She is in peril of her soul. + God help her! + </p> + <p> + Who is this dressed in rusty black garments and closely veiled, who comes + up from the restaurant, one of the convenient and unsuspected entrances to + this robber's den?—for a “policy-shop” is simply a robbery shop, and + is so regarded by the law, which sets a penalty upon the “writer” and the + “backer” as upon other criminals. But who is this veiled woman in faded + mourning garments who comes gliding as noiselessly as a ghost out from one + of the rooms of the restaurant, and along the narrow entry leading to the + stairway, now so thronged with visitors? Every day she comes and goes, no + one seeing her face, and every day, with rare exceptions, her step is + slower and her form visibly more shrunken when she goes out than when she + comes in. She is a broken-down gentlewoman, the widow of an officer, who + left her at his death a moderate fortune, and quite sufficient for the + comfortable maintenance of herself and two nearly grown-up daughters. But + she had lived at the South, and there acquired a taste for lottery + gambling. During her husband's lifetime she wasted considerable money in + lottery tickets, once or twice drawing small prizes, but like all lottery + dupes spending a hundred dollars for one gained. The thing had become a + sort of mania with her. She thought so much of prizes and drawn numbers + through the day that she dreamed of them all night. She had a + memorandum-book in which were all the combinations she had ever heard of + as taking prizes. It contained page after page of lucky numbers and fancy + “rows,” and was oftener in her hand than any other book. + </p> + <p> + There being no public sale of lottery tickets in Northern cities, this + weak and infatuated woman found out where some of the “policy-shops” were + kept, and instead of buying tickets, as before, risked her money on + numbers that might or might not come out of the wheel in lotteries said to + be drawn in certain Southern States, but chiefly in Kentucky. The numbers + rarely if ever came out. The chances were too remote. After her husband's + death she began fretting over the smallness of her income. It was not + sufficient to give her daughters the advantages she desired them to have, + and she knew of but one way to increase it. That way was through the + policy-shops. So she gave her whole mind to this business, with as much + earnestness and self-absorption as a merchant gives himself to trade. She + had a dream-book, gotten up especially for policy buyers, and consulted it + as regularly as a merchant does his price-current or a broker the sales of + stock. Every day she bet on some “row” or series of “rows,” rarely + venturing less than five dollars, and sometimes, when she felt more than + usually confident, laying down a twenty-dollar bill, for the “hit” when + made gave from fifty to two hundred dollars for each dollar put down, + varying according to the nature of the combinations. So the more faith a + policy buyer had in his “row,” the larger the venture he would feel + inclined to make. + </p> + <p> + Usually it went all one way with the infatuated lady. Day after day she + ventured, and day after day she lost, until from hundreds the sums she was + spending had aggregated themselves into thousands. She changed from one + policy-shop to another, hoping for better luck. It was her business to + find them out, and this she was able to do by questioning some of those + whom she met at the shops. One of these was in a building on a principal + street, the second story of which was occupied by a milliner. It was + visited mostly by ladies, who could pass in from the street, no one + suspecting their errand. Another was in the attic of a house in which were + many offices and places of business, with people going in and coming out + all the while, none but the initiated being in the secret; while another + was to be found in the rear of a photograph gallery. Every day and often + twice a day, as punctually as any man of business, did this lady make her + calls at one and another of these policy-offices to get the drawings or + make new ventures. At remote intervals she would make a “hit;” once she + drew twenty dollars, and once fifty. But for these small gains she had + paid thousands of dollars. + </p> + <p> + After a “hit” the betting on numbers would be bolder. Once she selected + what was known as a “lucky row,” and determined to double on it until it + came out a prize. She began by putting down fifty cents. On the next day + she put down a dollar upon the same combination, losing, of course, Two + dollars were ventured on the next day; and so she went on doubling, until, + in her desperate infatuation, she doubled for the ninth time, putting down + two hundred and fifty-six dollars. + </p> + <p> + If successful now, she would draw over twenty-five thousand dollars. There + was no sleep for the poor lady during the night that followed. She walked + the floor of her chamber in a state of intense nervous excitement, + sometimes in a condition of high hope and confidence and sometimes haunted + by demons of despair. She sold five shares of stock on which she had been + receiving an annual dividend of ten per cent., in order to get funds for + this desperate gambling venture, in which over five hundred dollars had + now been absorbed. + </p> + <p> + Pale and nervous, she made her appearance at the breakfast-table on the + next morning, unable to take a mouthful of food. It was in vain that her + anxious daughters urged her to eat. + </p> + <p> + A little after twelve o'clock she was at the policy-office. The drawn + numbers for the morning were already in. Her combination was 4, 10, 40. + With an eagerness that could not be repressed, she caught up the slip of + paper containing the thirteen numbers out of seventy-five, which purported + to have been drawn that morning somewhere in “Kentucky,” and reported by + telegraph—caught it up with hands that shook so violently that she + could not read the figures. She had to lay the piece of paper down upon + the little counter before which she stood, in order that it might be + still, so that she could read her fate. + </p> + <p> + The first drawn number was 4. What a wild leap her heart gave! The next + was 24; the next 8; the next 70; the next 41, and the next 39. Her heart + grew almost still; the pressure as of a great hand was on her bosom. 10 + came next. Two numbers of her row were out. A quiver of excitement ran + through her frame. She caught up the paper, but it shook as before, so + that she could not see the figures. Dashing it back upon the counter, and + holding it down almost violently, she bent over, with eyes starting from + their sockets, and read the line of figures to the end, then sank over + upon the counter with a groan, and lay there half fainting and too weak to + lift herself up. If the 40 had been there, she would have made a hit of + twenty-five thousand dollars. But the 40 was not there, and this made all + the difference. + </p> + <p> + “Once more,” said the policy-dealer, in a tone of encouragement, as he + bent over the miserable woman. “Yesterday, 4 came out; to-day, 4, 10; + tomorrow will be the lucky chance; 4, 10, 40 will surely be drawn. I never + knew this order to fail. If it had been 10 first, and then 4, 10, or 10, + 4, I would not advise you to go on. But 4, 10, 40 will be drawn to-morrow + as sure as fate.” + </p> + <p> + “What numbers did you say? 4, 10, 40?” asked an old man, ragged and + bloated, who came shuffling in as the last remarks was made. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” answered the dealer. “This lady has been doubling, and as the + chances go, her row is certain to make a hit to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + “Ha! What's the row? 4, 10, 40?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + The old man fumbled in his pocket, and brought out ten cents. + </p> + <p> + “I'll go that on the row. Give me a piece.” + </p> + <p> + The dealer took a narrow slip of paper and wrote on it the date, the sum + risked and the combination of figures, and handed it to the old man, + saying, + </p> + <p> + “Come here to-morrow; and if the bottom of the world doesn't drop out, + you'll find ten dollars waiting for you.” + </p> + <p> + Two or three others were in by this time, eager to look over the list of + drawn numbers and to make new bets. + </p> + <p> + “Glory!” cried one of them, a vile-looking young woman, and she commenced + dancing about the room. + </p> + <p> + All was excitement now. “A hit! a hit!” was cried. “How much? how much?” + and they gathered to the little counter and desk of the policy-dealer. + </p> + <p> + “1, 2, 3,” cried the girl, dancing about and waving her little slip of + paper over her head. “I knew it would come—dreamed of them numbers + three nights hand running! Hand over the money, old chap! Fifteen dollars + for fifteen cents! That's the go!” + </p> + <p> + The policy-dealer took the girl's “piece,” and after comparing it with the + record of drawn numbers, said, in a pleased voice, + </p> + <p> + “All right! A hit, sure enough. You're in luck to-day.” + </p> + <p> + The girl took the money, that was promptly paid down, and as she counted + it over the dealer remarked, + </p> + <p> + “There's a doubling game going on, and it's to be up to-morrow, sure.” + </p> + <p> + “What's the row?” inquired the girl. + </p> + <p> + “4, 10, 40,” said the dealer. + </p> + <p> + “Then count me in;” and she laid down five dollars on the counter. + </p> + <p> + “Take my advice and go ten,” urged the policy-dealer. + </p> + <p> + “No, thank you! shouldn't know what to do with more than five hundred + dollars. I'll only go five dollars this time.” + </p> + <p> + The “writer,” as a policy-seller is called, took the money and gave the + usual written slip of paper containing the selected numbers; loudly + proclaiming her good luck, the girl then went away. She was an accomplice + to whom a “piece” had been secretly given after the drawn numbers were in. + </p> + <p> + Of course this hit was the sensation of the day among the policy-buyers at + that office, and brought in large gains. + </p> + <p> + The wretched woman who had just seen five hundred dollars vanish into + nothing instead of becoming, as under the wand of an enchanter, a great + heap of gold, listened in a kind of maze to what passed around her—listened + and let the tempter get to her ear again. She went away, stooping in her + gait as one bearing a heavy burden. Before an hour had passed hope had + lifted her again into confidence. She had to make but one venture more to + double on the risk of the day previous, and secure a fortune that would + make both herself and daughters independent for life. + </p> + <p> + Another sale of good stocks, another gambling venture and another loss, + swelling the aggregate in this wild and hopeless “doubling” experiment to + over a thousand dollars. + </p> + <p> + But she was not cured. As regularly as a drunkard goes to the bar went she + to the policy-shops, every day her fortune growing less. Poverty began to + pinch. The house in which she lived with her daughters was sold, and the + unhappy family shrunk into a single room in a third-rate boarding-house. + But their income soon became insufficient to meet the weekly demand for + board. Long before this the daughters had sought for something to do by + which to earn a little money. Pride struggled hard with them, but + necessity was stronger than pride. + </p> + <p> + We finish the story in a few words. In a moment of weakness, with want and + hard work staring her in the face, one of the daughters married a man who + broke her heart and buried her in less than two years. The other, a weak + and sickly girl, got a situation as day governess in the family of an old + friend of her father's, where she was kindly treated, but she lived only a + short time after her sister's death. + </p> + <p> + And still there was no abatement of the mother's infatuation. She was more + than half insane on the subject of policy gambling, and confident of yet + retrieving her fortunes. + </p> + <p> + At the time Pinky Swett and her friend in evil saw her come gliding up + from the restaurant in faded mourning garments and closely veiled, she was + living alone in a small, meagrely furnished room, and cooking her own + food. + </p> + <p> + Everything left to her at her husband's death was gone. She earned a + dollar or two each week by making shirts and drawers for the slop-shops, + spending every cent of this in policies. A few old friends who pitied her, + but did not know of the vice in which she indulged, paid her rent and made + occasional contributions for her support. All of these contributions, + beyond the amount required for a very limited supply of food, went to the + policy-shops. It was a mystery to her friends how she had managed to waste + the handsome property left by her husband, but no one suspected the truth. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0010" id="link2HCH0010"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER X. + </h2> + <p> + “<i>WHO'S</i> that, I wonder?” asked Nell Peter as the dark, close-veiled + figure glided past them on the stairs. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, she's a policy-drunkard,” answered Pinky, loud enough to be heard by + the woman, who, as if surprised or alarmed, stopped and turned her head, + her veil falling partly away, and disclosing features so pale and wasted + that she looked more like a ghost than living flesh and blood. There was a + strange gleam in her eyes. She paused only for an instant, but her steps + were slower as she went on climbing the steep and narrow stairs that led + to the policy-office. + </p> + <p> + “Good Gracious, Pinky! did you ever see such a face?” exclaimed Nell + Peter. “It's a walking ghost, I should say, and no woman at all.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I've seen lots of 'em,” answered Pinky. “She's a policy-drunkard. Bad + as drinking when it once gets hold of 'em. They tipple all the time, sell + anything, beg, borrow, steal or starve themselves to get money to buy + policies. She's one of 'em that's starving.” + </p> + <p> + By this time they had reached the policy-office. It was in a small room on + the third floor of the back building, yet as well known to the police of + the district as if it had been on the front street. One of these public + guardians soon after his appointment through political influence, and + while some wholesome sense of duty and moral responsibility yet remained, + caused the “writer” in this particular office to be arrested. He thought + that he had done a good thing, and looked for approval and encouragement. + But to his surprise and chagrin he found that he had blundered. The case + got no farther than the alderman's. Just how it was managed he did not + know, but it was managed, and the business of the office went on as + before. + </p> + <p> + A little light came to him soon after, on meeting a prominent politician + to whom he was chiefly indebted for his appointment. Said this individual, + with a look of warning and a threat in his voice, + </p> + <p> + “See here, my good fellow; I'm told that you've been going out of your way + and meddling with the policy-dealers. Take my advice, and mind your own + business. If you don't, it will be all day with you. There isn't a man in + town strong enough to fight this thing, so you'd better let it alone.” + </p> + <p> + And he did let it alone. He had a wife and three little children, and + couldn't afford to lose his place. So he minded his own business, and let + it alone. + </p> + <p> + Pinky and her friend entered this small third-story back room. Behind a + narrow, unpainted counter, having a desk at one end, stood a middle-aged + man, with dark, restless eyes that rarely looked you in the face. He wore + a thick but rather closely-cut beard and moustache. The police knew him + very well; so did the criminal lawyers, when he happened to come in their + way; so did the officials of two or three State prisons in which he had + served out partial sentences. He was too valuable to political “rings” and + associations antagonistic to moral and social well-being to be left idle + in the cell of a penitentiary for the whole term of a commitment. + Politicians have great influence, and governors are human. + </p> + <p> + On the walls of the room were pasted a few pictures cut from the + illustrated papers, some of them portraits of leading politicians, and + some of them portraits of noted pugilists and sporting-men. The picture of + a certain judge, who had made himself obnoxious to the fraternity of + criminals by his severe sentences, was turned upside down. There was + neither table nor chair in the room. + </p> + <p> + The woman in black had passed in just before the girls, and was waiting + her turn to examine the drawn numbers. She had not tasted food since the + day before, having ventured her only dime on a policy, and was feeling + strangely faint and bewildered. She did not have to wait long. It was the + old story. Her combination had not come out, and she was starving. As she + moved back toward the door she staggered a little. Pinky, who had become + curious about her, noticed this, and watched her as she went out. + </p> + <p> + “It's about up with the old lady, I guess,” she said to her companion, + with an unfeeling laugh. + </p> + <p> + And she was right. On the next morning the poor old woman was found dead + in her room, and those who prepared her for burial said that she was + wasted to a skeleton. She had, in fact, starved herself in her + infatuation, spending day after day in policies what she should have spent + for food. Pinky's strange remark was but too true. She had become a + policy-drunkard—a vice almost as disastrous in its effects as its + kindred, vice, intemperance, though less brutalizing and less openly + indulged. + </p> + <p> + “Where now?” was the question of Pinky's friend as they came down, after + spending in policies all the money they had received from the sale of + Flora Bond's clothing. “Any other game?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “What?” + </p> + <p> + “Come along to my room, and I'll tell you.” + </p> + <p> + “Round in Ewing street?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Great game up, if I can only get on the track.” + </p> + <p> + “What is it?” + </p> + <p> + “There's a cast-off baby in Dirty Alley, and Fan Bray knows its mother, + and she's rich.” + </p> + <p> + “What?” + </p> + <p> + “Fan's getting lots of hush-money.” + </p> + <p> + “Goody! but that is game!” + </p> + <p> + “Isn't it? The baby's owned by two beggar-women who board it in Dirty + Alley. It's 'most starved and frozen to death, and Fan's awful 'fraid it + may die. She wants me to steal it for her, so that she may have it better + taken care of, and I was going to do it last night, when I got into a + muss.” + </p> + <p> + “Who's the woman that boards it?” + </p> + <p> + “She lives in a cellar, and is drunk every night. Can steal the brat + easily enough; but if I can't find out who it belongs to, you see it will + be trouble for nothing.” + </p> + <p> + “No, I don't see any such thing,” answered Nell Peter. “If you can't get + hush-money out of its mother, you can bleed Fanny Bray.” + </p> + <p> + “That's so, and I'm going to bleed her. The mother, you see, thinks the + baby's dead. The proud old grandmother gave it away, as soon as was born, + to a woman that Fan Bray found for her. Its mother was out of her head, + and didn't know nothing. That woman sold the baby to the women who keep it + to beg with. She's gone up the spout now, and nobody knows who the mother + and grandmother are but Fan, and nobody knows where the baby is but me and + Fan. She's bleeding the old lady, and promises to share with me if I keep + track of the baby and see that it isn't killed or starved to death. But I + don't trust her. She puts me off with fives and tens, when I'm sure she + gets hundreds. Now, if we have the baby all to ourselves, and find out the + mother and grandmother, won't we have a splendid chance? I'll bet you on + that.” + </p> + <p> + “Won't we? Why, Pinky, this is a gold-mine!” + </p> + <p> + “Didn't I tell you there was great game up? I was just wanting some one to + help me. Met you in the nick of time.” + </p> + <p> + The two girls had now reached Pinky's room in Ewing street, where they + continued in conference for a long time before settling their plans. + </p> + <p> + “Does Fan know where you live?” queried Nell Peter. + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Then you will have to change your quarters.” + </p> + <p> + “Easily done. Doesn't take half a dozen furniture-cars to move me.” + </p> + <p> + “I know a room.” + </p> + <p> + “Where?” + </p> + <p> + “It's a little too much out of the way, you'll think, maybe, but it's just + the dandy for hiding in. You cart keep the brat there, and nobody—” + </p> + <p> + “Me keep the brat?” interrupted Pinky, with a derisive laugh. “That's a + good one! I see myself turned baby-tender! Ha! ha! that's funny!” + </p> + <p> + “What do you expect to do with the child after you steal it?” asked + Pinky's friend. + </p> + <p> + “I don't intend to nurse it or have it about me.” + </p> + <p> + “What then?” + </p> + <p> + “Board if with some one who doesn't get drunk or buy policies.” + </p> + <p> + “You'll hunt for a long time.” + </p> + <p> + “Maybe, but I'll try. Anyhow, it can't be worse off than it is now. What + I'm afraid of is that it will be out of its misery before we can get hold + of it. The woman who is paid for keeping it at night doesn't give it any + milk—just feeds it on bread soaked in water, and that is slow + starvation. It's the way them that don't want to keep their babies get rid + of them about here.” + </p> + <p> + “The game's up if the baby dies,” said Nell Peter, growing excited under + this view of the case. “If it only gets bread soaked in water, it can't + live. I've seen that done over and over again. They're starving a baby on + bread and water now just over from my room, and it cries and frets and + moans all the time it's awake, poor little wretch! I've been in hopes for + a week that they'd give it an overdose of paregoric or something else.” + </p> + <p> + “We must fix it to-night in some way,” answered Pinky. “Where's the room + you spoke of?” + </p> + <p> + “In Grubb's court. You know Grubb's court?—a kind of elbow going off + from Rider's court. There's a room up there that you can get where even + the police would hardly find you out.” + </p> + <p> + “Thieves live there,” said Pinky. + </p> + <p> + “No matter. They'll not trouble you or the baby.” + </p> + <p> + “Is the room furnished?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. There's a bed and a table and two chairs.” + </p> + <p> + After farther consultation it was decided that Pinky should move at once + from her present lodgings to the room in Grubb's court, and get, if + possible, possession of the baby that very night. The moving was easily + accomplished after the room was secured. Two small bundles of clothing + constituted Pinky's entire effects; and taking these, the two girls went + quietly out, leaving a week's rent unpaid. + </p> + <p> + The night that closed this early winter day was raw and cold, the easterly + wind still prevailing, with occasional dashes of rain. In a cellar without + fire, except a few bits of smouldering wood in an old clay furnace, that + gave no warmth to the damp atmosphere, and with scarcely an article of + furniture, a woman half stupid from drink sat on a heap of straw, her bed, + with her hands clasped about her knees. She was rocking her body backward + and forward, and crooning to herself in a maudlin way. A lighted tallow + candle stood on the floor of the cellar, and near it a cup of water, in + which was a spoon and some bread soaking. + </p> + <p> + “Mother Hewitt!” called a voice from the cellar door that opened on the + street. “Here, take the baby!” + </p> + <p> + Mother Hewitt, as she was called, started up and made her way with an + unsteady gait to the front part of the cellar, where a woman in not much + better condition than herself stood holding out a bundle of rags in which + a fretting baby was wrapped. + </p> + <p> + “Quick, quick!” called the woman. “And see here,” she continued as Mother + Hewitt reached her arms for the baby; “I don't believe you're doing the + right thing. Did he have plenty of milk last night and this morning?” + </p> + <p> + “Just as much as he would take.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't believe it. He's been frettin' and chawin' at the strings of his + hood all the afternoon, when he ought to have been asleep, and he's + looking punier every day. I believe you're giving him only bread and + water.” + </p> + <p> + But Mother Hewitt protested that she gave him the best of new milk, and as + much as he would take. + </p> + <p> + “Well, here's a quarter,” said the woman, handing Mother Hewitt some + money; “and see that he is well fed to-night and to-morrow morning. He's + getting 'most too deathly in his face. The people won't stand it if they + think a baby's going to die—the women 'specially, and most of all + the young things that have lost babies. One of these—I know 'em by + the way they look out of their eyes—came twice to-day and stood over + him sad and sorrowful like; she didn't give me anything. I've seen her + before. Maybe she's his mother. As like as nor, for nobody knows where he + came from. Wasn't Sally Long's baby; always thought she'd stole him from + somebody. Now, mind, he's to have good milk every day, or I'll change his + boarding-house. D'ye hear!” + </p> + <p> + And laughing at this sally, the woman turned away to spend in a night's + debauch the money she had gained in half a day's begging. + </p> + <p> + Left to herself, Mother Hewitt went staggering back with the baby in her + arms, and seated herself on the ground beside the cup of bread and water, + which was mixed to the consistence of cream. As she did so the light of + her poor candle fell on the baby's face. It was pinched and hungry and + ashen pale, the thin lips wrought by want and suffering into such sad + expressions of pain that none but the most stupid and hardened could look + at them and keep back a gush of tears. + </p> + <p> + But Mother Hewitt saw nothing of this—felt nothing of this. Pity and + tenderness had long since died out of her heart. As she laid the baby back + on one arm she took a spoonful of the mixture prepared for its supper, and + pushed it roughly into its mouth. The baby swallowed it with a kind of + starving eagerness, but with no sign of satisfaction on its sorrowful + little face. But Mother Hewitt was too impatient to get through with her + work of feeding the child, and thrust in spoonful after spoonful until it + choked, when she shook it angrily, calling it vile names. + </p> + <p> + The baby cried feebly at this, when she shook it again and slapped it with + her heavy hand. Then it grew still. She put the spoon again to its lips, + but it shut them tightly and turned its head away. + </p> + <p> + “Very well,” said Mother Hewitt. “If you won't, you won't;” and she tossed + the helpless thing as she would have tossed a senseless bundle over upon + the heap of straw that served as a bed, adding, as she did so, “I never + coaxed my own brats.” + </p> + <p> + The baby did not cry. Mother Hewitt then blew out the candle, and groping + her way to the door of the cellar that opened on the street, went out, + shutting down the heavy door behind her, and leaving the child alone in + that dark and noisome den—alone in its foul and wet garments, but, + thanks to kindly drugs, only partially conscious of its misery. + </p> + <p> + Mother Hewitt's first visit was to the nearest dram-shop. Here she spent + for liquor five cents of the money she had received. From the dram-shop + she went to Sam McFaddon's policy-office. This was not hidden away, like + most of the offices, in an upper room or a back building or in some remote + cellar, concealed from public observation, but stood with open door on the + very street, its customers going in and out as freely and unquestioned as + the customers of its next-door neighbor, the dram-shop. Policemen passed + Sam's door a hundred times in every twenty-four hours, saw his customers + going in and out, knew their errand, talked with Sam about his business, + some of them trying their luck occasionally after there had been an + exciting “hit,” but none reporting him or in any way interfering with his + unlicensed plunder of the miserable and besotted wretches that crowded his + neighborhood. + </p> + <p> + From the whisky-shop to the policy-shop went Mother Hewitt. Here she put + down five cents more; she never bet higher than this on a “row.” From the + policy-shop she went back to the whisky-shop, and took another drink. By + this time she was beginning to grow noisy. It so happened that the woman + who had left the baby with her a little while before came in just then, + and being herself much the worse for drink, picked a quarrel with Mother + Hewitt, accusing her of getting drunk on the money she received for + keeping the baby, and starving it to death. A fight was the consequence, + in which they were permitted to tear and scratch and bruise each other in + a shocking way, to the great enjoyment of the little crowd of debased and + brutal men and women who filled the dram-shop. But fearing a visit from + the police, the owner of the den, a strong, coarse Irishman, interfered, + and dragging the women apart, pushed Mother Hewitt out, giving her so + violent an impetus that she fell forward into the middle of the narrow + street, where she lay unable to rise, not from any hurt, but from sheer + intoxication. + </p> + <p> + “What's up now?” cried one and another as this little ripple of + disturbance broke upon that vile and troubled sea of humanity. + </p> + <p> + “Only Mother Hewitt drunk again!” lightly spoke a young girl not out of + her teens, but with a countenance that seemed marred by centuries of + debasing evil. Her laugh would have made an angel shiver. + </p> + <p> + A policeman came along, and stood for a little while looking at the + prostrate woman. + </p> + <p> + “It's Mother Hewitt,” said one of the bystanders. + </p> + <p> + “Here, Dick,” and the policeman spoke to a man near him. “Take hold of her + feet.” + </p> + <p> + The man did as told, and the policeman lifting the woman's head and + shoulders, they carried her a short distance, to where a gate opened into + a large yard used for putting in carts and wagons at night, and deposited + her on the ground just inside. + </p> + <p> + “She can sleep it off there,” said the policeman as he dropped his + unseemly load. “She'll have a-plenty to keep her company before morning.” + </p> + <p> + And so they left her without covering or shelter in the wet and chilly air + of a late November night, drunk and asleep. + </p> + <p> + As the little crowd gathered by this ripple of excitement melted away, a + single figure remained lurking in a corner of the yard and out of sight in + its dark shadow. It was that of a man. The moment he was alone with the + unconscious woman he glided toward her with the alert movements of an + animal, and with a quickness that made his work seem instant, rifled her + pockets. His gains were ten cents and the policy-slip she had just + received at Sam McFaddon's. He next examined her shoes, but they were of + no value, lifted her dirty dress and felt its texture for a moment, then + dropped it with a motion of disgust and a growl of disappointment. + </p> + <p> + As he came out from the yard with his poor booty, the light from a + street-lamp fell on as miserable a looking wretch as ever hid himself from + the eyes of day—dirty, ragged, bloated, forlorn, with scarcely a + trace of manhood in his swollen and disfigured face. His steps, quick from + excitement a few moments before, were now shambling and made with + difficulty. He had not far to walk for what he was seeking. The ministers + to his appetite were all about him, a dozen in every block of that + terrible district that seemed as if forsaken by God and man. Into the + first that came in his way he went with nervous haste, for he had not + tasted of the fiery stimulant he was craving with a fierce and unrelenting + thirst for many hours. He did not leave the bar until he had drank as much + of the burning poison its keeper dispensed as his booty would purchase. In + less than half an hour he was thrown dead drunk into the street and then + carried by policemen to the old wagon-yard, to take his night's + unconscious rest on the ground in company with Mother Hewitt and a score + besides of drunken wretches who were pitilessly turned out from the + various dram-shops after their money was spent, and who were not + considered by the police worth the trouble of taking to the station-house. + </p> + <p> + When Mother Hewitt crept back into her cellar at daylight, the baby was + gone. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0011" id="link2HCH0011"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XI. + </h2> + <p> + <i>FOR</i> more than a week after Edith's call on Dr. Radcliffe she seemed + to take but little interest in anything, and remained alone in her room + for a greater part of the time, except when her father was in the house. + Since her questions about her baby a slight reserve had risen up between + them. During this time she went out at least once every day, and when + questioned by her mother as to where she had been, evaded any direct + answer. If questioned more closely, she would show a rising spirit and a + decision of manner that had the effect to silence and at the same time to + trouble Mrs. Dinneford, whose mind was continually on the rack. + </p> + <p> + One day the mother and daughter met in a part of the city where neither of + them dreamed of seeing the other. It was not far from where Mrs. Bray + lived. Mrs. Dinneford had been there on a purgational visit, and had come + away lighter in purse and with a heavier burden of fear and anxiety on her + heart. + </p> + <p> + “What are you doing here?” she demanded. + </p> + <p> + “I've been to St. John's mission sewing-school,” replied Edith. “I have a + class there.” + </p> + <p> + “You have! Why didn't you tell me this before? I don't like such doings. + This is no place for you.” + </p> + <p> + “My place is where I can do good,” returned Edith, speaking slowly, but + with great firmness. + </p> + <p> + “Good! You can do good if you want to without demeaning yourself to work + like this. I don't want you mixed up with these low, vile people, and I + won't have it!” Mrs. Dinneford spoke in a sharp, positive voice. + </p> + <p> + Edith made no answer, and they walked on together. + </p> + <p> + “I shall speak to your father about this,” said Mrs. Dinneford. “It isn't + reputable. I wouldn't have you seen here for the world.” + </p> + <p> + “I shall walk unhurt; you need not fear,” returned Edith. + </p> + <p> + There was silence between them for some time, Edith not caring to speak, + and her mother in doubt as to what it were best to say. + </p> + <p> + “How long have you been going to St. John's mission school?” at length + queried Mrs. Dinneford. + </p> + <p> + “I've been only a few times,” replied Edith. + </p> + <p> + “And have a class of diseased and filthy little wretches, I suppose—gutter + children?” + </p> + <p> + “They are God's children,” said Edith, in a tone of rebuke. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, don't preach to me!” was angrily replied. + </p> + <p> + “I only said what was true,” remarked Edith. + </p> + <p> + There was silence again. + </p> + <p> + “Are you going directly home?” asked Mrs. Dinneford, after they had walked + the distance of several blocks. Edith replied that she was. + </p> + <p> + “Then you'd better take that car. I shall not be home for an hour yet.” + </p> + <p> + They separated, Edith taking the car. As soon as she was alone Mrs. + Dinneford quickened her steps, like a person who had been held back from + some engagement. A walk of ten minutes brought her to one of the principal + hotels of the city. Passing in, she went up to a reception-parlor, where + she was met by a man who rose from a seat near the windows and advanced to + the middle of the room. He was of low stature, with quick, rather nervous + movements, had dark, restless eyes, and wore a heavy black moustache that + was liberally sprinkled with gray. The lower part of his face was shaved + clean. He showed some embarrassment as he came forward to meet Mrs. + Dinneford. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Feeling,” she said, coldly. + </p> + <p> + The man bowed with a mixture of obsequiousness and familiarity, and tried + to look steadily into Mrs. Dinneford's face, but was not able to do so. + There was a steadiness and power in her eyes that his could not bear. + </p> + <p> + “What do you want with me, sir?” she demanded, a little sharply. + </p> + <p> + “Take a chair, and I will tell you,” replied Freeling, and he turned, + moving toward a corner of the room, she following. They sat down, taking + chairs near each other. + </p> + <p> + “There's trouble brewing,” said the man, his face growing dark and + anxious. + </p> + <p> + “What kind of trouble?” + </p> + <p> + “I had a letter from George Granger yesterday.” + </p> + <p> + “What!” The color went out of the lady's face. + </p> + <p> + “A letter from George Granger. He wished to see me.” + </p> + <p> + “Did you go?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “What did he want?” + </p> + <p> + Freeling took a deep breath, and sighed. His manner was troubled. + </p> + <p> + “What did he want?” Mrs. Dinneford repeated the question. + </p> + <p> + “He's as sane as you or I,” said Freeling. + </p> + <p> + “Is he? Oh, very well! Then let him go to the State's prison.” Mrs. + Dinneford said this with some bravado in her manner. But the color did not + come back to her face. + </p> + <p> + “He has no idea of that,” was replied. + </p> + <p> + “What then?” The lady leaned toward Freeling. Her hands moved nervously. + </p> + <p> + “He means to have the case in court again, but on a new issue.” + </p> + <p> + “He does!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; says that he's innocent, and that you and I know it—that he's + the victim of a conspiracy, and that we are the conspirators!” + </p> + <p> + “Talk!—amounts to nothing,” returned Mrs. Dinneford, with a faint + little laugh. + </p> + <p> + “I don't know about that. It's ugly talk, and especially so, seeing that + it's true.” + </p> + <p> + “No one will give credence to the ravings of an insane criminal.” + </p> + <p> + “People are quick to credit an evil report. They will pity and believe + him, now that the worst is reached. A reaction in public feeling has + already taken place. He has one or two friends left who do not hesitate to + affirm that there has been foul play. One of these has been tampering with + a clerk of mine, and I came upon them with their heads together on the + street a few days ago, and had my suspicions aroused by their startled + look when they saw me.” + </p> + <p> + “'What did that man want with you?' I inquired, when the clerk came in. + </p> + <p> + “He hesitated a moment, and then replied, 'He was asking me something + about Mr. Granger.' + </p> + <p> + “'What about him?' I queried. 'He asked me if I knew anything in regard to + the forgery,' he returned. + </p> + <p> + “I pressed him with questions, and found that suspicion was on the right + track. This friend of Granger's asked particularly about your visits to + the store, and whether he had ever noticed anything peculiar in our + intercourse—anything that showed a familiarity beyond what would + naturally arise between a customer and salesman.” + </p> + <p> + “There's nothing in that,” said Mrs. Dinneford. “If you and I keep our own + counsel, we are safe. The testimony of a condemned criminal goes for + nothing. People may surmise and talk as much as they please, but no one + knows anything about those notes but you and I and George.” + </p> + <p> + “A pardon from the governor may put a new aspect on the case.” + </p> + <p> + “A pardon!” There was a tremor of alarm in Mrs. Dinneford's voice. + </p> + <p> + “Yes; that, no doubt, will be the first move.” + </p> + <p> + “The first move! Why, Mr. Freeling, you don't think anything like this is + in contemplation?” + </p> + <p> + “I'm afraid so. George, as I have said, is no more crazy than you or I. + But he cannot come out of the asylum, as the case now stands, without + going to the penitentiary. So the first move of his friends will be to get + a pardon. Then he is our equal in the eyes of the law. It would be an ugly + thing for you and me to be sued for a conspiracy to ruin this young man, + and have the charge of forgery added to the count.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Dinneford gave a low cry, and shivered. + </p> + <p> + “But it may come to that.” + </p> + <p> + “Impossible!” + </p> + <p> + “The prudent man foreseeth the evil and hideth himself, but the simple + pass on and are punished,” said Freeling. “It is for this that I have sent + for you. It's an ugly business, and I was a weak fool ever to have engaged + in it.” + </p> + <p> + “You were a free agent.” + </p> + <p> + “I was a weak fool.” + </p> + <p> + “As you please,” returned Mrs. Dinneford, coldly, and drawing herself away + from him. + </p> + <p> + It was some moments before either of them spoke again. Then Freeling said, + </p> + <p> + “I was awake all night, thinking over this matter, and it looks uglier the + more I think of it. It isn't likely that enough evidence could be found to + convict either of us, but to be tried on such an accusation would be + horrible.” + </p> + <p> + “Horrible! horrible!” ejaculated Mrs. Dinneford. “What is to be done?” She + gave signs of weakness and terror. Freeling observed her closely, then + felt his way onward. + </p> + <p> + “We are in great peril,” he said. “There is no knowing what turn affairs + will take. I only wish I were a thousand miles from here. It would be + safer for us both.” Then, after a pause, he added, “If I were foot-free, I + would be off to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + He watched Mrs. Dinneford closely, and saw a change creep over her face. + </p> + <p> + “If I were to disappear suddenly,” he resumed, “suspicion, if it took a + definite shape, would fall on me. You would not be thought of in the + matter.” + </p> + <p> + He paused again, observing his companion keenly but stealthily. He was not + able to look her fully in the face. + </p> + <p> + “Speak out plainly,” said Mrs. Dinneford, with visible impatience. + </p> + <p> + “Plainly, then, madam,” returned Freeling, changing his whole bearing + toward her, and speaking as one who felt that he was master of the + situation, “it has come to this: I shall have to break up and leave the + city, or there will be a new trial in which you and I will be the accused. + Now, self-preservation is the first law of nature. I don't mean to go to + the State's prison if I can help it. What I am now debating are the + chances in my favor if Granger gets a pardon, and then makes an effort to + drive us to the wall, which he most surely will. I have settled it so far—” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Dinneford leaned toward him with an anxious expression on her + countenance, waiting for the next sentence. But Freeling did not go on. + </p> + <p> + “How have you settled it?” she demanded, trembling as she spoke with the + excitement of suspense. + </p> + <p> + “That I am not going to the wall if I can help it.” + </p> + <p> + “How will you help it?” + </p> + <p> + “I have an accomplice;” and this time he was able to look at Mrs. + Dinneford with such a fixed and threatening gaze that her eyes fell. + </p> + <p> + “You have?” she questioned, in a husky voice. + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Who?” + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. Helen Dinneford. And do you think for a moment that to save myself I + would hesitate to sacrifice her?” + </p> + <p> + The lady's face grew white. She tried to speak, but could not. + </p> + <p> + “I am talking plainly, as you desired, madam,” continued Freeling. “You + led me into this thing. It was no scheme of mine; and if more evil + consequences are to come, I shall do my best to save my own head. Let the + hurt go to where it rightfully belongs.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean?” Mrs. Dinneford tried to rally herself. + </p> + <p> + “Just this,” was answered: “if I am dragged into court, I mean to go in as + a witness, and not as a criminal. At the first movement toward an + indictment, I shall see the district attorney, whom I know very well, and + give him such information in the case as will lead to fixing the crime on + you alone, while I will come in as the principal witness. This will make + your conviction certain.” + </p> + <p> + “Devil!” exclaimed Mrs. Dinneford, her white face convulsed and her eyes + starting from their sockets with rage and fear. “Devil!” she repeated, not + able to control her passion. + </p> + <p> + “Then you know me,” was answered, with cool self-possession, “and what you + have to expect.” + </p> + <p> + Neither spoke for a considerable time. Up to this period they had been + alone in the parlor. Guests of the house now came in and took seats near + them. They arose and walked the floor for a little while, still in + silence, then passed into an adjoining parlor that happened to be empty, + and resumed the conference. + </p> + <p> + “This is a last resort,” remarked Freeling, softening his voice as they + sat down—“a card that I do not wish to play, and shall not if I can + help it. But it is best that you should know that it is in my hand. If + there is any better way of escape, I shall take it.” + </p> + <p> + “You spoke of going away,” said Mrs. Dinneford. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. But that involves a great deal.” + </p> + <p> + “What?” + </p> + <p> + “The breaking up of my business, and loss of money and opportunities that + I can hardly hope ever to regain.” + </p> + <p> + “Why loss of money?” + </p> + <p> + “I shall have to wind up hurriedly, and it will be impossible to collect + more than a small part of my outstanding claims. I shall have to go away + under a cloud, and it will not be prudent to return. Most of these claims + will therefore become losses. The amount of capital I shall be able to + take will not be sufficient to do more than provide for a small beginning + in some distant place and under an assumed name. On the other hand, if I + remain and fight the thing through, as I have no doubt I can, I shall keep + my business and my place in society here—hurt, it may be, in my good + name, but still with the main chance all right. But it will be hard for + you. If I pass the ordeal safely, you will not. And the question to + consider is whether you can make it to my interest to go away, to drop out + of sight, injured in fortune and good name, while you go unscathed. You + now have it all in a nutshell. I will not press you to a decision to-day. + Your mind is too much disturbed. To-morrow, at noon, I would like to see + you again.” + </p> + <p> + Freeling made a motion to rise, but Mrs. Dinneford did not stir. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps,” he said, “you decide at once to let things take their course. + Understand me, I am ready for either alternative. The election is with + yourself.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Dinneford was too much stunned by all this to be able to come to any + conclusion. She seemed in the maze of a terrible dream, full of appalling + reality. To wait for twenty-four hours in this state of uncertainty was + more than her thoughts could endure. And yet she must have time to think, + and to get command of her mental resources. + </p> + <p> + “Will you be disengaged at five o'clock?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “I will be here at five.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Dinneford arose with a weary air. + </p> + <p> + “I shall want to hear from you very explicitly,” she said. “If your demand + is anywhere in the range of reason and possibility, I may meet it. If + outside of that range, I shall of course reject it. It is possible that + you may not hold all the winning cards—in fact, I know that you do + not.” + </p> + <p> + “I will be here at five,” said Freeling. + </p> + <p> + “Very well. I shall be on time.” + </p> + <p> + And they turned from each other, passing from the parlor by separate + doors. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0012" id="link2HCH0012"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XII. + </h2> + <p> + <i>ONE</i> morning, about two weeks later, Mr. Freeling did not make his + appearance at his place of business as usual. At ten o'clock a clerk went + to the hotel where he boarded to learn the cause of his absence. He had + not been there since the night before. His trunks and clothing were all in + their places, and nothing in the room indicated anything more than an + ordinary absence. + </p> + <p> + Twelve o'clock, and still Mr. Freeling had not come to the store. Two or + three notes were to be paid that day, and the managing-clerk began to feel + uneasy. The bank and check books were in a private drawer in the fireproof + of which Mr. Freeling had the key. So there was no means of ascertaining + the balances in bank. + </p> + <p> + At one o'clock it was thought best to break open the private drawer and + see how matters stood. Freeling kept three bank-accounts, and it was found + that on the day before he had so nearly checked out all the balances that + the aggregate on deposit was not over twenty dollars. In looking back over + these bank-accounts, it was seen that within a week he had made deposits + of over fifty thousand dollars, and that most of the checks drawn against + these deposits were in sums of five thousand dollars each. + </p> + <p> + At three o'clock he was still absent. His notes went to protest, and on + the next day his city creditors took possession of his effects. One fact + soon became apparent—he had been paying the rogue's game on a pretty + liberal scale, having borrowed on his checks, from business friends and + brokers, not less than sixty or seventy thousand dollars. It was + estimated, on a thorough examination of his business, that he had gone off + with at least a hundred thousand dollars. To this amount Mrs. Dinneford + had contributed from her private fortune the sum of twenty thousand + dollars. Not until she had furnished him with that large amount would he + consent to leave the city. He magnified her danger, and so overcame her + with terrors that she yielded to his exorbitant demand. + </p> + <p> + On the day a public newspaper announcement of Freeling's rascality was + made, Mrs. Dinneford went to bed sick of a nervous fever, and was for a + short period out of her mind. + </p> + <p> + Neither Mr. Dinneford nor Edith had failed to notice a change in Mrs. + Dinneford. She was not able to hide her troubled feelings. Edith was + watching her far more closely than she imagined; and now that she was + temporarily out of her mind, she did not let a word or look escape her. + The first aspect of her temporary aberration was that of fear and + deprecation. She was pursued by some one who filled her with terror, and + she would lift her hands to keep him off, or hide her head in abject + alarm. Then she would beg him to keep away. Once she said, + </p> + <p> + “It's no use; I can't do anything more. You're a vampire!” + </p> + <p> + “Who is a vampire?” asked Edith, hoping that her mother would repeat some + name. + </p> + <p> + But the question seemed to put her on her guard. The expression of fear + went out of her face, and she looked at her daughter curiously. + </p> + <p> + Edith did not repeat the question. In a little while the mother's + wandering thoughts began to find words again, and she went on talking in + broken sentences out of which little could be gleaned. At length she said, + turning to Edith and speaking with the directness of one in her right + mind, + </p> + <p> + “I told you her name was Gray, didn't I? Gray, not Bray.” + </p> + <p> + It was only by a quick and strong effort that Edith could steady her voice + as she replied: + </p> + <p> + “Yes; you said it was Gray.” + </p> + <p> + “Gray, not Bray. You thought it was Bray.” + </p> + <p> + “But it's Gray,” said Edith, falling in with her mother's humor. Then she + added, still trying to keep her voice even, + </p> + <p> + “She was my nurse when baby was born.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; she was the nurse, but she didn't—” + </p> + <p> + Checking herself, Mrs. Dinneford rose on one arm and looked at Edith in a + frightened way, then said, hurriedly, + </p> + <p> + “Oh, it's dead, it's dead! You know that; and the woman's dead, too.” + </p> + <p> + Edith sat motionless and silent as a statue, waiting for what more might + come. But her mother shut her lips tightly, and turned her head away. + </p> + <p> + A long time elapsed before she was able to read in her mother's confused + utterances anything to which she could attach a meaning. At last Mrs. + Dinneford spoke out again, and with an abruptness that startled her: + </p> + <p> + “Not another dollar, sir! Remember, you don't hold <i>all</i> the winning + cards!” + </p> + <p> + Edith held her breath, and sat motionless. Her mother muttered and mumbled + incoherently for a while, and then said, sharply, + </p> + <p> + “I said I would ruin him, and I've done it!” + </p> + <p> + “Ruin who?” asked Edith, in a repressed voice. + </p> + <p> + This question, instead of eliciting an answer, as Edith had hoped, brought + her mother back to semi-consciousness. She rose again in bed, and looked + at her daughter in the same frightened way she had done a little while + before, then laid herself over on the pillows again. Her lips were tightly + shut. + </p> + <p> + Edith was almost wild with suspense. The clue to that sad and painful + mystery which was absorbing her life seemed almost in her grasp. A word + from those closely-shut lips, and she would have certainty for + uncertainty. But she waited and waited until she grew faint, and still the + lips kept silent. + </p> + <p> + But after a while Mrs. Dinneford grew uneasy, and began talking. She moved + her head from side to side, threw her arms about restlessly and appeared + greatly disturbed. + </p> + <p> + “Not dead, Mrs. Bray?” she cried out, at last, in a clear, strong voice. + </p> + <p> + Edith became fixed as a statue once more. + </p> + <p> + A few moments, and Mrs. Dinneford added, + </p> + <p> + “No, no! I won't have her coming after me. More money! You're a vampire!” + </p> + <p> + Then she muttered, and writhed and distorted her face like one in some + desperate struggle. Edith shuddered as she stood over her. + </p> + <p> + After this wild paroxysm Mrs. Dinneford grew more quiet, and seemed to + sleep. Edith remained sitting by the bedside, her thoughts intent on the + strange sentences that had fallen from her Mother's lips. What mystery lay + behind them? Of what secret were they an obscure revelation? “Not dead!” + Who not dead? And again, “It's dead! You know that; and the woman's dead, + too.” Then it was plain that she had heard aright the name of the person + who had called on her mother, and about whom her mother had made a + mystery. It was Bray; if not, why the anxiety to make her believe it Gray? + And this woman had been her nurse. It was plain, also, that money was + being paid for keeping secret. What secret? Then a life had been ruined. + “I said I would ruin him, and I've done it!” Who? who could her mother + mean but the unhappy man she had once called husband, now a criminal in + the eyes of the law, and only saved by insanity from a criminal's cell? + </p> + <p> + Putting all together, Edith's mind quickly wrought out a theory, and this + soon settled into a conviction—a conviction so close to fact that + all the chief elements were true. + </p> + <p> + During her mother's temporary aberration, Edith never left her room except + for a few minutes at a time. Not a word or sentence escaped her notice. + But she waited and listened in vain for anything more. The talking + paroxysm was over. A stupor of mind and body followed. Out of this a slow + recovery came, but it did not progress to a full convalescence. Mrs. + Dinneford went forth from her sick-chamber weak and nervous, starting at + sudden noises, and betraying a perpetual uneasiness and suspense. Edith + was continually on the alert, watching every look and word and act with + untiring scrutiny. Mrs. Dinneford soon became aware of this. Guilt made + her wary, and danger inspired prudence. Edith's whole manner had changed. + Why? was her natural query. Had she been wandering in her mind? Had she + given any clue to the dark secrets she was hiding? Keen observation became + mutual. Mother and daughter watched each other with a suspicion that never + slept. + </p> + <p> + It was over a month from the time Freeling disappeared before Mrs. + Dinneford was strong enough to go out, except in her carriage. In every + case where she had ridden out, Edith had gone with her. + </p> + <p> + “If you don't care about riding, it's no matter,” the mother would say, + when she saw Edith getting ready. “I can go alone. I feel quite well and + strong.” + </p> + <p> + But Edith always had some reason for going against which her mother could + urge no objections. So she kept her as closely under observation as + possible. One day, on returning from a ride, as the carriage passed into + the block where they lived, she saw a woman standing on the step in front + of their residence. She had pulled the bell, and was waiting for a servant + to answer it. + </p> + <p> + “There is some one at our door,” said Edith. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Dinneford leaned across her daughter, and then drew back quickly, + saying, + </p> + <p> + “It's Mrs. Barker. Tell Henry to drive past. I don't want to see visitors, + and particularly not Mrs. Barker.” + </p> + <p> + She spoke hurriedly, and with ill-concealed agitation. Edith kept her eyes + on the woman, and saw her go in, but did not tell the driver to keep on + past the house. It was not Mrs. Barker. She knew that very well. In the + next moment their carriage drew up at the door. + </p> + <p> + “Go on, Henry!” cried Mrs. Dinneford, leaning past her daughter, and + speaking through the window that was open on that side. “Drive down to + Loring's.” + </p> + <p> + “Not till I get out, Henry,” said Edith, pushing open the door and + stepping to the pavement. Then with a quick movement she shut the door and + ran across the pavement, calling back to the driver as she did so, + </p> + <p> + “Take mother to Loring's.” + </p> + <p> + “Stop, Henry!” cried Mrs. Dinneford, and with an alertness that was + surprising sprung from the carriage, and was on the steps of their house + before Edith's violent ring had brought a servant to the door. They passed + in, Edith holding her place just in advance. + </p> + <p> + “I will see Mrs. Barker,” said Mrs. Dinneford, trying to keep out of her + voice the fear and agitation from which she was suffering. “You can go up + to your room.” + </p> + <p> + “It isn't Mrs. Barker. You are mistaken.” There was as much of betrayal in + the voice of Edith as in that of her mother. Each was trying to hide + herself from the other, but the veil in both cases was far too thin for + deception. + </p> + <p> + Mother and daughter entered the parlor together. As they did so a woman of + small stature, and wearing a rusty black dress, arose from a seat near the + window. The moment she saw Edith she drew a heavy dark veil over her face + with a quickness of movement that had in it as much of discomfiture as + surprise. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Dinneford was equal to the occasion. The imminent peril in which she + stood calmed the wild tumult within, as the strong wind calms this + turbulent ocean, and gave her thoughts clearness and her mind decision. + Edith saw before the veil fell a startled face, and recognized the sallow + countenance and black, evil eyes, the woman who had once before called to + see her mother. + </p> + <p> + “Didn't I tell you not to come here, Mrs. Gray?” cried out Mrs. Dinneford, + with an anger that was more real than feigned, advancing quickly upon the + woman as she spoke. “Go!” and she pointed to the door, “and don't you dare + to come here again. I told you when you were here last time that I + wouldn't be bothered with you any longer. I've done all I ever intend + doing. So take yourself away.” + </p> + <p> + And she pointed again to the door. Mrs. Bray—for it was that + personage—comprehended the situation fully. She was as good an actor + as Mrs. Dinneford, and quite as equal to the occasion. Lifting her hand in + a weak, deprecating way, and then shrinking like one borne down by the + shock of a great disappointment, she moved back from the excited woman and + made her way to the hall, Mrs. Dinneford following and assailing her in + passionate language. + </p> + <p> + Edith was thrown completely off her guard by this unexpected scene. She + did not stir from the spot where she stood on entering the parlor until + the visitor was at the street door, whither her mother had followed the + retreating figure. She did not hear the woman say in the tone of one who + spoke more in command than entreaty, + </p> + <p> + “To-morrow at one o'clock, or take the consequences.” + </p> + <p> + “It will be impossible to-morrow,” Mrs. Dinneford whispered back, + hurriedly; “I have been very ill, and have only just begun to ride out. It + may be a week, but I'll surely come. I'm watched. Go now! go! go!” + </p> + <p> + And she pushed Mrs. Bray out into the vestibule and shut the door after + her. Mrs. Dinneford did not return to the parlor, but went hastily up to + her own room, locking herself in. + </p> + <p> + She did not come out until dinner-time, when she made an effort to seem + composed, but Edith saw her hand tremble every time it was lifted. She + drank three glasses of wine during the meal. After dinner she went to her + own apartment immediately, and did not come down again that day. + </p> + <p> + On the next morning Mrs. Dinneford tried to appear cheerful and + indifferent. But her almost colorless face, pinched about the lips and + nostrils, and the troubled expression that would not go out of her eyes, + betrayed to Edith the intense anxiety and dread that lay beneath the + surface. + </p> + <p> + Days went by, but Edith had no more signs. Now that her mother was + steadily getting back both bodily strength and mental self-poise, the veil + behind which she was hiding herself, and which had been broken into rifts + here and there during her sickness, grew thicker and thicker. Mrs. + Dinneford had too much at stake not to play her cards with exceeding care. + She knew that Edith was watching her with an intentness that let nothing + escape. Her first care, as soon as she grew strong enough to have the + mastery over herself, was so to control voice, manner and expression of + countenance as not to appear aware of this surveillance. Her next was to + re-establish the old distance between herself and daughter, which her + illness had temporarily bridged over, and her next was to provide against + any more visits from Mrs. Bray. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0013" id="link2HCH0013"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIII. + </h2> + <p> + <i>AS</i> for Edith, all doubts and questionings as to her baby's fate + were merged into a settled conviction that it was alive, and that her + mother knew where it was to be found. From her mother's pity and humanity + she had nothing to hope for the child. It had been cruelly cast adrift, + pushed out to die; by what means was cared not, so that it died and left + no trace. + </p> + <p> + The face of Mrs. Bray had, in the single glance Edith obtained of it, + become photographed in her mind. If she had been an artist, she could have + drawn it from memory so accurately that no one who knew the woman could + have failed to recognize her likeness. Always when in the street her eyes + searched for this face; she never passed a woman of small stature and poor + dark clothing without turning to look at her. Every day she went out, + walking the streets sometimes for hours looking for this face, but not + finding it. Every day she passed certain corners and localities where she + had seen women begging, and whenever she found one with a baby in her arms + would stop to look at the poor starved thing, and question her about it. + </p> + <p> + Gradually all her thoughts became absorbed in the condition of poor, + neglected and suffering children. Her attendance at the St. John's mission + sewing-school, which was located in the neighborhood of one of the worst + places in the city, brought her in contact with little children in such a + wretched state of ignorance, destitution and vice that her heart was moved + to deepest pity, intensified by the thought that ever and anon flashed + across her mind: “And my baby may become like one of these!” + </p> + <p> + Sometimes this thought would drive her almost to madness. Often she would + become so wild in her suspense as to be on the verge of openly accusing + her mother with having knowledge of her baby's existence and demanding of + her its restoration. But she was held back by the fear that such an + accusation would only shut the door of hope for ever. She had come to + believe her mother capable of almost any wickedness. Pressed to the wall + she would never be if there was any way of escape, and to prevent such at + thing there was nothing so desperate that she would not do it; and so + Edith hesitated and feared to take the doubtful issue. + </p> + <p> + Week after week and month after month now went on without a single, + occurrence that gave to Edith any new light. Mrs. Dinneford wrought with + her accomplice so effectually that she kept her wholly out of the way. + Often, in going and returning from the mission-school, Edith would linger + about the neighborhood where she had once met her mother, hoping to see + her come out of some one of the houses there, for she had got it into her + mind that the woman called Mrs. Gray lived somewhere in this locality. + </p> + <p> + One day, in questioning a child who had come to the sewing-school as to + her home and how she lived, the little girl said something about a baby + that her mother said she knew must have been stolen. + </p> + <p> + “How old is the baby?” asked Edith, hardly able to keep the tremor out of + her voice. + </p> + <p> + “It's a little thing,” answered the child. “I don't know how old it is; + maybe it's six months old, or maybe it's a year. It can sit upon the + floor.” + </p> + <p> + “Why does your mother think it has been stolen?” + </p> + <p> + “Because two bad girls have got it, and they pay a woman to take care of + it. It doesn't belong to them, she knows. Mother says it would be a good + thing if it died.” + </p> + <p> + “Why does she say that?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh she always talks that way about babies—says she's glad when they + die.” + </p> + <p> + “Is it a boy or a girl?” + </p> + <p> + “It's a boy baby,” answered the child. + </p> + <p> + “Does the woman take good care of it?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh dear, no! She lets it sit on the floor 'most all the time, and it + cries so that I often go up and nurse it. The woman lives in the room over + ours.” + </p> + <p> + “Where do you live?” + </p> + <p> + “In Grubb's court.” + </p> + <p> + “Will you show me the way there after school is over?” + </p> + <p> + The child looked up into Edith's face with an expression of surprise and + doubt. Edith repeated her question. + </p> + <p> + “I guess you'd better not go,” was answered, in a voice that meant all the + words expressed. + </p> + <p> + “Why not?” + </p> + <p> + “It isn't a good place.” + </p> + <p> + “But you live there?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, but nobody's going to trouble me.” + </p> + <p> + “Nor me,” said Edith. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, but you don't know what kind of a place it is, nor what dreadful + people live there.” + </p> + <p> + “I could get a policeman to go with me, couldn't I?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, maybe you could, or Mr. Paulding, the missionary. He goes about + everywhere.” + </p> + <p> + “Where can I find Mr. Paulding?” + </p> + <p> + “At the mission in Briar street.” + </p> + <p> + “You'll show me the way there after school?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh yes; it isn't a nice place for you to go, but I guess nobody'll + trouble you.” + </p> + <p> + After the school closed, Edith, guided by the child, made her way to the + Briar st. mission-house. As she entered the narrow street in which it was + situated, the aspect of things was so strange and shocking to her eyes + that she felt a chill creep to her heart. She had never imagined anything + so forlorn and squalid, so wretched and comfortless. Miserable little + hovels, many of them no better than pig-styes, and hardly cleaner within, + were crowded together in all stages of dilapidation. Windows with scarcely + a pane of glass, the chilly air kept out by old hats, bits of carpet or + wads of newspaper, could be seen on all sides, with here and there, + showing some remains of an orderly habit, a broken pane closed with a + smooth piece of paper pasted to the sash. Instinctively she paused, + oppressed by a sense of fear. + </p> + <p> + “It's only halfway down,” said the child. “We'll 'go quick. I guess + nobody'll speak to you. They're afraid of Mr. Paulding about here. He's + down on 'em if they meddle with anybody that's coming to the mission.” + </p> + <p> + Edith, thus urged, moved on. She had gone but a few steps when two men + came in sight, advancing toward her. They were of the class to be seen at + all times in that region—debased to the lowest degree, drunken, + ragged, bloated, evil-eyed, capable of any wicked thing. They were singing + when they came in sight, but checked their drunken mirth as soon as they + saw Edith, whose heart sunk again. She stopped, trembling. + </p> + <p> + “They're only drunk,” said the child. “I don't believe they'll hurt you.” + </p> + <p> + Edith rallied herself and walked on, the men coming closer and closer. She + saw them look at each other with leering eyes, and then at her in a way + that made her shiver. When only a few paces distant, they paused, and with + the evident intention of barring her farther progress. + </p> + <p> + “Good-afternoon, miss,” said one of them, with a low bow. “Can we do + anything for you?” + </p> + <p> + The pale, frightened face of Edith was noticed by the other, and it + touched some remnant of manhood not yet wholly extinguished. + </p> + <p> + “Let her alone, you miserable cuss!” he cried, and giving his drunken + companion a shove, sent him staggering across the street. This made the + way clear, and Edith sprang forward, but she had gone only a few feet when + she came face to face with another obstruction even more frightful, if + possible, than the first. A woman with a red, swollen visage, black eye, + soiled, tattered, drunk, with arms wildly extended, came rushing up to + her. The child gave a scream. The wretched creature caught at a shawl worn + by Edith, and was dragging it from her shoulders, when the door of one of + the houses flew open, and a woman came out hastily. Grasping the + assailant, she hurled her across the street with the strength of a giant. + </p> + <p> + “We're going to the mission,” said the child. + </p> + <p> + “It's just down there. Go 'long. I'll stand here and see that no one + meddles with you again.” + </p> + <p> + Edith faltered her thanks, and went on. + </p> + <p> + “That's the queen,” said her companion. + </p> + <p> + “The queen!” Edith's hasty tones betrayed her surprise. + </p> + <p> + “Yes; it's Norah. They're all afraid of her. I'm glad she saw us. She's as + strong as a man.” + </p> + <p> + In a few minutes they reached the mission, but in those few minutes Edith + saw more to sadden the heart, more to make it ache for humanity, than + could be described in pages. + </p> + <p> + The missionary was at home. Edith told him the purpose of her call and the + locality she desired to visit. + </p> + <p> + “I wanted to go alone,” she remarked, “but this little girl, who is in my + class at the sewing-school, said it wouldn't be safe, and that you would + go with me.” + </p> + <p> + “I should be sorry to have you go alone into Grubb's court,” said the + missionary, kindly, and with concern in his voice, “for a worse place can + hardly be found in the city—I was going to say in the world. You + will be safe with me, however. But why do you wish to visit Grubb's court? + Perhaps I can do all that is needed.” + </p> + <p> + “This little girl who lives in there, has been telling me about a poor + neglected baby that her mother says has no doubt been stolen, and—and—” + Edith voice faltered, but she quickly gained steadiness under a strong + effort of will: “I thought perhaps I might be able to do something for it—to + get it into one of the homes, maybe. It is dreadful, sir, to think of + little babies being neglected.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Paulding questioned the child who had brought Edith to the + mission-house, and learned from her that the baby was merely boarded by + the woman who had it in charge, and that she sometimes took it out and sat + on the street, begging. The child repeated what she had said to Edith—that + the baby was the property, so to speak, of two abandoned women, who paid + its board. + </p> + <p> + “I think,” said the missionary, after some reflection, “that if getting + the child out of their hands is your purpose, you had better not go there + at present. Your visit would arouse suspicion; and if the two women have + anything to gain by keeping the child in their possession, it will be at + once taken to a new place. I am moving about in these localities all the + while, and can look in upon the baby without anything being thought of + it.” + </p> + <p> + This seemed so reasonable that Edith, who could not get over the nervous + tremors occasioned by what she had already seen and encountered, readily + consented to leave the matter for the present in Mr. Paulding's hands. + </p> + <p> + “If you will come here to-morrow,” said the missionary, “I will tell you + all I can about the baby.” + </p> + <p> + Out of a region where disease, want and crime shrunk from common + observation, and sin and death held high carnival, Edith hurried with + trembling feet, and heart beating so heavily that she could hear it throb, + the considerate missionary going with her until she had crossed the + boundary of this morally infected district. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Dinneford met Edith at the door on her arrival home. + </p> + <p> + “My child,” he exclaimed as he looked into her face, back to which the + color had not returned since her fright in Briar street, “are you sick?” + </p> + <p> + “I don't feel very well;” and she tried to pass him hastily in the hall as + they entered the house together. But he laid his hand on her arm and held + her back gently, then drew her into the parlor. She sat down, trembling, + weak and faint. Mr. Dinneford waited for some moments, looking at her with + a tender concern, before speaking. + </p> + <p> + “Where have you been, my dear?” he asked, at length. + </p> + <p> + After a little hesitation, Edith told her father about her visit to Briar + street and the shock she had received. + </p> + <p> + “You were wrong,” he answered, gravely. “It is most fortunate for you that + you took the child's advice and called at the mission. If you had gone to + Grubb's court alone, you might not have come out alive.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh no, father! It can't be so bad as that.” + </p> + <p> + “It is just as bad as that,” he replied, with a troubled face and manner. + “Grubb's court is one of the traps into which unwary victims are drawn + that they may be plundered. It is as much out of common observation almost + as the lair of a wild beast in some deep wilderness. I have heard it + described by those who have been there under protection of the police, and + shudder to think of the narrow escape you have made. I don't want you to + go into that vile district again. It is no place for such as you.” + </p> + <p> + “There's a poor little baby there,” said Edith, her voice trembling and + tears filling her eyes. Then, after a brief struggle with her feelings, + she threw herself upon her father, sobbing out, “And oh, father, it may be + my baby!” + </p> + <p> + “My poor child,” said Mr. Dinneford, not able to keep his voice firm—“my + poor, poor child! It is all a wild dream, the suggestion of evil spirits + who delight in torment.” + </p> + <p> + “What became of my baby, father? Can you tell me?” + </p> + <p> + “It died, Edith dear. We know that,” returned her father, trying to speak + very confidently. But the doubt in his own mind betrayed itself. + </p> + <p> + “Do you know it?” she asked, rising and confronting her father. + </p> + <p> + “I didn't actually see it die. But—but—” + </p> + <p> + “You know no more about it than I do,” said Edith; “if you did, you might + set my heart at rest with a word. But you cannot. And so I am left to my + wild fears, that grow stronger every day. Oh, father, help me, if you can. + I must have certainty, or I shall lose my reason.” + </p> + <p> + “If you don't give up this wild fancy, you surely will,” answered Mr. + Dinneford, in a distressed voice. + </p> + <p> + “If I were to shut myself up and do nothing,” said Edith, with greater + calmness, “I would be in a madhouse before a week went by. My safety lies + in getting down to the truth of this wild fancy, as you call it. It has + taken such possession of me that nothing but certainty can give me rest. + Will you help me?” + </p> + <p> + “How can I help you? I have no clue to this sad mystery.” + </p> + <p> + “Mystery! Then you are as much in the dark as I am—know no more of + what became of my baby than I do! Oh, father, how could you let such a + thing be done, and ask no questions—such a cruel and terrible thing—and + I lying helpless and dumb? Oh, father, my innocent baby cast out like a + dog to perish—nay, worse, like a lamb among wolves to be torn by + their cruel teeth—and no one to put forth a hand to save! If I only + knew that he was dead! If I could find his little grave and comfort my + heart over it!” + </p> + <p> + Weak, naturally good men, like Mr. Dinneford, often permit great wrongs to + be done in shrinking from conflict and evading the sterner duties of life. + They are often the faithless guardians of immortal trusts. + </p> + <p> + There was a tone of accusation and rebuke in Edith's voice that smote + painfully on her father's heart. He answered feebly: + </p> + <p> + “What could I do? How should I know that anything wrong was being done? + You were very ill, and the baby was sent away to be nursed, and then I was + told that it was dead.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, father! Sent away without your seeing it! My baby! Your little + grandson! Oh, father!” + </p> + <p> + “But you know, dear, in what a temper of mind your mother was—how + impossible it is for me to do anything with her when she once sets herself + to do a thing.” + </p> + <p> + “Even if it be murder!” said Edith, in a hoarse whisper. + </p> + <p> + “Hush, hush, my child! You must not speak so,” returned the agitated + father. + </p> + <p> + A silence fell between them. A wall of separation began to grow up. Edith + arose, and was moving from the room. + </p> + <p> + “My daughter!” There was a sob in the father's voice. + </p> + <p> + Edith stopped. + </p> + <p> + “My daughter, we must not part yet. Come back; sit down with me, and let + us talk more calmly. What is past cannot be changed. It is with the now of + this unhappy business that we have to do.” + </p> + <p> + Edith came back and sat down again, her father taking a seat beside her. + </p> + <p> + “That is just it,” she answered, with a steadiness of tone and manner that + showed how great was the self-control she was able to exert. “It is with + the now of this unhappy affair that we have to do. If I spoke strongly of + the past, it was that a higher and intenser life might be given to present + duty.” + </p> + <p> + “Let there be no distance between us. Let no wall of separation grow up,” + said Mr. Dinneford, tenderly. “I cannot bear to think of this. Confide in + me, consult with me. I will help you in all possible ways to solve this + mystery. But do not again venture alone into that dreadful place. I will + go with you if you think any good will come of it.” + </p> + <p> + “I must see Mr. Paulding in the morning,” said Edith, with calm decision. + </p> + <p> + “Then I will go with you,” returned Mr. Dinneford. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you, father;” and she kissed him. “Until then nothing more can be + done.” She kissed him again, and then went to her own room. After locking + the door she sank on her knees, leaning forward, with her face buried in + the cushion of a chair, and did not rise for a long time. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0014" id="link2HCH0014"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIV. + </h2> + <p> + <i>ON</i> the next morning, after some persuasion, Edith consented to + postpone her visit to Grubb's court until after her father had seen Mr. + Paulding, the missionary. + </p> + <p> + “Let me go first and gain what information I can,” he urged. “It may save + you a fruitless errand.” + </p> + <p> + It was not without a feeling of almost unconquerable repugnance that Mr. + Dinneford took his way to the mission-house, in Briar street. His tastes, + his habits and his naturally kind and sensitive feelings all made him + shrink from personal contact with suffering and degradation. He gave much + time and care to the good work of helping the poor and the wretched, but + did his work in boards and on committees, rather than in the presence of + the needy and suffering. He was not one of those who would pass over to + the other side and leave a wounded traveler to perish, but he would avoid + the road to Jericho, if he thought it likely any such painful incident + would meet him in the way and shock his fine sensibilities. He was willing + to work for the downcast, the wronged, the suffering and the vile, but + preferred doing so at a distance, and not in immediate contact. Thus it + happened that, although one of the managers of the Briar street mission + and familiar with its work in a general way, he had never been at the + mission-house—had never, in fact, set his foot within the morally + plague-stricken district in which it stood. He had often been urged to go, + but could not overcome his reluctance to meet humanity face to face in its + sadder and more degraded aspects. + </p> + <p> + Now a necessity was upon him, and he had to go. It was about ten o'clock + in the morning when, at almost a single step, he passed from what seemed + paradise to purgatory, the sudden contrast was so great. There were but + few persons in the little street; where the mission was situated at that + early hour, and most of these were children—poor, half-clothed, + dirty, wan-faced, keen-eyed and alert bits of humanity, older by far than + their natural years, few of them possessing any higher sense of right and + wrong than young savages. The night's late orgies or crimes had left most + of their elders in a heavy morning sleep, from which they did not usually + awaken before midday. Here and there one and another came creeping out, + impelled by a thirst no water could quench. Now it was a bloated, + wild-eyed man, dirty and forlorn beyond description, shambling into sight, + but disappearing in a moment or two in one of the dram-shops, whose name + was legion, and now it was a woman with the angel all gone out of her + face, barefooted, blotched, coarse, red-eyed, bruised and awfully + disfigured by her vicious, drunken life. Her steps too made haste to the + dram-shop. + </p> + <p> + Such houses for men and women to live in as now stretched before his eyes + in long dreary rows Mr. Dinneford had never seen, except in isolated cases + of vice and squalor. To say that he was shocked would but faintly express + his feelings. Hurrying along, he soon came in sight of the mission. At + this moment a jar broke the quiet of the scene. Just beyond the + mission-house two women suddenly made their appearance, one of them + pushing the other out upon the street. Their angry cries rent the air, + filling it with profane and obscene oaths. They struggled together for a + little while, and then one of them, a woman with gray hair and not less + than sixty years of age, fell across the curb with her head on the + cobble-stones. + </p> + <p> + As if a sorcerer had stamped his foot, a hundred wretched creatures, + mostly women and children, seemed to spring up from the ground. It was + like a phantasy. They gathered about the prostrate woman, laughing and + jeering. A policeman who was standing at the corner a little way off came + up leisurely, and pushing the motley crew aside, looked down at the + prostrate woman. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, it's you again!” he said, in a tone of annoyance, taking hold of one + arm and raising her so that she sat on the curb-stone. Mr. Dinneford now + saw her face distinctly; it was that of an old woman, but red, swollen and + terribly marred. Her thin gray hair had fallen over her shoulders, and + gave her a wild and crazy look. + </p> + <p> + “Come,” said the policeman, drawing on the woman's arm and trying to raise + her from the ground. But she would not move. + </p> + <p> + “Come,” he said, more imperatively. + </p> + <p> + “Nature you going to do with me?” she demanded. + </p> + <p> + “I'm going to lock you up. So come along. Have had enough of you about + here. Always drunk and in a row with somebody.” + </p> + <p> + Her resistance was making the policeman angry. + </p> + <p> + “It'll take two like you to do that,” returned the woman, in a spiteful + voice, swearing foully at the same time. + </p> + <p> + At this a cheer arose from the crowd. A negro with a push-cart came along + at the moment. + </p> + <p> + “Here! I want you,” called the policeman. + </p> + <p> + The negro pretended not to hear, and the policeman had to threaten him + before he would stop. + </p> + <p> + Seeing the cart, the drunken woman threw herself back upon the pavement + and set every muscle to a rigid strain. And now came one of those shocking + scenes—too familiar, alas! in portions of our large Christian cities—at + which everything pure and merciful and holy in our nature revolts: a + gray-haired old woman, so debased by drink and an evil life that all sense + of shame and degradation had been extinguished, fighting with a policeman, + and for a time showing superior strength, swearing vilely, her face + distorted with passion, and a crowd made up chiefly of women as vile and + degraded as herself, and of all ages, and colors, laughing, shouting and + enjoying the scene intensely. + </p> + <p> + At last, by aid of the negro, the woman was lifted into the cart and + thrown down upon the floor, her head striking one of the sides with a + sickening <i>thud</i>. She still swore and struggled, and had to be held + down by the policeman, who stood over her, while the cart was pushed off + to the nearest station-house, the excited crowd following with shouts and + merry huzzas. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Dinneford was standing in a maze, shocked and distressed by this + little episode, when a man at his side said in a grave, quiet voice, + </p> + <p> + “I doubt if you could see a sight just like that anywhere else in all + Christendom.” Then added, as he extended his hand, + </p> + <p> + “I am glad to see you here, Mr. Dinneford.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Mr. Paulding!” and Mr. Dinneford put out his hand and grasped that of + the missionary with a nervous grip. “This is awful! I am sixty years old, + but anything so shocking my eyes have not before looked upon.” + </p> + <p> + “We see things worse than this every day,” said the missionary. “It is + only one of the angry boils on the surface, and tells of the corrupt and + vicious blood within. But I am right glad to find you here, Mr. Dinneford. + Unless you see these things with your own eyes, it is impossible for you + to comprehend the condition of affairs in this by-way to hell.” + </p> + <p> + “Hell, itself, better say,” returned Mr. Dinneford. “It is hell pushing + itself into visible manifestation—hell establishing itself on the + earth, and organizing its forces for the destruction of human souls, while + the churches are too busy enlarging their phylacteries and making broader + and more attractive the hems of their garments to take note of this fatal + vantage-ground acquired by the enemy.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Dinneford stood and looked around him in a dazed sort of way. + </p> + <p> + “Is Grubb's court near this?” he asked, recollecting the errand upon which + he had come. + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “A young lady called to see you yesterday afternoon to ask about a child + in that court?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh yes! You know the lady?” + </p> + <p> + “She is my daughter. One of the poor children in her sewing-class told her + of a neglected baby in Grubb's court, and so drew upon her sympathies that + she started to go there, but was warned by the child that it would be + dangerous for a young lady like her to be seen in that den of thieves and + harlots, and so she came to you. And now I am here in her stead to get + your report about the baby. I would not consent to her visiting this place + again.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Paulding took his visitor into the mission-house, near which they were + standing. After they were seated, he said, + </p> + <p> + “I have seen the baby about which your daughter wished me to make inquiry. + The woman who has the care of it is a vile creature, well known in this + region—drunken and vicious. She said at first that it was her own + baby, but afterward admitted that she didn't know who its mother was, and + that she was paid for taking care of it. I found out, after a good deal of + talking round, and an interview with the mother of the child who is in + your daughter's sewing-class, that a girl of notoriously bad character, + named Pinky Swett, pays the baby's board. There's a mystery about the + child, and I am of the opinion that it has been stolen, or is known to be + the offcast of some respectable family. The woman who has the care of it + was suspicious, and seemed annoyed at my questions.” + </p> + <p> + “Is it a boy?” asked Mr. Dinneford. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, and has a finely-formed head and a pair of large, clear, hazel eyes. + Evidently it is of good parentage. The vicious, the sensual and the + depraved mark their offspring with the unmistakable signs of their moral + depravity. You cannot mistake them. But this baby has in its poor, wasted, + suffering little face, in its well-balanced head and deep, almost + spiritual eyes, the signs of a better origin.” + </p> + <p> + “It ought at once to be taken away from the woman,” said Mr. Dinneford, in + a very decided manner. + </p> + <p> + “Who is to take it?” asked the missionary. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Dinneford was silent. + </p> + <p> + “Neither you nor I have any authority to do so. If I were to see it cast + out upon the street, I might have it sent to the almshouse; but until I + find it abandoned or shamefully abused, I have no right to interfere.” + </p> + <p> + “I would like to see the baby,” said Mr. Dinneford, on whose mind painful + suggestions akin to those that were so disturbing his daughter were + beginning to intrude themselves. + </p> + <p> + “It would hardly be prudent to go there to-day,” said Mr. Paulding. + </p> + <p> + “Why not?” + </p> + <p> + “It would arouse suspicion; and if there is anything wrong, the baby would + drop out of sight. You would not find it if you went again. These people + are like birds with their wings half lifted, and fly away at the first + warning of danger. As it is, I fear my visit and inquiries will be quite + sufficient to the cause the child's removal to another place.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Dinneford mused for a while: + </p> + <p> + “There ought to be some way to reach a case like this, and there is, I am + sure. From what you say, it is more than probable that this poor little + waif may have drifted out of some pleasant home, where love would bless it + with the tenderest care, into this hell of neglect and cruelty. It should + be rescued on the instant. It is my duty—it is yours—to see + that it is done, and that without delay. I will go at once to the mayor + and state the case. He will send an officer with me, I know, and we will + take the child by force. If its real mother then comes forward and shows + herself at all worthy to have the care of it, well; if not, I will see + that it is taken care of. I know where to place it.” + </p> + <p> + To this proposition Mr. Paulding had no objection to offer. + </p> + <p> + “If you take that course, and act promptly, you can no doubt get + possession of the poor thing. Indeed, sir”—and the missionary spoke + with much earnestness—“if men of influence like yourself would come + here and look the evil of suffering and neglected children in the face, + and then do what they could to destroy that evil, there would soon be joy + in heaven over the good work accomplished by their hands. I could give you + a list of ten or twenty influential citizens whose will would be next to + law in a matter like this who could in a month, if they put heart and hand + to it, do such a work for humanity here as would make the angels glad. But + they are too busy with their great enterprises to give thought and effort + to a work like this.” + </p> + <p> + A shadow fell across the missionary's face. There was a tone of + discouragement in his voice. + </p> + <p> + “The great question is <i>what</i> to do,” said Mr. Dinneford. “There are + no problems so hard to solve as these problems of social evil. If men and + women choose to debase themselves, who is to hinder? The vicious heart + seeks a vicious life. While the heart is depraved the life will be evil. + So long as the fountain is corrupt the water will be foul.” + </p> + <p> + “There is a side to all this that most people do not consider,” answered + Mr. Paulding. “Self-hurt is one thing, hurt of the neighbor quite another. + It may be questioned whether society has a right to touch the individual + freedom of a member in anything that affects himself alone. But the moment + he begins to hurt his neighbor, whether from ill-will or for gain, then it + is the duty of society to restrain him. The common weal demands this, to + say nothing of Christian obligation. If a man were to set up an exhibition + in our city dangerous to life and limb, but so fascinating as to attract + large numbers to witness and participate therein, and if hundreds were + maimed or killed every year, do you think any one would question the right + of our authorities to repress it? And yet to-day there are in our city + more than twenty thousand persons who live by doing things a thousand + times more hurtful to the people than any such exhibition could possibly + be. And what is marvelous to think of, the larger part of these persons + are actually licensed by the State to get gain by hurting, depraving and + destroying the people. Think of it, Mr. Dinneford! The whole question lies + in a nutshell. There is no difficulty about the problem. Restrain men from + doing harm to each other, and the work is more than half done.” + </p> + <p> + “Is not the law all the while doing this?” + </p> + <p> + “The law,” was answered, “is weakly dealing with effect—how weakly + let prison and police statistics show. Forty thousand arrests in our city + for a single year, and the cause of these arrests clearly traced to the + liquor licenses granted to five or six thousand persons to make money by + debasing and degrading the people. If all of these were engaged in useful + employments, serving, as every true citizen is bound to do, the common + good, do you think we should have so sad and sickening a record? No, sir! + We must go back to the causes of things. Nothing but radical work will + do.” + </p> + <p> + “You think, then,” said Mr. Dinneford, “that the true remedy for all these + dreadful social evils lies in restrictive legislation?” + </p> + <p> + “Restrictive only on the principles of eternal right,” answered the + missionary. “Man's freedom over himself must not be touched. Only his + freedom to hurt his neighbor must be abridged. Here society has a right to + put bonds on its members—to say to each individual, You are free to + do anything by which your neighbor is served, but nothing to harm him. + Here is where the discrimination must be made; and when the mass of the + people come to see this, we shall have the beginning of a new day. There + will then be hope for such poor wretches as crowd this region; or if most + of them are so far lost as to be without hope, their places, when they + die, will not be filled with new recruits for the army of perdition.” + </p> + <p> + “If the laws we now have were only executed,” said Mr. Dinneford, “there + might be hope in our legislative restrictions. But the people are + defrauded of justice through defects in its machinery. There are + combinations to defeat good laws. There are men holding high office + notoriously in league with scoundrels who prey upon the people. Through + these, justice perpetually fails.” + </p> + <p> + “The people are alone to blame,” replied the missionary. “Each is busy + with his farm and his merchandise with his own affairs, regardless of his + neighbor. The common good is nothing, so that his own good is served. Each + weakly folds his hands and is sorry when these troublesome questions are + brought to his notice, but doesn't see that he can do anything. Nor can + the people, unless some strong and influential leaders rally them, and, + like great generals, lead them to the battle. As I said a little while + ago, there are ten or twenty men in this city who, if they could be made + to feel their high responsibility—who, if they could be induced to + look away for a brief period from their great enterprises and concentrate + thought and effort upon these questions of social evil, abuse of justice + and violations of law—would in a single month inaugurate reforms and + set agencies to work that would soon produce marvelous changes. They need + not touch the rottenness of this half-dead carcass with knife or poultice. + Only let them cut off the sources of pollution and disease, and the + purified air will do the work of restoration where moral vitality remains, + or hasten the end in those who are debased beyond hope.” + </p> + <p> + “What could these men do? Where would their work begin?” asked Mr. + Dinneford. + </p> + <p> + “Their own intelligence would soon discover the way to do this work if + their hearts were in it. Men who can organize and successfully conduct + great financial and industrial enterprises, who know how to control the + wealth and power of the country and lead the people almost at will, would + hardly be at fault in the adjustment of a matter like this. What would be + the money influence of 'whisky rings' and gambling associations, set + against the social and money influence of these men? Nothing, sir, + nothing! Do you think we should long have over six thousand bars and + nearly four hundred lottery-policy shops in our city if the men to whom I + refer were to take the matter in hand?” + </p> + <p> + “Are there so many policy-shops?” asked Mr. Dinneford, in surprise. + </p> + <p> + “There may be more. You will find them by scores in every locality where + poor and ignorant people are crowded together, sucking out their + substance, and in the neighborhood of all the market-houses and + manufactories, gathering in spoil. The harm they are doing is beyond + computation. The men who control this unlawful business are rich and + closely organized. They gather in their dishonest gains at the rate of + hundreds of thousands of dollars every year, and know how and where to use + this money for the protection of their agents in the work of defrauding + the people, and the people are helpless because our men of wealth and + influence have no time to give to public justice or the suppression of + great social wrongs. With them, as things now are, rests the chief + responsibility. They have the intelligence, the wealth and the public + confidence, and are fully equal to the task if they will put their hands + to the work. Let them but lift the standard and sound the trumpet of + reform, and the people will rally instantly at the call. It must not be a + mere spasmodic effort—a public meeting with wordy resolutions and + strong speeches only—but organized work based on true principles of + social order and the just rights of the people.” + </p> + <p> + “You are very much in earnest about this matter,” said Mr. Dinneford, + seeing how excited the missionary had grown. + </p> + <p> + “And so would you and every other good citizen become if, standing face to + face, as I do daily, with this awful debasement and crime and suffering, + you were able to comprehend something of its real character. If I could + get the influential citizens to whom I have referred to come here and see + for themselves, to look upon this pandemonium in their midst and take in + an adequate idea of its character, significance and aggressive force, + there would be some hope of making them see their duty, of arousing them + to action. But they stand aloof, busy with personal and material interest, + while thousands of men, women and children are yearly destroyed, soul and + body, through their indifference to duty and ignorance of their fellows' + suffering.” + </p> + <p> + “It is easy to say such things,” answered Mr. Dinneford, who felt the + remarks of Mr. Paulding as almost personal. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, it is easy to say them,” returned the missionary, his voice dropping + to a lower key, “and it may be of little use to say them. I am sometimes + almost in despair, standing so nearly alone as I do with my feet on the + very brink of this devastating flood of evil, and getting back only faint + echoes to my calls for help. But when year after year I see some sheaves + coming in as the reward of my efforts and of the few noble hearts that + work with me, I thank God and take courage, and I lift my voice and call + more loudly for help, trusting that I may be heard by some who, if they + would only come up to the help of the Lord against the mighty, would + scatter his foes like chaff on the threshing-floor. But I am holding you + back from your purpose to visit the mayor; I think you had better act + promptly if you would get possession of the child. I shall be interested + in the result, and will take it as a favor if you will call at the mission + again.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0015" id="link2HCH0015"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XV. + </h2> + <p> + <i>WHEN</i> Mr. Dinneford and the policeman sent by the mayor at his + solicitation visited Grubb's court, the baby was not to be found. The room + in which it had been seen by Mr. Paulding was vacant. Such a room as it + was!—low and narrow, with bare, blackened walls, the single window + having scarcely two whole panes of glass, the air loaded with the foulness + that exhaled from the filth-covered floor, the only furniture a rough box + and a dirty old straw bed lying in a corner. + </p> + <p> + As Mr. Dinneford stood at the door of this room and inhaled its fetid air, + he grew sick, almost faint. Stepping back, with a shocked and disgusted + look on his face, he said to the policeman, + </p> + <p> + “There must be a mistake. This cannot be the room.” + </p> + <p> + Two or three children and a coarse, half-clothed woman, seeing a gentleman + going into the house accompanied by a policeman, had followed them closely + up stairs. + </p> + <p> + “Who lives in this room?” asked the policeman, addressing the woman. + </p> + <p> + “Don't know as anybody lives there now,” she replied, with evident + evasion. + </p> + <p> + “Who did live here?” demanded the policeman. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, lots!” returned the woman, curtly. + </p> + <p> + “I want to know who lived here last,” said the policeman, a little + sternly. + </p> + <p> + “Can't say—never keep the run of 'em,” answered the woman, with more + indifference than she felt. “Goin' and comin' all the while. Maybe it was + Poll Davis.” + </p> + <p> + “Had she a baby?” + </p> + <p> + The woman gave a vulgar laugh as she replied: “I rather think not.” + </p> + <p> + “It was Moll Fling,” said one of the children, “and she had a baby.” + </p> + <p> + “When was she here last?” inquired the policeman. + </p> + <p> + The woman, unseen by the latter, raised her fist and threatened the child, + who did not seem to be in the least afraid of her, for she answered + promptly: + </p> + <p> + “She went away about an hour ago.” + </p> + <p> + “And took the baby?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. You see Mr. Paulding was here asking about the baby, and she got + scared.” + </p> + <p> + “Why should that scare her?” + </p> + <p> + “I don't know, only it isn't her baby.” + </p> + <p> + “How do you know that?” + </p> + <p> + “'Cause it isn't—I know it isn't. She's paid to take care of it.” + </p> + <p> + “Who by?” + </p> + <p> + “Pinky Swett.” + </p> + <p> + “Who's Pinky Swett?” + </p> + <p> + “Don't you know Pinky Swett?” and the child seemed half surprised. + </p> + <p> + “Where does Pinky Swett live?” asked the policeman. + </p> + <p> + “She did live next door for a while, but I don't know where she's gone.” + </p> + <p> + Nothing beyond this could be ascertained. But having learned the names of + the women who had possession of the child, the policeman said there would + be no difficulty about discovering them. It might take a little time, but + they could not escape the vigilance of the police. + </p> + <p> + With this assurance, Mr. Dinneford hastened from the polluted air of + Grubb's court, and made his way to the mission in Briar street, in order + to have some further conference with Mr. Paulding. + </p> + <p> + “As I feared,” said the missionary, on learning that the baby could not be + found. “These creatures are as keen of scent as Indians, and know the + smallest sign of danger. It is very plain that there is something wrong—that + these women have no natural right to the child, and that they are not + using it to beg with.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you know a woman called Pinky Swett?” asked the policeman. + </p> + <p> + “I've heard of her, but do not know her by sight. She bears a hard + reputation even here, and adds to her many evil accomplishments the + special one of adroit robbery. A victim lured to her den rarely escapes + without loss of watch or pocket-book. And not one in a hundred dares to + give information, for this would expose him to the public, and so her + crimes are covered. Pinky Swett is not the one to bother herself about a + baby unless its parentage be known, and not then unless the knowledge can + be turned to advantage.” + </p> + <p> + “The first thing to be done, then, is to find this woman,” said the + policeman. + </p> + <p> + “That will not be very hard work. But finding the baby, if she thinks you + are after it, would not be so easy,” returned Mr. Paulding. “She's as + cunning as a fox.” + </p> + <p> + “We shall see. If the chief of police undertakes to find the baby, it + won't be out of sight long. You'd better confer with the mayor again,” + added the policeman, addressing Mr. Dinneford. + </p> + <p> + “I will do so without delay,” returned that gentleman. + </p> + <p> + “I hope to see you here again soon,” said the missionary as Mr. Dinneford + was about going. “If I can help you in any way, I shall do so gladly.” + </p> + <p> + “I have no doubt but that you can render good service.” Then, in half + apology, and to conceal the real concern at his heart, Mr. Dinneford + added, “Somehow, and strangely enough when I come to think of it, I have + allowed myself to get drawn into this thing, and once in, the natural + persistence of my character leads me to go on to the end. I am one of + those who cannot bear to give up or acknowledge a defeat; and so, having + set my hand to this work, I am going to see it through.” + </p> + <p> + When the little girl who had taken Edith to the mission-house in Briar + street got home and told her story, there was a ripple of excitement in + that part of Grubb's court where she lived, and a new interest was felt in + the poor neglected baby. Mr. Paulding's visit and inquiries added to this + interest. It had been several days since Pinky Swett's last visit to the + child to see that it was safe. On the morning after Edith's call at the + mission she came in about ten o'clock, and heard the news. In less than + twenty minutes the child and the woman who had charge of it both + disappeared from Grubb's court. Pinky sent them to her own room, not many + squares distant, and then drew from the little girl who was in Edith's + sewing-class all she knew about that young lady. It was not much that the + child could tell. She was very sweet and good and handsome, and wore such + beautiful clothes, was so kind and patient with the girls, but she did not + remember her name, thought it was Edith. + </p> + <p> + “Now, see here,” said Pinky, and she put some money into the child's hand; + “I want you to find out for me what her name is and where she lives. Mind, + you must be very careful to remember.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you want to know for?” asked the little girl. + </p> + <p> + “That's none of your business. Do what I tell you,” returned Pinky, with + impatience; “and if you do it right, I'll give you a quarter more. When do + you go again?” + </p> + <p> + “Next week, on Thursday.” + </p> + <p> + “Not till next Thursday!” exclaimed Pinky, in a tone of disappointment. + </p> + <p> + “The school's only once a week.” + </p> + <p> + Pinky chafed a good deal, but it was of no use; she must wait. + </p> + <p> + “You'll be sure and go next Thursday?” she said. + </p> + <p> + “If Mother lets me,” replied the child. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I'll see to that; I'll make her let you. What time does the school go + in?” + </p> + <p> + “At three o'clock.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well. You wait for me. I'll come round here at half-past two, and go + with you. I want to see the young lady. They'll let me come into the + school and learn to sew, won't they?” + </p> + <p> + “I don't know; you're too big, and you don't want to learn.” + </p> + <p> + “How do you know I don't?” + </p> + <p> + “Because I do.” + </p> + <p> + Pinky laughed, and then said, + </p> + <p> + “You'll wait for me?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, if mother says so.” + </p> + <p> + “All right;” and Pinky hurried away to take measures for hiding the baby + from a search that she felt almost sure was about being made. The first + thing she did was to soundly abuse the woman in whose care she had placed + the hapless child for her neglect and ill treatment, both of which were + too manifest, and then to send her away under the new aspect of affairs + she did not mean to trust this woman, nor indeed to trust anybody who knew + anything of the inquiries which had been made about the child. A new nurse + must be found, and she must live as far away from the old locality as + possible. Pinky was not one inclined to put things off. Thought and act + were always close together. Scarcely had the woman been gone ten minutes, + before, bundling the baby in a shawl, she started off to find a safer + hiding-place. This time she was more careful about the character and + habits of the person selected for a nurse, and the baby's condition was + greatly improved. The woman in whose charge she placed it was poor, but + neither drunken nor depraved. Pinky arranged with her to take the care of + it for two dollars a week, and supplied it with clean and comfortable + clothing. Even she, wicked and vile as she was, could not help being + touched by the change that appeared in the baby's shrunken face, and in + its sad but beautiful eyes, after its wasted little body had been cleansed + and clothed in clean, warm garments and it had taken its fill of + nourishing food. + </p> + <p> + “It's a shame, the way it has been abused,” said Pinky, speaking from an + impulse of kindness, such as rarely swelled in her evil heart. + </p> + <p> + “A crying shame,” answered the woman as she drew the baby close against + her bosom and gazed down upon its pitiful face, and into the large brown + eyes that were lifted to hers in mute appeal. + </p> + <p> + The real motherly tenderness that was in this woman's heart was quickly + perceived by the child, who did not move its eyes from hers, but lay + perfectly still, gazing up at her in a kind of easeful rest such as it had + never before known. She spoke to it in loving tones, touched its thin + cheeks with her finger in playful caresses, kissed it on its lips and + forehead, hugged it to her bosom; and still the eyes were fixed on hers in + a strange baby-wonder, though not the faintest glinting of a smile played + on its lips or over its serious face. Had it never learned to smile? + </p> + <p> + At last the poor thin lips curved a little, crushing out the lines of + suffering, and into the eyes there came a loving glance in place of the + fixed, wondering look that was almost a stare. A slight lifting of the + hands, a motion of the head, a thrill through the whole body came next, + and then a tender cooing sound. + </p> + <p> + “Did you ever see such beautiful eyes?” said the woman. “It will be a + splendid baby when it has picked up a little.” + </p> + <p> + “Let it pick up as fast as it can,” returned Pinky; “but mind what I say: + you are to be mum. Here's your pay for the first week, and you shall have + it fair and square always. Call it your own baby, if you will, or your + grandson. Yes, that's better. He's the child of your dead daughter, just + sent to you from somewhere out of town. So take good care of him, and keep + your mouth shut. I'll be round again in a little while.” + </p> + <p> + And with this injunction Pinky went away. On the next Thursday she visited + the St. John's mission sewing-school in company with the little girl from + Grubb's court, but greatly to her disappointment, Edith did not make her + appearance. There were four or five ladies in attendance on the school, + which, under the superintendence of one of them, a woman past middle life, + with a pale, serious face and a voice clear and sweet, was conducted with + an order and decorum not often maintained among a class of children such + as were there gathered together. + </p> + <p> + It was a long time since Pinky had found herself so repressed and ill at + ease. There was a spiritual atmosphere in the place that did not vitalize + her blood. She felt a sense of constriction and suffocation. She had taken + her seat in the class taught usually by Edith, with the intention of + studying that young lady and finding out all she could about her, not + doubting her ability to act the part in hand with perfect self-possession. + But she had not been in the room a minute before confidence began to die, + and very soon she found herself ill at ease and conscious of being out of + her place. The bold, bad woman felt weak and abashed. An unseen sphere of + purity and Christian love surrounded and touched her soul with as palpable + an impression as outward things give to the body. She had something of the + inward distress and pain a devil would feel if lifted into the pure air of + heaven, and the same desire to escape and plunge back into the dense and + impure atmosphere in which evil finds its life and enjoyment. If she had + come with any good purpose, it would have been different, but evil, and + only evil, was in her heart; and when this felt the sphere of love and + purity, her breast was constricted and life seemed going out of her. + </p> + <p> + It was little less than torture to Pinky for the short time she remained. + As soon as she was satisfied that Edith would not be there, she threw down + the garment on which she had been pretending to sew, and almost ran from + the room. + </p> + <p> + “Who is that girl?” asked the lady who was teaching the class, looking in + some surprise after the hurrying figure. + </p> + <p> + “It's Pinky Swett,” answered the child from Grubb's court. “She wanted to + see our teacher.” + </p> + <p> + “Who is your regular teacher?” was inquired. + </p> + <p> + “Don't remember her name.” + </p> + <p> + “It's Edith,” spoke up one of the girls. “Mrs. Martin called her that.” + </p> + <p> + “What did this Pinky Swett want to see her about?” + </p> + <p> + “Don't know,” answered the child as she remembered the money Pinky had + given her and the promise of more. + </p> + <p> + The teacher questioned no further, but went on with her work in the class. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0016" id="link2HCH0016"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVI. + </h2> + <p> + <i>IT</i> was past midday when Mr. Dinneford returned home after his + fruitless search. Edith, who had been waiting for hours in restless + suspense, heard his step in the hall, and ran down to meet him. + </p> + <p> + “Did you see the baby?”' she asked, trying to keep her agitation down. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Dinneford only shook his head, + </p> + <p> + “Why, not, father?” Her voice choked. + </p> + <p> + “It could not be found.” + </p> + <p> + “You saw Mr. Paulding?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Didn't he find the baby?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh yes. But when I went to Grubb's court this morning, it was not there, + and no one could or would give any information about it. As the missionary + feared, those having possession of the baby had taken alarm and removed it + to another place. But I have seen the mayor and some of the police, and + got them interested. It will not be possible to hide the child for any + length of time.” + </p> + <p> + “You said that Mr. Paulding saw it?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “What did he say?” Edith's voice trembled as she asked the question. + </p> + <p> + “He thinks there is something wrong.” + </p> + <p> + “Did he tell you how the baby looked?” + </p> + <p> + “He said that it had large, beautiful brown eyes.” + </p> + <p> + Edith clasped her hands, and drew them tightly against her bosom. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, father! if it should be my baby!” + </p> + <p> + “My dear, dear child,” said Mr. Dinneford, putting his arms about Edith + and holding her tightly, “you torture yourself with a wild dream. The + thing is impossible.” + </p> + <p> + “It is somebody's baby,” sobbed Edith, her face on her father's breast, + “and it may be mine. Who knows?” + </p> + <p> + “We will do our best to find it,” returned Mr. Dinneford, “and then do + what Christian charity demands. I am in earnest so far, and will leave + nothing undone, you may rest assured. The police have the mayor's + instructions to find the baby and give it into my care, and I do not think + we shall have long to wait.” + </p> + <p> + An ear they thought not of, heard all this. Mrs. Dinneford's suspicions + had been aroused by many things in Edith's manner and conduct of late, and + she had watched her every look and word and movement with a keenness of + observation that let nothing escape. Careful as her husband and daughter + were in their interviews, it was impossible to conceal anything from eyes + that never failed in watchfulness. An unguarded word here, a look of + mutual intelligence there, a sudden silence when she appeared, an unusual + soberness of demeanor and evident absorbed interest in something they were + careful to conceal, had the effect to quicken all Mrs. Dinneford's alarms + and suspicions. + </p> + <p> + She had seen from the top of the stairs a brief but excited interview pass + between Edith and her father as the latter stood in the vestibule that + morning, and she had noticed the almost wild look on her daughter's face + as she hastened back along the hall and ran up to her room. Here she + stayed alone for over an hour, and then came down to the parlor, where she + remained restless, moving about or standing by the window for a greater + part of the morning. + </p> + <p> + There was something more than usual on hand. Guilt in its guesses came + near the truth. What could all this mean, if it had not something to do + with the cast-off baby? Certainty at last came. She was in the dining-room + when Edith ran down to meet her father in the hall, and slipped + noiselessly and unobserved into one of the parlors, where, concealed by a + curtain, she heard everything that passed between her husband and + daughter. + </p> + <p> + Still as death she stood, holding down the strong pulses of her heart. + From the hall Edith and her father turned into one of the parlors—the + same in which Mrs. Dinneford was concealed behind the curtain—and + sat down. + </p> + <p> + “It had large brown eyes?” said Edith, a yearning tenderness in her voice. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, and a finely-formed bead, showing good parentage,” returned the + father. + </p> + <p> + “Didn't you find out who the women were—the two bad women the little + girl told me about? If we had their names, the police could find them. The + little girl's mother must know who they are.” + </p> + <p> + “We have the name of one of them,” said Mr. Dinneford. “She is called + Pinky Swett, and it can't be long before the police are on her track. She + is said to be a desperate character. Nothing more can be done now; we must + wait until the police work up the affair. I will call at the mayor's + office in the morning and find out what has been done.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Dinneford heard no more. The bell rang, and her husband and daughter + left the parlor and went up stairs. The moment they were beyond + observation she glided noiselessly through the hall, and reached her + chamber without being noticed. Soon afterward she came down dressed for + visiting, and went out hastily, her veil closely drawn. Her manner was + hurried. Descending the steps, she stood for a single moment, as if + hesitating which way to go, and then moved off rapidly. Soon she had + passed out of the fashionable neighborhood in which she lived. After this + she walked more slowly, and with the air of one whose mind was in doubt or + hesitation. Once she stopped, and turning about, slowly retraced her steps + for the distance of a square. Then she wheeled around, as if from some new + and strong resolve, and went on again. At last she paused before a + respectable-looking house of moderate size in a neighborhood remote from + the busier and more thronged parts of the city. The shutters were all + bowed down to the parlor, and the house had a quiet, unobtrusive look. + Mrs. Dinneford gave a quick, anxious glance up and down the street, and + then hurriedly ascended the steps and rang the bell. + </p> + <p> + “Is Mrs. Hoyt in?” she asked of a stupid-looking girl who came to the + door. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, ma'am,” was answered. + </p> + <p> + “Tell her a lady wants to see her;” and she passed into the + plainly-furnished parlor. There were no pictures on the walls nor + ornaments on the mantel-piece, nor any evidence of taste—nothing + home-like—in the shadowed room, the atmosphere of which was close + and heavy. She waited here for a few moments, when there was a rustle of + garments and the sound of light, quick feet on the stairs. A small, + dark-eyed, sallow-faced woman entered the parlor. + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. Bray—no, Mrs. Hoyt.” + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. Dinneford;” and the two women stood face to face for a few moments, + each regarding the other keenly. + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. Hoyt—don't forget,” said the former, with a warning emphasis + in her voice. “Mrs. Bray is dead.” + </p> + <p> + In her heart Mrs. Dinneford wished that it were indeed so. + </p> + <p> + “Anything wrong?” asked the black-eyed little woman. + </p> + <p> + “Do you know a Pinky Swett?” asked Mrs. Dinneford, abruptly. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Hoyt—so we must now call her—betrayed surprise at this + question, and was about answering “No,” but checked herself and gave a + half-hesitating “Yes,” adding the question, “What about her?” + </p> + <p> + Before Mrs. Dinneford could reply, however, Mrs. Hoyt took hold of her arm + and said, “Come up to my room. Walls have ears sometimes, and I will not + answer for these.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Dinneford went with her up stairs to a chamber in the rear part of + the building. + </p> + <p> + “We shall be out of earshot here,” said Mrs. Hoyt as she closed the door, + locking it at the same time. “And now tell me what's up, and what about + Pinky Swett.” + </p> + <p> + “You know her?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, slightly.” + </p> + <p> + “More than slightly, I guess.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Hoyt's eyes flashed impatiently. Mrs. Dinneford saw it, and took + warning. + </p> + <p> + “She's got that cursed baby.” + </p> + <p> + “How do you know?” + </p> + <p> + “No matter how I know. It's enough that I know. Who is she?” + </p> + <p> + “That question may be hard to answer. About all I know of her is that she + came from the country a few years ago, and has been drifting about here + ever since.” + </p> + <p> + “What is she doing with that baby? and how did she get hold of it?” + </p> + <p> + “Questions more easily asked than answered.” + </p> + <p> + “Pshaw! I don't want any beating about the bush, Mrs. Bray.” + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. Hoyt,” said the person addressed. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, well, Mrs. Hoyt, then. We ought to understand each other by this + time.” + </p> + <p> + “I guess we do;” and the little woman arched her brows. + </p> + <p> + “I don't want any beating about the bush,” resumed Mrs. Dinneford. “I am + here on business.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well; let's to business, then;” and Mrs. Hoyt leaned back in her + chair. + </p> + <p> + “Edith knows that this woman has the baby,” said Mrs. Dinneford. + </p> + <p> + “What!” and Mrs. Hoyt started to her feet. + </p> + <p> + “The mayor has been seen, and the police are after her.” + </p> + <p> + “How do you know?” + </p> + <p> + “Enough that I know. And now, Mrs. Hoyt, this thing must come to an end, + and there is not an instant to be lost. Has Pinky Swett, as she is called, + been told where the baby came from?” + </p> + <p> + “Not by me.” + </p> + <p> + “By anybody?” + </p> + <p> + “That is more than I can say.” + </p> + <p> + “What has become of the woman I gave it to?” + </p> + <p> + “She's about somewhere.” + </p> + <p> + “When did you see her?” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Hoyt pretended to think for some moments, and then replied: + </p> + <p> + “Not for a month or two.” + </p> + <p> + “Had she the baby then?” + </p> + <p> + “No; she was rid of it long before that.” + </p> + <p> + “Did she know this Pinky Swett?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Curse the brat! If I'd thought all this trouble was to come, I'd have + smothered it before it was half an hour old.” + </p> + <p> + “Risky business,” remarked Mrs. Hoyt. + </p> + <p> + “Safer than to have let it live,” said Mrs. Dinneford, a hard, evil + expression settling around her mouth. “And now I want the thing done. You + understand. Find this Pinky Swett. The police are after her, and may be + ahead of you. I am desperate, you see. Anything but the discovery and + possession of this child by Edith. It must be got out of the way. If it + will not starve, it must drown.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Dinneford's face was distorted by the strength of her evil passions. + Her eyes were full of fire, flashing now, and now glaring like those of a + wild animal. + </p> + <p> + “It might fall out of a window,” said Mrs. Hoyt, in a low, even voice, and + with a faint smile on her lips. “Children fall out of windows sometimes.” + </p> + <p> + “But don't always get killed,” answered Mrs. Dinneford, coldly. + </p> + <p> + “Or, it might drop from somebody's arms into the river—off the deck + of a ferryboat, I mean,” added Mrs. Hoyt. + </p> + <p> + “That's better. But I don't care how it's done, so it's done.” + </p> + <p> + “Accidents are safer,” said Mrs. Hoyt. + </p> + <p> + “I guess you're right about that. Let it be an accident, then.” + </p> + <p> + It was half an hour from the time Mrs. Dinneford entered this house before + she came away. As she passed from the door, closely veiled, a gentleman + whom she knew very well was going by on the opposite side of the street. + From something in his manner she felt sure that he had recognized her, and + that the recognition had caused him no little surprise. Looking back two + or three times as she hurried homeward, she saw, to her consternation, + that he was following her, evidently with the purpose of making sure of + her identity. + </p> + <p> + To throw this man off of her track was Mrs. Dinneford's next concern. This + she did by taking a street-car that was going in a direction opposite to + the part of the town in which she lived, and riding for a distance of over + a mile. An hour afterward she came back to her own neighborhood, but not + without a feeling of uneasiness. Just as she was passing up to the door of + her residence a gentleman came hurriedly around the nearest corner. She + recognized him at a glance. It seemed as if the servant would never answer + her ring. On he came, until the sound of his steps was in her ears. He was + scarcely ten paces distant when the door opened and she passed in. When + she gained her room, she sat down faint and trembling. Here was a new + element in the danger and disgrace that were digging her steps so closely. + </p> + <p> + As we have seen, Edith did not make her appearance at the mission + sewing-school on the following Thursday, nor did she go there for many + weeks afterward. The wild hope that had taken her to Briar street, the + nervous strain and agitation attendant on that visit, and the reaction + occasioned by her father's failure to get possession of the baby, were too + much for her strength, and an utter prostration of mind and body was the + consequence. There was no fever nor sign of any active disease—only + weakness, Nature's enforced quietude, that life and reason might be saved. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0017" id="link2HCH0017"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVII. + </h2> + <p> + <i>THE</i> police were at fault. They found Pinky Swett, but were not able + to find the baby. Careful as they were in their surveillance, she managed + to keep them on the wrong track and to baffle every effort to discover + what had been done with the child. + </p> + <p> + In this uncertainty months went by. Edith came up slowly from her + prostrate condition, paler, sadder and quieter, living in a kind of waking + dream. Her father tried to hold her back from her mission work among the + poor, but she said, “I must go, father; I will die if I do not.” + </p> + <p> + And so her life lost itself in charities. Now and then her mother made an + effort to draw her into society. She had not yet given up her ambition, + nor her hope of one day seeing her daughter take social rank among the + highest, or what she esteemed the highest. But her power over Edith was + entirely gone. She might as well have set herself to turn the wind from + its course as to influence her in anything. It was all in vain. Edith had + dropped out of society, and did not mean to go back. She had no heart for + anything outside of her home, except the Christian work to which she had + laid her hands. + </p> + <p> + The restless, watchful, suspicious manner exhibited for a long time by + Mrs. Dinneford, and particularly noticed by Edith, gradually wore off. She + grew externally more like her old self, but with something new in the + expression of her face when in repose, that gave a chill to the heart of + Edith whenever she saw its mysterious record, that seemed in her eyes only + an imperfect effort to conceal some guilty secret. + </p> + <p> + Thus the mother and daughter, though in daily personal contact, stood far + apart—were internally as distant from each other as the antipodes. + </p> + <p> + As for Mr. Dinneford, what he had seen and heard on his first visit to + Briar street had aroused him to a new and deeper sense of his duty as a + citizen. Against all the reluctance and protests of his natural feelings, + he had compelled himself to stand face to face with the appalling + degradation and crime that festered and rioted in that almost + Heaven-deserted region. He had heard and read much about its evil + condition; but when, under the protection of a policeman, he went from + house to house, from den to den, through cellar and garret and hovel, + comfortless and filthy as dog-kennels and pig-styes, and saw the sick and + suffering, the utterly vile and debauched, starving babes and children + with faces marred by crime, and the legion of harpies who were among them + as birds of prey, he went back to his home sick at heart, and with a + feeling of helplessness and hopelessness out of which he found it almost + impossible to rise. + </p> + <p> + We cannot stain our pages with a description of what he saw. It is so vile + and terrible, alas, so horrible, that few would credit it. The few + imperfect glimpses of life in that region which we have already given are + sad enough and painful enough, but they only hint at the real truth. + </p> + <p> + “What can be done?” asked Mr. Dinneford of the missionary, at their next + meeting, in a voice that revealed his utter despair of a remedy. “To me it + seems as if nothing but fire could purify this region.” + </p> + <p> + “The causes that have produced this would soon create another as bad,” was + answered. + </p> + <p> + “What are the causes?” + </p> + <p> + “The primary cause,” said Mr. Paulding, “is the effort of hell to + establish itself on the earth for the destruction of human souls; the + secondary cause lies in the indifference and supineness of the people. + 'While the husband-men slept the enemy sowed tares.' Thus it was of old, + and thus it is to-day. The people are sleeping or indifferent, the + churches are sleeping or indifferent, while the enemy goes on sowing tares + for the harvest of death.” + </p> + <p> + “Well may you say the harvest of death,” returned Mr. Dinneford, gloomily. + </p> + <p> + “And hell,” added the missionary, with a stern emphasis. “Yes, sir, it is + the harvest of death and hell that is gathered here, and such a full + harvest! There is little joy in heaven over the sheaves that are garnered + in this accursed region. What hope is there in fire, or any other + purifying process, if the enemy be permitted to go on sowing his evil seed + at will?” + </p> + <p> + “How will you prevent it?” asked Mr. Dinneford. + </p> + <p> + “Not by standing afar off and leaving the enemy in undisputed possession—not + by sleeping while he sows and reaps and binds into bundles for the fires, + his harvests of human souls! We must be as alert and wise and ready of + hand as he; and God being our helper, we can drive him from the field!” + </p> + <p> + “You have thought over this sad problem a great deal,” said Mr. Dinneford. + “You have stood face to face with the enemy for years, and know his + strength and his resources. Have you any well-grounded hope of ever + dislodging him from this stronghold?” + </p> + <p> + “I have just said it, Mr. Dinneford. But until the churches and the people + come up to the help of the Lord against the mighty, he cannot be + dislodged. I am standing here, sustained in my work by a small band of + earnest Christian men and women, like an almost barren rock in the midst + of a down-rushing river on whose turbulent surface thousands are being + swept to destruction. The few we are able to rescue are as a drop in the + bucket to the number who are lost. In weakness and sorrow, almost in + despair sometimes, we stand on our rock, with the cry of lost souls + mingling with the cry of fiends in our ears, and wonder at the churches + and the people, that they stand aloof—nay, worse, turn from us + coldly often—when we press the claims of this worse than heathen + people who are perishing at their very doors. + </p> + <p> + “Sir,” continued the missionary, warming on his theme, “I was in a church + last Sunday that cost its congregation over two hundred thousand dollars. + It was an anniversary occasion, and the collections for the day were to be + given to some foreign mission. How eloquently the preacher pleaded for the + heathen! What vivid pictures of their moral and spiritual destitution he + drew! How full of pathos he was, even to tears! And the congregation + responded in a contribution of over three thousand dollars, to be sent + somewhere, and to be disbursed by somebody of whom not one in a hundred of + the contributors knew anything or took the trouble to inform themselves. I + felt sick and oppressed at such a waste of money and Christian sympathy, + when heathen more destitute and degraded than could be found in any + foreign land were dying at home in thousands every year, unthought of and + uncared for. I gave no amens to his prayers—I could not. They would + have stuck in my throat. I said to myself, in bitterness and anger, 'How + dare a watchman on the walls of Zion point to an enemy afar off, of whose + movements and power and organization he knows but little, while the very + gates of the city are being stormed and its walls broken down?' But you + must excuse me, Mr. Dinneford. I lose my calmness sometimes when these + things crowd my thoughts too strongly. I am human like the rest, and weak, + and cannot stand in the midst of this terrible wickedness and suffering + year after year without being stirred by it to the very inmost of my + being. In my intense absorption I can see nothing else sometimes.” + </p> + <p> + He paused for a little while, and then said, in a quiet, business way, + </p> + <p> + “In seeking a remedy for the condition of society found here, we must let + common sense and a knowledge of human nature go hand in hand with + Christian charity. To ignore any of these is to make failure certain. If + the whisky-and policy-shops were all closed, the task would be easy. In a + single month the transformation would be marvelous. But we cannot hope for + this, at least not for a long time to come—not until politics and + whisky are divorced, and not until associations of bad men cease to be + strong enough in our courts to set law and justice at defiance. Our work, + then, must be in the face of these baleful influences.” + </p> + <p> + “Is the evil of lottery-policies so great that you class it with the curse + of rum?” asked Mr. Dinneford. + </p> + <p> + “It is more concealed, but as all-pervading and almost as disastrous in + its effects. The policy-shops draw from the people, especially the poor + and ignorant, hundreds of thousands of dollars every year. There is no + more chance of thrift for one who indulges in this sort of gambling than + there is for one who indulges in drink. The vice in either case drags its + subject down to want, and in most cases to crime. I could point you to + women virtuous a year ago, but who now live abandoned lives; and they + would tell you, if you would question them, that their way downward was + through the policy-shops. To get the means of securing a hoped-for prize—of + getting a hundred or two hundred dollars for every single one risked, and + so rising above want or meeting some desperate exigency—virtue was + sacrificed in an evil moment.” + </p> + <p> + “The whisky-shops brutalize, benumb and debase or madden with cruel and + murderous passions; the policy-shops, more seductive and fascinating in + their allurements, lead on to as deep a gulf of moral ruin and hopeless + depravity. I have seen the poor garments of a dying child sold at a + pawn-shop for a mere trifle by its infatuated mother, and the money thrown + away in this kind of gambling. Women sell or pawn their clothing, often + sending their little children to dispose of these articles, while they + remain half clad at home to await the daily drawings and receive the prize + they fondly hope to obtain, but which rarely, if ever, comes. + </p> + <p> + “Children learn early to indulge this vice, and lie and steal in order to + obtain money to gratify it. You would be amazed to see the scores of + little boys and girls, white and black, who daily visit the policy-shops + in this neighborhood to put down the pennies they have begged or received + for stolen articles on some favorite numbers—quick-witted, sharp, + eager little wretches, who talk the lottery slang as glibly as older + customers. What hope is there in the future for these children? Will their + education in the shop of a policy-dealer fit them to become honest, + industrious citizens?” + </p> + <p> + All this was so new and dreadful to Mr. Dinneford that he was stunned and + disheartened; and when, after an interview with the missionary that lasted + over an hour, he went away, it was with a feeling of utter discouragement. + He saw little hope of making head against the flood of evil that was + devastating this accursed region. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0018" id="link2HCH0018"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVIII. + </h2> + <p> + <i>MRS. HOYT</i>, <i>alias</i> Bray, found Pinky Swett, but she did not + find the poor cast-off baby. Pinky had resolved to make it her own capital + in trade. She parleyed and trifled with Mrs. Hoyt week after week, and + each did her best to get down to the other's secret, but in vain. Mutually + baffled, they parted at last in bitter anger. + </p> + <p> + One day, about two months after the interview between Mrs. Dinneford and + Mrs. Hoyt described in another chapter, the former received in an envelope + a paragraph cut from a newspaper. It read as follows: + </p> + <p> + “A CHILD DROWNED.—A sad accident occurred yesterday on board the + steamer Fawn as she was going down the river. A woman was standing with a + child in her arms near the railing on the lower deck forward. Suddenly the + child gave a spring, and was out of her arms in a moment. She caught after + it frantically, but in vain. Every effort was made to recover the child, + but all proved fruitless. It did not rise to the surface of the water.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Dinneford read the paragraph twice, and then tore it into little + bits. Her mouth set itself sternly. A long sigh of relief came up from her + chest. After awhile the hard lines began slowly to disappear, giving place + to a look of satisfaction and comfort. + </p> + <p> + “Out of my way at last,” she staid, rising and beginning to move about the + room. But the expression of relief and confidence which had come into her + face soon died out. The evil counselors that lead the soul into sin become + its tormentors after the sin is committed, and torture it with fears. So + tortured they this guilty and wretched woman at every opportunity. They + led her on step by step to do evil, and then crowded her mind with + suggestions of perils and consequences the bare thought of which filled + her with terror. + </p> + <p> + It was only a few weeks after this that Mrs. Dinneford, while looking over + a morning paper, saw in the court record the name of Pinky Swett. This + girl had been tried for robbing a man of his pocket-book, containing five + hundred dollars, found guilty, and sentenced to prison for a term of two + years. + </p> + <p> + “Good again!” exclaimed Mrs. Dinneford, with satisfaction. “The wheel + turns.” + </p> + <p> + After that she gradually rose above the doubts and dread of exposure that + haunted her continually, and set herself to work to draw her daughter back + again into society. But she found her influence over Edith entirely gone. + Indeed, Edith stood so far away from her that she seemed more like a + stranger than a child. + </p> + <p> + Two or three times had Pinky Swett gone to the mission sewing-school in + order to get a sight of Edith. Her purpose was to follow her home, and so + find out her name and were she lived. With this knowledge in her + possession, she meant to visit Mrs. Bray, and by a sudden or casual + mention by name of Edith as the child's mother throw her off her guard, + and lead her to betray the fact if it were really so. But Edith was sick + at home, and did not go to the school. After a few weeks the little girl + who was to identify Edith as the person who had shown so much interest in + the baby was taken away from Grubb's court by her mother, and nobody could + tell where to find her. So, Pinky had to abandon her efforts in this + direction, and Edith, when she was strong enough to go back to the + sewing-school, missed the child, from whom she was hoping to hear + something that might give a clue to where the poor waif had been taken. + </p> + <p> + Up to the time of her arrest and imprisonment, Pinky had faithfully paid + the child's board, and looked in now and then upon the woman who had it in + charge, to see that it was properly cared for. How marvelously the baby + had improved in these two or three months! The shrunken limb's were + rounded into beautiful symmetry, and the pinched face looked full and + rosy. The large brown eyes, in which you once saw only fear or a mystery + of suffering, were full of a happy light, and the voice rang out often in + merry child-laughter. The baby had learned to walk, and was daily growing + more and more lovable. + </p> + <p> + But after Pinky's imprisonment there was a change. The woman—Mrs. + Burke by name—in whose care the child had been placed could not + afford to keep him for nothing. The two dollars week received for his + board added just enough to her income to enable her to remain at home. But + failing to receive this, she must go out for day's work in families at + least twice in every week. + </p> + <p> + What, then, was to be done with little Andy, as the baby was called? At + first Mrs. Burke thought of getting him into one of the homes for + friendless children, but the pleasant child had crept into her affections, + and she could not bear the thought of giving him up. His presence stirred + in her heart old and tender things long buried out of sight, and set the + past, with its better and purer memories, side by side with the present. + She had been many times a mother, but her children were all dead but one, + and she—Alas! the thought of her, whenever it came, made her heart + heavy and sad. + </p> + <p> + “I will keep him a while and see, how it comes out,” she said, on getting + the promise of a neighbor to let Andy play with her children and keep an + eye on him whenever she was out. He had grown strong, and could toddle + about and take care of himself wonderfully well for a child of his age. + </p> + <p> + And now began a new life for the baby—a life in which he must look + out for himself and hold his own in a hand-to-hand struggle. He had no + rights that the herd of children among whom he was thrown felt bound to + respect; and if he were not able to maintain his rights, he must go down + helplessly, and he did go down daily, often hourly. But he had will and + vital force, and these brought him always to his feet again, and with + strength increased rather than lost. On the days that Mrs. Burke went out + he lived for most of the time in the little street, playing with the + children that swarmed its pavements, often dragged from before wheels or + horses' hoofs by a friendly hand, or lifted from some gutter in which he + had fallen, dripping with mud. + </p> + <p> + When Mrs. Burke came home on the evening of her first day out, the baby + was a sight to see. His clothes were stiff with dirt, his shoes and + stockings wet, and his face more like that of a chimney-sweep than + anything else. But this was not all; there was a great lump as large as a + pigeon's egg on the back of his head, a black-and-blue spot on his + forehead and a bad cut on his upper lip. His joy at seeing her and the + tearful cry he gave as he threw his arm's about her neck quite overcame + Mrs. Burke, and caused her eyes to grow dim. She was angry at the plight + in which she found him, and said some hard things to the woman who had + promised to look after the child, at which the latter grew angry in turn, + and told her to stay at home and take care of the brat herself, or put him + in one of the homes. + </p> + <p> + The fresh care and anxiety felt by Mrs. Burke drew little Andy nearer and + made her reject more decidedly the thought of giving him up. She remained + at home on the day following, but did not find it so easy as before to + keep the baby quiet. He had got a taste of the free, wild life of the + street, of its companionship and excitement, and fretted to go out. Toward + evening she put by her work and went on the pavement with Andy. It was + swarming with children. At the sight of them he began to scream with + pleasure. Pulling his hand free from that of Mrs. Burke, he ran in among + them, and in a moment after was tumbled over on the pavement. His head got + a hard knock, but he didn't seem to mind it, for he scrambled to his feet + and commenced tossing his hands about, laughing and crying out as wildly + as the rest. In a little while, over he was knocked again, and as he fell + one of the children stepped on his hand and hurt him so that he screamed + with pain. Mrs. Burke caught him in her arms; but when he found that she + was going to take him in the house he stopped crying and struggled to get + down. He was willing to take the knocks and falls. The pleasure of this + free life among children was more to him than any of the suffering it + brought. + </p> + <p> + On the next day Mrs. Burke had to go out again. Another neighbor promised + to look after Andy. When she returned at night, she found things worse, if + anything, than before. The child was dirtier, if that were possible, and + there were two great lumps on his head, instead of one. He had been + knocked down by a horse in the street, escaping death by one of the + narrowest of chances, and had been discovered and removed from a ladder up + which he had climbed a distance of twenty feet. + </p> + <p> + What help was there? None that Mrs. Burke knew, except to give up the + child, and she was not unselfish enough for this. The thought of sending + him away was always attended with pain. It would take the light out of her + poor lonely life, into which he had brought a few stray sunbeams. + </p> + <p> + She could not, she would not, give him up. He must take his chances. Ah, + but they were hard chances! Children mature fast under the stimulus of + street-training. Andy had a large brain and an active, nervous + organization. Life in the open air gave vigor and hardness to his body. As + the months went by he learned self-reliance, caution, self-protection, and + took a good many lessons in the art of aggression. A rapidly-growing child + needs a large amount of nutritious food to supply waste and furnish + material for the daily-increasing bodily structure. Andy did not get this. + At two years of age he had lost all the roundness of babyhood. His limbs + were slender, his body thin and his face colorless and hungry-looking. + </p> + <p> + About this time—that is, when Andy was two years old—Mrs. + Burke took sick and died. She had been failing for several months, and + unable to earn sufficient even to pay her rent. But for the help of + neighbors and an occasional supply of food or fuel from some public + charity, she would have starved. At her death Andy had no home and no one + to care for him. One pitying neighbor after another would take him in at + night, or let him share a meal with her children, but beyond this he was + utterly cast out and friendless. It was summer-time when Mrs. Burke died, + and the poor waif was spared for a time the suffering of cold. + </p> + <p> + Now and then a mother's heart would be touched, and after a + half-reluctantly given supper and a place where he might sleep for the + night would mend and wash his soiled clothes and dry them by the fire, + ready for morning. The pleased look that she saw in his large, sad eyes—for + they had grown wistful and sad since the only one he had known as a mother + died—was always her reward, and something not to be put out of her + memory. Many of the children took kindly to Andy, and often supplied him + with food. + </p> + <p> + “Andy is so hungry, mamma; can't I take him something to eat?” rarely + failed to bring the needed bread for the poor little cast-adrift. And if + he was discovered now and then sound asleep in bed with some pitying child + who had taken him in stealthily after dark, few were hard-hearted enough + to push him into the street, or make him go down and sleep on the kitchen + floor. Yet this was not unfrequently done. Poverty is sometimes very + cruel, yet often tender and compassionate. + </p> + <p> + One day, a few months after Mrs. Burke's death, Andy, who was beginning to + drift farther and farther away from the little street, yet always managing + to get back into it as darkness came on, that he might lay his tired body + in some friendly place, got lost in strange localities. He had wandered + about for many hours, sitting now on some step or cellar-door or + horse-block, watching the children at play and sometimes joining in their + sports, when they would let him, with the spontaneous abandon of a puppy + or a kitten, and now enjoying some street-show or attractive shop-window. + There was nothing of the air of a lost child about him. For all that his + manner betrayed, his home might have been in the nearest court or alley. + So, he wandered along from street to street without attracting the special + notice of any—a bare-headed, bare-footed, dirty, half-clad atom of + humanity not three years old. + </p> + <p> + Hungry, tired and cold, for the summer was gone and mid-autumn had brought + its chilly nights, Andy found himself, as darkness fell, in a vile, narrow + court, among some children as forlorn and dirty as himself. It was Grubb's + court—his old home—though in his memory there was of course no + record of the place. + </p> + <p> + Too tired and hungry for play, Andy was sitting on the step of a wretched + hovel, when the door opened and a woman called sharply the names of her + two children. They answered a little way off. “Come in this minute, and + get your suppers,” she called again, and turning back without noticing + Andy, left the door open for her children. The poor cast-adrift looked in + and saw light and food and comfort—a home that made him heartsick + with longing, mean and disordered and miserable as it would have appeared + to your eyes and mine, reader. The two children, coming at their mother's + call, found him standing just on the threshold gazing in wistfully; and as + they entered, he, drawn by their attraction, went in also. Then, turning + toward her children, the mother saw Andy. + </p> + <p> + “Out of this!” she cried, in quick anger, raising her hand and moving + hastily toward the child. “Off home with you!” + </p> + <p> + Andy might well be frightened at the terrible face and threatening words + of this woman, and he was frightened. But he did not turn and fly, as she + meant that he should. He had learned, young as he was, that if he were + driven off by every rebuff, he would starve. It was only through + importunity and perseverance that he lived. So he held his ground, his + large, clear eyes fixed steadily on the woman's face as she advanced upon + him. Something in those eyes and in the firmly-set mouth checked the + woman's purpose if she had meant violence, but she thrust him out into the + damp street, nevertheless, though not roughly, and shut the door against + him. + </p> + <p> + Andy did not cry; poor little baby that he was, he had long since learned + that for him crying did no good. It brought him nothing. Just across the + street a door stood open. As a stray kitten creeps in through an open + door, so crept he through this one, hoping for shelter and a place of + rest. + </p> + <p> + “Who're you?” growled the rough but not unkindly voice of a man, coming + from the darkness. At the same moment a light gleamed out from a match, + and then the steadier flame of a candle lit up the small room, not more + than eight or nine feet square, and containing little that could be called + furniture. The floor was bare. In one corner were some old bits of carpet + and a blanket. A small table, a couple of chairs with the backs broken off + and a few pans and dishes made up the inventory of household goods. + </p> + <p> + As the light made all things clear in this poor room, Andy saw the + bloodshot eyes, and grizzly face of a man, not far past middle life. + </p> + <p> + “Who are you, little one?” he growled again as the light gave him a view + of Andy's face. This growl had in it a tone of kindness and welcome to the + ears of Andy who came forward, saying, + </p> + <p> + “I'm Andy.” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed! You're Andy, are you?” and he reached out one of his hands. + </p> + <p> + “Yes; I'm Andy,” returned the child, fixing his eyes with a look so deep + and searching on the man's face that they held him as by a kind of + fascination. + </p> + <p> + “Well, Andy, where did you come from?” asked the man. + </p> + <p> + “Don't know,” was answered. + </p> + <p> + “Don't know!” + </p> + <p> + Andy shook his head. + </p> + <p> + “Where do you live?” + </p> + <p> + “Don't live nowhere,” returned the child; “and I'm hungry.” + </p> + <p> + “Hungry?” The man let the hand he was still holding drop, and getting up + quickly, took some bread from a closet and set it on the old table. + </p> + <p> + Andy did not wait for an invitation, but seized upon the bread and + commenced eating almost ravenously. As he did so the man fumbled in his + pockets. There were a few pennies there. He felt them over, counting them + with his fingers, and evidently in some debate with himself. At last, as + he closed the debate, he said, with a kind of compelled utterance, + </p> + <p> + “I say, young one, wouldn't you like some milk with your bread?” + </p> + <p> + “Milk! oh my I oh goody! yes,” answered the child, a gleam of pleasure + coming into his face. + </p> + <p> + “Then you shall have some;” and catching up a broken mug, the man went + out. In a minute or two he returned with a pint of milk, into which he + broke a piece of bread, and then sat watching Andy as he filled himself + with the most delicious food he had tasted for weeks, his marred face + beaming with a higher satisfaction than he had known for a long time. + </p> + <p> + “Is it good?” asked the man. + </p> + <p> + “I bet you!” was the cheery answer. + </p> + <p> + “Well, you're a little brick,” laughed the man as he stroked Andy's head. + “And you don't live anywhere?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “Is your mother dead?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “And your father?” + </p> + <p> + “Hain't got no father.” + </p> + <p> + “Would you like to live here?” + </p> + <p> + Andy looked toward the empty bowl from which he had made such a satisfying + meal, and said, + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “It will hold us both. You're not very big;” and as he said this the man + drew his arm about the boy in a fond sort of way. + </p> + <p> + “I guess you're tired,” he added, for Andy, now that an arm was drawn + around him, leaned against it heavily. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I'm tired,” said the child. + </p> + <p> + “And sleepy too, poor little fellow! It isn't much of a bed I can give + you, but it's better than a door-step or a rubbish corner.” + </p> + <p> + Then he doubled the only blanket he had, and made as soft a bed as + possible. On this he laid Andy, who was fast asleep almost as soon as + down. + </p> + <p> + “Poor little chap!” said the man, in a tender, half-broken voice, as he + stood over the sleeping child, candle in hand. “Poor little chap!” + </p> + <p> + The sight troubled him. He turned with a quick, disturbed movement and put + the candle down. The light streaming upward into his face showed the + countenance of a man so degraded by intemperance that everything + attractive had died out of it. His clothes were scanty, worn almost to + tatters, and soiled with the slime and dirt of many an ash-heap or gutter + where he had slept off his almost daily fits of drunkenness. There was an + air of irresolution about him, and a strong play of feeling in his marred, + repulsive face, as he stood by the table on which he had set the candle. + One hand was in his pocket, fumbling over the few pennies yet remaining + there. + </p> + <p> + As if drawn by an attraction he could not resist, his eyes kept turning to + the spot where Andy lay sleeping. Once, as they came back, they rested on + the mug from which the child had taken his supper of bread and milk. + </p> + <p> + “Poor little fellow!” came from his lips, in a tone of pity. + </p> + <p> + Then he sat down by the table and leaned his head on his hand. His face + was toward the corner of the room where the child lay. He still fumbled + the small coins in his pocket, but after a while his fingers ceased to + play with them, then his hand was slowly withdrawn from the pocket, a deep + sigh accompanying the act. + </p> + <p> + After the lapse of several minutes he took up the candle, and going over + to the bed, crouched down and let the light fall on Andy's face. The large + forehead, soiled as it was, looked white to the man's eyes, and the brown + matted hair, as he drew it through his fingers, was soft and beautiful. + Memory had taken him back for years, and he was looking at the fair + forehead and touching the soft brown hair of another baby. His eyes grew + dim. He set the candle upon the floor, and putting his hands over his + face, sobbed two or three times. + </p> + <p> + When this paroxysm of feeling went off, he got up with a steadier air, and + set the light back upon the table. The conflict going on in his mind was + not quite over, but another look at Andy settled the question. Stooping + with a hurried movement, he blew out the candle, then groped his way over + to the bed, and lying down, took the child in his arms and drew him close + to his breast. So the morning found them both asleep. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0019" id="link2HCH0019"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIX. + </h2> + <p> + <i>MR. DINNEFORD</i> had become deeply interested in the work that was + going on in Briar street, and made frequent visits to the mission house. + Sometimes he took heart in the work, but oftener he suffered great + discouragement of feeling. In one of his many conversations with Mr. + Paulding he said, + </p> + <p> + “Looking as I do from the standpoint gained since I came here, I am + inclined to say there is no hope. The enemy is too strong for us.” + </p> + <p> + “He is very strong,” returned the missionary, “but God is stronger, and + our cause is his cause. We have planted his standard here in the very + midst of the enemy's territory, and have not only held our ground for + years, but gained some victories. If we had the people, the churches and + the law-officers on our side, we could drive him out in a year. But we + have no hope of this—at least not for a long time to come; and so, + as wisely as we can, as earnestly as we can, and with the limited means at + our control, we are fighting the foe and helping the weak, and gaining a + little every year.” + </p> + <p> + “And you really think there is gain?” + </p> + <p> + “I know it,” answered the missionary, with a ringing confidence in his + voice. “It is by comparisons that we are able to get at true results. Come + with me into our school-room, next door.” + </p> + <p> + They passed from the office of the mission into the street. + </p> + <p> + “These buildings,” said Mr. Paulding, “erected by that true Christian + charity which hopeth all things, stand upon the very site of one of the + worst dens once to be found in this region. In them we have a chapel for + worship, two large and well ventilated school-rooms, where from two to + three hundred children that would not be admitted into any public school + are taught daily, a hospital and dispensary and bathrooms. Let me show you + the school. Then I will give you a measure of comparison.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Dinneford went up to the school-rooms. He found them crowded with + children, under the care of female teachers, who seemed to have but little + trouble in keeping them in order. Such a congregation of boys and girls + Mr. Dinneford had never seen before. It made his heart ache as he looked + into some of their marred and pinched, faces, most of which bore signs of + pain, suffering, want and evil. It moved him to tears when he heard them + sing, led by one of the teachers, a tender hymn expressive of the Lord's + love for poor neglected children. + </p> + <p> + “The Lord Jesus came to seek and to save that which was lost,” said the + missionary as they came down from the school-room, “and we are trying to + do the same work. And that our labor is not all in vain will be evident + when I show you what this work was in the beginning. You have seen a + little of what it is now.” + </p> + <p> + They went back to the office of the missionary. + </p> + <p> + “It is nearly twenty years,” said Mr. Paulding, “since the organization of + our mission. The question of what to do for the children became at once + the absorbing one. The only building in which to open a Sunday-school that + could be obtained was an old dilapidated frame house used as a receptacle + for bones, rags, etc.; but so forbidding was its aspect, and so noisome + the stench arising from the putrefying bones and rotting rags, that it was + feared for the health of those who might occupy it. However it was agreed + to try the effect of scraping, scrubbing, white-washing and a liberal use + of chloride of lime. This was attended with such good effects that, + notwithstanding the place was still offensive to the olfactories, the + managers concluded to open in it our first Sabbath-school. + </p> + <p> + “No difficulty was experienced in gathering in a sufficient number of + children to compose a school; for, excited by such a novel spectacle as a + Sabbath-school in that region, they came in crowds. But such a + Sabbath-school as that first one was beyond all doubt the rarest thing of + the kind that any of those interested in its formation had ever witnessed. + The jostling, tumbling, scratching, pinching, pulling of hair, little ones + crying and larger ones punching each other's heads and swearing most + profanely, altogether formed a scene of confusion and riot that + disheartened the teachers in the start, and made them begin to think they + had undertaken a hopeless task. + </p> + <p> + “As to the appearance of these young Ishmaelites, it was plain that they + had rarely made the acquaintance of soap and water. Hands, feet and face + exhibited a uniform crust of mud and filth. As it was necessary to obtain + order, the superintendent, remembering that 'music hath charms to soothe + the savage breast,' decided to try its effects on the untamed group before + him; and giving out a line of a hymn adapted to the tune of 'Lily Dale,' + he commenced to sing. The effect was instantaneous. It was like oil on + troubled waters. The delighted youngsters listened to the first line, and + then joined in with such hearty good-will that the old shanty rang again. + </p> + <p> + “The attempt to engage and lead them in prayer was, however, a matter of + great difficulty. They seemed to regard the attitude of kneeling as very + amusing, and were reluctant to commit themselves so far to the ridicule of + their companions as to be caught in such a posture. After reading to them + a portion of the Holy Scriptures and telling them of Jesus, they were + dismissed, greatly pleased with their first visit to a Sabbath-school. + </p> + <p> + “As for ourselves, we had also received a lesson. We found—what + indeed we had expected—that the poor children were very ignorant, + but we also found what we did not expect—namely, such an acute + intelligence and aptitude to receive instruction as admonished us of the + danger of leaving them to grow up under evil influences to become + master-spirits in crime and pests to society. Many of the faces that we + had just seen were very expressive—indeed, painfully so. Some of + them seemed to exhibit an unnatural and premature development of those + passions whose absence makes childhood so attractive. + </p> + <p> + “Hunger! ay, its traces were also plainly written there. It is painful to + see the marks of hunger on the human face, but to see the cheeks of + childhood blanched by famine, to behold the attenuated limbs and bright + wolfish eyes, ah! that is a sight. + </p> + <p> + “The organization of a day-school came next. There were hundreds of + children in the district close about the mission who were wholly without + instruction. They were too dirty, vicious and disorderly to be admitted + into any of the public schools; and unless some special means of education + were provided, they must grow up in ignorance. It was therefore resolved + to open a day-school, but to find a teacher with her heart in such a work + was a difficulty hard to be met; moreover, it was thought by many unsafe + for a lady to remain in this locality alone, even though a suitable one + should offer. But one brave and self-devoted was found, and one Sunday it + was announced to the children in the Sabbath-school that a day school + would be opened in the same building at nine o'clock on Monday morning. + </p> + <p> + “About thirty neglected little ones from the lanes and alleys around the + mission were found at the schoolroom door at the appointed hour. But when + admitted, very few of them had any idea of the purpose for which they were + collected. The efforts of the teacher to seat them proved a failure. The + idea among them seemed to be that each should take some part in amusing + the company. One would jump from the back of a bench upon which he had + been seated, while others were creeping about the floor; another, who + deemed himself a proficient in turning somersaults, would be trying his + skill in this way, while his neighbor, equally ambitious, would show the + teacher how he could stand on his head. Occasionally they would pause and + listen to the singing of a hymn or the reading of a little story; then all + would be confusion again; and thus the morning wore away. The first + session having closed, the teacher retired to her home, feeling that a + repetition of the scenes through which she had passed could scarcely be + endured. + </p> + <p> + “Two o'clock found her again at the door, and the children soon gathered + around her. Upon entering the schoolroom, most of them were induced to be + seated, and a hymn was sung which they had learned in the Sabbath-school. + When it was finished, the question was asked, 'Shall we pray?' With one + accord they answered, 'Yes.' 'And will you be quiet?' They replied in the + affirmative. All were then requested to be silent and cover their faces. + In this posture they remained until the prayer was closed; and after + resuming their seats, for some minutes order was preserved. This was the + only encouraging circumstance of the day. + </p> + <p> + “For many weeks a stranger would scarcely have recognized a school in this + disorderly gathering which day after day met in the old gloomy building. + Very many difficulties which we may not name were met and conquered. + Fights were of common occurrence. A description of one may give the reader + an idea of what came frequently under our notice. + </p> + <p> + “A rough boy about fourteen years of age, over whom some influence had + been gained, was chosen monitor one morning; and as he was a leader in all + the mischief, it was hoped that putting him upon his honor would assist in + keeping order. Talking aloud was forbidden. For a few minutes matters went + on charmingly, until some one, tired of the restraint, broke silence. The + monitor, feeling the importance of his position, and knowing of but one + mode of redress, instantly struck him a violent blow upon the ear, causing + him to scream with pain. In a moment the school was a scene of confusion, + the friends of each boy taking sides, and before the cause of trouble + could be ascertained most of the boys were piled upon each other in the + middle of the room, creating sounds altogether indescribable. The teacher, + realizing that she was alone, and not well understanding her influence, + feared for a moment to interfere; but as matters were growing worse, + something must be done. She made an effort to gain the ear of the monitor, + and asked why he did so. He, confident of being in the right, answered, + </p> + <p> + “'Teacher, he didn't mind you; he spoke, and I licked him; and I'll do it + again if he don't mind you.' + </p> + <p> + “His services were of course no longer required, although he had done his + duty according to his understanding of the case. + </p> + <p> + “Thus it was at the beginning of this work nearly twenty years ago,” said + the missionary. “Now we have an orderly school of over two hundred + children, who, but for the opportunity here given, would grow up without + even the rudiments of all education. Is not this a gain upon the enemy? + Think of a school like this doing its work daily among these neglected + little ones for nearly a score of years, and you will no longer feel as if + nothing had been done—as if no headway had been gained. Think, too, + of the Sabbath-school work in that time, and of the thousands of children + who have had their memories filled with precious texts from the Bible, who + have been told of the loving Saviour who came into the world and suffered + and died for them, and of his tender love and perpetual care over his + children, no matter how poor and vile and afar off from him they may be. + It is impossible that the good seed of the word scattered here for so long + a time should not have taken root in many hearts. We know that they have, + and can point to scores of blessed instances—can take you to men and + women, now good and virtuous people, who, but for our day-and + Sabbath-schools, would, in all human probability, be now among the + outcast, the vicious and the criminal. + </p> + <p> + “So much for what has been done among the children. Our work with men and + women has not been so fruitful as might well be supposed, and yet great + good has been accomplished even among the hardened, the desperate and the + miserably vile and besotted. Bad as things are to-day—awful to see + and to contemplate, shocking and disgraceful to a Christian community—they + were nearly as bad again at the time this mission set up the standard of + God and made battle in his name. Our work began as a simple religious + movement, with street preaching.” + </p> + <p> + “And with what effect?” asked Mr. Dinneford. + </p> + <p> + “With good effect, in a limited number of cases, I trust. In a degraded + community like this there will always be some who had a different + childhood from that of the crowds of young heathen who swarm its courts + and alleys; some who in early life had religious training, and in whose + memories were stored up holy things from Scripture; some who have tender + and sweet recollection of a mother and home and family prayer and service + in God's temples. In the hearts of such God's Spirit in moving could touch + and quicken and flush with reviving life these old memories, and through + them bring conviction of sin, and an intense desire to rise out of the + horrible pit into which they had fallen and the clay wherein their feet + were mired. Angels could come near to these by what of good and true was + to be found half hidden, but not erased from their book of life, and so + help in the work of their recovery and salvation. + </p> + <p> + “But, sir, beyond this class there is small hope, I fear, in preaching and + praying. The great mass of these wretched beings have had little or no + early religious instruction. There, are but few, if any, remains of things + pure and good and holy stored away since childhood in their memories to be + touched and quickened by the Spirit of God. And so we must approach them + in another and more external way. We must begin with their physical evils, + and lessen these as fast as possible; we must remove temptation from their + doors, or get them as far as possible out of the reach of temptation, but + in this work not neglecting the religious element as an agency, of untold + power. + </p> + <p> + “Christ fed the hungry, and healed the sick, and clothed the naked, and + had no respect unto the persons of men. And we, if we would lift up fallen + humanity, must learn by his example. It is not by preaching and prayer and + revival meetings that the true Christian philanthropist can hope to + accomplish any great good among the people here, but by doing all in his + power to change their sad external condition and raise them out of their + suffering and degradation. Without some degree of external order and + obedience to the laws of natural life, it is, I hold, next to impossible, + to plant in the mind any seeds of spiritual truth. There is no ground + there. The parable of the sower that went forth to sow illustrates this + law. Only the seed that fell on good ground brought forth fruit. Our true + work, then, among this heathen people, of whom the churches take so little + care, is first to get the ground in order for the planting, of heavenly + seed. Failing in this, our hope is small.” + </p> + <p> + “This mission has changed its attitude since the beginning,” said Mr. + Dinneford. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Good and earnest men wrought for years with the evil elements around + them, trusting in God's Spirit to change the hearts of the vile and + abandoned sinners among whom they preached and prayed. But there was + little preparation of the ground, and few seeds got lodgment except in + stony places, by the wayside and among thorns. Our work now is to prepare + the ground, and in this work, slowly as it is progressing, we have great + encouragement. Every year we can mark the signs of advancement. Every year + we make some head against the enemy. Every year our hearts take courage + and are refreshed by the smell of grasses and the odor of flowers and the + sight of fruit-bearing plants in once barren and desolate places. The + ground is surely being made ready for the sower.” + </p> + <p> + “I am glad to hear you speak so encouragingly,” returned Mr. Dinneford. + “To me the case looked desperate—wellnigh hopeless. Anything worse + than I have witnessed here seemed impossible.” + </p> + <p> + “It is only by comparisons, as I said before, that we can get at the true + measure of change and progress,” answered the missionary. “Since we have + been at work in earnest to improve the external life of this region, we + have had much to encourage us. True, what we have done has made only a + small impression on the evil that exists here; but the value of this + impression lies in the fact that it shows what can be done with larger + agencies. Double our effective force, and we can double the result. + Increase it tenfold, and ten times as much can be done.” + </p> + <p> + “What is your idea of this work?” said Mr. Dinneford. “In other words, + what do you think the best practical way to purify this region?” + </p> + <p> + “If you draw burning brands and embers close together, your fire grows + stronger; if you scatter them apart, it will go out,” answered the + missionary. “Moral and physical laws correspond to each other. Crowd bad + men and women together, and they corrupt and deprave each other. Separate + them, and you limit their evil power and make more possible for good the + influence of better conditions. Let me give you an instance: A man and his + wife who had lived in a wretched way in one of the poorest hovels in Briar + street for two years, and who had become idle and intemperate, disappeared + from among us about six months ago. None of their neighbors knew or cared + much what had become of them. They had two children. Last week, as I was + passing the corner of a street in the south-western part of the city in + which stood a row of small new houses, a neatly-dressed woman came out of + a store with a basket in her hand. I did not know her, but by the + brightening look in her face I saw that she knew me. + </p> + <p> + “'Mr. Paulding,' she said, in a pleased way, holding out her hand; 'you + don't know me,' she added, seeing the doubt in my face. 'I am Mrs.—.' + </p> + <p> + “'Impossible!' I could not help exclaiming. + </p> + <p> + “'But it's true, Mr. Paulding,' she averred, a glow of pleasure on her + countenance. 'We've turned over a new leaf.' + </p> + <p> + “'So I should think from your appearance,' I replied. 'Where do you live?' + </p> + <p> + “'In the third house from the corner,' pointing to the neat row of small + brick houses I have mentioned. 'Come and look at our new home. I want to + tell you about it!' + </p> + <p> + “I was too much pleased to need a second invitation. + </p> + <p> + “'I've got as clean steps as my neighbors,' she said, with pride in her + voice, 'and shades to my windows, and a bright door-knob. It wasn't so in + Briar street. One had no heart there. Isn't this nice?' + </p> + <p> + “And she glanced around the little parlor we had entered. + </p> + <p> + “It was nice, compared to the dirty and disorderly place they had called + their home in Briar street. The floor was covered with a new ingrain + carpet. There were a small table and six cane-seat chairs in the room, + shades at the windows, two or three small pictures on the walls and some + trifling ornaments on the mantel. Everything was clean and the air of the + room sweet. + </p> + <p> + “'This is my little Emma,' she said as a cleanly-dressed child came into + the room; 'You remember she was in the school.' + </p> + <p> + “I did remember her as a ragged, dirty-faced child, forlorn and neglected, + like most of the children about here. It was a wonderful transformation. + </p> + <p> + “'And now,' I said, 'tell me how all this has come about.' + </p> + <p> + “'Well, you see, Mr. Paulding,' she answered, 'there was no use in John + and me trying to be anything down there. It was temptation on every hand, + and we were weak and easily tempted. There was nothing to make us look up + or to feel any pride. We lived like our neighbors, and you know what kind + of a way that was. + </p> + <p> + “'One day John said to me, “Emma,” says he, “it's awful, the way we're + living; we'd better be dead.” His voice was shaky-like, and it kind of + made me feel bad. “I know it, John,” said I, “but what can we do?” “Go + 'way from here,” he said. “But where?” I asked. “Anywhere. I'm not all + played out yet;” and he held up his hand and shut it tight. “There's good + stuff in me yet, and if you're willing to make a new start, I am.” I put + my hand in his, and said, “God helping me, I will try, John.” He went off + that very day and got a room in a decent neighborhood, and we moved in it + before night. We had only one cart-load, and a wretched load of stuff it + was. But I can't tell you how much better it looked when we got it into + our new room, the walls of which were nicely papered, and the paint clean + and white. I fixed up everything and made it as neat as possible. John was + so pleased. “It feels something like old times,” he said. He had been + knocking about a good while, picking up odd jobs and not half working, but + he took heart now, quit drinking and went to work in good earnest, and was + soon making ten dollars a week, every cent of which he brought home. He + now gets sixteen dollars. We haven't made a back step since. But it + wouldn't have been any use trying if we'd stayed in Briar street. Pride + helped us a good deal in the beginning, sir. I was ashamed not to have my + children looking as clean as my neighbors, and ashamed not to keep things + neat and tidy-like. I didn't care anything about it in Briar street.' + </p> + <p> + “I give you this instance, true in nearly every particular,” said the + missionary, “in order to show you how incurable is the evil condition of + the people here; unless we can get the burning brands apart, they help to + consume each other.” + </p> + <p> + “But how to get them apart? that is the difficult question,” said Mr. + Dinneford. + </p> + <p> + “There are two ways,” was replied—“by forcing the human brands + apart, and by interposing incombustible things between them. As we have no + authority to apply force, and no means at hand for its exercise if we had + the authority, our work has been in the other direction. We have been + trying to get in among these burning brands elements that would stand the + fire, and, so lessen the ardor of combustion.” + </p> + <p> + “How are you doing this?” + </p> + <p> + “By getting better houses for the people to live in. Improve the house, + make it more sightly and convenient, and in most cases you will improve + the person who lives in it. He will not kindle so easily, though he yet + remain close to the burning brands.” + </p> + <p> + “And are you doing this?” + </p> + <p> + “A little has been done. Two or three years ago a building association was + organized by a few gentlemen of means, with a view to the purchase of + property in this district and the erection of small but good houses, to be + rented at moderate cost to honest and industrious people. A number of such + houses have already been built, and they are now occupied by tenants of a + better class, whose influence on their neighbors is becoming more and more + apparent every day. Brady street—once the worst place in all this + district—has changed wonderfully. There is scarcely a house in the + two blocks through which it runs that does not show some improvement since + the association pulled down half a dozen of its worst frame tenements and + put neat brick dwellings in their places. It is no uncommon thing now to + see pavement sweeping and washing in front of some of the smallest and + poorest of the houses in Brady street where two years ago the dirt would + stick to your feet in passing. A clean muslin half curtain, a paper shade + or a pot of growing plants will meet your eyes at a window here and there + as you pass along. The thieves who once harbored in this street, and hid + their plunder in cellars and garrets until it could be sold or pawned, + have abandoned the locality. They could not live side by side with honest + industry.” + </p> + <p> + “And all this change may be traced to the work of our building + association, limited as are its means and half-hearted as are its + operations. The worst of our population—the common herd of thieves, + beggars and vile women who expose themselves shamelessly on the street—are + beginning to feel less at home and more in danger of arrest and exposure. + The burning brands are no longer in such close contact, and so the fires + of evil are raging less fiercely. Let in the light, and the darkness + flees. Establish the good, and evil shrinks away, weak and abashed.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0020" id="link2HCH0020"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XX. + </h2> + <p> + <i>SO</i> the morning found them fast asleep. The man awoke first and felt + the child against his bosom, soft and warm. It was some moments ere he + understood what it meant. It seemed as if the wretched life he had been + leading was all a horrible dream out of which he had awakened, and that + the child sleeping in his bosom was his own tenderly-loved baby. But the + sweet illusions faded away, and the hard, sorrowful truth stood out + sternly before him. + </p> + <p> + Then Andy's eyes opened and looked into his face. There was nothing scared + in the look-hardly an expression of surprise. But the man saw a mute + appeal and a tender confidence that made his heart swell and yearn toward + the homeless little one. + </p> + <p> + “Had a nice sleep?” he asked, in a tone of friendly encouragement. + </p> + <p> + Andy nodded his head, and then gazed curiously about the room. + </p> + <p> + “Want some breakfast?” + </p> + <p> + The hungry face lit up with a flash of pleasure. + </p> + <p> + “Of course you do, little one.” + </p> + <p> + The man was on his feet by this time, with his hand in his pocket, from + which he drew a number of pennies. These he counted over carefully twice. + The number was just ten. If there had been only himself to provide for, it + would not have taken long to settle the question of expenditure. Five + cents at an eating-shop where the caterer supplied himself from the + hodge-podge of beggars' baskets would have given him a breakfast fit for a + dog or pig, while the remaining five cents would have gone for fiery + liquor to quench a burning thirst. + </p> + <p> + But another mouth had too be fed. All at once this poor degraded man had + risen to a sense of responsibility, and was practicing the virtue of + self-denial. A little child was leading him. + </p> + <p> + He had no toilette to make, no ablutions to practice. There was neither + pail nor wash-basin in his miserable kennel. So, without any delay of + preparation, he caught up the broken mug and went out, as forlorn a + looking wretch as was to be seen in all that region. Almost every house + that he passed was a grog-shop, and his nerves were all unstrung and his + mouth and throat dry from a night's abstinence. But he was able to go by + without a pause. In a few minutes he returned with a loaf of bread, a pint + of milk and a single dried sausage. + </p> + <p> + What a good breakfast the two made. Not for a long time had the man so + enjoyed a meal. The sight of little Andy, as he ate with the fine relish + of a hungry child, made his dry bread and sausage taste sweeter than + anything that had passed his lips for weeks. + </p> + <p> + Something more than the food he had taken steadied the man's nerves and + allayed his thirst. Love was beating back into his heart—love for + this homeless wanderer, whose coming had supplied the lost links in the + chain which bound him to the past and called up memories that had slept + almost the sleep of death for years. Good resolutions began forming in his + mind. + </p> + <p> + “It may be,” he said to himself as new and better impressions than he had + known for a long time began to crowd upon him, “that God has led this baby + here.” + </p> + <p> + The thought sent a strange thrill to his soul. He trembled with excess of + feeling. He had once been a religious man; and with the old instinct of + dependence on God, he clasped his hands together with a sudden, desperate + energy, and looking up, cried, in a half-despairing, half-trustful voice, + </p> + <p> + “Lord, help me!” + </p> + <p> + No earnest cry like that ever goes up without an instant answer in the + gift of divine strength. The man felt it in a stronger purpose and a + quickening hope. He was conscious of a new power in himself. + </p> + <p> + “God being my helper,” he said in the silence of his heart, “I will be a + man again.” + </p> + <p> + There was a long distance between him and a true manhood. The way back was + over very rough and difficult places, and through dangers and temptations + almost impossible to resist. Who would have faith in him? Who would help + him in his great extremity? How was he to live? Not any longer by begging + or petty theft. He must do honest work. There was no hope in anything + else. If God were to be his helper, he must be honest, and work. To this + conviction he had come. + </p> + <p> + But what was to be done with Andy while he was away trying to earn + something? The child might get hurt in the street or wander off in his + absence and never find his way back. The care he felt for the little one + was pleasure compared to the thought of losing him. + </p> + <p> + As for Andy, the comfort of a good breakfast and the feeling that he had a + home, mean as it was, and somebody to care for him, made his heart light + and set his lips to music. + </p> + <p> + When before had the dreary walls of that poor hovel echoed to the happy + voice of a light-hearted child? But there was another echo to the voice, + and from walls as long a stranger to such sounds as these—the walls + in the chambers of that poor man's memory. A wellnigh lost and ruined soul + was listening to the far-off voices of children. Sunny-haired little ones + were thronging about him; he was looking into their tender eyes; their + soft arms were clinging to his neck; he was holding them tightly clasped + to his bosom. + </p> + <p> + “Baby,” he said. It was the word that came most naturally to his lips. + </p> + <p> + Andy, who was sitting where a few sunbeams came in through a rent in the + wall, with the warm light on his head, turned and looked into the bleared + but friendly eyes gazing at him so earnestly. + </p> + <p> + “I'm going out, baby. Will you stay here till I come back?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” answered the child, “I'll stay.” + </p> + <p> + “I won't be gone very long, and I'll bring you an apple and something good + for dinner.” + </p> + <p> + Andy's face lit up and his eyes danced. + </p> + <p> + “Don't go out until I come back. Somebody might carry you off, and then I + couldn't give you the nice red apple.” + </p> + <p> + “I'll stay right here,” said Andy, in a positive tone. + </p> + <p> + “And won't go into the street till I come back?” + </p> + <p> + “No, I won't.” Andy knit his brows and closed his lips firmly. + </p> + <p> + “All right, little one,” answered the man, in a cheery sort of voice that + was so strange to his own ears that it seemed like the voice of somebody + else. + </p> + <p> + Still, he could not feel satisfied. He was living in the midst of thieves + to whom the most insignificant thing upon which they could lay their hands + was booty. Children who had learned to be hard and cruel thronged the + court, and he feared, if he left Andy alone in the hovel, that it would + not only be robbed of its meagre furniture, but the child subjected to + ill-treatment. He had always fastened the door on going out, but hesitated + now about locking Andy in. + </p> + <p> + All things considered, it was safest, he felt, to lock the door. There was + nothing in the room that could bring harm to the child—no fire or + matches, no stairs to climb or windows out of which he could fall. + </p> + <p> + “I guess I'd better lock the door, hadn't I, so that nobody can carry off + my little boy?” he asked of Andy. + </p> + <p> + Andy made no objections. He was ready for anything his kind friend might + propose. + </p> + <p> + “And you mustn't cry or make a noise. The police might break in if you + did.” + </p> + <p> + “All right,” said Andy, with the self-assertion of a boy of ten. + </p> + <p> + The man stroked the child's head and ran his fingers through his hair in a + fond way; then, as one who tore himself from an object of attraction, went + hastily out and locked the door. + </p> + <p> + And now was to begin a new life. Friendless, debased, repulsive in + appearance, everything about him denoting the abandoned drunkard, this man + started forth to get honest bread. Where should he go? What could he do? + Who would give employment to an object like him? The odds were fearfully + against him—no, not that, either. In outward respects, fearful + enough were the odds, but on the other side agencies invisible to mortal + sight were organizing for his safety. In to his purpose to lead a new life + and help a poor homeless child God's strength was flowing. Angels were + drawing near to a miserable wreck of humanity with hands outstretched to + save. All heaven was coming to the rescue. + </p> + <p> + He was shuffling along in the direction of a market-house, hoping to earn + a little by carrying home baskets, when he came face to face with an old + friend of his better days, a man with whom he had once held close business + relations. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Hall!” exclaimed this man in a tone of sorrowful surprise, stopping + and looking at him with an expression of deepest pity on his countenance. + “This is dreadful!” + </p> + <p> + “You may well say that, Mr. Graham. It dreadful enough. No one knows that + better than I do,” was answered, with a bitterness that his old friend + felt to be genuine. + </p> + <p> + “Why, then, lead this terrible life a day longer?” asked the friend. + </p> + <p> + “I shall not lead it a day longer if God will help me,” was replied, with + a genuineness of purpose that was felt by Mr. Graham. + </p> + <p> + “Give me your hand on that, Andrew Hall,” he exclaimed. Two hands closed + in a tight grip. + </p> + <p> + “Where are you going now?” inquired the friend. + </p> + <p> + “I'm in search of something to do—something that will give me honest + bread. Look at my hand.” + </p> + <p> + He held it up. + </p> + <p> + “It shakes, you see. I have not tasted liquor this morning. I could have + bought it, but I did not.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “I said, 'God being my helper, I will be a man again,' and I am trying.” + </p> + <p> + “Andrew Hall,” said his old friend, solemnly, as he laid his hand on his + shoulder, “if you are really in earnest—if you do mean, in the help + of God, to try—all will be well. But in his help alone is there any + hope. Have you seen Mr. Paulding?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “Why not?” + </p> + <p> + “He has no faith in me. I have deceived him too often.” + </p> + <p> + “What ground of faith is there now?” asked Mr. Graham. + </p> + <p> + “This,” was the firm but hastily spoken answer. “Last night as I sat in + the gloom of my dreary hovel, feeling so wretched that I wished I could + die, a little child came in—a poor, motherless, homeless wanderer, + almost a baby—and crept down to my heart, and he is lying there + still, Mr. Graham, soft, and warm and precious, a sweet burden to bear. I + bought him a supper and a breakfast of bread and milk with the money, I + had saved for drink, and now, both for his sake and mine, I am out seeking + for work. I have locked him in, so that no one can harm or carry him away + while I earn enough to buy him his dinner, and maybe something better to + wear, poor little homeless thing!” + </p> + <p> + There was a genuine earnestness and pathos about the man that could not be + mistaken. + </p> + <p> + “I think,” said Mr. Graham, his voice not quite steady, “that God brought + us together this morning. I know Mr. Paulding. Let us go first to the + mission, and have some talk with him. You must have a bath and better, and + cleaner clothes before you are in a condition to get employment.” + </p> + <p> + The bath and a suit of partly-worn but good clean clothes were supplied at + the mission house. + </p> + <p> + “Now come with me, and I will find you something to do,” said the old + friend. + </p> + <p> + But Andrew Hall stood hesitating. + </p> + <p> + “The little child—I told him I'd come back soon. He's locked up all + alone, poor baby!” + </p> + <p> + He spoke with a quiver in his voice. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, true, true!” answered Mr. Graham; “the baby must be looked after;” + and he explained to the missionary. + </p> + <p> + “I will go round with you and get the child,” said Mr. Paulding. “My wife + will take care of him while you are away with Mr. Graham.” + </p> + <p> + They found little Andy sitting patiently on the floor. He did not know the + friend who had given him a home and food and loving words, and looked at + him half scared and doubting. But his voice made the child spring to his + feet with a bound, and flushed his thin-face with the joy of a glad + recognition. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Paulding received him with a true motherly kindness, and soon a bath + and clean clothing wrought as great a change in the child as they had done + in the man. + </p> + <p> + “I want your help in saving him,” said Mr. Graham, aside, to the + missionary. “He was once among our most respectable citizens, a good + church-member, a good husband and father, a man of ability and large + influence. Society lost much when it lost him. He is well worth saving, + and we must do it if possible. God sent him this little child to touch his + heart and flood it with old memories, and then he led me to come down here + that I might meet and help him just when his good purposes made help + needful and salvation possible. It is all of his loving care and wise + providence of his tender mercy, which is over the poorest and weakest and + most degraded of his children. Will you give him your special care?” + </p> + <p> + “It is the work I am here to do,” answered the missionary. “The Master + came to seek and to save that which was lost, and I am his humble + follower.” + </p> + <p> + “The child will have to be provided for,” said Mr. Graham. “It cannot, of + course, be left with him. It needs a woman's care.” + </p> + <p> + “It will not do to separate them,” returned the missionary. “As you + remarked just now, God sent him this little child to touch his heart and + lead him back from the wilderness in which he has strayed. His safety + depends on the touch of that hand. So long as he feels its clasp and its + pull, he will walk in the new way wherein God is setting his feet. No, no; + the child must be left with him—at least for the present. We will + take care of it while he is at work during the day, and at night it can + sleep in his arms, a protecting angel.” + </p> + <p> + “What kind of a place does he live in?” asked Mr. Graham. + </p> + <p> + “A dog might dwell there in comfort, but not a man,” replied the + missionary. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Graham gave him money: “Provide a decent room. If more is required, + let me know.” + </p> + <p> + He then went away, taking Mr. Hall with him. + </p> + <p> + “You will find the little one here when you come back,” said Mr. Paulding + as he saw the anxious, questioning look that was cast toward Andy. + </p> + <p> + Clothed and in his right mind, but in no condition for work, was Andrew + Hall. Mr. Graham soon noticed, as he walked by his side, that he was in a + very nervous condition. + </p> + <p> + “What had you for breakfast this morning” he asked, the right thought + coming into his mind. + </p> + <p> + “Not much. Some bread and a dried sausage.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh dear! that will never do! You must have something more nutritious—a + good beefsteak and a cup of coffee to steady your nerves. Come.” + </p> + <p> + And in a few minutes they were in an eating-house. When they came out, + Hall was a different man. Mr. Graham then took him to his store and set + him to work to arrange and file a number of letters and papers, which + occupied him for several hours. He saw that he had a good dinner and at + five o'clock gave him a couple of dollars for his day's work, aid after + many kind words of advice and assurance told him to come back in the + morning, and he would find something else for him to do. + </p> + <p> + Swiftly as his feet would carry him, Andrew Hall made his way to the Briar + street mission. He did not at first know the clean, handsome child that + lifted his large brown eyes to his face as he came in, nor did the child + know him until he spoke. Then a cry of pleasure broke from the baby's + lips, and he ran to the arms reached out to clasp him. + </p> + <p> + “We'll go home now,” he said, as if anxious to regain possession of the + child. + </p> + <p> + “Not back to Grubb's court,” was answered by Mr. Paulding. “If you are + going to be a new man, you must have a new and better home, and I've found + one for you just a little way from here. It's a nice clean room, and I'll + take you there. The rent is six dollars a month, but you can easily pay + that when you get fairly to work.” + </p> + <p> + The room was in the second story of a small house, better kept than most + of its neighbors, and contained a comfortable bed, with other needed + furniture, scanty, but clean and good. It was to Mr. Hall like the chamber + of a prince compared with what he had known for a long time; and as he + looked around him and comprehended something of the blessed change that + was coming over his life, tears filled his eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Bring Andy around in the morning,” said the missionary as he turned to + go. “Mrs. Paulding will take good care of him.” + </p> + <p> + That night, after undressing the child and putting on him the clean + night-gown which good Mrs. Paulding had not forgotten, he said, + </p> + <p> + “And now Andy will say his prayers.” + </p> + <p> + Andy looked at him with wide-open, questioning eyes. Mr. Hall saw that he + was not understood. + </p> + <p> + “You know, 'Now I lay me'?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “No, don't know it,” replied Andy. + </p> + <p> + “'Our Father,' then?” + </p> + <p> + The child knit his brow. It was plain that he did not understand what his + good friend meant. + </p> + <p> + “You've said your prayers?” + </p> + <p> + Andy shook his head in a bewildered way. + </p> + <p> + “Never said your prayers!” exclaimed Mr. Hall, in a voice so full of + surprise and pain that Andy grew half frightened. + </p> + <p> + “Poor baby!” was said, pityingly, a moment after. Then the question, + “Wouldn't you like to say your prayers?” brought the quick answer, “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Kneel down, then, right here.” Andy knelt, looking up almost wonderingly + into the face that bent over him. + </p> + <p> + “We have a good Father in heaven,” said Mr. Hall, with tender reverence in + his tone, pointing upward as he spoke, “He loves us and takes care of us. + He brought you to me, and told me to love you and take care of you for + him, and I'm going to do it. Now, I want you to say a little prayer to + this good and kind Father before you go to bed. Will you?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I will,” came the ready answer. + </p> + <p> + “Say it over after me. 'Now I lay me down to sleep.'” + </p> + <p> + Andy repeated the words, his little hands clasped together, and followed + through the verse which thousands of little children in thousands of + Christian homes were saying at the very same hour. + </p> + <p> + There was a subdued expression on the child's face as he rose from his + knees; and when Mr. Hall lifted him from the floor to lay him in bed, he + drew his arms about his neck and hugged him tightly. + </p> + <p> + How beautiful the child looked as he lay with shut eyes, the long brown + lashes fringing his flushed cheeks, that seemed already to have gained a + healthy roundness! The soft breath came through his parted lips, about + which still lingered the smile of peace that rested there after his first + prayer was said; his little hands lay upon his breast. + </p> + <p> + As Mr. Hall sat gazing at this picture there came a rap on his door. Then + the missionary entered. Neither of the men spoke for some moments. Mr. + Paulding comprehended the scene, and felt its sweet and holy influence. + </p> + <p> + “Blessed childhood!” he said, breaking the silence. “Innocent childhood! + The nearer we come to it, the nearer we get to heaven.” Then, after a + pause, he added, “And heaven is our only hope, Mr. Hall.” + </p> + <p> + “I have no hope but in God's strength,” was answered, in a tone of solemn + earnestness. + </p> + <p> + “God is our refuge, our rock of defence, our hiding-place, our sure + protector. If we trust in him, we shall dwell in safety,” said the + mission. “I am glad to hear you speak of hoping in God. He will give you + strength if you lean upon him, and there is not power enough in all hell + to drag you down if you put forth this God-given strength. But remember, + my friend, that you must use it as if it were your own. You must resist. + God's strength outside of our will and effort is of no use to any of us in + temptation. But looking to our Lord and Saviour in humble yet earnest + prayer for help in the hour of trial and need if we put forth our strength + in resistance of evil, small though it be, then into our weak efforts will + come an influx of divine power that shall surely give us the victory. Have + you a Bible?” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Hall shook his head. + </p> + <p> + “I have brought you one;” and the missionary drew a small Bible from his + pocket. “No man is safe without a Bible.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I am glad! I was just wishing for a Bible,” said Hall as he reached + out his hand to receive the precious book. + </p> + <p> + “If you read it every night and morning—if you treasure its holy + precepts in your memory, and call them up in times of trial, or when evil + enticements are in your way—God can come near to your soul to succor + and to save, for the words of the holy book are his words, and he is + present in them. If we take them into our thoughts, reverently seeking to + obey them, we make a dwelling-place for the Lord, so that he can abide + with us; and in his presence there is safety.” + </p> + <p> + “And nowhere else,” responded Hall, speaking from a deep sense of personal + helplessness. + </p> + <p> + “Nowhere else,” echoed the missionary. “And herein lies the hope or the + despair of men. It is pitiful, it is heart-aching, to see the vain but + wild and earnest efforts made by the slaves of intemperance to get free + from their cruel bondage. Thousands rend their fetters every year after + some desperate struggle, and escape. But, alas! how many are captured and + taken back into slavery! Appetite springs upon them in some unguarded + moment, and in their weakness there is none to succor. They do not go to + the Strong for strength, but trust in themselves, and are cast down. Few + are ever redeemed from the slavery of intemperance but those who pray to + God and humbly seek his aid. And so long as they depend on him, they are + safe. He will be as a wall of fire about them.” + </p> + <p> + As the missionary talked, the face of Mr. Hall underwent a remarkable + change. It grew solemn and very thoughtful. His hands drew together and + the fingers clasped. At the last words of Mr. Paulding a deep groan came + from his heart; and lifting his gaze upward, he cried out, + </p> + <p> + “Lord, save me, or I perish!” + </p> + <p> + “Let us pray,” said the missionary, and the two men knelt together, one + with bowed head and crouching body, the other with face uplifted, tenderly + talking to Him who had come down to the lowliest and the vilest that he + might make them pure as the angels, about the poor prodigal now coming + back to his Father's house. + </p> + <p> + After the prayer, Mr. paulding read a chapter from the Bible aloud, and + then, after words of hope and comfort, went away. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0021" id="link2HCH0021"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXI. + </h2> + <p> + “<i>I TAKE</i> reproof to myself,” said Mr. Dinneford. “As one of your + board of managers, I ought to have regarded my position as more than a + nominal one. I understand better now what you said about the ten or twenty + of our rich and influential men who, if they could be induced to look away + for a brief period from their great enterprises, and concentrate thought + and effort upon the social evils, abuse of justice, violations of law, + poverty and suffering that exist here and in other parts of our city, + would inaugurate reforms and set beneficent agencies at work that would + soon produce marvelous changes for good.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, yes,” sighed Mr. Paulding. “If we had for just a little while the + help of our strong men—the men of brains and will and money, the men + who are used to commanding success, whose business it is to organize + forces and set impediments at defiance, the men whose word is a kind of + law to the people—how quickly, and as if by magic, would all this + change! + </p> + <p> + “But we cannot now hope to get this great diversion in our favor. Until we + do we must stand in the breach, small in numbers and weak though we are—must + go on doing our best and helping when we may. Help is help and good is + good, be it ever so small. If I am able to rescue but a single life where + many are drowning, I make just so much head against death and destruction. + Shall I stand off and refuse to put forth my hand because I cannot save a + score? + </p> + <p> + “Take heart, Mr. Dinneford. Our work is not in vain. Its fruits may be + seen all around. Bad as you find everything, it is not so bad as it was. + When our day-school was opened, the stench from the filthy children who + were gathered in was so great that the teachers were nauseated. They were + dirty in person as well as dirty in their clothing. This would not do. + There was no hope of moral purity while such physical impurity existed. So + the mission set up baths, and made every child go in and thoroughly wash + his body. Then they got children's clothing—new and old—from + all possible sources, and put clean garments on their little scholars. + From the moment they were washed and cleanly clad, a new and better spirit + came upon them. They were more orderly and obedient, and more teachable. + There was, or seemed to be, a tenderer quality in their voices as they + sang their hymns of praise.” + </p> + <p> + Just then there came a sudden outcry and a confusion of voices from the + street. Mr. Dinneford arose quickly and went to the window. A man, + apparently drunk and in a rage, was holding a boy tightly gripped by the + collar with one hand and cuffing him about the head and face with the + other. + </p> + <p> + “It's that miserable Blind Jake!” said Mr. Paulding. + </p> + <p> + In great excitement, Mr. Dinneford threw up the window and called for the + police. At this the man stopped beating the boy, but swore at him + terribly, his sightless eyes rolling and his face distorted in a frightful + way. A policeman who was not far off came now upon the scene. + </p> + <p> + “What's all this about?” he asked, sternly. + </p> + <p> + “Jake's drunk again, that's the row,” answered a voice. + </p> + <p> + “Lock him up, lock him up!” cried two or three from the crowd. + </p> + <p> + An expression of savage defiance came into the face of the blind man, and + he moved his arms and clenched his fist like one who was bent on desperate + resistance. He was large and muscular, and, now that he was excited by + drink and bad passions, had a look that was dangerous. + </p> + <p> + “Go home and behave yourself,” said the policeman, not caring to have a + single-handed tussle with the human savage, whose strength and desperate + character he well knew. + </p> + <p> + Blind Jake, as he was called, stood for a few moments half defiant, + growling and distorting his face until it looked more like a wild animal's + than a man's, then jerked out the words, + </p> + <p> + “Where's that Pete?” with a sound like the crack of a whip. + </p> + <p> + The boy he had been beating in his drunken fury, and who did not seem to + be much hurt, came forward from the crowd, and taking him by the hand, led + him away. + </p> + <p> + “Who is this blind man? I have seen him before,” said Mr. Dinneford. + </p> + <p> + “You may see him any day standing at the street corners, begging, a + miserable-looking object, exciting the pity of the humane, and gathering + in money to spend in drunken debauchery at night. He has been known to + bring in some days as high as ten and some fifteen dollars, all of which + is wasted in riot before the next morning. He lives just over the way, and + night after night I can hear his howls and curses and laughter mingled + with those of the vile women with whom he herds.” + </p> + <p> + “Surely this cannot be?” said Mr. Dinneford. + </p> + <p> + “Surely it is,” was replied. “I know of what I speak. There is hardly a + viler wretch in all our city than this man, who draws hundreds—I + might say, without exaggeration, thousands—of dollars from weak and + tender-hearted people every year to be spent as I have said; and he is not + the only one. Out of this district go hundreds of thieves and beggars + every day, spreading themselves over the city and gathering in their + harvests from our people. I see them at the street corners, coming out of + yards and alley-gates, skulking near unguarded premises and studying + shop-windows. They are all impostors or thieves. Not one of them is + deserving of charity. He who gives to them wastes his money and encourages + thieving and vagrancy. One half of the successful burglaries committed on + dwelling-houses are in consequence of information gained by beggars. + Servant-girls are lured away by old women who come in the guise of + alms-seekers, and by well-feigned poverty and a seeming spirit of humble + thankfulness—often of pious trust in God—win upon their + sympathy and confidence. Many a poor weak girl has thus been led to visit + one of these poor women in the hope of doing her some good, and many a one + has thus been drawn into evil ways. If the people only understood this + matter as I understand it, they would shut hearts and hands against all + beggars. I add beggary as a vice to drinking and policy-buying as the next + most active agency in the work of making paupers and criminals.” + </p> + <p> + “But there are deserving poor,” said Dinneford. “We cannot shut our hearts + against all who seek for help.” + </p> + <p> + “The deserving poor,” replied Mr. Paulding, “are never common beggars—never + those who solicit in the street or importune from house to house. They try + always to help themselves, and ask for aid only when in great extremity. + They rarely force themselves on your attention; they suffer and die often + in dumb despair. We find them in these dreary and desolate cellars and + garrets, sick and starving and silent, often dying, and minister to them + as best we can. If the money given daily to idle and vicious beggars could + be gathered into a fund and dispensed with a wise Christian charity, it + would do a vast amount of good; now it does only evil.” + </p> + <p> + “You are doubtless right in this,” returned Mr. Dinneford. “Some one has + said that to help the evil is to hurt the good, and I guess his saying is + near the truth.” + </p> + <p> + “If you help the vicious and the idle,” was answered, “you simply + encourage vice and idleness, and these never exist without doing a hurt to + society. Withhold aid, and they will be forced to work, and so not only do + something for the common good, but be kept out of the evil ways into which + idleness always leads. + </p> + <p> + “So you see, sir, how wrong it is to give alms to the vast crew of beggars + that infest our cities, and especially to the children who are sent out + daily to beg or steal as opportunity offers. + </p> + <p> + “But there is another view of the case,” continued Mr. Paulding, “that few + consider, and which would, I am sure, arouse the people to immediate + action if they understood it as I do. We compare the nation to a great + man. We call it a 'body politic.' We speak of its head, its brain, its + hands, its feet, its arteries and vital forces. We know that no part of + the nation can be hurt without all the other parts feeling in some degree + the shock and sharing the loss or suffering. What is true of the great man + of the nation is true of our smaller communities, our States and cities + and towns. Each is an aggregate man, and the health and well-being of this + man depend on the individual men and the groups and societies of men by + which it is constituted. There cannot be an unhealthy organ in the human + system without a communication of disease to the whole body. A diseased + liver or heart or lung, a useless hand or foot, an ulcer or local + obstruction, cannot exist without injury and impediment to the whole. In + the case of a malignant ulcer, how soon the blood gets poisoned! + </p> + <p> + “Now, here is a malignant ulcer in the body politic of our city. Is it + possible, do you think, for it to exist, and in the virulent condition we + find it, and not poison the blood of our whole community? Moral and + spiritual laws are as unvarying in their action, out of natural sight + though they be, as physical laws. Evil and good are as positive entities + as fire, and destroy or consume as surely. As certainly as an ulcer + poisons with its malignant ichor this blood that visits every part of the + body, so surely is this ulcer poisoning every part of our community. Any + one who reflects for a moment will see that it cannot be otherwise. From + this moral ulcer there flows out daily and nightly an ichor as destructive + as that from a cancer. Here theft and robbery and murder have birth, + nurture and growth until full formed and organized, and then go forth to + plunder and destroy. The life and property of no citizen is safe so long + as this community exists. It has its schools of instruction for thieves + and housebreakers, where even little children are educated to the business + of stealing and robbery. Out from it go daily hundreds of men and women, + boys and girls, on their business of beggary, theft and the enticement of + the weak and unwary into crime. In it congregate human vultures and + harpies who absorb most of the plunder that is gained outside, and render + more brutal and desperate the wretches they rob in comparative safety. + </p> + <p> + “Let me show you how this is done. A man or a woman thirsting for liquor + will steal anything to get money for whisky. The article stolen may be a + coat, a pair of boots or a dress—something worth from five to twenty + dollars. It is taken to one of these harpies, and sold for fifty cents or + a dollar—anything to get enough for a drunken spree. I am speaking + only of what I know. Then, again, a man or a woman gets stupidly drunk in + one of the whisky-shops. Before he or she is thrown out upon the street, + the thrifty liquor-seller 'goes through' the pockets of the insensible + wretch, and confiscates all he finds. Again, a vile woman has robbed one + of her visitors, and with the money in her pocket goes to a dram-shop. The + sum may be ten dollars or it may be two hundred. A glass or so unlooses + her tongue; she boasts of her exploit, and perhaps shows her booty. Not + once in a dozen times will she take this booty away. If there are only a + few women in the shop, the liquor-seller will most likely pounce on her at + once and get the money by force. There is no redress. To inform the police + is to give information against herself. He may give her back a little to + keep her quiet or he may not, just as he feels about it. If he does not + resort to direct force, he will manage in some other way to get the money. + I could take you to the dram-shop of a man scarcely a stone's throw from + this place who came out of the State's prison less than four years ago and + set up his vile trap where it now stands. He is known to be worth fifty + thousand dollars to-day. How did he make this large sum? By the profits of + his bar? No one believes this. It has been by robbing his drunken and + criminal customers whenever he could get them in his power.” + </p> + <p> + “I am oppressed by all this,” said Mr. Dinneford. “I never dreamed of such + a state of things.” + </p> + <p> + “Nor does one in a hundred of our good citizens, who live in quiet + unconcern with this pest-house of crime and disease in their midst. And + speaking of disease, let me give you another fact that should be widely + known. Every obnoxious epidemic with which our city has been visited in + the last twenty years has originated here—ship fever, relapsing + fever and small-pox—and so, getting a lodgment in the body politic, + have poured their malignant poisons into the blood and diseased the whole. + Death has found his way into the homes of hundreds of our best citizens + through the door opened for him here.” + </p> + <p> + “Can this be so?” exclaimed Mr. Dinneford. + </p> + <p> + “It is just as I have said,” was replied. “And how could it be otherwise? + Whether men take heed or not, the evil they permit to lie at their doors + will surely do them harm. Ignorance of a statute, a moral or a physical + law gives no immunity from consequence if the law be transgressed—a + fact that thousands learn every year to their sorrow. There are those who + would call this spread of disease, originating here, all over our city, a + judgment from God, to punish the people for that neglect and indifference + which has left such a hell as this in their midst. I do not so read it. + God has no pleasure in punishments and retributions. The evil comes not + from him. It enters through the door we have left open, just as a thief + enters our dwellings, invited through our neglect to make the fastenings + sure. It comes under the operations of a law as unvarying as any law in + physics. And so long as we have this epidemic-breeding district in the + very heart of our city, we must expect to reap our periodical harvests of + disease and death. What it is to be next year, or the next, none can + tell.” + </p> + <p> + “Does not your perpetual contact with all this give your mind an unhealthy + tone—a disposition to magnify its disastrous consequences?” said Mr. + Dinneford. + </p> + <p> + The missionary dropped his eyes. The flush and animation went out of his + face. + </p> + <p> + “I leave you to judge for yourself,” he answered, after a brief silence, + and in a voice that betrayed a feeling of disappointment. “You have the + fact before you in the board of health, prison, almshouse, police, house + of refuge, mission and other reports that are made every year to the + people. If they hear not these, neither will they believe, though one rose + from the dead.” + </p> + <p> + “All is too dreadfully palpable for unbelief,” returned Mr. Dinneford. “I + only expressed a passing thought.” + </p> + <p> + “My mind may take an unhealthy tone—does often, without doubt,” said + Mr. Paulding. “I wonder, sometimes, that I can keep my head clear and my + purposes steady amid all this moral and physical disorder and suffering. + But exaggeration of either this evil or its consequences is impossible. + The half can never be told.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Dinneford rose to go. As he did so, two little Italian children, a boy + and a girl, not over eight years of age, tired, hungry, pinched and + starved-looking little creatures, the boy with a harp slung over his + shoulder, and the girl carrying a violin, went past on the other side. + </p> + <p> + “Where in the world do all of these little wretches come from?” asked Mr. + Dinneford. “They are swarming our streets of late. Yesterday I saw a child + who could not be over two years of age tinkling her triangle, while an + older boy and girl were playing on a harp and violin. She seemed so cold + and tired that it made me sad to look at her. There is something wrong + about this.” + </p> + <p> + “Something very wrong,” answered the missionary. “Doubtless you think + these children are brought here by their parents or near relatives. No + such thing. Most of them are slaves. I speak advisedly. The slave-trade is + not yet dead. Its abolition on the coast of Africa did not abolish the + cupidity that gave it birth. And the 'coolie' trade, one of its new forms, + is not confined to the East.” + </p> + <p> + “I am at a loss for your meaning,” said Mr. Dinneford. + </p> + <p> + “I am not surprised. The new slave-trade, which has been carried on with a + secresy that is only now beginning to attract attention, has its source of + supply in Southern Italy, from which large numbers of children are drawn + every year and brought to this country. + </p> + <p> + “The headquarters of this trade—cruel enough in some of its features + to bear comparison with the African slave-trade itself—are in New + York. From this city agents are sent out to Southern Italy every year, + where little intelligence and great poverty exist. These agents tell grand + stories of the brilliant prospects offered to the young in America. Let me + now read to you from the published testimony of one who has made a + thorough investigation of this nefarious business, so that you may get a + clear comprehension of its extent and iniquity. + </p> + <p> + “He says: 'One of these agents will approach the father of a family, and + after commenting upon the beauty of his children, will tell him that his + boys “should be sent at once to America, where they must in time become + rich.” “There are no poor in America.” “The children should go when young, + so that they may grow up with the people and the better acquire the + language.” “None are too young or too old to go to America.” The father, + of course, has not the means to go himself or to send his children to this + delightful country. The agent then offers to take the children to America, + and to pay forty or fifty dollars to the father upon his signing an + indenture abandoning all claims upon them. He often, also, promises to pay + a hundred or more at the end of a year, but, of course, never does it. + </p> + <p> + “'After the agent has collected a sufficient number of children, they are + all supplied with musical instruments, and the trip on foot through + Switzerland and France begins. They are generally shipped to Genoa, and + often to Marseilles, and accomplish the remainder of the journey to Havre + or Calais by easy stages from village to village. Thus they become a + paying investment from the beginning. This journey occupies the greater + portion of the summer months; and after a long trip in the steerage of a + sailing-vessel, the unfortunate children land at Castle Garden. As the + parents never hear from them again, they do not know whether they are + doing well or not. + </p> + <p> + “'They are too young and ignorant to know how to get themselves delivered + from oppression; they do not speak our language, and find little or no + sympathy among the people whom they annoy. They are thus left to the mercy + of their masters, who treat them brutally, and apparently without fear of + the law or any of its officers. They are crowded into small, + ill-ventilated, uncarpeted rooms, eighteen or twenty in each, and pass the + night on the floor, with only a blanket to protect them from the severity + of the weather. In the mornings they are fed by their temporary guardian + with maccaroni, served in the filthiest manner in a large open dish in the + centre of the room, after which they are turned out into the streets to + beg or steal until late at night. + </p> + <p> + “'More than all this, when the miserable little outcasts return to their + cheerless quarters, they are required to deliver every cent which they + have gathered during the day; and if the same be deemed insufficient, the + children are carefully searched and soundly beaten. + </p> + <p> + “'The children are put through a kind of training in the arts of producing + discords on their instruments, and of begging, in the whole of which the + cruelty of the masters and the stolid submission of the pupils are the + predominant features. The worst part of all is that the children become + utterly unfitted for any occupation except vagrancy and theft.' + </p> + <p> + “You have the answer to your question, 'Where do all these little wretches + come from?'” said the missionary as he laid aside the paper from which he + had been reading. “Poor little slaves!” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0022" id="link2HCH0022"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXII. + </h2> + <p> + <i>EDITH'S</i> life, as we have seen, became lost, so to speak, in + charities. Her work lay chiefly with children, She was active in + mission-schools and in two or three homes for friendless little ones, and + did much to extend their sphere of usefulness. Her garments were plain and + sombre, her fair young face almost colorless, and her aspect so nun-like + as often to occasion remark. + </p> + <p> + Her patience and tender ways with poor little children, especially with + the youngest, were noticed by all who were associated with her. Sometimes + she would show unusual interest in a child just brought to one of the + homes, particularly if it were a boy, and only two or three years old. She + would hover about it and ask it questions, and betray an eager concern + that caused a moment's surprise to those who noticed her. Often, at such + times, the pale face would grow warm with the flush of blood sent out by + her quicker heartbeats, and her eyes would have a depth of expression and + a brightness that made her beauty seem the reflection of some divine + beatitude. Now and then it was observed that her manner with these little + waifs and cast-adrifts that were gathered in from the street had in it an + expression of pain, that her eyes looked at them sadly, sometimes + tearfully. Often she came with light feet and a manner almost cheery, to + go away with eyes cast down and lips set and curved and steps that were + slow and heavy. + </p> + <p> + Time had not yet solved the mystery of her baby's life or death; and until + it was solved, time had no power to abate the yearning at her heart, to + dull the edge of anxious suspense or to reconcile her to a Providence that + seemed only cruel. In her daily prayers this thought of cruelty in God + often came in to hide his face from her, and she rose from her knees more + frequently in a passion of despairing tears than comforted. How often she + pleaded with God, weeping bitter tears, that he would give her certainty + in place of terrible doubts! Again, she would implore his loving care over + her poor baby, wherever it might be. + </p> + <p> + So the days wore on, until nearly three years had elapsed since Edith's + child was born. + </p> + <p> + It was Christmas eve, but there were no busy hands at work, made light by + loving hearts, in the home of Mr. Dinneford. All its chambers were silent. + And yet the coming anniversary was not to go uncelebrated. Edith's heart + was full of interest for the children of the poor, the lowly, the + neglected and the suffering, whom Christ came to save and to bless. Her + anniversary was to be spent with them, and she was looking forward to its + advent with real pleasure. + </p> + <p> + “We have made provision for four hundred children, said her father. “The + dinner is to be at twelve o'clock, and we must be there by nine or ten. We + shall be busy enough getting everything ready. There are forty turkeys to + cut up and four hundred plates to fill.” + </p> + <p> + “And many willing hands to do it,” remarked Edith, with a quiet smile; + “ours among the rest.” + </p> + <p> + “You'd better keep away from there,” spoke up Mrs. Dinneford, with a jar + in her voice. “I don't see what possesses you. You can find poor little + wretches anywhere, if you're so fond of them, without going to Briar + street. You'll bring home the small-pox or something worse.” + </p> + <p> + Neither Edith nor her father made any reply, and there fell a silence on + the group that was burdensome to all. Mrs. Dinneford felt it most heavily, + and after the lapse of a few minutes withdrew from the room. + </p> + <p> + “A good dinner to four hundred hungry children, some of them half + starved,” said Edith as her mother shut the door. “I shall enjoy the sight + as much as they will enjoy the feast.” + </p> + <p> + A little after ten o'clock on the next morning, Mr. Dinneford and Edith + took their way to the mission-school in Briar street. They found from + fifteen to twenty ladies and gentlemen already there, and at work helping + to arrange the tables, which were set in the two long upper rooms. There + were places for nearly four hundred children, and in front of each was an + apple, a cake and a biscuit, and between every four a large mince pie. The + forty turkeys were at the baker's, to be ready at a little before twelve + o'clock, the dinner-hour, and in time for the carvers, who were to fill + the four hundred plates for the expected guests. + </p> + <p> + At eleven o'clock Edith and her father went down to the chapel on the + first floor, where the children had assembled for the morning exercises, + that were to continue for an hour. + </p> + <p> + Edith had a place near the reading-desk where she could see the + countenances of all those children who were sitting side by side in row + after row and filling every seat in the room, a restless, eager, expectant + crowd, half disciplined and only held quiet by the order and authority + they had learned to respect. Such faces as she looked into! In scarcely a + single one could she find anything of true childhood, and they were so + marred by suffering and evil! In vain she turned from one to another, + searching for a sweet, happy look or a face unmarked by pain or vice or + passion. It made her heart ache. Some were so hard and brutal in their + expression, and so mature in their aspect, that they seemed like the faces + of debased men on which a score of years, passed in sensuality and crime, + had cut their deep deforming lines, while others were pale and wasted, + with half-scared yet defiant eyes, and thin, sharp, enduring lips, making + one tearful to look at them. Some were restless as caged animals, not + still for a single instant, hands moving nervously and bodies swaying to + and fro, while others sat stolid and almost as immovable as stone, staring + at the little group of men and women in front who were to lead them in the + exercises of the morning. + </p> + <p> + At length one face of the many before her fixed the eyes of Edith. It was + the face of a little boy scarcely more than three years old. He was only a + few benches from her, and had been hidden from view by a larger boy just + in front of him. When Edith first noticed this child, he was looking at + her intently from a pair of large, clear brown eyes that had in them a + wistful, hungry expression. His hair, thick and wavy, had been smoothly + brushed by some careful hand, and fell back from a large forehead, the + whiteness and smoothness of which was noticeable in contrast with those + around him. His clothes were clean and good. + </p> + <p> + As Edith turned again and again to the face of this child, the youngest + perhaps in the room, her heart began to move toward him. Always she found + him with his great earnest eyes upon her. There seemed at last to be a + mutual fascination. His eyes seemed never to move from her face; and when + she tried to look away and get interested in other faces, almost + unconsciously to herself her eyes would wander back, and she would find + herself gazing at the child. + </p> + <p> + At eleven o'clock Mr. Paulding announced that the exercises for the + morning would begin, when silence fell on the restless company of + undisciplined children. A hymn was read, and then, as the leader struck + the tune, out leaped the voices of these four hundred children, each + singing with a strange wild abandon, many of them swaying their heads and + bodies in time to the measure. As the first lines of the hymn, + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Jesus, gentle Shepherd, lead us, + Much we need thy tender care,” + </pre> + <p> + swelled up from the lips of those poor neglected children, the eyes of + Edith grew blind with tears. + </p> + <p> + After a prayer was offered up, familiar addresses, full of kindness and + encouragement, were made to the children, interspersed with singing and + other appropriate exercises. These were continued for an hour. At their + close the children were taken up stairs to the two long school-rooms, in + which their dinner was to be served. Here were Christmas trees loaded with + presents, wreaths of evergreen on the walls and ceilings, and illuminated + texts hung here and there, and everything was provided to make the day's + influence as beautiful and pleasant as possible to the poor little ones + gathered in from cheerless and miserable homes. + </p> + <p> + Meantime, the carvers had been very busy at work on the forty turkeys—large, + tender fellows, full of dressing and cooked as nicely as if they had been + intended for a dinner of aldermen—cutting them up and filling the + plates. There was no stinting of the supply. Each plate was loaded with + turkey, dressing, potatoes that had been baked with the fowls, and a + heaping spoonful of cranberry sauce, and as fast as filled conveyed to the + tables by the lady attendants, who had come, many of them, from elegant + homes, to assist the good missionary's wife and the devoted teachers of + the mission-school in this labor of love. And so, when the four hundred + hungry children came streaming into the rooms, they found tables spread + with such bounty as the eyes of many of them had never looked upon, and + kind gentlemen and beautiful ladies already there to place them at these + tables and serve them while eating. + </p> + <p> + It was curious and touching, and ludicrous sometimes, to see the many ways + in which the children accepted this bountiful supply of food. A few + pounced upon it like hungry dogs, devouring whole platefuls in a few + minutes, but most of them kept a decent restraint upon themselves in the + presence of the ladies and gentlemen, for whom they could not but feel an + instinctive respect. Very few of them could use at fork except in the most + awkward manner. Some tried to cut their meat, but failing in the task, + would seize it with their hands and eagerly convey it to their hungry + mouths. Here and there would be seen a mite of a boy sitting in a kind of + maze before a heaped-up dinner-plate, his hands, strangers, no doubt, to + knife or fork, lying in his lap, and his face wearing a kind of helpless + look. But he did not have to wait long. Eyes that were on the alert soon + saw him; ready hands cut his food, and a cheery voice encouraged him to + eat. If these children had been the sons and daughters of princes, they + could not have been ministered to with a more gracious devotion to their + wants and comfort than was shown by their volunteer attendants. + </p> + <p> + Edith, entering into the spirit of the scene, gave herself to the work in + hand with an interest that made her heart glow with pleasure. She had lost + sight of the little boy in whom she had felt so sudden and strong an + interest, and had been searching about for him ever since the children + came up from the chapel. At last she saw him, shut in and hidden between + two larger boys, who were eating with a hungry eagerness and forgetfulness + of everything around them almost painful to see. He was sitting in front + of his heaped-up plate, looking at the tempting food, with his knife and + fork lying untouched on the table. There was a dreamy, half-sad, + half-bewildered look about him. + </p> + <p> + “Poor little fellow!” exclaimed Edith as soon as she saw him, and in a + moment she was behind his chair. + </p> + <p> + “Shall I cut it up for you?” she asked as she lifted his knife and fork + from the table. + </p> + <p> + The child turned almost with a start, and looked up at her with a quick + flash of feeling on his face. She saw that he remembered her. + </p> + <p> + “Let me fix it all nicely,” she said as she stooped over him and commenced + cutting up his piece of turkey. The child did not look at his plate while + she cut the food, but with his head turned kept his large eyes on her + countenance. + </p> + <p> + “Now it's all right,” said Edith, encouragingly, as she laid the knife and + fork on his plate, taking a deep breath at the same time, for her heart + beat so rapidly that her lungs was oppressed with the inflowing of blood. + She felt, at the same time, an almost irresistible desire to catch him up + into her arms and draw him lovingly to her bosom. The child made no + attempt to eat, and still kept looking at her. + </p> + <p> + “Now, my little man,” she said, taking his fork and lifting a piece of the + turkey to his mouth. It touched his palate, and appetite asserted its + power over him; his eyes went down to his plate with a hungry eagerness. + Then Edith put the fork into his hand, but he did not know how to use it, + and made but awkward attempts to take up the food. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Paulding, the missionary's wife, came by at the moment, and seeing + the child, put her hand on him, and said, kindly, + </p> + <p> + “Oh, it's little Andy,” and passed on. + </p> + <p> + “So your name's Andy?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, ma'am.” It was the first time Edith had heard his voice. It fell + sweet and tender on her ears, and stirred her heart strangely. + </p> + <p> + “Where do you live?” + </p> + <p> + He gave the name of a street she had never heard of before. + </p> + <p> + “But you're not eating your dinner. Come, take your fork just so. There! + that's the way;” and Edith took his hand, in which he was still holding + the fork, and lifted two or three mouthfuls, which he ate with increasing + relish. After that he needed no help, and seemed to forget in the relish + of a good dinner the presence of Edith, who soon found others who needed + her service. + </p> + <p> + The plentiful meal was at last over, and the children, made happy for one + day at least, were slowly dispersing to their dreary homes, drifting away + from the better influences good men and women had been trying to gather + about them even for a little while. The children were beginning to leave + the tables when Edith, who had been busy among them, remembered the little + boy who had so interested her, and made her way to the place where he had + been sitting. But he was not there. She looked into the crowd of boys and + girls who were pressing toward the door, but could not see the child. A + shadow of disappointment came over her feelings, and a strange heaviness + weighed over her heart. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I'm so sorry,” she said to herself. “I wanted to see him again.” + </p> + <p> + She pressed through the crowd of children, and made her way down among + them to the landing below and out upon the street, looking this way and + that, but could not see the child. Then she returned to the upper rooms, + but her search was in vain. Remembering that Mrs. Paulding had called him + by name, she sought for the missionary's wife and made inquiry about him. + </p> + <p> + “Do you mean the little fellow I called Andy?” said Mrs. Paulding. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, that's the one,” returned Edith. + </p> + <p> + “A beautiful boy, isn't he?” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed he is. I never saw such eyes in a child. Who is he, Mrs. Paulding, + and what is he doing here? He cannot be the child of depraved or vicious + parents.” + </p> + <p> + “I do not think he is. But from whence he came no one knows. He drifted in + from some unknown land of sorrow to find shelter on our inhospitable + coast. I am sure that God, in his wise providence, sent him here, for his + coming was the means of saving a poor debased man who is well worth the + saving.” + </p> + <p> + Then she told in a few words the story of Andy's appearance at Mr. Hall's + wretched hovel and the wonderful changes that followed—how a + degraded drunkard, seemingly beyond the reach of hope and help, had been + led back to sobriety and a life of honest industry by the hand of a little + child cast somehow adrift in the world, yet guarded and guided by Him who + does not lose sight in his good providence of even a single sparrow. + </p> + <p> + “Who is this man, and where does he live?” asked Mr. Dinneford, who had + been listening to Mrs. Paulding's brief recital. + </p> + <p> + “His name is Andrew Hall,” was replied. + </p> + <p> + “Andrew Hall!” exclaimed Mr. Dinneford, with a start and a look of + surprise. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir. That is his name, and he is now living alone with the child of + whom we have been speaking, not very far from here, but in a much better + neighborhood. He brought Andy around this morning to let him enjoy the + day, and has come for him, no doubt, and taken him home.” + </p> + <p> + “Give me the street and number, if you please, Mr. Paulding,” said Mr. + Dinneford, with much repressed excitement. “We will go there at once,” he + added, turning to his daughter. + </p> + <p> + Edith's face had become pale, and her father felt her hand tremble as she + laid it on his arm. + </p> + <p> + At this moment a man came up hurriedly to Mrs. Paulding, and said, with + manifest concern, + </p> + <p> + “Have you seen Andy, ma'am? I've been looking all over, but can't find + him.” + </p> + <p> + “He was here a little while ago,” answered the missionary's wife. “We were + just speaking of him. I thought you'd taken him home.” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Hall!” said Edith's father, in a tone of glad recognition, extending + his hand at the same time. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Dinneford!” The two men stood looking at each other, with shut lips + and faces marked by intense feeling, each grasping tightly the other's + hand. + </p> + <p> + “It is going to be well with you once more, my dear old friend!” said Mr. + Dinneford. + </p> + <p> + “God being my helper, yes!” was the firm reply. “He has taken my feet out + of the miry clay and set them on firm ground, and I have promised him that + they shall not go down into the pit again. But Andy! I must look for him.” + </p> + <p> + And he was turning away. + </p> + <p> + “I saw Andy a little while ago,” now spoke up a woman who had come in from + the street and heard the last remark. + </p> + <p> + “Where?” asked Mr. Hall. + </p> + <p> + “A girl had him, and she was going up Briar street on the run, fairly + dragging Andy after her. She looked like Pinky Swett, and I do believe it + was her. She's been in prison, you know but I guess her time's up.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Hall stopped to hear no more, but ran down stairs and up the street, + going in the direction said to have been taken by the woman. Edith sat + down, white and faint. + </p> + <p> + “Pinky Swett!” exclaimed Mrs. Paulding. “Why, that's the girl who had the + child you were looking after a long time ago, Mr. Dinneford.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; I remember the name, and no doubt this is the very child she had in + her possession at that time. Are you sure she has been in prison for the + last two years?” and Mr. Dinneford turned to the woman who had mentioned + her name. + </p> + <p> + “Oh yes, Sir; I remember all about it,” answered the woman. “She stole a + man's pocket-book, and got two years for it.” + </p> + <p> + “You know her?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh yes, indeed! And she's a bad one, I can tell you. She had somebody's + baby round in Grubb's court, and it was 'most starved to death. I heard it + said it belonged to some of the big people up town, and that she was + getting hush-money for it, but I don't know as it was true. People will + talk.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you know what became of that baby?” asked Edith, with ill-repressed + excitement. Her face was still very pale, and her forehead contracted as + by pain. + </p> + <p> + “No, ma'am. The police came round asking questions, and the baby wasn't + seen in Grubb's court after that.” + </p> + <p> + “You think it was Pinky Swett whom you saw just now?” + </p> + <p> + “I'm dead sure of it, sir,” turning to Mr. Dinneford, who had asked the + question. + </p> + <p> + “And you are certain it was the little boy named Andy that she had with + her?” + </p> + <p> + “I'm as sure as death, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Did he look frightened?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh dear, yes, sir—scared as could be. He pulled back all his might, + but she whisked him along as if he'd been only a chicken. I saw them go + round the corner of Clayton street like the wind.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Paulding now joined them, and became advised of what had happened. He + looked very grave. + </p> + <p> + “We shall find the little boy,” he said. “He cannot be concealed by this + wretched woman as the baby was; he is too old for that. The police will + ferret him out. But I am greatly concerned for Mr. Hall. That child is the + bond which holds him at safe anchorage. Break this bond, and he may drift + to sea again. I must go after him.” + </p> + <p> + And the missionary hurried away. + </p> + <p> + For over an hour Edith and her father remained at the mission waiting for + some news of little Andy. At the end of this time Mr. Paulding came back + with word that nothing could be learned beyond the fact that a woman with + a child answering to the description of Andy had been seen getting into an + up-town car on Clayton street about one o'clock. She came, it was said by + two or three who professed to have seen her, from the direction of Briar + street. The chief of police had been seen, and he had already telegraphed + to all the stations. Mr. Hall was at the central station awaiting the + result. + </p> + <p> + After getting a promise from Mr. Paulding to send a messenger the moment + news of Andy was received, Mr. Dinneford and Edith returned home. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0023" id="link2HCH0023"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXIII. + </h2> + <p> + <i>AS</i> Edith glanced up, on arriving before their residence, she saw + for a moment her mother's face at the window. It vanished like the face of + a ghost, but not quick enough to prevent Edith from seeing that it was + almost colorless and had a scared look. They did not find Mrs. Dinneford + in the parlor when they came in, nor did she make her appearance until an + hour afterward, when dinner was announced. Then it was plain to both her + husband and daughter that something had occurred since morning to trouble + her profoundly. The paleness noticed by Edith at the window and the scared + look remained. Whenever she turned her eyes suddenly upon her mother, she + found her looking at her with a strange, searching intentness. It was + plain that Mrs. Dinneford saw in Edith's face as great a change and + mystery as Edith saw in hers, and the riddle of her husband's countenance, + so altered since morning, was harder even than Edith's to solve. + </p> + <p> + A drearier Christmas dinner, and one in which less food was taken by those + who ate it, could hardly have been found in the city. The Briar-street + feast was one of joy and gladness in comparison. The courses came and went + with unwonted quickness, plates bearing off the almost untasted viands + which they had received. Scarcely a word was spoken during the meal. Mrs. + Dinneford asked no question about the dinner in Briar street, and no + remark was made about it by either Edith or her father. In half the usual + time this meal was ended. Mrs. Dinneford left the table first, and retired + to her own room. As she did so, in taking her handkerchief from her + pocket, she drew out a letter, which fell unnoticed by her upon the floor. + Mr. Dinneford was about calling her attention to it when Edith, who saw + his purpose and was near enough to touch his hand, gave a quick signal to + forbear. The instant her mother was out of the room she sprang from her + seat, and had just secured the letter when the dining-room door was pushed + open, and Mrs. Dinneford came in, white and frightened. She saw the letter + in Edith's hand, and with a cry like some animal in pain leaped upon her + and tried to wrest it from her grasp. But Edith held it in her closed hand + with a desperate grip, defying all her mother's efforts to get possession + of it. In her wild fear and anger Mrs. Dinneford exclaimed, + </p> + <p> + “I'll kill you if you don't give me that letter!” and actually, in her + blind rage, reached toward the table as if to get a knife. Mr. Dinneford, + who had been for a moment stupefied, now started forward, and throwing his + arms about his wife, held her tightly until Edith could escape with the + letter, not releasing her until the sound of his daughter's retiring feet + were no longer heard. By this time she had ceased to struggle; and when he + released her, she stood still in a passive, dull sort of way, her arms + falling heavily to her sides. He looked into her face, and saw that the + eyes were staring wildly and the muscles in a convulsive quiver. Then + starting and reaching out helplessly, she fell forward. Catching her in + his arms, Mr. Dinneford drew her toward a sofa, but she was dead before he + could raise her from the floor. + </p> + <p> + When Edith reached her room, she shut and locked the door. Then all her + excitement died away. She sat down, and opening the letter with hands that + gave no sign of inward agitation or suspense, read it through. It was + dated at Havana, and was as follows: + </p> + <p> + “MRS. HELEN DINNEFORD: MADAM—My physician tells me that I cannot + live a week—may die at any moment; and I am afraid to die with one + unconfessed and unatoned sin upon my conscience—a sin into which I + was led by you, the sharer of my guilt. I need not go into particulars. + You know to what I refer—the ruin of an innocent, confiding young + man, your daughter's husband. I do not wonder that he lost his reason! But + I have information that his insanity has taken on the mildest form, and + that his friends are only keeping him at the hospital until they can get a + pardon from the governor. It is in your power and mine to establish his + innocence at once. I leave you a single mouth in which to do this, and at + the same time screen yourself, if that be possible. If, at the end of a + month, it is not done, then a copy of this letter, with a circumstantial + statement of the whole iniquitous affair, will be placed in the hands of + your husband, and another in the hands of your daughter. I have so + provided for this that no failure can take place. So be warned and make + the innocence of George Granger as clear as noonday. + </p> + <p> + “LLOYD FREELING.” + </p> + <p> + Twice Edith read this letter through before a sign of emotion was visible. + She looked about the room, down at herself, and again at the letter. + </p> + <p> + “Am I really awake?” she said, beginning to tremble. Then the glad but + terrible truth grappled with her convictions, and through the wild + struggle and antagonism, of feeling that shook her soul there shone into + her face a joy so great that the pale features grew almost radiant. + </p> + <p> + “Innocent! innocent!” fell from her lips, over which crept a smile of + ineffable love. But it faded out quickly, and left in its place a shadow + of ineffable pain. + </p> + <p> + “Innocent! innocent!” she repeated, now clasping her hands and lifting her + eyes heavenward. “Dear Lord and Saviour! My heart is full of thankfulness! + Innocent! Oh, let it be made as clear as noonday! And my baby, Lord—oh, + my baby, my baby! Give him back to me!” + </p> + <p> + She fell forward upon her bed, kneeling, her face hidden among the + pillows, trembling and sobbing. + </p> + <p> + “Edith! Edith!” came the agitated voice of her father from without. She + rose quickly, and opening the door, saw his pale, convulsed countenance. + </p> + <p> + “Quick! quick! Your mother!” and Mr. Dinneford turned and ran down stairs, + she following. On reaching the dining-room, Edith found her mother lying + on a sofa, with the servants about her in great excitement. Better than + any one did she comprehend what she saw. + </p> + <p> + “Dead,” fell almost coldly from her lips. + </p> + <p> + “I have sent for Dr. Radcliffe. It may only be a fainting fit,” answered + Mr. Dinneford. + </p> + <p> + Edith stood a little way off from her mother, as if held from personal + contact by an invisible barrier, and looked upon her ashen face without + any sign of emotion. + </p> + <p> + “Dead, and better so,” she said, in an undertone heard only by her father. + </p> + <p> + “My child! don't, don't!” exclaimed Mr. Dinneford in a deprecating + whisper. + </p> + <p> + “Dead, and better so,” she repeated, firmly. + </p> + <p> + While the servants chafed the hands and feet of Mrs. Dinneford, and did + what they could in their confused way to bring her back to life, Edith + stood a little way off, apparently undisturbed by what she saw, and not + once touching her mother's body or offering a suggestion to the bewildered + attendants. + </p> + <p> + When Dr. Radcliffe came and looked at Mrs. Dinneford, all saw by his + countenance that he believed her dead. A careful examination proved the + truth of his first impression. She was done with life in this world. + </p> + <p> + As to the cause of her death, the doctor, gathering what he could from her + husband, pronounced it heart disease. The story told outside was this—so + the doctor gave it, and so it was understood: Mrs. Dinneford was sitting + at the table when her head was seen to sink forward, and before any one + could get to her she was dead. It was not so stated to him by either Mr. + Dinneford or Edith, but he was a prudent man, and careful of the good fame + of his patients. Family affairs he held as sacred trusts. We'll he knew + that there had been a tragedy in this home—a tragedy for which he + was in part, he feared, responsible; and he did not care to look into it + too closely. But of all that was involved in this tragedy he really knew + little. Social gossip had its guesses at the truth, often not very remote, + and he was familiar with these, believing little or much as it suited him. + </p> + <p> + It is not surprising that Edith's father, on seeing the letter of Lloyd + Freeling, echoed his daughter's words, “Better so!” + </p> + <p> + Not a tear was shed on the grave of Mrs. Dinneford. Husband and daughter + saw her body carried forth and buried out of sight with a feeling of + rejection and a sense of relief. Death had no power to soften their hearts + toward her. Charity had no mantle broad enough to cover her wickedness; + filial love was dead, and the good heart of her husband turned away at + remembrance with a shudder of horror. + </p> + <p> + Yes, it was “better so!” They had no grief, but thankfulness, that she was + dead. + </p> + <p> + On the morning after the funeral there came a letter from Havana addressed + to Mr. Dinneford. It was from the man Freeling. In it he related + circumstantially all the reader knows about the conspiracy to destroy + Granger. The letter enclosed an affidavit made by Freeling, and duly + attested by the American consul, in which he stated explicitly that all + the forgeries were made by himself, and that George Granger was entirely + ignorant of the character of the paper he had endorsed with the name of + the firm. + </p> + <p> + Since the revelation made to Edith by Freeling's letter to her mother, all + the repressed love of years, never dead nor diminished, but only chained, + held down, covered over, shook itself free from bonds and the wrecks and + debris of crushed hopes. It filled her heart with an agony of fullness. + Her first passionate impulse was to go to him and throw herself into his + arms. But a chilling thought came with the impulse, and sent all the + outgoing heart-beats back. She was no longer the wife of George Granger. + In a weak hour she had yielded to the importunities of her father, and + consented to an application for divorce. No, she was no longer the wife of + George Granger. She had no right to go to him. If it were true that reason + had been in part or wholly restored, would he not reject her with scorn? + The very thought made her heart stand still. It would be more than she + could bear. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0024" id="link2HCH0024"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXIV. + </h2> + <p> + <i>NO</i> other result than the one that followed could have been hoped + for. The strain upon Edith was too great. After the funeral of her mother + mind and body gave way, and she passed several weeks in a half-unconscious + state. + </p> + <p> + Two women, leading actors in this tragedy of life, met for the first time + in over two years—Mrs. Hoyt, <i>alias</i> Bray, and Pinky Swett. It + had not gone very well with either of them during that period. Pinky, as + the reader knows, had spent the time in prison, and Mrs. Bray, who had + also gone a step too far in her evil ways, was now hiding from the police + under a different name from any heretofore assumed. They met, by what + seemed an accident, on the street. + </p> + <p> + “Pinky!” + </p> + <p> + “Fan!” + </p> + <p> + Dropped from their lips in mutual surprise and pleasure. A little while + they held each other's hands, and looked into each other's faces with + keenly-searching, sinister eyes, one thought coming uppermost in the minds + of both—the thought of that long-time-lost capital in trade, the + cast-adrift baby. + </p> + <p> + From the street they went to Mrs. Bray's hiding-place a small + ill-furnished room in one of the suburbs of the city—and there took + counsel together. + </p> + <p> + “What became of that baby?” was one of Mrs. Bray's first questions. + </p> + <p> + “It's all right,” answered Pinky. + </p> + <p> + “Do you know where it is?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “And can you put your hand on it?” + </p> + <p> + “At any moment.” + </p> + <p> + “Not worth the trouble of looking after now,” said Mrs. Bray, assuming an + indifferent manner. + </p> + <p> + “Why?” Pinky turned on her quickly. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, because the old lady is dead.” + </p> + <p> + “What old lady?” + </p> + <p> + “The grandmother.” + </p> + <p> + “When did she die?” + </p> + <p> + “Three or four weeks ago.” + </p> + <p> + “What was her name?” asked Pinky. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Bray closed her lips tightly and shook her head. + </p> + <p> + “Can't betray thatt secret,” she replied. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, just as you like;” and Pinky gave her head an impatient toss. “High + sense of honor! Respect for the memory of a departed friend! But it won't + go down with me, Fan. We know each other too well. As for the baby—a + pretty big one now, by the way, and as handsome a boy as you'll find in + all this city—he's worth something to somebody, and I'm on that + somebody's track. There's mother as well as a grandmother in the case, + Fan.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Bray's eyes flashed, and her face grew red with an excitement she + could not hold back. Pinky watched her keenly. + </p> + <p> + “There's somebody in this town to-day who would give thousands to get + him,” she added, still keeping her eyes on her companion. “And as I was + saying, I'm on that somebody's track. You thought no one but you and Sal + Long knew anything, and that when she died you had the secret all to + yourself. But Sal didn't keep mum about it.” + </p> + <p> + “Did she tell you anything?” demanded Mrs. Bray, thrown off her guard by + Pinky's last assertion. + </p> + <p> + “Enough for me to put this and that together and make it nearly all out,” + answered Pinky, with great coolness. “I was close after the game when I + got caught myself. But I'm on the track once more, and don't mean to be + thrown off. A link or two in the chain of evidence touching the parentage + of this child, and I am all right. You have these missing links, and can + furnish them if you will. If not, I am bound to find them. You know me, + Fan. If I once set my heart on doing a thing, heaven and earth can't stop + me.” + </p> + <p> + “You're devil enough for anything, I know, and can lie as fast as you can + talk,” returned Mrs. Bray, in considerable irritation. “If I could believe + a word you said! But I can't.” + </p> + <p> + “No necessity for it,” retorted Pinky, with a careless toss of her head. + “If you don't wish to hunt in company, all right. I'll take the game + myself.” + </p> + <p> + “You forget,” said Mrs. Bray, “I can spoil your game.” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed! how?” + </p> + <p> + “By blowing the whole thing to Mr.—” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. who?” asked Pinky, leaning forward eagerly as her companion paused + without uttering the name that was on her lips. + </p> + <p> + “Wouldn't you like to know?” Mrs. Bray gave a low tantalizing laugh. + </p> + <p> + “I'm not sure that I would, from you. I'm bound to know somehow, and it + will be cheapest to find out for myself,” replied Pinky, hiding her real + desire, which was to get the clue she sought from Mrs. Bray, and which she + alone could give. “As for blowing on me, I wouldn't like anything better. + I wish you'd call on Mr. Somebody at once, and tell him I've got the heir + of his house and fortune, or on Mrs. Somebody, and tell her I've got her + lost baby. Do it, Fan; that's a deary.” + </p> + <p> + “Suppose I were to do so?” asked Mrs. Bray, repressing the anger that was + in her heart, and speaking with some degree of calmness. + </p> + <p> + “What then?” + </p> + <p> + “The police would be down on you in less than an hour.” + </p> + <p> + “And what then?” + </p> + <p> + “Your game would be up.” + </p> + <p> + Pinky laughed derisively: + </p> + <p> + “The police are down on me now, and have been coming down on me for nearly + a month past. But I'm too much for them. I know how to cover my tracks.” + </p> + <p> + “Down on you! For what?” + </p> + <p> + “They're after the boy.” + </p> + <p> + “What do they know about him? Who set them after him?” + </p> + <p> + “I grabbed him up last Christmas down in Briar street after being on his + track for a week, and them that had him are after him sharp.” + </p> + <p> + “Who had him?” + </p> + <p> + “I'm a little puzzled at the rumpus it has kicked up,” said Pinky, in + reply. “It's stirred things amazingly.” + </p> + <p> + “How?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, as I said, the police are after me sharp. They've had me before the + mayor twice, and got two or three to swear they saw me pick up the child + in Briar street and run off with him. But I denied it all.” + </p> + <p> + “And I can swear that you confessed it all to me,” said Mrs. Bray, with + ill-concealed triumph. + </p> + <p> + “It won't do, Fan,” laughed Pinky. “They'll not be able to find him any + more then than now. But I wish you would. I'd like to know this Mr. + Somebody of whom you spoke. I'll sell out to him. He'll bid high, I'm + thinking.” + </p> + <p> + Baffled by her sharper accomplice, and afraid to trust her with the secret + of the child's parentage lest she should rob her of the last gain possible + to receive out of this great iniquity, Mrs. Bray became wrought up to a + state of ungovernable passion, and in a blind rage pushed Pinky from her + room. The assault was sudden and unexpected—-so sudden that Pinky, + who was the stronger, had no time to recover herself and take the + offensive before she was on the outside and the door shut and locked + against her. A few impotent threats and curses were interchanged between + the two infuriated women, and then Pinky went away. + </p> + <p> + On the day following, as Mr. Dinneford was preparing to go out, he was + informed that a lady had called and was waiting down stairs to see him. + She did not send her card nor give her name. On going into the room where + the visitor had been shown, he saw a little woman with a dark, sallow + complexion. She arose and came forward a step or two in evident + embarrassment. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Dinneford?” she said. + </p> + <p> + “That is my name, madam,” was replied. + </p> + <p> + “You do not know me?” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Dinneford looked at her closely, and then answered, + </p> + <p> + “I have not that pleasure, madam.” + </p> + <p> + The woman stood for a moment or two, hesitating. + </p> + <p> + “Be seated, madam,” said Mr. Dinneford. + </p> + <p> + She sat down, seeming very ill at ease. He took a chair in front of her. + </p> + <p> + “You wish to see me?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir, and on a matter that deeply concerns you. I was your daughter's + nurse when her baby was born.” + </p> + <p> + She paused at this. Mr. Dinneford had caught his breath. She saw the + almost wild interest that flushed his face. + </p> + <p> + After waiting a moment for some response, she added, in a low, steady + voice, + </p> + <p> + “That baby is still alive, and I am the only person who can clearly + identify him.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Dinneford did not reply immediately. He saw by the woman's face that + she was not to be trusted, and that in coming to him she had only sinister + ends in view. Her story might be true or false. He thought hurriedly, and + tried to regain exterior calmness. As soon as he felt that he could speak + without betraying too much eagerness, he said, with an appearance of + having recognized her, + </p> + <p> + “You are Mrs.——?” + </p> + <p> + He paused, but she did not supply the name. + </p> + <p> + “Mrs.——? Mrs.——? what is it?” + </p> + <p> + “No matter, Mr. Dinneford,” answered Mrs. Bray, with the coolness and + self-possession she had now regained. “What I have just told you is true. + If you wish to follow up the matter—wish to get possession of your + daughter's child—you have the opportunity; if not, our interview + ends, of course;” and she made a feint, as if going to rise. + </p> + <p> + “Is it the child a woman named Pinky Swett stole away from Briar street on + Christmas day?” asked Mr. Dinneford, speaking from a thought that flashed + into his mind, and so without premeditation. He fixed his eyes intently on + Mrs. Bray's face, and saw by its quick changes and blank surprise that he + had put the right question. Before she could recover herself and reply, he + added, + </p> + <p> + “And you are, doubtless, this same Pinky Swett.” + </p> + <p> + The half smile, half sneer, that curved the woman's lips, told Mr. + Dinneford that he was mistaken. + </p> + <p> + “No, sir,” was returned, with regained coolness. “I am not 'this same + Pinky Swett.' You are out there.” + </p> + <p> + “But you know her?” + </p> + <p> + “I don't know anything just now, sir,” answered the woman, with a chill in + her tones. She closed her lips tightly, and shrunk back in her chair. + </p> + <p> + “What, then, are your here for?” asked Mr. Dinneford, showing considerable + sternness of manner. + </p> + <p> + “I thought you understood,” returned the woman. “I was explicit in my + statement.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I begin to see. There is a price on your information,” said Mr. + Dinneford. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir. You might have known that from the first. I will be frank with + you.” + </p> + <p> + “But why have you kept this secret for three years? Why did you not come + before?” asked Mr. Dinneford. + </p> + <p> + “Because I was paid to keep the secret. Do you understand?” + </p> + <p> + Too well did Mr. Dinneford understand, and it was with difficulty he could + suppress a groan as his head drooped forward and his eyes fell to the + floor. + </p> + <p> + “It does not pay to keep it any longer,” added the woman. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Dinneford made no response. + </p> + <p> + “Gain lies on the other side. The secret is yours, if you will have it.” + </p> + <p> + “At what price?” asked Mr. Dinneford, without lifting his eyes. + </p> + <p> + “One thousand dollars, cash in hand.” + </p> + <p> + “On production of the child and proof of its identity?” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Bray took time to answer. “I do not mean to have any slip in this + matter,” she said. “It was a bad business at the start, as I told Mrs. + Dinneford, and has given me more trouble than I've been paid for, ten + times over. I shall not be sorry to wash my hands clean of it; but + whenever I do so, there must be compensation and security. I haven't the + child, and you may hunt me to cover with all the police hounds in the + city, and yet not find him.” + </p> + <p> + “If I agree to pay your demand,” replied Mr. Dinneford, “it can only be on + production and identification of the child.” + </p> + <p> + “After which your humble servant will be quickly handed over to the + police,” a low, derisive laugh gurgling in the woman's throat. + </p> + <p> + “The guilty are ever in dread, and the false always in fear of betrayal,” + said Mr. Dinneford. “I can make no terms with you for any antecedent + reward. The child must be in my possession and his parentage clearly + proved before I give you a dollar. As to what may follow to yourself, your + safety will lie in your own silence. You hold, and will still hold, a + family secret that we shall not care to have betrayed. If you should ever + betray it, or seek, because of its possession, to annoy or prey upon us, I + shall consider all honorable contract we may have at an end, and act + accordingly.” + </p> + <p> + “Will you put in writing, an obligation to pay me one thousand dollars in + case I bring the child and prove its identity?” + </p> + <p> + “No; but I will give you my word of honor that this sum shall be placed in + your hands whenever you produce the child.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Bray remained silent for a considerable time, then, as if satisfied, + arose, saying, + </p> + <p> + “You will hear from me by to-morrow or the day after, at farthest. + Good-morning.” + </p> + <p> + As she was moving toward the door Mr. Dinneford said, + </p> + <p> + “Let me have your name and residence, madam.” + </p> + <p> + The woman quickened her steps, partly turning her head as she did so, and + said, with a sinister curl of the lip, + </p> + <p> + “No, I thank you, sir.” + </p> + <p> + In the next moment she was gone. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0025" id="link2HCH0025"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXV. + </h2> + <p> + <i>NOTHING</i> of all this was communicated to Edith. After a few weeks of + prostration strength came slowly back to mind and body, and with returning + strength her interest in her old work revived. Her feet went down again + into lowly ways, and her hands took hold of suffering. + </p> + <p> + Immediately on receipt of Freeling's letter and affidavit, Mr. Dinneford + had taken steps to procure a pardon for George Granger. It came within a + few days after the application was made, and the young man was taken from + the asylum where he had been for three years. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Dinneford went to him with Freeling's affidavit and the pardon, and + placing them in his hands, watched him closely to see the effect they + would produce. He found him greatly changed in appearance, looking older + by many years. His manner was quiet, as that of one who had learned + submission after long suffering. But his eyes were clear and steady, and + without sign of mental aberration. He read Freeling's affidavit first, + folded it in an absent kind of way, as if he were dreaming, reopened and + read it through again. Then Mr. Dinneford saw a strong shiver pass over + him; he became pale and slightly convulsed. His face sunk in his hands, + and he sat for a while struggling with emotions that he found it almost + impossible to hold back. + </p> + <p> + When he looked up, the wild struggle was over. + </p> + <p> + “It is too late,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “No, George, it is never too late,” replied Mr. Dinneford. “You have + suffered a cruel wrong, but in the future there are for you, I doubt not, + many compensations.” + </p> + <p> + He shook his head in a dreary way, murmuring, + </p> + <p> + “I have lost too much.” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing that may not be restored. And in all you have not lost a good + conscience.” + </p> + <p> + “No, thank God!” answered the young man, with a sudden flush in his face. + “But for that anchor to my soul, I should have long ago drifted out to sea + a helpless wreck. No thank God! I have not lost a good conscience.” + </p> + <p> + “You have not yet read the other paper,” said Mr. Dinneford. “It is your + pardon.” + </p> + <p> + “Pardon!” An indignant flash came into Granger's eyes. “Oh, sir, that + hurts too deeply. Pardon! I am not a criminal.” + </p> + <p> + “Falsely so regarded in the eyes of the law, but now proved to be + innocent, and so expressed by the governor. It is not a pardon in any + sense of remission, but a declaration of innocence and sorrow for the + undeserved wrongs you have suffered.” + </p> + <p> + “It is well,” he answered, gloomily—“the best that can be done; and + I should be thankful.” + </p> + <p> + “You cannot be more deeply thankful than I am, George.” Mr. Dinneford + spoke with much feeling. “Let us bury this dreadful past out of our sight, + and trust in God for a better future. You are free again, and your + innocence shall, so far as I have power to do it, be made as clear as + noonday. You are at liberty to depart from here at once. Will you go with + me now?” + </p> + <p> + Granger lifted a half-surprised look to Mr. Dinneford's face. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you,” he replied, after a few moments' thought. “I shall never + forget your kindness, but I prefer remaining here for a few days, until I + can confer with my friends and make some decision as to the future.” + </p> + <p> + Granger's manner grew reserved, almost embarrassed. Mr. Dinneford was not + wrong in his impression of the cause. How could he help thinking of Edith, + who, turning against him with the rest, had accepted the theory of guilt + and pronounced her sentence upon him, hardest of all to bear? So it + appeared to him, for he had nothing but the hard fact before him that she + had applied for and obtained a divorce. + </p> + <p> + Yes, it was the thought of Edith that drew Granger back and covered him + with reserve. What more could Mr. Dinneford say? He had not considered all + the hearings of this unhappy case; but now that he remembered the divorce, + he began to see, how full of embarrassment it was, and how delicate the + relation he bore to this unhappy victim of his wife's dreadful crime. + </p> + <p> + What could he say for Edith? Nothing! He knew that her heart had never + turned itself away from this man, though she had, under a pressure she was + not strong enough to resist, turned her back upon him and cast aside his + dishonored name, thus testifying to the world that she believed him base + and criminal. If he should speak of her, would not the young man answer + with indignant scorn? + </p> + <p> + “Give me the address of your friends, and I will call upon them + immediately,” said Mr. Dinneford, replying, after a long silence, to + Granger's last remark. “I am here to repair, to any extent that in me lies + the frightful wrongs you have suffered. I shall make your cause my own, + and never rest until every false tarnish shall be wiped from your name. In + honor and conscience I am bound to this.” + </p> + <p> + Looking at the young man intently, he saw a grateful response in the + warmer color that broke into his face and in the moisture that filled his + eyes. + </p> + <p> + “I would be base if I were not thankful, Mr. Dinneford,” Granger replied. + “But you cannot put yourself in my place, cannot know what I have + suffered, cannot comprehend the sense of wrong and cruel rejection that + has filled my soul with the very gall of bitterness. To be cast out + utterly, suddenly and without warning from heaven into hell, and for no + evil thought or act! Ah, sir! you do not understand.” + </p> + <p> + “It was a frightful ordeal, George,” answered Mr. Dinneford, laying his + hand on Granger with the tenderness of a father. “But, thank God! it is + over. You have stood the terrible heat, and now, coming out of the + furnace, I shall see to it that not even the smell of fire remain upon + your garments.” + </p> + <p> + Still the young man could not be moved from his purpose to remain at the + asylum until he had seen and conferred with his friends, in whose hands + Mr. Dinneford placed the governor's pardon and the affidavit of Lloyd + Freeling setting forth his innocence. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Bray did not call on Mr. Dinneford, as she had promised. She had + quarreled with Pinky Swett, as the reader will remember, and in a fit of + blind anger thrust her from the room. But in the next moment she + remembered that she did not know where the girl lived, and if she lost + sight of her now, might not again come across her for weeks or months. So + putting on her hat and cloak hurriedly, she waited until she heard Pinky + going down stairs, and then came out noiselessly, and followed her into + the street. She had to be quick in her movements, for Pinky, hot with + anger, was dashing off at a rapid speed. For three or four blocks Mrs. + Bray kept her in view; but there being only a few persons in the street, + she had to remain at a considerable distance behind, so as not to attract + her attention. Suddenly, she lost sight of Pinky. She had looked back on + hearing a noise in the street; turning again, she could see nothing of the + girl. Hurrying forward to the corner which Pinky had in all probability + turned, Mrs. Bray looked eagerly up and down, but to her disappointment + Pinky was not in sight. + </p> + <p> + “Somewhere here. I thought it was farther off,” said Mrs. Bray to herself. + “It's too bad that I should have lost sight of her.” + </p> + <p> + She stood irresolute for a little while, then walked down one of the + blocks and back on the other side. Halfway down, a small street or alley + divided the block. + </p> + <p> + “It's in there, no doubt,” said Mrs. Bray, speaking to herself again. On + the corner was a small shop in which notions and trimmings were sold. + Going into this, she asked for some trifling articles, and while looking + over them drew the woman who kept the shop into conversation. + </p> + <p> + “What kind of people live in this little street?” she inquired, in a + half-careless tone. + </p> + <p> + The woman smiled as she answered, with a slight toss of the head, + </p> + <p> + “Oh, all kinds.” + </p> + <p> + “Good, bad and indifferent?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, white sheep and black.” + </p> + <p> + “So I thought. The black sheep will get in. You can't keep 'em out.” + </p> + <p> + “No, and 'tisn't much use trying,” answered the shop-keeper, with a levity + of manner not unmarked by Mrs. Bray, who said, + </p> + <p> + “The black sheep have to live as well as the white ones.” + </p> + <p> + “Just so. You hit the nail there.” + </p> + <p> + “And I suppose you find their money as good as that of the whitest?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh yes.” + </p> + <p> + “And quite as freely spent?” + </p> + <p> + “As to that,” answered the woman, who was inclined to be talkative and + gossipy, “we make more out of the black sheep than out of the white ones. + They don't higgle so about prices. Not that we have two prices, but you + see they don't try to beat us down, and never stop to worry about the cost + of a thing if they happen to fancy it. They look and buy, and there's the + end of it.” + </p> + <p> + “I understand,” remarked Mrs. Bray, with a familiar nod. “It may be wicked + to say so; but if I kept a store like this, I'd rather have the sinners + for customers than the saints.” + </p> + <p> + She had taken a seat at the counter; and now, leaning forward upon her + arms and looking at the shop-woman in a pleasant, half-confidential way, + said, + </p> + <p> + “You know everybody about here?” + </p> + <p> + “Pretty much.” + </p> + <p> + “The black sheep as well as the white?” + </p> + <p> + “As customers.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course; that's all I mean,” was returned. “I'd be sorry if you knew + them in any other way—some of them, at least.” Then, after a pause, + “Do you know a girl they call Pinky?” + </p> + <p> + “I may know her, but not by that name. What kind of a looking person is + she?” + </p> + <p> + “A tall, bold-faced, dashing, dare-devil sort of a girl, with a snaky look + in her eyes. She wears a pink hat with a white feather.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I think I have seen some one like that, but she's not been around + here long.” + </p> + <p> + “When did you see her last?” + </p> + <p> + “If it's the same one you mean, I saw her go by here not ten minutes ago. + She lives somewhere down the alley.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you know the house?” + </p> + <p> + “I do not; but it can be found, no doubt. You called her Pinky.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Her name is Pinky Swett.” + </p> + <p> + “O-h! o-h!” ejaculated the shop-woman, lifting her eyebrows in a surprised + way. “Why, that's the girl the police were after. They said she'd run off + with somebody's child.” + </p> + <p> + “Did they arrest her?” asked Mrs. Bray, repressing, as far as possible, + all excitement. + </p> + <p> + “They took her off once or twice, I believe, but didn't make anything out + of her. At any rate, the child was not found. It belonged, they said, to a + rich up-town family that the girl was trying to black-mail. But I don't + see how that could be.” + </p> + <p> + “The child isn't about here?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh dear, no! If it was, it would have been found long before this, for + the police are hunting around sharp. If it's all as they say, she's got it + hid somewhere else.” + </p> + <p> + While Mrs. Bray talked with the shop-woman, Pinky, who had made a hurried + call at her room, only a hundred yards away, was going as fast as a + street-car could take her to a distant part of the city. On leaving the + car at the corner of a narrow, half-deserted street, in which the only + sign of life was a child or two at play in the snow and a couple of goats + lying on a cellar-door, she walked for half the distance of a block, and + then turned into a court lined on both sides with small, ill-conditioned + houses, not half of them tenanted. Snow and ice blocked the little + road-way, except where a narrow path had been cut along close to the + houses. + </p> + <p> + Without knocking, Pinky entered one of these poor tenements. As she pushed + open the door, a woman who was crouching down before a small stove, on + which something was cooking, started up with a look of surprise that + changed to one of anxiety and fear the moment she recognized her visitor. + </p> + <p> + “Is Andy all right?” cried Pinky, alarm in her face. + </p> + <p> + The woman tried to stammer out something, but did not make herself + understood. At this, Pinky, into whose eyes flashed a fierce light, caught + her by the wrists in a grip that almost crushed the bones. + </p> + <p> + “Out with it! where is Andy?” + </p> + <p> + Still the frightened woman could not speak. + </p> + <p> + “If that child isn't here, I'll murder you!” said Pinky, now white with + anger, tightening her grasp. + </p> + <p> + At this, with a desperate effort, the woman flung her off, and catching up + a long wooden bench, raised it over her head. + </p> + <p> + “If there's to be any murder going on,” she said, recovering her powers of + speech, “I'll take the first hand! As for the troublesome brat, he's gone. + Got out of the window and climbed down the spout. Wonder he wasn't killed. + Did fall—I don't know how far—and must have hurt himself, for + I heard a noise as if something heavy had dropped in the yard, but thought + it was next door. Half an hour afterward, in going up stairs and opening + the door of the room where I kept him locked in, I found it empty and the + window open. That's the whole story. I ran out and looked everywhere, but + he was off. And now, if the murder is to come, I'm going to be in first.” + </p> + <p> + And she still kept the long wooden bench poised above her head. + </p> + <p> + Pinky saw a dangerous look in the woman's eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Put that thing down,” she cried, “and don't be a fool. Let me see;” and + she darted past the woman and ran up stairs. She found the window of + Andy's prison open and the print of his little fingers on the snow-covered + sill outside, where he had held on before dropping to the ground, a + distance of many feet. There was no doubt now in her mind as to the truth + of the woman's story. The child had made his escape. + </p> + <p> + “Have you been into all the neighbors' houses?” asked Pinky as she came + down hastily. + </p> + <p> + “Into some, but not all,” she replied. + </p> + <p> + “How long is it since he got away?” + </p> + <p> + “More than two hours.” + </p> + <p> + “And you've been sticking down here, instead of ransacking every hole and + corner in the neighborhood. I can hardly keep my hands off of you.” + </p> + <p> + The woman was on the alert. Pinky saw this, and did not attempt to put her + threat into execution. After pouring out her wrath in a flood of angry + invectives, she went out and began a thorough search of the neighborhood, + going into every house for a distance of three or four blocks in all + directions. But she could neither find the child nor get the smallest + trace of him. He had dropped out of sight, so far as she was concerned, as + completely as if he had fallen into the sea. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0026" id="link2HCH0026"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXVI. + </h2> + <p> + <i>DAY</i> after day Mr. Dinneford waited for the woman who was to restore + the child of Edith, but she did not come. Over a week elapsed, but she + neither called nor sent him a sign or a word. He dared not speak about + this to Edith. She was too weak in body and mind for any further suspense + or strain. + </p> + <p> + Drew Hall had been nearly thrown down again by the events of that + Christmas day. The hand of a little child was holding him fast to a better + life; but when that hand was torn suddenly away from his grasp, he felt + the pull of evil habits, the downward drift of old currents. His steps + grew weak, his knees trembled. But God did not mean that he should be left + alone. He had reached down to him through the hand of a little child, had + lifted him up and led him into a way of safety; and now that this small + hand, the soft, touch of which had gone to his heart and stirred him with + old memories, sad and sweet and holy, had dropped away from him, and he + seemed to be losing his hold of heaven, God sent him, in Mr. Dinneford, an + angel with a stronger hand. There were old associations that held these + men together. They had been early and attached friends, and this meeting, + after many years of separation, under such strange circumstances, and with + a common fear and anxiety at heart, could not but have the effect of + arousing in the mind of Mr. Dinneford the deepest concern for the unhappy + man. He saw the new peril into which he was thrown by the loss of Andy, + and made it his first business to surround him with all possible good and + strengthening influences. So the old memories awakened by the coming of + Andy did not fade out and lose their power over the man. He had taken hold + of the good past again, and still held to it with the tight grasp of one + conscious of danger. + </p> + <p> + “We shall find the child—no fear of that,” Mr. Dinneford would say + to him over and over again, trying to comfort his own heart as well, as + the days went by and no little Andy could be found. “The police have the + girl under the sharpest surveillance, and she cannot baffle them much + longer.” + </p> + <p> + George Granger left the asylum with his friends, and dropped out of sight. + He did not show himself in the old places nor renew old associations. He + was too deeply hurt. The disaster had been too great for any attempt on + his part at repairing the old dwelling-places of his life. His was not + what we call a strong nature, but he was susceptible of very deep + impressions. He was fine and sensitive, rather than strong. Rejected by + his wife and family without a single interview with her or even an + opportunity to assert his innocence, he felt the wrong so deeply that he + could not get over it. His love for his wife had been profound and tender, + and when it became known to him that she had accepted the appearances of + guilt as conclusive, and broken with her own hands the tie that bound + them, it was more than he had strength to bear, and a long time passed + before he rallied from this hardest blow of all. + </p> + <p> + Edith knew that her father had seen Granger after securing his pardon, and + she had learned from him only, particulars of the interview. Beyond this + nothing came to her. She stilled her heart, aching with the old love that + crowded all its chambers, and tried to be patient and submissive. It was + very hard. But she was helpless. Sometimes, in the anguish and wild + agitation of soul that seized her, she would resolve to put in a letter + all she thought and felt, and have it conveyed to Granger; but fear and + womanly delicacy drove her back from this. What hope had she that he would + not reject her with hatred and scorn? It was a venture she dared not make, + for she felt that such a rejection would kill her. But for her work among + the destitute and the neglected, Edith would have shut herself up at home. + Christian charity drew her forth daily, and in offices of kindness and + mercy she found a peace and rest to which she would otherwise have been + stranger. + </p> + <p> + She was on her way home one afternoon from a visit to the mission-school + where she had first heard of the poor baby in Grubb's court. All that day + thoughts of little Andy kept crowding into her mind. She could not push + aside his image as she saw it on Christmas, when he sat among the + children, his large eyes resting in such a wistful look upon her face. Her + eyes often grew dim and her heart full as she looked upon that tender + face, pictured for her as distinctly as if photographed to natural sight. + </p> + <p> + “Oh my baby, my baby!” came almost audibly from her lips, in a burst of + irrepressible feeling, for ever since she had seen this child, the thought + of him linked itself with that of her lost baby. + </p> + <p> + Up to this time her father had carefully concealed his interview with Mrs. + Bray. He was in so much doubt as to the effect that woman's communication + might produce while yet the child was missing that he deemed it best to + maintain the strictest silence until it could be found. + </p> + <p> + Walking along with heart and thought where they dwelt for so large a part + of her time, Edith, in turning a corner, came upon a woman who stopped at + sight of her as if suddenly fastened to the ground—stopped only for + an instant, like one surprised by an unexpected and unwelcome encounter, + and then made a motion to pass on. But Edith, partly from memory and + partly from intuition, recognized her nurse, and catching fast hold of + her, said in a low imperative voice, while a look of wild excitement + spread over her face, + </p> + <p> + “Where is my baby?” + </p> + <p> + The woman tried to shake her off, but Edith held her with a grasp that + could not be broken. + </p> + <p> + “For Heaven's sake,” exclaimed the woman “let go of me! This is the public + street, and you'll have a crowd about us in a moment, and the police with + them.” + </p> + <p> + But Edith kept fast hold of her. + </p> + <p> + “First tell me where I can find my baby,” she answered. + </p> + <p> + “Come along,” said the woman, moving as she spoke in the direction Edith + was going when they met. “If you want a row with the police, I don't.” + </p> + <p> + Edith was close to her side, with her hand yet upon her and her voice in + her ears. + </p> + <p> + “My baby! Quick! Say! Where can I find my baby?” + </p> + <p> + “What do I know of your baby? You are a fool, or mad!” answered the woman, + trying to throw her off. “I don't know you.” + </p> + <p> + “But I know you, Mrs. Bray,” said Edith, speaking the name at a venture as + the one she remembered hearing the servant give to her mother. + </p> + <p> + At this the woman's whole manner changed, and Edith saw that she was right—that + this was, indeed, the accomplice of her mother. + </p> + <p> + “And now,” she added, in voice grown calm and resolute, “I do not mean to + let you escape until I get sure knowledge of my child. If you fly from me, + I will follow and call for the police. If you have any of the instincts of + a woman left, you will know that I am desperately in earnest. What is a + street excitement or a temporary arrest by the police, or even a + station-house exposure, to me, in comparison with the recovery of my + child? Where is he?” + </p> + <p> + “I do not know,” replied Mrs. Bray. “After seeing your father—” + </p> + <p> + “My father! When did you see him?” exclaimed Edith, betraying in her + surprised voice the fact that Mr. Dinneford had kept so far, even from + her, the secret of that brief interview to which she now referred. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, he hasn't told you! But it's no matter—he will do that in good + time. After seeing your father, I made an effort to get possession of your + child and restore him as I promised to do. But the woman who had him + hidden somewhere managed to keep out of my way until this morning. And now + she says he got off from her, climbed out of a second-story window and + disappeared, no one knows where.” + </p> + <p> + “This woman's name is Pinky Swett?” said Edith. + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Bray felt the hand that was still upon her arm shake as if from a + violent chill. + </p> + <p> + “Do you believe what she says?—that the child has really escaped + from her?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Where does she live?” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Bray gave the true directions, and without hesitation. + </p> + <p> + “Is this child the one she stole from the Briar-street mission on + Christmas day?” asked Edith. + </p> + <p> + “He is,” answered Mrs. Bray. + </p> + <p> + “How shall I know he is mine? What proof is there that little Andy, as he + is called, and my baby are the same?” + </p> + <p> + “I know him to be your child, for I have never lost sight of him,” replied + the woman, emphatically. “You may know him by his eyes and mouth and chin, + for they are yours. Nobody can mistake the likeness. But there is another + proof. When I nursed you, I saw on your arm, just above the elbow, a small + raised mark of a red color, and noticed a similar one on the baby's arm. + You will see it there whenever you find the child that Pinky Swett stole + from the mission-house on Christmas day. Good-bye!” + </p> + <p> + And the woman, seeing that her companion was off of her guard, sprang + away, and was out of sight in the crowd before Edith could rally herself + and make an attempt to follow. How she got home she could hardly tell. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0027" id="link2HCH0027"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXVII. + </h2> + <p> + <i>FOR</i> weeks the search for Andy was kept up with unremitting + vigilance, but no word of him came to the anxious searchers. A few days + after the meeting with Mrs. Bray, the police report mentioned the arrest + of both Pinky Swett and Mrs. Bray, <i>alias</i> Hoyt, <i>alias</i> Jewett, + charged with stealing a diamond ring of considerable value from a jewelry + store. They were sent to prison, in default of bail, to await trial. Mr. + Dinneford immediately went to the prison and had an interview with the two + women, who could give him no information about Andy beyond what Mrs. Bray + had already communicated in her hurried talk with Edith. Pinky could get + no trace of him after he had escaped. Mr. Dinneford did not leave the two + women until he had drawn from them a minute and circumstantial account of + all they knew of Edith's child from the time it was cast adrift. When he + left them, he had no doubt as to its identity with Andy. There was no + missing link in the chain of evidence. + </p> + <p> + The new life that had opened to little Andy since the dreary night on + which, like a stray kitten, he had crept into Andrew Hall's miserable + hovel, had been very pleasant. To be loved and caressed was a strange and + sweet experience. Poor little heart! It fluttered in wild terror, like a + tiny bird in the talons of a hawk, when Pinky Swett swooped down and + struck her foul talons into the frightened child and bore him off. + </p> + <p> + “If you scream, I'll choke you to death!” she said, stooping to his ear, + as she hurried him from the mission-house. Scared into silence, Andy did + not cry out, and the arm that grasped and dragged him away was so strong + that he felt resistance to be hopeless. Passing from Briar street, Pinky + hurried on for a distance of a block, when she signaled a street-car. As + she lifted Andy upon the platform, she gave him another whispered threat: + </p> + <p> + “Mind! if you cry, I'll kill you!” + </p> + <p> + There were but few persons in the car, and Pinky carried the child to the + upper end and sat him down with his face turned forward to the window, so + as to keep it as much out of observation as possible. He sat motionless, + stunned with surprise and fear. Pinky kept her eyes upon him. His hands + were laid across his breast and held against it tightly. They had not gone + far before Pinky saw great tear-drops falling upon the little hands. + </p> + <p> + “Stop crying!” she whispered, close to his ear; “I won't have it! You're + not going to be killed.” + </p> + <p> + Andy tried to keep back the tears, but in spite of all he could do they + kept blinding his eyes and falling over his hands. + </p> + <p> + “What's the matter with your little boy?” asked a sympathetic, motherly + woman who had noticed the child's distress. + </p> + <p> + “Cross, that's all.” Pinky threw out the sentence in at snappish, + mind-your-own-business tone. + </p> + <p> + The motherly woman, who had leaned forward, a look of kindly interest on + her face, drew back, chilled by this repulse, but kept her eyes upon the + child, greatly to Pinky's annoyance. After riding for half a mile, Pinky + got out and took another car. Andy was passive. He had ceased crying, and + was endeavoring to get back some of the old spirit of brave endurance. He + was beginning to feel like one who had awakened from a beautiful dream in + which dear ideals had almost reached fruition, to the painful facts of a + hard and suffering life, and was gathering up his patience and strength to + meet them. He sat motionless by the side of Pinky, with his eyes cast + down, his chin on his breast and his lips shut closely together. + </p> + <p> + Another ride of nearly half a mile, when Pinky left the car and struck + away from the common thoroughfare into a narrow alley, down which she + walked for a short distance, and then disappeared in one of the small + houses. No one happened to observe her entrance. Through a narrow passage + and stairway she reached a second-story room. Taking a key from her + pocket, she unlocked the door and went in. There was a fire in a small + stove, and the room was comfortable. Locking the door on the inside she + said to Andy, in a voice changed and kinder, + </p> + <p> + “My! your hands are as red as beets. Go up to the stove and warm + yourself.” + </p> + <p> + Andy obeyed, spreading out his little hands, and catching the grateful + warmth, every now and then looking up into Pinky's face, and trying with a + shrewder insight than is usually given to a child of his age to read the + character and purposes it half concealed and half made known. + </p> + <p> + “Now, Andy,” said Pinky, in a mild but very decided way—“your name's + Andy?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, ma'am,” answered the child, fixing his large, intelligent eyes on + her face. + </p> + <p> + “Well, Andy, if you'll be a good and quiet boy, you needn't be afraid of + anything—you won't get hurt. But if you make a fuss, I'll throw you + at once right out of the window.” + </p> + <p> + Pinky frowned and looked so wicked as she uttered the last sentence that + Andy was frightened. It seemed as if a devouring beast glared at him out + of her eyes. She saw the effect of her threat, and was satisfied. + </p> + <p> + The short afternoon soon passed away. The girl did not leave the room, nor + talk with the child except in very low tones, so as not to attract the + attention of any one in the house. As the day waned snow began to fall, + and by the time night set in it was coming down thick and fast. As soon as + it was fairly dark, Pinky wrapped a shawl about Andy, pinning it closely, + so as to protect him from the cold, and quietly left the house. He made no + resistance. A car was taken, in which they rode for a long distance, until + they were on the outskirts of the city. The snow had already fallen to a + depth of two or three inches, and the storm was increasing. When she left + the car in that remote neighborhood, not a person was to be seen on the + street. Catching Andy into her arms, Pinky ran with him for the distance + of half a block, and then turned into a close alley with small houses on + each side. At the lower end she stopped before one of these houses, and + without knocking pushed open the door. + </p> + <p> + “Who's that?” cried a voice from an upper room, the stairway to which led + up from the room below. + </p> + <p> + “It's me. Come down, and be quiet,” answered Pinky, in a warning voice. + </p> + <p> + A woman, old and gray, with all the signs of a bad life on her wrinkled + face, came hastily down stairs and confronted Pinky. + </p> + <p> + “What now? What's brought you here?” she demanded, in no friendly tones. + </p> + <p> + “There, there, Mother Peter! smooth down your feathers. I've got something + for you to do, and it will pay,” answered Pinky, who had shut the outside + door and slipped the bolt. + </p> + <p> + At this, the manner of Mother Peter, as Pinky had called her, softened, + and she said, + </p> + <p> + “What's up? What deviltry are you after now, you huzzy?” + </p> + <p> + Without replying to this, Pinky began shaking the snow from Andy and + unwinding the shawl with which she had bound him up. After he was free + from his outside wrappings, she said, looking toward the woman, + </p> + <p> + “Now, isn't he a nice little chap? Did you ever see such eyes?” + </p> + <p> + The worn face of the woman softened as she turned toward the beautiful + child, but not with pity. To that feeling she had long been a stranger. + </p> + <p> + “I want you to keep him for a few days,” said Pinky, speaking in the + woman's ears. “I'll tell you more about it after he's in bed and asleep.” + </p> + <p> + “He's to be kept shut up out of sight, mind,” was Pinky's injunction, in + the conference that followed. “Not a living soul in the neighborhood must + know he's in the house, for the police will be sharp after him. I'll pay + you five dollars a week, and put it down in advance. Give him plenty to + eat, and be as good to him as you can, for you see it's a fat job, and + I'll make it fatter for you if all comes out right.” + </p> + <p> + The woman was not slow to promise all that Pinky demanded. The house in + which she lived had three rooms, one below and two smaller ones above. + From the room below a stove-pipe went up through the floor into a + sheet-iron drum in the small back chamber, and kept it partially heated. + It was arranged that Andy should be made a close prisoner in this room, + and kept quiet by fear. It had only one window, looking out upon the yard, + and there was no shed or porch over the door leading into the yard below + upon which he could climb out and make his escape. In order to have things + wholly secure the two women, after Andy was asleep, pasted paper over the + panes of glass in the lower sash, so that no one could see his face at the + window, and fastened the sash down by putting a nail into a gimlet-hole at + the top. + </p> + <p> + “I guess thatt will fix him,” said Pinky, in a tone of satisfaction. “All + you've got to do now is to see that he doesn't make a noise.” + </p> + <p> + On the next morning Andy was awake by day-dawn. At first he did not know + where he was, but he kept very still, looking around the small room and + trying to make out what it all meant. Soon it came to him, and a vague + terror filled his heart. By his side lay the woman into whose hands Pinky + had given him. She was fast asleep, and her face, as he gazed in fear upon + it, was even more repulsive than it had looked on the night before. His + first impulse, after comprehending his situation, was to escape if + possible. Softly and silently he crept out of bed, and made his way to the + door. It was fastened. He drew the bolt back, when it struck the guard + with a sharp click. In an instant the old woman was sitting up in bed and + glaring at him. + </p> + <p> + “You imp of Satan!” she cried, springing after him with a singular agility + for one of her age, and catching him by the arm with a vice-like grip that + bruised the tender flesh and left it marked for weeks, drew him back from + the door and flung him upon the bed. + </p> + <p> + “Stay there till I tell you to get up,” she added, with a cruel threat in + her voice. “And mind you, there's to be no fooling with me.” + </p> + <p> + The frightened child crept under the bed-clothes, and hid his face beneath + them. Mother Peter did not lie down again, but commenced dressing herself, + muttering and grumbling as she did so. + </p> + <p> + “Keep where you are till I come back,” she said to Andy, with the same + cruel threat in her voice. Going out, she bolted the door on the other + side. It was nearly half an hour before the woman returned, bringing a + plate containing two or three slices of bread and butter and a cup of + milk. + </p> + <p> + “Now get up and dress yourself,” was her sharply-spoken salutation to Andy + as she came into the room. “And you're to be just as still as a mouse, + mind. There's your breakfast.” She set the plate on a table and went out, + bolting, as before, the door on the other side. Andy did not see her again + for over an hour. Left entirely alone in his prison, his restless spirit + chafed for freedom. He moved about the apartment, examining everything it + contained with the closest scrutiny, yet without making any noise, for the + woman's threat, accompanied as it had been with such a wicked look, was + not forgotten. He had seen in that look a cruel spirit of which he was + afraid. Two or three times he thought he heard a step and a movement in + the adjoining chamber, and waited, almost holding his breath, with his + eyes upon the door, expecting every moment to see the scowling face of his + jailer. But no hand touched the door. + </p> + <p> + Tired at last with everything in the room, he went to the window and + sought to look out, as he had already done many times. He could not + understand why this window, was so different from any he had ever seen, + and puzzled over it in his weak, childish way. As he moved from pane to + pane, trying to see through, he caught a glimpse of something outside, but + it was gone in a moment. He stepped back, then came up quickly to the + glass, all the dull quietude of manner leaving him. As he did so a glimpse + of the outside world came again, and now he saw a little hole in the paper + not larger than a pin's head. To scrape at this was a simple instinct. In + a moment he saw it enlarging, as the paper peeled off from the glass. + Scraping away with his finger-nail, the glass was soon cleared of paper + for the space of an inch in diameter, and through this opening he stood + gazing out upon the yards, below, and the houses that came up to them from + a neighboring street. There was a woman in one of these yards, and she + looked up toward the window where Andy stood, curiously. + </p> + <p> + “You imp of Satan!” were the terrible words that fell upon his ears at + this juncture, and he felt himself caught up as by a vulture. He knew the + cruel voice and the grip of the cruel hands that had already left their + marks in his tender flesh. Mother Peter, her face red with passion and her + eyes slowing like coals of fire, held him high in the air, and shook him + with savage violence. She did not strike, but continued shaking him until + the sudden heat of her passion had a little cooled. + </p> + <p> + “Didn't I tell you not to meddle with anything in this room?” and with + another bruising grip of Andy's arms, she threw him roughly upon the + floor. + </p> + <p> + The little hole in the paper was then repaired by pasting another piece of + paper over it, after which Andy was left alone, but with a threat from + Mother Peter that if he touched the window again she would beat the life + out of him. She had no more trouble with him that day. Every half hour or + so she would come up stairs noiselessly, and listen at the door, or break + in upon the child suddenly and without warning. But she did not find him + again at the window. The restlessness at first exhibited had died out, and + he sat or lay upon the floor in a kind of dull, despairing stupor. So that + day passed. + </p> + <p> + On the second day of Andy's imprisonment he distinctly heard the old woman + go out at the street door and lock it after her. He listened for a long + time, but could hear no sound in the house. A feeling of relief and a + sense of safety came over him. He had not been so long in his prison alone + without the minutest examination of every part, and it had not escaped his + notice that the panes of glass in the upper sash of the window were not + covered with paper, as were those below. But for the fear of one of Mother + Peter's noiseless pouncings in upon him, he would long since have climbed + upon the sill and taken a look through the upper sash. He waited now for + full half an hour to be sure that his jailer had left the house, and then, + climbing to the window-sill with the agility of a squirrel, held on to the + edge of the lower sash and looked out through the clear glass above. + Dreary and unsightly as was all that lay under his gaze, it was beautiful + in the eyes of the child. His little heart swelled and glowed; he longed, + as a prisoner, for freedom. As he stood there he saw that a nail held down + the lower sash, which he had so often tried, but in vain, to lift. Putting + his finger on this nail, he felt it move. It had been placed loosely in a + gimlet-hole, and could be drawn out easily. For a little while he stood + there, taking out and putting in the nail. While doing this he thought he + heard a sound below, and instantly dropped noiselessly from the window. He + had scarcely done so when the door of his room opened and Mother Peter + came in. She looked at him sharply, and then retired without speaking. + </p> + <p> + All the next day Andy listened after Mother Peter, waiting to hear her go + out. But she did not leave the house until after he was asleep in the + evening. + </p> + <p> + On the next day, after waiting until almost noon, the child's impatience + of confinement grew so strong that he could no longer defer his meditated + escape from the window, for ever since he had looked over the sash and + discovered how it was fastened down, his mind had been running on this + thing. He had noticed that Mother Peter's visits to his room were made + after about equal intervals of time, and that after she gave him his + dinner she did not come up stairs again for at least an hour. This had + been brought, and he was again alone. + </p> + <p> + For nearly five minutes after the woman went out, he sat by the untasted + food, his head bent toward the door, listening. Then he got up quietly, + climbed upon the window-sill and pulled the nail out. Dropping back upon + the floor noiselessly, he pushed his hands upward against the sash, and it + rose easily. Like an animal held in unwilling confinement, he did not stop + to think of any danger that might lie in the way of escape when + opportunity for escape offered. The fear behind was worse than any + imagined fear that could lie beyond. Pushing up the sash, Andy, without + looking down from the window, threw himself across the sill and dropped + his body over, supporting himself with his hands on the snow-encrusted + ledge for a moment, and then letting himself fall to the ground, a + distance of nearly ten feet. He felt his breath go as he swept through the + air, and lost his senses for an instant or two. + </p> + <p> + Stunned by the fall, he did not rise for several minutes. Then he got up + with a slow, heavy motion and looked about him anxiously. He was in a yard + from which there was no egress except by way of the house. It was bitter + cold, and he had on nothing but the clothing worn in the room from which + he had just escaped. His head was bare. + </p> + <p> + The dread of being found here by Mother Peter soon lifted him above + physical impediment or suffering. Through a hole in the fence he saw an + alley-way; and by the aid of an old barrel that stood in the yard, he + climbed to the top of the fence and let himself down on the other side, + falling a few feet. A sharp pain was felt in one of his ankles as his feet + touched the ground. He had sprained it in his leap from the window, and + now felt the first pangs attendant on the injury. + </p> + <p> + Limping along, he followed the narrow alley-way, and in a little while + came out upon a street some distance from the one in which Mother Peter + lived. There were very few people abroad, and no one noticed or spoke to + him as he went creeping along, every step sending a pain from the hurt + ankle to his heart. Faint with suffering and chilled to numbness, Andy + stumbled and fell as he tried, in crossing a street, to escape from a + sleigh that turned a corner suddenly. It was too late for the driver to + rein up his horse. One foot struck the child, throwing him out of the + track of the sleigh. He was insensible when taken up, bleeding and + apparently dead. A few people came out of the small houses in the + neighborhood, attracted by the accident, but no one knew the child or + offered to take him in. + </p> + <p> + There were two ladies in the sleigh, and both were greatly pained and + troubled. After a hurried consultation, one of them reached out her hands + for the child, and as she received and covered him with the buffalo-robe + said something to the driver, who turned his horse's head and drove off at + a rapid speed. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0028" id="link2HCH0028"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXVIII. + </h2> + <p> + <i>EVERY</i> home for friendless children, every sin or poverty-blighted + ward and almost every hovel, garret and cellar where evil and squalor + shrunk from observation were searched for the missing child, but in vain. + No trace of him could be found. The agony of suspense into which Edith's + mind was brought was beginning to threaten her reason. It was only by the + strongest effort at self-compulsion that she could keep herself to duty + among the poor and suffering, and well for her it was that she did not + fail here; it was all that held her to safe mooring. + </p> + <p> + One day, as she was on her way home from some visit of mercy, a lady who + was passing in a carriage called to her from the window, at the same time + ordering her driver to stop. The carriage drew up to the sidewalk. + </p> + <p> + “Come, get in,” said the lady as she pushed open the carriage door. “I was + thinking of you this very moment, and want to have some talk about our + children's hospital. We must have you on our ladies' visiting committee.” + </p> + <p> + Edith shook her head, saying, “It won't be possible, Mrs. Morton. I am + overtaxed now, and must lessen, instead of increasing, my work.” + </p> + <p> + “Never mind, about that now. Get in. I want to have some talk with you.” + </p> + <p> + Edith, who knew the lady intimately, stepped into the carriage and took a + seat by her side. + </p> + <p> + “I don't believe you have ever been to our hospital,” said the lady as the + carriage rolled on. “I'm going there now, and want to show you how + admirably everything is conducted, and what a blessing it is to poor + suffering children.” + </p> + <p> + “It hurts me so to witness suffering in little children,” returned Edith, + “that it seems as if I couldn't bear it much longer. I see so much of it.” + </p> + <p> + “The pain is not felt as deeply when we are trying to relieve that + suffering,” answered her friend. “I have come away from the hospital many + times after spending an hour or two among the beds, reading and talking to + the children, with an inward peace in my soul too deep for expression. I + think that Christ draws very near to us while we are trying to do the work + that he did when he took upon himself our nature in, the world and stood + face to face visibly with men—nearer to us, it may be, than at any + other time; and in his presence there is peace—peace that passeth + understanding.” + </p> + <p> + They were silent for a little while, Edith not replying. “We have now,” + resumed the lady, “nearly forty children under treatment—poor little + things who, but for this charity, would have no tender care or intelligent + ministration. Most of them would be lying in garrets or miserable little + rooms, dirty and neglected, disease eating out their lives, and pain that + medical skill now relieves, racking their poor worn bodies. I sat by the + bed of a little girl yesterday who has been in the hospital over six + months. She has hip disease. When she was brought here from one of the + vilest places in the city, taken away from a drunken mother, she was the + saddest-looking child I ever saw. Dirty, emaciated, covered with vermin + and pitiable to behold, I could hardly help crying when I saw her brought + in. Now, though still unable to leave her bed, she has as bright and happy + a face as you ever saw. The care and tenderness received since she came to + us have awakened a new life in her soul, and she exhibits a sweetness of + temper beautiful to see. After I had read a little story for her + yesterday, she put her arms about my neck and kissed me, saying, in her + frank, impulsive way, 'Oh, Mrs. Morton, I do love you so!' I had a great + reward. Never do I spend an hour among these children without thanking God + that he put it into the hearts of a few men and women who could be touched + with the sufferings of children to establish and sustain so good an + institution.” + </p> + <p> + The carriage stopped, and the driver swung open the door. They were at the + children's hospital. Entering a spacious hall, the two ladies ascended to + the second story, where the wards were located. There were two of these on + opposite sides of the hall, one for boys and one for girls. Edith felt a + heavy pressure on her bosom as they passed into the girls' ward. She was + coming into the presence of disease and pain, of suffering and weariness, + in the persons of little children. + </p> + <p> + There were twenty beds in the room. Everything was faultlessly clean, and + the air fresh and pure. On most of these beds lay, or sat up, supported by + pillows, sick or crippled children from two years of age up to fifteen or + sixteen, while a few were playing about the room. Edith caught her breath + and choked back a sob that came swiftly to her throat as she stood a few + steps within the door and read in a few quick glances that passed from + face to face the sorrowful records that pain had written upon them. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, there's Mrs. Morton!” cried a glad voice, and Edith saw a girl who + was sitting up in one of the beds clap her hands joyfully. + </p> + <p> + “That's the little one I was telling you about,” said the lady, and she + crossed to the bed, Edith following. The child reached up her arms and put + them about Mrs. Morton's neck, kissing her as she did so. + </p> + <p> + It took Edith some time to adjust herself to the scene before her. Mrs. + Morton knew all the children, and had a word of cheer or sympathy for most + of them as she passed from bed to bed through the ward. Gradually the + first painful impressions wore off, and Edith felt herself drawn to the + little patients, and before five minutes had passed her heart was full of + a strong desire to do whatever lay in her power to help and comfort them. + After spending half an hour with the girls, during which time Edith talked + and read to a number of them, Mrs. Morton said, + </p> + <p> + “Now let us go into the boys' ward.” + </p> + <p> + They crossed the hall together, and entered the room on the other side. + Here, as in the opposite ward, Mrs. Morton was recognized as welcome + visitor. Every face that happened to be turned to the door brightened at + her entrance. + </p> + <p> + “There's a dear child in this ward,” said Mrs. Morton as they stood for a + moment in the door looking about the room. “He was picked up in the street + about a week ago, hurt by a passing vehicle, and brought here. We have not + been able to learn anything about him.” + </p> + <p> + Edith's heart gave a sudden leap, but she held it down with all the + self-control she could assume, trying to be calm. + </p> + <p> + “Where is he?” she asked, in a voice so altered from its natural tone that + Mrs. Morton turned and looked at her in surprise. + </p> + <p> + “Over in that corner,” she answered, pointing down the room. + </p> + <p> + Edith started forward, Mrs. Morton at her side. + </p> + <p> + “Here he is,” said the latter, pausing at a bed on which child with fair + face, blue eyes and golden hair was lying. A single glance sent the blood + back to Edith's heart. A faintness came over her; everything grew dark. + She sat down to keep from falling. + </p> + <p> + As quickly as possible and by another strong effort of will she rallied + herself. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” she said, in a faint undertone in which was no apparent interest, + “he is a dear little fellow.” + </p> + <p> + As she spoke she laid her hand softly on the child's head, but not in a + way to bring any response. He looked at her curiously, and seemed half + afraid. + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile, a child occupying a bed only a few feet off had started up + quickly on seeing Edith, and now sat with his large brown eyes fixed + eagerly upon her, his lips apart and his hands extended. But Edith did not + notice him. Presently she got up from beside the bed and was turning away + when the other child, with a kind of despairing look in his face, cried + out, + </p> + <p> + “Lady, lady! oh, lady!” + </p> + <p> + The voice reached Edith's ears. She turned, and saw the face of Andy. + Swift as a flash she was upon him, gathering him in her arms and crying + out, in a wild passion of joy that could not be repressed, + </p> + <p> + “Oh, my baby! my baby! my boy! my boy! Bless God! thank God! oh, my baby!” + </p> + <p> + Startled by this sudden outcry, the resident physician and two nurses who + were in the ward hurried down the room to see what it meant. Edith had the + child hugged tightly to her bosom, and resisted all their efforts to + remove him. + </p> + <p> + “My dear madam,” said the doctor, “you will do him some harm if you don't + take care.” + </p> + <p> + “Hurt my baby? Oh no, no!” she answered, relaxing her hold and gazing down + upon Andy as she let him fall away from her bosom. Then lifting her eyes + to the physician, her face so flooded with love and inexpressible joy that + it seemed like some heavenly transfiguration, she murmured, in a low voice + full of the deepest tenderness, + </p> + <p> + “Oh no. I will not do my baby any harm.” + </p> + <p> + “My dear, dear friend,” said Mrs. Morton, recovering from the shock of her + first surprise and fearing that Edith had suddenly lost her mind, “you + cannot mean what you say;” and she reached down for the child and made a + movement as if she were going to lift him away from her arms. + </p> + <p> + A look of angry resistance swept across Edith's pale face. There was a + flash of defiance in her eyes. + </p> + <p> + “No, no! You must not touch him,” she exclaimed; “I will die before giving + him up. My baby!” + </p> + <p> + And now, breaking down from her intense excitement, she bent over the + child again, weeping and sobbing. Waiting until this paroxysm had expended + itself, Mrs. Morton, who had not failed to notice that Andy never turned + his eyes for an instant away from Edith, nor resisted her strained clasp + or wild caresses, but lay passive against her with a look of rest and + peace in his face, said, + </p> + <p> + “How shall we know that he is your baby?” + </p> + <p> + At this Edith drew herself up, the light on her countenance fading out. + Then catching at the child's arm, she pulled the loose sleeve that covered + it above the elbow with hands that shook like aspens. Another cry of joy + broke from her as she saw a small red mark standing out clear from the + snowy skin. She kissed it over and over again, sobbing, + </p> + <p> + “My baby! Yes, thank God! my own long-lost baby!” + </p> + <p> + And still the child showed no excitement, but lay very quiet, looking at + Edith whenever he could see her countenance, the peace and rest on his + face as unchanging as if it were not really a living and mobile face, but + one cut into this expression by the hands of an artist. + </p> + <p> + “How shall you know?” asked Edith, now remembering the question of Mrs. + Morton. And she drew up her own sleeve and showed on one of her arms a + mark as clearly defined and bright as that on the child's arm. + </p> + <p> + No one sought to hinder Edith as she rose to her feet holding Andy, after + she had wrapped the bed-clothes about him. + </p> + <p> + “Come!” she spoke to her friend, and moved away with her precious burden. + </p> + <p> + “You must go with us,” said Mrs. Morton to the physician. + </p> + <p> + They followed as Edith hurried down stairs, and entering the carriage + after her, were driven away from the hospital. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0029" id="link2HCH0029"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXIX. + </h2> + <p> + <i>ABOUT</i> the same hour that Edith entered the boys' ward of the + children's hospital, Mr. Dinneford met Granger face to face in the street. + The latter tried to pass him, but Mr. Dinneford stopped, and taking his + almost reluctant hand, said, as he grasped it tightly, + </p> + <p> + “George Granger!” in a voice that had in it a kind of helpless cry. + </p> + <p> + The young man did not answer, but stood looking at him in a surprised, + uncertain way. + </p> + <p> + “George,” said Mr. Dinneford, his utterance broken, “we want you!” + </p> + <p> + “For what?” asked Granger, whose hand still lay in that of Mr. Dinneford. + He had tried to withdraw it at first, but now let it remain. + </p> + <p> + “To help us find your child.” + </p> + <p> + “My child! What of my child?” + </p> + <p> + “Your child and Edith's,” said Mr. Dinneford. “Come!” and he drew his arm + within that of Granger, the two men moving away together. “It has been + lost since the day of its birth—cast adrift through the same malign + influence that cursed your life and Edith's. We are on its track, but + baffled day by day. Oh, George, we want you, frightfully wronged as you + have been at our hands—not Edith's. Oh no, George! Edith's heart has + never turned from you for an instant, never doubted you, though in her + weakness and despair she was driven to sign that fatal application for a + divorce. If it were not for the fear of a scornful rejection, she would be + reaching out her hands to you now and begging for the old sweet love, but + such a rejection would kill her, and she dare not brave the risk.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Dinneford felt the young man's arm begin to tremble violently. + </p> + <p> + “We want you, George,” he pursued. “Edith's heart is calling out for you, + that she may lean it upon your heart, so that it break not in this great + trial and suspense. Your lost baby is calling for you out of some garret + or cellar or hovel where it lies concealed. Come, my son. The gulf that + lies between the dreadful past and the blessed future can be leaped at a + single bound if you choose to make it. We want you—Edith and I and + your baby want you.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Dinneford, in his great excitement, was hurrying the young man along + at a rapid speed, holding on to his arm at the same time, as if afraid he + would pull it away and escape. + </p> + <p> + Granger made no response, but moved along passively, taking in every word + that was said. A great light seemed to break upon his soul, a great + mountain to be lifted off. He did not pause at the door from which, when + he last stood there, he had been so cruelly rejected, but went in, almost + holding his breath, bewildered, uncertain, but half realizing the truth of + what was transpiring, like one in a dream. + </p> + <p> + “Wait here,” said Mr. Dinneford, and he left him in the parlor and ran up + stairs to find Edith. + </p> + <p> + George Granger had scarcely time to recognize the objects around him, when + a carriage stopped at the door, and in a moment afterward the bell rang + violently. + </p> + <p> + The image that next met his eyes was that of Edith standing in the parlor + door with a child all bundled up in bed-clothing held closely in her arms. + Her face was trembling with excitement. He started forward on seeing her + with an impulse of love and joy that he could not restrain. She saw him, + and reading his soul in his eyes, moved to meet him. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, George, and you too!” she exclaimed. “My baby and my husband, all at + once! It is too much. I cannot bear if all!” + </p> + <p> + Granger caught her in his arms as she threw herself upon him and laid the + child against his breast. + </p> + <p> + “Yours and mine,” she sobbed. “Yours and mine, George!” and she put up her + face to his. Could he do less than cover it with kisses? + </p> + <p> + A few hours later, and a small group of very near friends witnessed a + different scene from this. Not another tragedy as might well be feared, + under the swift reactions that came upon Edith. No, no! She did not die + from a excess of joy, but was filled with new life and strength. Two hands + broken asunder so violently a few years ago were now clasped again, and + the minister of God as he laid them together pronounced in trembling tones + the marriage benediction. + </p> + <p> + This was the scene, and here we drop the curtain. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Cast Adrift, by T. S. 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Arthur + +Release Date: October, 2003 [Etext #4592] +Posting Date: December 8, 2009 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CAST ADRIFT *** + + + + +Produced by Charles Aldarondo + + + + + +CAST ADRIFT + +By T. S. Arthur + +Author Of "Three Years In A Man-Trap," "Orange Blossoms," Etc., Etc. + + + Philadelphia: + Cincinnati: + New York: + Boston: + Chicago, Ills.: + New Castle, Pa.: + San Francisco, Cal.: + +1873 + + + +TO THE READER. + +IN this romance of real life, in which the truth is stranger than the +fiction, I have lifted only in part the veil that hides the victims of +intemperance and other terrible vices--after they have fallen to the +lower deeps of degradation to be found in our large cities, where the +vile and degraded herd together more like wild beasts than men and +women--and told the story of sorrow, suffering, crime and debasement +as they really exist in Christian America with all the earnestness and +power that in me lies. + +Strange and sad and terrible as are some of the scenes from which I hare +drawn this veil, I have not told the half of what exists. My book, apart +from the thread of fiction that runs through its pages, is but a series +of photographs from real life, and is less a work of the imagination +than a record of facts. + +If it stirs the hearts of American readers profoundly, and so awakens +the people to a sense of their duty; if it helps to inaugurate more +earnest and radical modes of reform for a state of society of which a +distinguished author has said, "There is not a country throughout the +earth on which it would not bring a curse; there is no religion upon the +earth that it would not deny; there is no people upon the earth it would +not put to shame;"--then will not my work be in vain. + +Sitting in our comfortable homes with well-fed, well-clothed and +happy-hearted children about us--children who have our tenderest care, +whose cry of pain from a pin-prick or a fall on the carpeted floor hurts +us like a blow---how few of us know or care anything about the homes +in which some other children dwell, or of the hard and cruel battle for +life they are doomed to fight from the very beginning! + +To get out from these comfortable homes and from the midst of tenderly +cared-for little ones, and stand face to face with squalor and hunger, +with suffering, debasement and crime, to look upon the starved faces +of children and hear their helpless cries, is what scarcely one in a +thousand will do. It is too much for our sensibilities. And so we stand +aloof, and the sorrow, and suffering, the debasement, the wrong and +the crime, go on, and because we heed it not we vainly imagine that no +responsibility lies at our door; and yet there is no man or woman who is +not, according to the measure of his or her influence, responsible for +the human debasement and suffering I have portrayed. + +The task I set for myself has not been a pleasant one. It has hurt my +sensibilities and sickened my heart many times as I stood face to face +with the sad and awful degradation that exists in certain regions of +our larger cities; and now that my work is done, I take a deep breath +of relief. The result is in your hands, good citizen, Christian reader, +earnest philanthropist! If it stirs your heart in the reading as it +stirred mine in the writing, it will not die fruitless. + +THE AUTHOR. + + + +CONTENTS. + + +CHAPTER I. The unwelcome babe--The defrauded young mother--The struggle +between life and death--"Your baby is in heaven"--A brief retrospect--A +marriage for social position--An ambitious wife and a disappointed +husband--The young daughter--The matrimonial market--The Circassian +slaves of modern society--The highest bidder--Disappearance--The old sad +story--Secret marriage--The letters--Disappointed ambition--Interview +between the parents--The mother's purpose--"Baffled, but not +defeated"--The father's surprise--The returned daughter--Forgiven--"I am +not going away again, father dear"--Insecurity and distrust + +CHAPTER II. The hatred of a bad woman--Mrs. Dinneford's plans for the +destruction of Granger--Starting in business--Plots of Mrs. Dinneford +and Freeling--The discounted notes--The trap--Granger's suspicions +aroused--Forgery--Mrs. Dinneford relentless--The arrest--Fresh evidence +of crime upon Granger's person--The shock to Edith--"That night her baby +was born" + +CHAPTER III. "It is a splendid boy"--A convenient, non-interfering +family doctor--Cast adrift--Into the world in a basket, unnamed +and disowned--Edith's second struggle back to life--Her mind a +blank--Granger convicted of forgery--Seeks to gain knowledge of his +child--The doctor's evasion and ignorance--An insane asylum instead of +State's prison--Edith's slow return to intelligence--"There's something +I can't understand, mother"--"Where is my baby?"--"What of George?"--No +longer a child, but a broken hearted woman--The divorce + +CHAPTER IV. Sympathy between father and daughter--Interest in public +charities--A dreadful sight--A sick babe in the arms of a half-drunken +woman--"Is there no law to meet such cases?"---"The poor baby has no +vote!"--Edith seeks for the grave of her child, but cannot find +it--She questions her mother, who baffles her curiosity--Mrs. Bray's +visit--Interview between Mrs. Dinneford and Mrs. Bray--"The baby +isn't living?"--"Yes; I saw it day before yesterday in the arms of a +beggar-woman"--Edith's suspicions aroused--Determined to discover the +fate of her child--Visits the doctor--"Your baby is in heaven"--"Would +to God it were so, for I saw a baby in hell not long ago!" + +CHAPTER V. Mrs. Dinneford visits Mrs. Bray--"The woman to whom you +gave that baby was here yesterday"--The woman must be put out of the +way--Exit Mrs. Dinneford, enter Pinky Swett--"You know your fate--New +Orleans and the yellow fever"--"All I want of you is to keep track of +the baby"--Division of the spoils--Lucky dreams--Consultation of the +dream-book for lucky figures--Sam McFaddon and his backer, who "drives +in the Park and wears a two thousand dollar diamond pin"--The fate of a +baby begged with--The baby must not die--The lottery-policies + +CHAPTER VI. Rottenness at the heart of a great city--Pinky Swett's +attempted rescue of a child from cruel beating--The fight--Pinky's +arrest--Appearance of the "queen"--Pinky's release at her command--The +queen's home--The screams of children being beaten--The rescue of +"Flanagan's Nell"--Death the great rescuer--"They don't look after +things in here as they do outside--Everybody's got the screws on, and +things must break sometimes, but it isn't called murder--The coroner +understands it all" + +CHAPTER VII. Pinky Swett at the mercy of the crowd in the street--Taken +to the nearest station-house--Mrs. Dinneford visits Mrs. Bray +again--Fresh alarms--"She's got you in her power"---"Money is of no +account"--The knock at the door--Mrs. Dinneford in hiding--The visitor +gone--Mrs. Bray reports the woman insatiable in her demands--Must have +two hundred dollars by sundown--No way of escape except through police +interference--"People who deal with the devil generally have the devil +to pay"--Suspicion--A mistake--Sound of feet upon the stairs--Mrs. +Dinneford again in hiding--Enter Pinky Swett--Pinky disposed of--Mrs. +Dinneford again released--Mrs. Bray's strategy--"Let us be friends +still, Mrs. Bray"--Mrs. Dinneford's deprecation and humiliation--Mrs. +Bray's triumph + +CHAPTER VIII. Mrs. Bray receives a package containing two hundred +dollars--"Poor baby! I must see better to its comfort"--Pinky meets a +young girl from the country--The "Ladies' Restaurant"--Fried oysters +and sangaree--The "bindery" girl--"My head feels strangely"--Through +the back alley--The ten-cent lodging house--Robbery--A second robbery--A +veil drawn--A wild prolonged cry of a woman--The policeman listens only +for a moment, and then passes on--Foul play--"In all our large +cities are savages more cruel and brutal in their instincts than the +Comanches"--Who is responsible? + +CHAPTER IX. Valuation of the spoils--The receiver--The "policy-shop" and +its customers--A victim of the lottery mania + +CHAPTER X. "Policy-drunkards"--A newly-appointed policeman's +blunder--The end of a "policy-drunkard"--Pinky and her friend in +consultation over "a cast-off baby in Dirty alley"--"If you can't get +hush-money out of its mother, you can bleed Fanny Bray"--The way to +starve a baby--Pinky moves her quarters without the use of "a dozen +furniture cars"--A baby's home--The baby's night nurse--The baby's +supper--The baby's bed--How the baby's money is spent--Where the baby's +nurse passes the night--The baby's disappearance + +CHAPTER XI. Reserve between mother and daughter--Mrs. Dinneford +disapproves of Edith's charitable visits--Mrs. Dinneford meets Freeling +by appointment at a hotel--"There's trouble brewing"--"A letter from +George Granger"--Accused of conspiracy--Possibility of Granger's pardon +by the governor--An ugly business--In great peril--Freeling's threats of +exposure--A hint of an alternative + +CHAPTER XII. Mr. Freeling fails to appear at his place of +business--Examination of his bank accounts--It is discovered that he has +borrowed largely of his friends--Mrs. Dinneford has supplied him $20,000 +from her private purse--Mrs. Dinneford falls sick, and temporarily +loses her reason--"I told you her name was Gray--Gray, not Bray"--Half +disclosures--Recovery--Mother and daughter mutually suspicious--The +visitor--Mrs. Dinneford equal to the emergency--Edith thrown off the +track + +CHAPTER XIII. Edith is satisfied that her babe is alive--She has a +desire to teach the children of the poor--"My baby may become like one +of these"--She hears of a baby which has been stolen--Resolves to go +and see it, and to apply to Mr. Paulding of the Briar street mission for +assistance in her attempt--Mr. Paulding persuades her that it is best +not to see the child, and promises that he himself will look after +it--Returns home--Her father remonstrates with her, finally promises to +help her + +CHAPTER XIV. Mr. Dinneford sets out for the mission-house--An incident +on the way--Encounters Mr. Paulding--Mr. Paulding makes his report--"The +vicious mark their offspring with unmistakable signs of moral depravity; +this baby has signs of a better origin"--A profitable conversation--"I +think you had better act promptly" + +CHAPTER XV. Mr. Dinneford with a policeman goes in quest of the +baby--The baby is gone--Inquiries--Mr. Dinneford resolves to +persevere--Cause of the baby's disappearance--Pinky Swett's +curiosity--Change of baby's nurse--Baby's improved condition--Baby's +first experience of motherly tenderness--Baby's first smile--"Such +beautiful eyes"--Pinky Swett visits the St. John mission-school--Edith +is not there + +CHAPTER XVI. Mr. Dinneford's return, and Edith's disappointment--"It +is somebody's baby, and it may be mine"--An unsuspected listener--Mrs. +Dinneford acts promptly--Conference between Mrs. Dinneford and Mrs. +Hoyt, _alias_ Bray--The child must be got out of the way--"If it will +not starve, it must drown"--Mrs. Dinneford sees an acquaintance as +she leaves Mrs. Hoyt's, and endeavors to escape his observation--A new +danger and disgrace awaiting her + +CHAPTER XVII. Mental conditions of mother and daughter--Mr. Dinneford +aroused to a sense of his moral responsibilities--The heathen in +our midst--The united evil of policy-lotteries and whisky-shops--The +education of the policy-shops + +CHAPTER XVIII. News item: "A child drowned"--Another news item: Pinky +Swett sentenced to prison for robbery--Baby's improved +condition--Mrs. Burke's efforts to retain the baby after Pinky Swett's +imprisonment--Baby Andy's rough life in the street--Mrs. Burke's +death--Cast upon the world--Andy's adventures--He finds a home and a +friend + +CHAPTER XIX. Mr. Dinneford visits the mission-school--A comparison of +the present with the past--The first mission-school--Reminiscences of +the school in its early days--The zealous scholar--Good effects of +the mission--"Get the burning brands apart, or interpose incombustible +things between them"--An illustration--"Let in light, and the darkness +flees" + +CHAPTER XX. "The man awoke and felt the child against his bosom, soft +and warm"--Led by a little child--"God being my helper, I will be a man +again"--A new life--Meeting of an old friend--A friend in need--Food, +clothes, work--A new home--God's strength our only safety + +CHAPTER XXI. Intimate relations of physical and moral purity--Blind +Jake--The harvest of the thieves and beggars--Inconsiderate +charity--Beggary a vice--"The deserving poor are never common +beggars"--"To help the evil is to hurt the good" The malignant ulcer +in the body politic of our city--The breeding-places of epidemics and +malignant diseases--Little Italian street musicians--The existence of +slavery in our midst--Facts in regard to it + +CHAPTER XXII. Edith's continued interest in the children of the +poor--Christmas dinner at the mission-house--Edith perceives Andy, +and feels a strange attraction toward him--Andy's disappearance after +dinner--Pinky Swett has been seen dragging him away--Lost sight of + +CHAPTER XXIII. Christmas dinner at Mr. Dinneford's--The dropped +letter--It is missed--A scene of wild excitement--Mrs. Dinneford's +sudden death--Edith reads the letter--A revelation--"Innocent!"--Edith +is called to her mother--"Dead, and better so!"--Granger's innocence +established--An agony of affection--No longer Granger's wife + +CHAPTER XXIV. Edith's sickness--Meeting of Mrs. Bray and Pinky Swett--A +trial of sharpness, in which neither gains the advantage--Mr. Dinneford +receives a call from a lady--The lady, who is Mrs. Bray, offers +information--Mr. Dinneford surprises her into admitting an important +fact--Mrs. Bray offers to produce the child for a price--Mr. Dinneford +consents to pay the price on certain stipulations--Mrs. Bray departs, +promising to come again + +CHAPTER XXV. Granger's pardon procured--How he receives his pardon--Mrs. +Bray tries to trace Pinky home--Loses sight of her in the street--Mrs. +Bray interviews a shop-woman--Pinky's destination--The child is gone + +CHAPTER XXVI. Mrs. Bray does not call on Mr. Dinneford, as she +promised--Peril to Andrew Hall through loss of the child--Help--Edith +longs to see or write to Granger, but does not--Edith encounters Mrs. +Bray in the street--"Where is my baby?"--Disappointment--How to identify +the child if found + +CHAPTER XXVII. No trace of Andy--Account of Andy's abduction--Andy's +prison--An outlook from prison--A loose nail--The escape--The sprained +ankle--The accident + +CHAPTER XXVIII. Edith's visit to the children's hospital--"Oh, my baby! +thank God! my baby!"--The identification + +CHAPTER XXIX. Meeting of Mr. Dinneford and George Granger--"We want you +to help us find your child"--"Edith's heart is calling out for you"--The +meeting--The marriage benediction + + + + + +CAST ADRIFT. + + + +CHAPTER I. + + + +_A BABY_ had come, but he was not welcome. Could anything be sadder? + +The young mother lay with her white face to the wall, still as death. A +woman opened the chamber door noiselessly and came in, the faint rustle +of her garments disturbing the quiet air. + +A quick, eager turning of the head, a look half anxious, half fearful, +and then the almost breathless question, + +"Where is my baby?" + +"Never mind about the baby," was answered, almost coldly; "he's well +enough. I'm more concerned about you." + +"Have you sent word to George?" + +"George can't see you. I've said that before." + +"Oh, mother! I must see my husband." + +"Husband!" The tone of bitter contempt with which the word was uttered +struck the daughter like a blow. She had partly risen in her excitement, +but now fell back with a low moan, shutting her eyes and turning her +face away. Even as she did so, a young man stepped back from the door of +the elegant house in which she lay with a baffled, disappointed air. He +looked pale and wretched. + +"Edith!" Two hours afterward the doctor stood over the young mother, +and called her name. She did not move nor reply. He laid his hand on her +cheek, and almost started, then bent down and looked at her intently for +a moment or two. She had fever. A serious expression came into his face, +and there was cause. + +The sweet rest and heavenly joy of maternity had been denied to his +young patient. The new-born babe had not been suffered to lie even for +one blissful moment on her bosom. Hard-hearted family pride and cruel +worldliness had robbed her of the delight with which God ever seeks to +dower young motherhood, and now the overtaxed body and brain had given +way. + +For many weeks the frail young creature struggled with +delirium--struggled and overcame. + +"Where is my baby?" + +The first thought of returning consciousness was of her baby. + +A woman who sat in a distant part of the chamber started up and crossed +to the bed. She was past middle life, of medium stature, with small, +clearly cut features and cold blue eyes. Her mouth was full, but very +firm. Self-poise was visible even in her surprised movements. She bent +over the bed and looked into Edith's wistful eyes. + +"Where is my baby, mother?" Mrs. Dinneford put her fingers lightly on +Edith's lips. + +"You must be very quiet," she said, in a low, even voice. "The doctor +forbids all excitement. You have been extremely ill." + +"Can't I see my baby, mother? It won't hurt me to see my baby." + +"Not now. The doctor--" + +Edith half arose in bed, a look of doubt and fear coming into her face. + +"I want my baby, mother," she said, interrupting her. + +A hard, resolute expression came into the cold blue eyes of Mrs. +Dinneford. She put her hand firmly against Edith and pressed her back +upon the pillow. + +"You have been very ill for nearly two months," she said, softening her +voice. "No one thought you could live. Thank God! the crisis is over, +but not the danger." + +"Two months! Oh, mother!" + +The slight flush that had come into Edith's wan face faded out, and the +pallor it had hidden for a few moments became deeper. She shut her eyes +and lay very still, but it was plain from the expression of her face +that thought was busy. + +"Not two whole months, mother?" she said, at length, in doubtful tones. +"Oh no! it cannot be." + +"It is just as I have said, Edith; and now, my dear child, as you value +your life, keep quiet; all excitement is dangerous." + +But repression was impossible. To Edith's consciousness there was no +lapse of time. It seemed scarcely an hour since the birth of her baby +and its removal from her sight. The inflowing tide of mother-love, the +pressure and yearning sweetness of which she had begun to feel when she +first called for the baby they had not permitted to rest, even for an +instant, on her bosom, was now flooding her heart. Two months! If that +were so, what of the baby? To be submissive was impossible. + +Starting up half wildly, a vague terror in her face, she cried, +piteously, + +"Oh, mother, bring me my baby. I shall die if you do not!" + +"Your baby is in heaven," said Mrs. Dinneford, softening her voice to a +tone of tender regret. + +Edith caught her breath, grew very white, and then, with a low, wailing +cry that sent a shiver through Mrs. Dinneford's heart, fell back, to all +appearance dead. + +The mother did not call for help, but sat by the bedside of her +daughter, and waited for the issue of this new struggle between life and +death. There was no visible excitement, but her mouth was closely set +and her cold blue eyes fixed in a kind of vacant stare. + +Edith was Mrs. Dinneford's only child, and she had loved her with +the strong, selfish love of a worldly and ambitious woman. In her +own marriage she had not consulted her heart. Mr. Dinneford's social +position and wealth were to her far more than his personal endowments. +She would have rejected him without a quicker pulse-beat if these had +been all he had to offer. He was disappointed, she was not. Strong, +self-asserting, yet politic, Mrs Dinneford managed her good husband +about as she pleased in all external matters, and left him to the free +enjoyment of his personal tastes, preferences and friendships. The +house they lived in, the furniture it contained, the style and equipage +assumed by the family, were all of her choice, Mr. Dinneford giving +merely a half-constrained or half-indifferent consent. He had learned, +by painful and sometimes humiliating experience, that any contest with +Mrs. Helen Dinneford upon which he might enter was sure to end in his +defeat. + +He was a man of fine moral and intellectual qualities. His wealth gave +him leisure, and his tastes, feelings and habits of thought drew +him into the society of some of the best men in the city where he +lived--best in the true meaning of that word. In all enlightened social +reform movements you would be sure of finding Mr. Howard Dinneford. He +was an active and efficient member in many boards of public charity, and +highly esteemed in them all for his enlightened philanthropy and sound +judgment. Everywhere but at home he was strong and influential; there he +was weak, submissive and of little account. He had long ago accepted +the situation, making a virtue of necessity. A different man--one of +stronger will and a more imperious spirit--would have held his own, even +though it wrought bitterness and sorrow. But Mr. Dinneford's aversion +to strife, and gentleness toward every one, held him away from conflict, +and so his home was at least tranquil. + +Mrs. Dinneford had her own way, and so long as her husband made no +strong opposition to that way all was peaceful. + +For Edith, their only child, who was more like her father than her +mother, Mr. Dinneford had the tenderest regard. The well-springs of +love, choked up so soon after his marriage, were opened freely toward +his daughter, and he lived in her a new, sweet and satisfying life. The +mother was often jealous of her husband's demonstrative tenderness for +Edith. A yearning instinct of womanhood, long repressed by worldliness +and a mean social ambition, made her crave at times the love she had +cast away, and then her cup of life was very bitter. But fear of Mr. +Dinneford's influence over Edith was stronger than any jealousy of his +love. She had high views for her daughter. In her own marriage she had +set aside all considerations but those of social rank. She had made it +a stepping-stone to a higher place in society than the one to which she +was born. Still, above them stood many millionaire families, living +in palace-homes, and through her daughter she meant to rise into one +of them. It mattered not for the personal quality of the scion of the +house; he might be as coarse and common as his father before him, or +weak, mean, selfish, and debased by sensual indulgence. This was of +little account. To lift Edith to the higher social level was the all in +all of Mrs. Dinneford's ambition. + +But Mr. Dinneford taught Edith a nobler life-lesson than this, gave her +better views of wedlock, pictured for her loving heart the bliss of a +true marriage, sighing often as he did so, but unconsciously, at the +lost fruition of his own sweet hopes. He was careful to do this only +when alone with Edith, guarding his speech when Mrs. Dinneford was +present. He had faith in true principles, and with these he sought to +guard her life. He knew that she would be pushed forward into society, +and knew but too well that one so pure and lovely in mind as well as +person would become a centre of attraction, and that he, standing on the +outside as it were, would have no power to save her from the saddest of +all fates if she were passive and her mother resolute. Her safety must +lie in herself. + +Edith was brought out early. Mrs. Dinneford could not wait. At seventeen +she was thrust into society, set up for sale to the highest bidder, her +condition nearer that of a Circassian than a Christian maiden, with her +mother as slave-dealer. + +So it was and so, it is. You may see the thing every day. But it did not +come out according to Mrs. Dinneford's programme. There was a highest +bidder; but when he came for his slave, she was not to be found. + +Well, the story is trite and brief--the old sad story. Among her suitors +was a young man named Granger, and to him Edith gave her heart. But +the mother rejected him with anger and scorn. He was not rich, though +belonging to a family of high character, and so fell far below her +requirements. Under a pressure that almost drove the girl to despair, +she gave her consent to a marriage that looked more terrible than death. +A month before the time fixed for, its consummation, she barred the +contract by a secret union with Granger. + +Edith knew her mother's character too well to hope for any +reconciliation, so far as Mr. Granger was concerned. Coming in as he had +done between her and the consummation of her highest ambition, she could +never feel toward him anything but the most bitter hatred; and so, after +remaining at home for about a week after her secret marriage, she wrote +this brief letter to her mother and went away: + +"My DEAR MOTHER: I do not love Spencer Wray, and would rather die than +marry him, and so I have made the marriage to which my heart has never +consented, an impossibility. You have left me no other alternative but +this. I am the wife of George Granger, and go to cast my lot with his. + +"Your loving daughter, + +"EDITH." + +To her father she wrote: + +"My DEAR, DEAR FATHER: If I bring sorrow to your good and loving heart +by what I have done, I know that it will be tempered with joy at my +escape from a union with one from whom my soul has ever turned with +irrepressible dislike. Oh, my father, you can understand, if mother +cannot, into what a desperate strait I have been brought. I am a deer +hunted to the edge of a dizzy chasm, and I leap for life over the dark +abyss, praying for strength to reach the farther edge. If I fail in the +wild effort, I can only meet destruction; and I would rather be bruised +to death on the jagged rocks than trust myself to the hounds and +hunters. I write passionately--you will hardly recognize your quiet +child; but the repressed instincts of my nature are strong, and peril +and despair have broken their bonds. I did not consult you about the +step I have taken, because I dared not trust you with my secret. You +would have tried to hold me back from the perilous leap, fondly hoping +for some other way of escape. I had resolved on putting an impassable +gulf between me and danger, if I died in the attempt. I have taken the +leap, and may God care for me! + +"I have laid up in my heart of hearts, dearest of fathers, the precious +life-truths that so often fell from your lips. Not a word that you ever +said about the sacredness of marriage has been forgotten. I believe +with you that it is a little less than crime to marry when no love +exists--that she who does so, sells her heart's birthright for some +mess of pottage, sinks down from the pure level of noble womanhood, and +traffics away her person, is henceforth meaner in quality if not really +vile. + +"And so, my father, to save myself from such a depth of degradation and +misery, I take my destiny into my own hands. I have grown very strong in +my convictions and purposes in the last four weeks. My sight has become +suddenly clear. I am older by many years. + +"As for George Granger, all I can now say is that I love him, and +believe him to be worthy of my love. I am willing to trust him, and am +ready to share his lot, however humble. + +"Still hold me in your heart, my precious father, as I hold you in mine. + +"EDITH." + +Mr. Dinneford read this letter twice. It took him some time, his eyes +were so full of tears. In view of her approaching marriage with Spencer +Wray, his heart had felt very heavy. It was something lighter now. Young +Granger was not the man he would have chosen for Edith, but he liked him +far better than he did the other, and felt that his child was safe now. + +He went to his wife's room, and found her with Edith's letter crushed in +her hand. She was sitting motionless, her face pale and rigid, her eyes +fixed and stony and her lips tight against her teeth. She did not seem +to notice his presence until he put his hand upon her, which he did +without speaking. At this she started up and looked at him with a kind +of fierce intentness. + +"Are you a party to this frightful things?" she demanded. + +Mr. Dinneford weakly handed her the letter he had received from Edith. +She read it through in half the time it had taken his tear-dimmed eyes +to make out the touching sentences. After she had done so, she stood for +a few moments as if surprised or baffled. Then she sat down, dropping +her head, and remained for a long time without speaking. + +"The bitter fruit, Mr. Dinneford," she said, at last, in a voice so +strange and hard that it seemed to his ears as if another had spoken. +All passion had died out of it. + +He waited, but she added nothing more. After a long silence she waved +her hand slightly, and without looking at her husband, said, + +"I would rather be alone." + +Mr. Dinneford took Edith's letter from the floor, where it had dropped +from his wife's hand, and withdrew from her presence. She arose quickly +as he did so, crossed the room and silently turned the key, locking +herself in. Then her manner changed; she moved about the room in a +half-aimless, half-conscious way, as though some purpose was beginning +to take shape in her mind. Her motions had an easy, cat-like grace, in +contrast with their immobility a little while before. Gradually her step +became quicker, while ripples of feeling began to pass over her face, +which was fast losing its pallor. Gleams of light began shooting from +her eyes, that were so dull and stony when her husband found her with +Edith's letter crushed in her grasp. Her hands opened and shut upon +themselves nervously. This went on, the excitement of her forming +purpose, whatever it was, steadily increasing, until she swept about +the room like a fury, talking to herself and gesticulating as one half +insane from the impelling force of an evil passion. + +"Baffled, but not defeated." The excitement had died out. She spoke +these words aloud, and with a bitter satisfaction in her voice, then sat +down, resting her face in her hands, and remaining for a long time in +deep thought. + +When she met her husband, an hour afterward, there was a veil over her +face, and he tried in vain to look beneath it. She was greatly changed; +her countenance had a new expression--something he had never seen there +before. For years she had been growing away from him; now she seemed +like one removed to a great distance--to have become almost stranger. He +felt half afraid of her. She did not speak of Edith, but remained cold, +silent and absorbed. + +Mrs. Dinneford gave no sign of what was in her heart for many weeks. +The feeling of distance and strangeness perceived by her husband went on +increasing, until a vague feeling of mystery and fear began to oppress +him. Several times he had spoken of Edith, but his wife made no +response, nor could he read in her veiled face the secret purposes she +was hiding from him. + +No wonder that Mr. Dinneford was greatly surprised and overjoyed, on +coming home one day, to meet his daughter, to feel her arms about his +neck, and to hold her tearful face on his bosom. + +"And I'm not going away again, father dear," she said as she kissed him +fondly. "Mother has sent for me, and George is to come. Oh, we shall be +so happy, so happy!" + +And father and daughter cried together, like two happy children, in very +excess of gladness. They had met alone, but Mrs. Dinneford came in, her +presence falling on them like a cold shadow. + +"Two great babies," she said, a covert sneer in her chilling voice. + +The joy went slowly out of their faces, though not out of their +hearts. There it nestled, and warmed the renewing blood. But a vague, +questioning fear began to creep in, a sense of insecurity, a dread of +hidden danger. The daughter did not fully trust her mother, nor the +husband his wife. + + + + +CHAPTER II. + + + +_THE_ reception of young Granger was as cordial as Mrs. Dinneford +chose to make it. She wanted to get near enough to study his character +thoroughly, to discover its weaknesses and defects, not its better +qualities, so that she might do for him the evil work that was in her +heart. She hated him with a bitter hatred, and there is nothing so +subtle and tireless and unrelenting as the hatred of a bad woman. + +She found him weak and unwary. His kindly nature, his high sense of +honor, his upright purpose, his loving devotion to Edith, were nothing +in her eyes. She spurned them in her thoughts, she trampled them under +her feet with scorn. But she studied his defects, and soon knew every +weak point in his character. She drew him out to speak of himself, +of his aims and prospects, of his friends and associates, until she +understood him altogether. Then she laid her plans for his destruction. + +Granger was holding a clerkship at the time of his marriage, but was +anxious to get a start for himself. He had some acquaintance with a +man named Lloyd Freeling, and often spoke of him in connection with +business. Freeling had a store on one of the best streets, and, as +represented by himself, a fine run of trade, but wanted more capital. +One day he said to Granger, + +"If I could find the right man with ten thousand dollars, I would take +him in. We could double this business in a year." + +Granger repeated the remark at home, Mrs. Dinneford listened, laid it up +in her thought, and on the next day called at the store of Mr. Freeling +to see what manner of man he was. + +Her first impression was favorable--she liked him. On a second visit she +likes him better. She was not aware that Freeling knew her; in this he +had something of the advantage. A third time she dropped in, asking to +see certain goods and buying a small bill, as before. This time she drew +Mr. Freeling into conversation about business, and put some questions +the meaning of which he understood quite as well as she did. + +A woman like Mrs. Dinneford can read character almost as easily as she +can read a printed page, particularly a weak or bad character. She knew +perfectly, before the close of this brief interview, that Freeling was a +man without principle, false and unscrupulous, and that if Granger were +associated with him in business, he could, if he chose, not only involve +him in transactions of a dishonest nature, but throw upon him the odium +and the consequences. + +"Do you think," she said to Granger, not long afterward, "that your +friend, Mr. Freeling, would like to have you for a partner in business?" + +The question surprised and excited him. + +"I know it," he returned; "he has said so more than once." + +"How much capital would he require?" + +"Ten thousand dollars." + +"A large sum to risk." + +"Yes; but I do not think there will be any risk. The business is well +established." + +"What do you know about Mr. Freeling?" + +"Not a great deal; but if I am any judge of character, he is fair and +honorable." + +Mrs. Dinneford turned her head that Granger might not see the expression +of her face. + +"You had better talk with Mr. Dinneford," she said. + +But Mr. Dinneford did not favor it. He had seen too many young men go +into business and fail. + +So the matter was dropped for a little while. But Mrs. Dinneford had +set her heart on the young man's destruction, and no better way of +accomplishing the work presented itself than this. He must be involved +in some way to hurt his good name, to blast his reputation and drive him +to ruin. Weak, trusting and pliable, a specious villain in whom he +had confidence might easily get him involved in transactions that were +criminal under the law. She would be willing to sacrifice twice ten +thousand dollars to accomplish this result. + +Neither Mr. Dinneford nor Edith favored the business connection with +Freeling, and said all they could against it. In weak natures we often +find great pertinacity. Granger had this quality. He had set his mind on +the copartnership, and saw in it a high road to fortune, and no argument +of Mr. Dinneford, nor opposition of Edith, had power to change his +views, or to hold him back from the arrangement favored by Mrs. +Dinneford, and made possible by the capital she almost compelled her +husband to supply. + +In due time the change from clerk to merchant was made, and the new +connection announced, under the title of "FREELING & GRANGER." + +Clear seeing as evil may be in its schemes for hurting others, it +is always blind to the consequent exactions upon itself; it strikes +fiercely and desperately, not calculating the force of a rebound. So +eager was Mrs. Dinneford to compass the ruin of Granger that she stepped +beyond the limit of common prudence, and sought private interviews +with Freeling, both before and after the completion of the partnership +arrangement. These took place in the parlor of a fashionable hotel, +where the gentleman and lady seemed to meet accidentally, and without +attracting attention. + +Mrs. Dinneford was very confidential in these interviews not concealing +her aversion to Granger. He had come into the family, she said, as an +unwelcome intruder; but now that he was there, they had to make the best +of him. Not in spoken words did Mrs. Dinneford convey to Freeling the +bitter hatred that was in her heart, nor in spoken words let him know +that she desired the young man's utter ruin, but he understood it +all before the close of their first private interview. Freeling was +exceedingly deferential in the beginning and guarded in his speech. He +knew by the quick intuitions of his nature that Mrs. Dinneford cherished +an evil purpose, and had chosen him as the agent for its accomplishment. +She was rich, and occupied a high social position, and his ready +conclusion was that, be the service what it might, he could make it pay. +To get such a woman in his power was worth an effort. + +One morning--it was a few months after the date of the +copartnership--Mrs. Dinneford received a note from Freeling. It said, +briefly, + +"At the usual place, 12 M. to-day. Important." There was no signature. + +The sharp knitting of her brows and the nervous crumpling of the note +in her hand showed that she was not pleased at the summons. She had come +already to know her partner in evil too well. At 12 M. she was in +the hotel parlor. Freeling was already there. They met in external +cordiality, but it was very evident from the manner of Mrs. Dinneford, +that she felt herself in the man's power, and had learned to be afraid +of him. + +"It will be impossible to get through to-morrow," he said, in a kind of +imperative voice, that was half a threat, "unless we have two thousand +dollars." + +"I cannot ask Mr. Dinneford for anything more," Mrs. Dinneford replied; +"we have already furnished ten thousand dollars beyond the original +investment." + +"But it is all safe enough--that is, if we do not break down just here +for lack of so small a sum." + +Mrs. Dinneford gave a start. + +"Break down!" She repeated the words in a husky, voice, with a paling +face. "What do you mean?" + +"Only that in consequence of having in store a large stock of unsalable +goods bought by your indiscreet son-in-law, who knows no more about +business than a child, we are in a temporary strait." + +"Why did you trust him to buy?" asked Mrs. Dinneford. + +"I didn't trust him. He bought without consulting me," was replied, +almost rudely. + +"Will two thousand be the end of this thing?" + +"I think so." + +"You only think so?" + +"I am sure of it." + +"Very well; I will see what can be done. But all this must have an end, +Mr. Freeling. We cannot supply any more money. You must look elsewhere +if you have further need. Mr. Dinneford is getting very much annoyed and +worried. You surely have other resources." + +"I have drawn to the utmost on all my resources," said the man, coldly. + +Mrs. Dinneford remained silent for a good while, her eyes upon the +floor. Freeling watched her face intently, trying to read what was in +her thoughts. At last she said, in a suggestive tone, + +"There are many ways of getting money known to business-men--a little +risky some of them, perhaps, but desperate cases require desperate +expedients. You understand me?" + +Freeling took a little time to consider before replying. + +"Yes," he said, at length, speaking slowly, as one careful of his words. +"But all expedients are 'risky,' as you say--some of them very risky. It +takes a long, cool head to manage them safely." + +"I don't know a longer or cooler head than yours," returned Mrs. +Dinneford, a faint smile playing about her lips. + +"Thank you for the compliment," said Freeling, his lips reflecting the +smile on hers. + +"You must think of some expedient." Mrs. Dinneford's manner grew +impressive. She spoke with emphasis and deliberation. "Beyond the sum of +two thousand dollars, which I will get for you by to-morrow, I shall not +advance a single penny. You may set that down as sure. If you are not +sharp enough and strong enough, with the advantage you possess, to hold +your own, then you must go under; as for me, I have done all that I can +or will." + +Freeling saw that she was wholly in earnest, and understood what she +meant by "desperate expedients." Granger was to be ruined, and she was +growing impatient of delay. He had no desire to hurt the young man--he +rather liked him. Up to this time he had been content with what he could +draw out of Mrs. Dinneford. There was no risk in this sort of business. +Moreover, he enjoyed his interviews and confidences with the elegant +lady, and of late the power he seemed to be gaining over her; this power +he regarded as capital laid up for another use, and at another time. + +But it was plain that he had reached the end of his present financial +policy, and must decide whether to adopt the new one suggested by Mrs. +Dinneford or make a failure, and so get rid of his partner. The question +he had to settle with himself was whether he could make more by a +failure than by using Granger a while longer, and then throwing him +overboard, disgraced and ruined. Selfish and unscrupulous as he was, +Freeling hesitated to do this. And besides, the "desperate expedients" +he would have to adopt in the new line of policy were fraught with +peril to all who took part in them. He might fall into the snare set for +another--might involve himself so deeply as not to find a way of escape. + +"To-morrow we will talk this matter over," he said in reply to Mrs. +Dinneford's last remark; "in the mean time I will examine the ground +thoroughly and see how it looks." + +"Don't hesitate to make any use you can of Granger," suggested the lady. +"He has done his part toward getting things tangled, and must help to +untangle them." + +"All right, ma'am." + +And they separated, Mrs. Dinneford reaching the street by one door of +the hotel, and Freeling by another. + +On the following day they met again, Mrs. Dinneford bringing the two +thousand dollars. + +"And now what next?" she asked, after handing over the money and taking +the receipt of "Freeling & Granger." Her eyes had a hard glitter, and +her face was almost stern in its expression. "How are you going to raise +money and keep afloat?" + +"Only some desperate expedient is left me now," answered Freeling, +though not in the tone of a man who felt himself at bay. It was said +with a wicked kind of levity. + +Mrs. Dinneford looked at him keenly. She was beginning to mistrust the +man. They gazed into each other's faces in silence for some moments, +each trying to read what was in the other's thought. At length Freeling +said, + +"There is one thing more that you will have to do, Mrs. Dinneford." + +"What?" she asked. + +"Get your husband to draw two or three notes in Mr. Granger's favor. +They should not be for less than five hundred or a thousand dollars +each. The dates must be short--not over thirty or sixty days." + +"It can't be done," was the emphatic answer. + +"It must be done," replied Freeling; "they need not be for the business. +You can manage the matter if you will; your daughter wants an India +shawl, or a set of diamonds, or a new carriage--anything you choose. Mr. +Dinneford hasn't the ready cash, but we can throw his notes into bank +and get the money; don't you see?" + +But Mrs. Dinneford didn't see. + +"I don't mean," said Freeling, "that we are to use the money. Let the +shawl, or the diamond, or the what-not, be bought and paid for. We get +the discounts for your use, not ours." + +"All very well," answered Mrs. Dinneford; "but how is that going to help +you?" + +"Leave that to me. You get the notes," said Freeling. + +"Never walk blindfold, Mr. Freeling," replied the lady, drawing herself +up, with a dignified air. "We ought to understand each other by this +time. I must see beyond the mere use of these notes." + +Freeling shut his mouth tightly and knit his heavy brows. Mrs. Dinneford +watched him, closely. + +"It's a desperate expedient," he said, at length. + +"All well as far as that is concerned; but if I am to have a hand in it, +I must know all about it," she replied, firmly. "As I said just now, I +never walk blindfold." + +Freeling leaned close to Mrs. Dinneford, and uttered a few sentences in +a low tone, speaking rapidly. The color went and came in her face, but +she sat motionless, and so continued for some time after he had ceased +speaking. + +"You will get the notes?" Freeling put the question as one who has +little doubt of the answer. + +"I will get them," replied Mrs. Dinneford. + +"When?" + +"It will take time." + +"We cannot wait long. If the thing is done at all, it must be done +quickly. 'Strike while the iron is hot' is the best of all maxims." + +"There shall be no needless delay on my part. You may trust me for +that," was answered. + +Within a week Mrs. Dinneford brought two notes, drawn by her husband +in favor of George Granger--one for five hundred and the other for one +thousand dollars. The time was short--thirty and sixty days. On this +occasion she came to the store and asked for her son-in-law. The meeting +between her and Freeling was reserved and formal. She expressed regret +for the trouble she was giving the firm in procuring a discount for her +use, and said that if she could reciprocate the favor in any way she +would be happy to do so. + +"The notes are drawn to your order," remarked Freeling as soon as the +lady had retired. Granger endorsed them, and was about handing them to +his partner, when the latter said: + +"Put our name on them while you are about it." And the young man wrote +also the endorsement of the firm. + +After this, Mr. Freeling put the bank business into Granger's hands. +Nearly all checks were drawn and all business paper endorsed by the +younger partner, who became the financier of the concern, and had the +management of all negotiations for money in and out of bank. + +One morning, shortly after the first of Mr. Dinneford's notes was paid, +Granger saw his mother-in-law come into the store. Freeling was at the +counter. They talked together for some time, and then Mrs. Dinneford +went out. + +On the next day Granger saw Mrs. Dinneford in the store again. After +she had gone away, Freeling came back, and laying a note-of-hand on his +partner's desk, said, in a pleased, confidential way. + +"Look at that, my friend." + +Granger read the face of the note with a start of surprise. It was drawn +to his order, for three thousand dollars, and bore the signature of +Howard Dinneford. + +"A thing that is worth having is worth asking for," said Freeling. +"We obliged your mother-in-law, and now she has returned the favor. It +didn't come very easily, she said, and your father-in-law isn't feeling +rather comfortable about it; so she doesn't care about your speaking of +it at home." + +Granger was confounded. + +"I can't understand it," he said. + +"You can understand that we have the note, and that it has come in the +nick of time," returned Freeling. + +"Yes, I can see all that." + +"Well, don't look a gift-horse in the mouth, but spring into the saddle +and take a ride. Your mother-in-law is a trump. If she will, she will, +you may depend on't." + +Freeling was unusually excited. Granger looked the note over and over +in a way that seemed to annoy his partner, who said, presently, with a +shade of ill-nature in his voice, + +"What's the matter? Isn't the signature all right?" + +"That's right enough," returned the young man, after looking at it +closely. "But I can't understand it." + +"You will when you see the proceeds passed to our accounted in bank--ha! +ha!" + +Granger looked up at his partner quickly, the laugh had so strange a +sound, but saw nothing new in his face. + +In about a month Freeling had in his possession another note, signed by +Mr. Dinneford and drawn to the order of George Granger. This one was for +five thousand dollars. He handed it to his partner soon after the latter +had observed Mrs. Dinneford in the store. + +A little over six weeks from this time Mrs. Dinneford was in the store +again. After she had gone away, Freeling handed Granger three more +notes drawn by Mr. Dinneford to his order, amounting in all to fifteen +thousand dollars. They were at short dates. + +Granger took these notes without any remark, and was about putting them +in his desk, when Freeling said, + +"I think you had better offer one in the People's Bank and another in +the Fourth National. They discount to-morrow." + +"Our line is full in both of these banks," replied Granger. + +"That may or may not be. Paper like this is not often thrown out. Call +on the president of the Fourth National and the cashier of the People's +Bank. Say that we particularly want the money, and would like them to +see that the notes go through. Star & Giltedge can easily place the +other." + +Granger's manner did not altogether please his partner. The notes lay +before him on his desk, and he looked at them in a kind of dazed way. + +"What's the matter?" asked Freeling, rather sharply. + +"Nothing," was the quiet answer. + +"You saw Mrs. Dinneford in the store just now. I told her last week that +I should claim another favor at her hands. She tried to beg off, but I +pushed the matter hard. It must end here, she says. Mr. Dinneford won't +go any farther." + +"I should think not," replied Granger. "I wouldn't if I were he. The +wonder to me is that he has gone so far. What about the renewal of these +notes?" + +"Oh, that is all arranged," returned Freeling, a little hurriedly. +Granger looked at him for some moments. He was not satisfied. + +"See that they go in bank," said Freeling, in a positive way. + +Granger took up his pen in an abstracted manner and endorsed the notes, +after which he laid them in his bank-book. An important customer coming +in at the moment, Freeling went forward to see him. After Granger was +left alone, he took the notes from his bank-book and examined them +with great care. Suspicion was aroused. He felt sure that something +was wrong. A good many things in Freeling's conduct of late had seemed +strange. After thinking for a while, he determined to take the notes at +once to Mr. Dinneford and ask him if all was right. As soon as his mind +had reached this conclusion he hurried through the work he had on hand, +and then putting his bank-book in his pocket, left the store. + +On that very morning Mr. Dinneford received notice that he had a note +for three thousand dollars falling due at one of the banks. He went +immediately and asked to see the note. When it was shown to him, he was +observed to become very pale, but he left the desk of the note-clerk +without any remark, and returned home. He met his wife at the door, just +coming in. + +"What's the matter?" she asked, seeing how pale he was. "Not sick, I +hope?" + +"Worse than sick," he replied as they passed into the house together. +"George has been forging my name." + +"Impossible!" exclaimed Mrs. Dinneford. + +"I wish it were," replied Mr. Dinneford, sadly; "but, alas! it is too +true. I have just returned from the Fourth National Bank. They have a +note for three thousand dollars, bearing my signature. It is drawn +to the order of George Granger, and endorsed by him. The note is a +forgery." + +Mrs. Dinneford became almost wild with excitement. Her fair face grew +purple. Her eyes shone with a fierce light. + +"Have you had him arrested?" she asked. + +"Oh no, no, no!" Mr. Dinneford answered. "For poor Edith's sake, if for +nothing else, this dreadful business must be kept secret. I will take up +the note when due, and the public need be none the wiser." + +"If," said Mrs. Dinneford, "he has forged your name once, he has, in all +probability, done it again and again. No, no; the thing can't be hushed +up, and it must not be. Is he less a thief and a robber because he is +our son-in-law? My daughter the wife of a forger! Great heavens! has it +come to this Mr. Dinneford?" she added, after a pause, and with intense +bitterness and rejection in her voice. "The die is cast! Never again, if +I can prevent it, shall that scoundrel cross our threshold. Let the law +have its course. It is a crime to conceal crime." + +"It will kill our poor child!" answered Mr. Dinneford in a broken voice. + +"Death is better than the degradation of living with a criminal," +replied his wife. "I say it solemnly, and I mean it; the die is cast! +Come what will, George Granger stands now and for ever on the outside! +Go at once and give information to the bank officers. If you do not, I +will." + +With a heavy heart Mr. Dinneford returned to the bank and informed the +president that the note in question was a forgery. He had been gone from +home a little over half an hour, when Granger, who had come to ask him +about the three notes given him that morning by Freeling, put his key in +the door, and found, a little to his surprise, that the latch was down. +He rang the bell, and in a few moments the servant appeared. Granger was +about passing in, when the man said, respectfully but firmly, as he held +the door partly closed, + +"My orders are not to let you come in." + +"Who gave you those orders?" demanded Granger, turning white. + +"Mrs. Dinneford." + +"I wish to see Mr. Dinneford, and I must see him immediately." + +"Mr. Dinneford is not at home," answered the servant. + +"Shut that door instantly!" + +It was the voice of Mrs. Dinneford, speaking from within. Granger heard +it; in the next moment the door was shut in his face. + +The young man hardly knew how he got back to the store. On his arrival +he found himself under arrest, charged with forgery, and with fresh +evidence of the crime on his person in the three notes received that +morning from his partner, who denied all knowledge of their existence, +and appeared as a witness against him at the hearing before a +magistrate. Granger was held to bail to answer the charge at the next +term of court. + +It would have been impossible to keep all this from Edith, even if there +had been a purpose to do so. Mrs. Dinneford chose to break the dreadful +news at her own time and in her own way. The shock was fearful. On the +night that followed her baby was born. + + + + +CHAPTER III. + + + +"_IT_ is a splendid boy," said the nurse as she came in with the +new-born baby in her arms, "and perfect as a bit of sculpture. Just look +at that hand." + +"Faugh!" ejaculated Mrs. Dinneford, to whom this was addressed. Her +countenance expressed disgust. She turned her head away. "Hide the thing +from my sight!" she added, angrily. "Cover it up! smother it if you +will!" + +"You are still determined?" said the nurse. + +"Determined, Mrs. Bray; I am not the woman to look back when I have once +resolved. You know me." Mrs. Dinneford said this passionately. + +The two women were silent for a little while. Mrs. Bray, the nurse, kept +her face partly turned from Mrs. Dinneford. She was a short, dry, wiry +little woman, with French features, a sallow complexion and very black +eyes. + +The doctor looked in. Mrs. Dinneford went quickly to the door, and +putting her hand on his arm, pressed him back, going out into the entry +with him and closing the door behind them. They talked for a short time +very earnestly. + +"The whole thing is wrong," said the doctor as he turned to go, "and I +will not be answerable for the consequences." + +"No one will require them at your hand, Doctor Radcliffe," replied +Mrs. Dinneford. "Do the best you can for Edith. As for the rest, know +nothing, say nothing. You understand." + +Doctor Burt Radcliffe had a large practice among rich and fashionable +people. He had learned to be very considerate of their weaknesses, +peculiarities and moral obliquities. His business was to doctor them +when sick, to humor them when they only thought themselves sick, and to +get the largest possible fees for his, services. A great deal came under +his observation that he did not care to see, and of which he saw as +little as possible. From policy he had learned to be reticent. He held +family secrets enough to make, in the hands of a skillful writer, more +than a dozen romances of the saddest and most exciting character. + +Mrs. Dinneford knew him thoroughly, and just how far to trust him. "Know +nothing, say nothing" was a good maxim in the case, and so she divulged +only the fact that the baby was to be cast adrift. His weak remonstrance +might as well not have been spoken, and he knew it. + +While this brief interview was in progress, Nurse Bray sat with the baby +on her lap. She had taken the soft little hands into her own; and evil +and cruel though she was, an impulse of tenderness flowed into her heart +from the angels who were present with the innocent child. It grew +lovely in her eyes. Its helplessness stirred in her a latent instinct of +protection. "No no, it must not be," she was saying to herself, when the +door opened and Mrs. Dinneford came back. + +Mrs. Bray did not lift her head, but sat looking down at the baby and +toying with its hands. + +"Pshaw!" ejaculated Mrs. Dinneford, in angry disgust, as she noticed +this manifestation of interest. "Bundle the thing up and throw into that +basket. Is the woman down stairs?" + +"Yes," replied Mrs. Bray as she slowly drew a light blanket over the +baby. + +"Very well. Put it in the basket, and let her take it away." + +"She is not a good woman," said the nurse, whose heart was failing her +at the last moment. + +"She may be the devil for all I care," returned Mrs. Dinneford. + +Mrs. Bray did as she was ordered, but with an evident reluctance that +irritated Mrs. Dinneford. + +"Go now and bring up the woman," she said, sharply. + +The woman was brought. She was past the prime of life, and had an evil +face. You read in it the record of bad passions indulged and the signs +of a cruel nature. She was poorly clad, and her garments unclean. + +"You will take this child?" said Mrs. Dinneford abruptly, as the woman +came into her presence. + +"I have agreed to do so," she replied, looking toward Mrs. Bray. + +"She is to have fifty dollars," said the nurse. + +"And that is to be the last of it!" Mrs. Dinneford's face was pale, and +she spoke in a hard, husky voice. + +Opening her purse, she took from it a small roll of bills, and as she +held out the money said, slowly and with a hard emphasis, + +"You understand the terms. I do not know you--not even your name. I +don't wish to know you. For this consideration you take the child away. +That is the end of it between you and me. The child is your own as much +as if he were born to you, and you can do with him as you please. And +now go." Mrs. Dinneford waved her hand. + +"His name?" queried the woman. + +"He has no name!" Mrs. Dinneford stamped her foot in angry impatience. + +The woman stooped down, and taking up the basket, tucked the covering +that had been laid over the baby close about its head, so that no one +could see what she carried, and went off without uttering another word. + +It was some moments before either Mrs. Dinneford or the nurse spoke. +Mrs. Bray was first to break silence. + +"All this means a great deal more than you have counted on," she said, +in a voice that betrayed some little feeling. "To throw a tender baby +out like that is a hard thing. I am afraid--" + +"There, there! no more of that," returned Mrs. Dinneford, impatiently. +"It's ugly work, I own, but it had to be done--like cutting off a +diseased limb. He will die, of course, and the sooner it is over, the +better for him and every one else." + +"He will have a hard struggle for life, poor little thing!" said the +nurse. "I would rather see him dead." + +Mrs. Dinneford, now that this wicked and cruel deed was done, felt ill +at ease. She pushed the subject away, and tried to bury it out of sight +as we bury the dead, but did not find the task an easy one. + +What followed the birth and removal of Edith's baby up to the time of +her return to reason after long struggle for life, has already been +told. Her demand to have her baby--"Oh, mother, bring me my baby! +I shall die if you do not!" and the answer, "Your baby is in +heaven!"--sent the feeble life-currents back again upon her heart. There +was another long period of oblivion, out of which she came very slowly, +her mind almost as much a blank as the mind of a child. + +She had to learn again the names of things, and to be taught their use. +It was touching to see the untiring devotion of her father, and the +pleasure he took in every new evidence of mental growth. He went +over the alphabet with her, letter by letter, many times each day, +encouraging her and holding her thought down to the unintelligible signs +with a patient tenderness sad yet beautiful to see; and when she began +to combine letters into words, and at last to put words together, his +delight was unbounded. + +Very slowly went on the new process of mental growth, and it was months +before thought began to reach out beyond the little world that lay just +around her. + +Meanwhile, Edith's husband had been brought to trial for forgery, +convicted and sentenced to the State's prison for a term of years. His +partner came forward as the chief witness, swearing that he had believed +the notes genuine, the firm having several times had the use of Mr. +Dinneford's paper, drawn to the order of Granger. + +Ere the day of trial came the poor young man was nearly broken-hearted. +Public disgrace like this, added to the terrible private wrongs he was +suffering, was more than he had the moral strength to bear. Utterly +repudiated by his wife's family, and not even permitted to see Edith, he +only knew that she was very ill. Of the birth of his baby he had but +a vague intimation. A rumor was abroad that it had died, but he could +learn nothing certain. In his distress and uncertainty he called on Dr. +Radcliffe, who replied to his questions with a cold evasion. "It was +put out to nurse," said the doctor, "and that is all I know about it." +Beyond this he would say nothing. + +Granger was not taken to the State's prison after his sentence, but +to an insane asylum. Reason gave way under the terrible ordeal through +which he had been made to pass. + +"Mother," said Edith, one day, in a tone that caused Mrs. Dinneford's +heart to leap. She was reading a child's simple story-book, and looked +up as she spoke. Her eyes were wide open and full of questions. + +"What, my dear?" asked Mrs. Dinneford, repressing her feelings and +trying to keep her voice calm. + +"There's something I can't understand, mother." She looked down at +herself, then about the room. Her manner was becoming nervous. + +"What can't you understand?" + +Edith shut her hands over her eyes and remained very still. When +she removed them, and her mother looked into her face the childlike +sweetness and content were all gone, and a conscious woman was before +her. The transformation was as sudden as it was marvelous. + +Both remained silent for the space of nearly a minute. Mrs. Dinneford +knew not what to say, and waited for some sign from her daughter. + +"Where is my baby, mother?" Edith said this in a low, tremulous whisper, +leaning forward as she spoke, repressed and eager. + +"Have you forgotten?" asked Mrs. Dinneford, with regained composure. + +"Forgotten what?" + +"You were very ill after your baby was born; no one thought you could +live; you were ill for a long time. And the baby--" + +"What of the baby, mother?" asked Edith, beginning to tremble violently. +Her mother, perceiving her agitation, held back the word that was on her +lips. + +"What of the baby, mother?" Edith repeated the question. + +"It died," said Mrs. Dinneford, turning partly away. She could not look +at her child and utter this cruel falsehood. + +"Dead! Oh, mother, don't say that! The baby can't be dead!" + +A swift flash of suspicion came into her eyes. + +"I have said it, my child," was the almost stern response of Mrs. +Dinneford. "The baby is dead." + +A weight seemed to fall on Edith. She bent forward, crouching down until +her elbows rested on her knees and her hands supported her head. Thus +she sat, rocking her body with a slight motion. Mrs. Dinneford watched +her without speaking. + +"And what of George?" asked Edith, checking her nervous movement at +last. + +Her mother did not reply. Edith waited a moment, and then lifted herself +erect. + +"What of George?" she demanded. + +"My poor child!" exclaimed Mrs. Dinneford, with a gush of genuine pity, +putting her arms about Edith and drawing her head against her bosom. "It +is more than you have strength to bear." + +"You must tell me," the daughter said, disengaging herself. "I have +asked for my husband." + +"Hush! You must not utter that word again;" and Mrs. Dinneford put her +fingers on Edith's lips. "The wretched man you once called by that name +is a disgraced criminal. It is better that you know the worst." + +When Mr. Dinneford came home, instead of the quiet, happy child he +had left in the morning, he found a sad, almost broken-hearted woman, +refusing to be comforted. The wonder was that under the shock of this +terrible awakening, reason had not been again and hopelessly dethroned. + +After a period of intense suffering, pain seemed to deaden sensibility. +She grew calm and passive. And now Mrs. Dinneford set herself to the +completion of the work she had begun. She had compassed the ruin of +Granger in order to make a divorce possible; she had cast the baby +adrift that no sign of the social disgrace might remain as an impediment +to her first ambition. She would yet see her daughter in the position +to which she had from the beginning resolved to lift her, cost what it +might. But the task was not to be an easy one. + +After a period of intense suffering, as we have said, Edith grew calm +and passive. But she was never at ease with her mother, and seemed to +be afraid of her. To her father she was tender and confiding. Mrs. +Dinneford soon saw that if Edith's consent to a divorce from her husband +was to be obtained, it must come through her father's influence; for +if she but hinted at the subject, it was met with a flash of almost +indignant rejection. So her first work was to bring her husband over to +her side. This was not difficult, for Mr. Dinneford felt the disgrace +of having for a son-in-law a condemned criminal, who was only saved from +the State's prison by insanity. An insane criminal was not worthy to +hold the relation of husband to his pure and lovely child. + +After a feeble opposition to her father's arguments and persuasions, +Edith yielded her consent. An application for a divorce was made, and +speedily granted. + + + + +CHAPTER IV. + + + +_OUT_ of this furnace Edith came with a new and purer spirit. She had +been thrust in a shrinking and frightened girl; she came out a woman in +mental stature, in feeling and self-consciousness. + +The river of her life, which had cut for itself a deeper channel, lay +now so far down that it was out of the sight of common observation. Even +her mother failed to apprehend its drift and strength. Her father knew +her better. To her mother she was reserved and distant; to her father, +warm and confiding. With the former she would sit for hours without +speaking unless addressed; with the latter she was pleased and social, +and grew to be interested in what interested him. As mentioned, Mr. +Dinneford was a man of wealth and leisure, and active in many public +charities. He had come to be much concerned for the neglected and +cast-off children of poor and vicious parents, thousands upon thousands +of whom were going to hopeless ruin, unthought of and uncared for by +Church or State, and their condition often formed the subject of his +conversation as well at home as elsewhere. + +Mrs. Dinneford had no sympathy with her husband in this direction. A +dirty, vicious child was an offence to her, not an object of pity, and +she felt more like, spurning it with her foot than touching it with +her hand. But it was not so with Edith; she listened to her father, and +became deeply interested in the poor, suffering, neglected little ones +whose sad condition he could so vividly portray, for the public duties +of charity to which he was giving a large part of his time made him +familiar with much that was sad and terrible in human suffering and +degradation. + +One day Edith said to her father, + +"I saw a sight this morning that made me sick. It has haunted me ever +since. Oh, it was dreadful!" + +"What was it?" asked Mr. Dinneford. + +"A sick baby in the arms of a half-drunken woman. It made me shiver to +look at its poor little face, wasted by hunger and sickness and purple +with cold. The woman sat at the street corner begging, and the people +went by, no one seeming to care for the helpless, starving baby in her +arms. I saw a police-officer almost touch the woman as he passed. Why +did he not arrest her?" + +"That was not his business," replied Mr. Dinneford. "So long as she did +not disturb the peace, the officer had nothing to do with her." + +"Who, then, has?" + +"Nobody." + +"Why, father!" exclaimed Edith. "Nobody?" + +"The woman was engaged in business. She was a beggar, and the sick, +half-starved baby was her capital in trade," replied Mr. Dinneford. +"That policeman had no more authority to arrest her than he had to +arrest the organ-man or the peanut-vender." + +"But somebody should see after a poor baby like that. Is there no law to +meet such cases?" + +"The poor baby has no vote," replied Mr. Dinneford, "and law-makers +don't concern themselves much about that sort of constituency; and even +if they did, the executors of law would be found indifferent. They are +much more careful to protect those whose business it is to make drunken +beggars like the one you saw, who, if men, can vote and give them place +and power. The poor baby is far beneath their consideration." + +"But not of Him," said Edith, with eyes full of tears, "who took little +children in his arms and blessed them, and said, Suffer them to come +unto me and forbid them not, for of such is the kingdom of heaven." + +"Our law-makers are not, I fear, of his kingdom," answered Mr. +Dinneford, gravely, "but of the kingdom of this world." + +A little while after, Edith, who had remained silent and thoughtful, +said, with a tremor in her voice, + +"Father, did you see my baby?" + +Mr. Dinneford started at so unexpected a question, surprised and +disturbed. He did not reply, and Edith put the question again. + +"No, my dear," he answered, with a hesitation of manner that was almost +painful. + +After looking into his face steadily for some moments, Edith dropped her +eyes to the floor, and there was a constrained silence between them for +a good while. + +"You never saw it?" she queried, again lifting her eyes to her father's +face. Her own was much paler than when she first put the question. + +"Never." + +"Why?" asked Edith. + +She waited for a little while, and then said, + +"Why don't you answer me, father?" + +"It was never brought to me." + +"Oh, father!" + +"You were very ill, and a nurse was procured immediately." + +"I was not too sick to see my baby," said Edith, with white, quivering +lips. "If they had laid it in my bosom as soon as it was born, I would +never have been so ill, and the baby would not have died. If--if--" + +She held back what she was about saying, shutting her lips tightly. Her +face remained very pale and strangely agitated. Nothing more was then +said. + +A day or two afterward, Edith asked her mother, with an abruptness that +sent the color to her face, "Where was my baby buried?" + +"In our lot at Fairview," was replied, after a moment's pause. + +Edith said no more, but on that very day, regardless of a heavy rain +that was falling, went out to the cemetery alone and searched in the +family lot for the little mound that covered her baby--searched, but did +not find it. She came back so changed in appearance that when her mother +saw her she exclaimed, + +"Why, Edith! Are you sick?" + +"I have been looking for my baby's grave and cannot find it," she +answered. "There is something wrong, mother. What was done with my baby? +I must know." And she caught her mother's wrists with both of her hands +in a tight grip, and sent searching glances down through her eyes. + +"Your baby is dead," returned Mrs. Dinneford, speaking slowly and with +a hard deliberation. "As for its grave--well, if you will drag up the +miserable past, know that in my anger at your wretched _mesalliance_ I +rejected even the dead body of your miserable husband's child, and would +not even suffer it to lie in our family ground. You know how bitterly I +was disappointed, and I am not one of the kind that forgets or forgives +easily. I may have been wrong, but it is too late now, and the past may +as well be covered out of sight." + +"Where, then, was my baby buried?" asked Edith, with a calm resolution +of manner that was not to be denied. + +"I do not know. I did not care at the time, and never asked." + +"Who can tell me?" + +"I don't know." + +"Who took my baby to nurse?" + +"I have forgotten the woman's name. All I know is that she is dead. When +the child died, I sent her money, and told her to bury it decently." + +"Where did she live?" + +"I never knew precisely. Somewhere down town." + +"Who brought her here? who recommended her?" said Edith, pushing her +inquiries rapidly. + +"I have forgotten that also," replied Mrs. Dinneford, maintaining her +coldness of manner. + +"My nurse, I presume," said Edith. "I have a faint recollection of +her--a dark little woman with black eyes whom I had never seen before. +What was her name?" + +"Bodine," answered Mrs. Dinneford, without a moment's hesitation. + +"Where does she live?" + +"She went to Havana with a Cuban lady several months ago." + +"Do you know the lady's name?" + +"It was Casteline, I think." + +Edith questioned no further. The mother and daughter were still sitting +together, both deeply absorbed in thought, when a servant opened the +door and said to Mrs. Dinneford, + +"A lady wishes to see you." + +"Didn't she give you her card?" + +"No ma'am." + +"Nor send up her name?" + +"No, ma'am." + +"Go down and ask her name." + +The servant left the room. On returning, she said, + +"Her name is Mrs. Bray." + +Mrs. Dinneford turned her face quickly, but not in time to prevent Edith +from seeing by its expression that she knew her visitor, and that her +call was felt to be an unwelcome one. She went from the room without +speaking. On entering the parlor, Mrs. Dinneford said, in a low, hurried +voice, + +"I don't want you to come here, Mrs. Bray. If you wish to see me send me +word, and I will call on you, but you must on no account come here." + +"Why? Is anything wrong?" + +"Yes." + +"What?" + +"Edith isn't satisfied about the baby, has been out to Fairview looking +for its grave, wants to know who her nurse was." + +"What did you tell her?" + +"I said that your name was Mrs. Bodine, and that you had gone to Cuba." + +"Do you think she would know me?" + +"Can't tell; wouldn't like to run the risk of her seeing you here. Pull +down your veil. There! close. She said, a little while ago, that she had +a faint recollection of you as a dark little woman with black eyes whom +she had never seen before." + +"Indeed!" and Mrs. Bray gathered her veil close about her face. + +"The baby isn't living?" Mrs. Dinneford asked the question in a whisper. + +"Yes." + +"Oh, it can't be! Are you sure?" + +"Yes; I saw it day before yesterday." + +"You did! Where?" + +"On the street, in the arms of a beggar-woman." + +"You are deceiving me!" Mrs. Dinneford spoke with a throb of anger in +her voice. + +"As I live, no! Poor little thing! half starved and half frozen. It +'most made me sick." + +"It's impossible! You could not know that it was Edith's baby." + +"I do know," replied Mrs. Bray, in a voice that left no doubt on Mrs. +Dinneford's mind. + +"Was the woman the same to whom we gave the baby?" + +"No; she got rid of it in less than a month." + +"What did she do with it?" + +"Sold it for five dollars, after she had spent all the money she +received from you in drink and lottery-policies." + +"Sold it for five dollars!" + +"Yes, to two beggar-women, who use it every day, one in the morning and +the other in the afternoon, and get drunk on the money they receive, +lying all night in some miserable den." + +Mrs. Dinneford gave a little shiver. + +"What becomes of the baby when they are not using it?" she asked. + +"They pay a woman a dollar a week to take care of it at night." + +"Do you know where this woman lives?" + +"Yes." + +"Were you ever there?" + +"Yes." + +"What kind of a place is it?" + +"Worse than a dog-kennel." + +"What does all this mean?" demanded Mrs. Dinneford, with repressed +excitement. "Why have you so kept on the track of this baby, when you +knew I wished it lost sight of?" + +"I had my own reasons," replied Mrs. Bray. "One doesn't know what may +come of an affair like this, and it's safe to keep well up with it." + +Mrs. Dinneford bit her lips till the blood almost came through. A faint +rustle of garments in the hall caused her to start. An expression of +alarm crossed her face. + +"Go now," she said, hurriedly, to her visitor; "I will call and see you +this afternoon." + +Mrs. Bray quietly arose, saying, as she did so, "I shall expect you," +and went away. + +There was a menace in her tone as she said, "I shall expect you," that +did not escape the ears of Mrs. Dinneford. + +Edith was in the hall, at some distance from the parlor door. Mrs. Bray +had to pass her as she went out. Edith looked at her intently. + +"Who is that woman?" she asked, confronting her mother, after the +visitor was gone. + +"If you ask the question in a proper manner, I shall have no objection +to answer," said Mrs. Dinneford, with a dignified and slightly offended +air; "but my daughter is assuming rather, too much." + +"Mrs. Bray, the servant said." + +"No, Mrs. Gray." + +"I understood her to say Mrs. Bray." + +"I can't help what you understood." The mother spoke with some asperity +of manner. "She calls herself Gray, but you can have it anything you +please; it won't change her identity." + +"What did she want?" + +"To see me." + +"I know." Edith was turning away with an expression on her face that +Mrs. Dinneford did not like, so she said, + +"She is in trouble, and wants me to help her, if you must know. She +used to be a dressmaker, and worked for me before you were born; she got +married, and then her troubles began. Now she is a widow with a house +full of little children, and not half bread enough to feed them. I've +helped her a number of times already, but I'm getting tired of it; she +must look somewhere else, and I told her so." + +Edith turned from her mother with an unsatisfied manner, and went up +stairs. Mrs. Dinneford was surprised, not long afterward, to meet her at +her chamber door, dressed to go out. This was something unusual. + +"Where are you going?" she asked, not concealing her surprise. + +"I have a little errand out," Edith replied. + +This was not satisfactory to her mother. She asked other questions, but +Edith gave only evasive answers. + +On leaving the house, Edith walked quickly, like one in earnest about +something; her veil was closely drawn. Only a few blocks from where she +lived was the office of Dr. Radcliffe. Hither she directed her steps. + +"Why, Edith, child!" exclaimed the doctor, not concealing the surprise +he felt at seeing her. "Nobody sick, I hope?" + +"No one," she answered. + +There was a momentary pause; then Edith said, abruptly, + +"Doctor, what became of my baby?" + +"It died," answered Doctor Radcliffe, but not without betraying some +confusion. The question had fallen upon him too suddenly. + +"Did you see it after it was dead?" She spoke in a firm voice, looking +him steadily in the face. + +"No," he replied, after a slight hesitation. + +"Then how do you know that it died?" Edith asked. + +"I had your mother's word for it," said the doctor. + +"What was done with my baby after it was born?" + +"It was given out to nurse." + +"With your consent?" + +"I did not advise it. Your mother had her own views in the case. It was +something over which I had no control." + +"And you never saw it after it was taken away?" + +"Never." + +"And do not really know whether it be dead or living?" + +"Oh, it's dead, of course, my child. There is no doubt of that," said +the doctor, with sudden earnestness of manner. + +"Have you any evidence of the fact?" + +"My dear, dear child," answered the doctor, with much feeling, "it is +all wrong. Why go back over this unhappy ground? why torture yourself +for nothing? Your baby died long ago, and is in heaven." + +"Would God I could believe it!" she exclaimed, in strong agitation. "If +it were so, why is not the evidence set before me? I question my mother; +I ask for the nurse who was with me when my baby was born, and for the +nurse to whom it was given afterward, and am told that they are dead or +out of the country. I ask for my baby's grave, but it cannot be found. +I have searched for it where my mother told me it was, but the grave +is not there. Why all this hiding and mystery? Doctor, you said that my +baby was in heaven, and I answered, 'Would God it were so!' for I saw a +baby in hell not long ago!" + +The doctor was scared. He feared that Edith was losing her mind, she +looked and spoke so wildly. + +"A puny, half-starved, half-frozen little thing, in the arms of a +drunken beggar," she added. "And, doctor, an awful thought has haunted +me ever since." + +"Hush, hush!" said the doctor, who saw what was in her mind. "You must +not indulge such morbid fancies." + +"It is that I may not indulge them that I have come to you. I want +certainty, Dr. Radcliffe. Somebody knows all about my baby. Who was my +nurse?" + +"I never saw her before the night of your baby's birth, and have never +seen her since. Your mother procured her." + +"Did you hear her name?" + +"No." + +"And so you cannot help me at all?" said Edith, in a disappointed voice. + +"I cannot, my poor child," answered the doctor. + +All the flush and excitement died out of Edith's face. When she arose to +go, she was pale and haggard, like one exhausted by pain, and her steps +uneven, like the steps of an invalid walking for the first time. Dr. +Radcliffe went with her in silence to the door. + +"Oh, doctor," said Edith, in a choking voice, as she lingered a moment +on the steps, "can't you bring out of this frightful mystery something +for my heart to rest upon? I want the truth. Oh, doctor, in pity help me +to find the truth!" + +"I am powerless to help you," the doctor replied. "Your only hope lies +in your mother. She knows all about it; I do not." + +And he turned and left her standing at the door. Slowly she descended +the steps, drawing her veil as she did so about her face, and walked +away more like one in a dream than conscious of the tide of life setting +so strongly all about her. + + + + +CHAPTER V. + + + +_MEANTIME_, obeying the unwelcome summons, Mrs. Dinneford had gone to +see Mrs. Bray. She found her in a small third-story room in the lower +part of the city, over a mile away from her own residence. The meeting +between the two women was not over-gracious, but in keeping with their +relations to each other. Mrs. Dinneford was half angry and impatient; +Mrs. Bray cool and self-possessed. + +"And now what is it you have to say?" asked the former, almost as soon +as she had entered. + +"The woman to whom you gave that baby was here yesterday." + +A frightened expression came into Mrs. Dinneford's face. Mrs. Bray +watched her keenly as, with lips slightly apart, she waited for what +more was to come. + +"Unfortunately, she met me just as I was at my own door, and so found +out my residence," continued Mrs. Bray. "I was in hopes I should never +see her again. We shall have trouble, I'm afraid." + +"In what way?" + +"A bad woman who has you in her power can trouble you in many ways," +answered Mrs. Bray. + +"She did not know my name--you assured me of that. It was one of the +stipulations." + +"She does know, and your daughter's name also. And she knows where the +baby is. She's deeper than I supposed. It's never safe to trust such +people; they have no honor." + +Fear sent all the color out of Mrs. Dinneford's face. + +"What does she want?" + +"Money." + +"She was paid liberally." + +"That has nothing to do with it. These people have no honor, as I said; +they will get all they can." + +"How much does she want?" + +"A hundred dollars; and it won't end there, I'm thinking. If she is +refused, she will go to your house; she gave me that alternative--would +have gone yesterday, if good luck had not thrown her in my way. I +promised to call on you and see what could be done." + +Mrs. Dinneford actually groaned in her fear and distress. + +"Would you like to see her yourself?" coolly asked Mrs. Bray. + +"Oh dear! no, no!" and the lady put up her hands in dismay. + +"It might be best," said her wily companion. + +"No, no, no! I will have nothing to do with her! You must keep her away +from me," replied Mrs. Dinneford, with increasing agitation. + +"I cannot keep her away without satisfying her demands. If you were to +see her yourself, you would know just what her demands were. If you do +not see her, you will only have my word for it, and I am left open +to misapprehension, if not worse. I don't like to be placed in such a +position." + +And Mrs. Bray put on a dignified, half-injured manner. + +"It's a wretched business in every way," she added, "and I'm sorry that +I ever had anything to do with it. It's something dreadful, as I told +you at the time, to cast a helpless baby adrift in such a way. Poor +little soul! I shall never feel right about it." + +"That's neither here nor there;" and Mrs. Dinneford waved her hand +impatiently. "The thing now in hand is to deal with this woman." + +"Yes, that's it--and as I said just now, I would rather have you deal +with her yourself; you may be able to do it better than I can." + +"It's no use to talk, Mrs. Bray. I will not see the woman." + +"Very well; you must be your own judge in the case." + +"Can't you bind her up to something, or get her out of the city? I'd +pay almost anything to have her a thousand miles away. See if you can't +induce her to go to New Orleans. I'll pay her passage, and give her a +hundred dollars besides, if she'll go." + +Mrs. Bray smiled a faint, sinister smile: + +"If you could get her off there, it would be the end of her. She'd never +stand the fever." + +"Then get her off, cost what it may," said Mrs. Dinneford. + +"She will be here in less than half an hour." Mrs. Bray looked at the +face of a small cheap clock that stood on the mantel. + +"She will?" Mrs. Dinneford became uneasy, and arose from her chair. + +"Yes; what shall I say to her?" + +"Manage her the best you can. Here are thirty dollars--all the money I +have with me. Give her that, and promise more if necessary. I will see +you again." + +"When?" asked Mrs. Bray. + +"At any time you desire." + +"Then you had better come to-morrow morning. I shall not go out." + +"I will be here at eleven o'clock. Induce her if possible to leave the +city--to go South, so that she may never come back." + +"The best I can shall be done," replied Mrs. Bray as she folded the +bank-bills she had received from Mrs. Dinneford in a fond, tender sort +of way and put them into her pocket. + +Mrs. Dinneford retired, saying as she did so, + +"I will be here in the morning." + +An instant change came over the shallow face of the wiry little woman as +the form of Mrs. Dinneford vanished through the door. A veil seemed to +fall away from it. All its virtuous sobriety was gone, and a smile of +evil satisfaction curved about her lips and danced in her keen black +eyes. She stood still, listening to the retiring steps of her visitor, +until she heard the street door shut. Then, with a quick, cat-like step, +she crossed to the opposite side of the room, and pushed open a door +that led to an adjoining chamber. A woman came forward to meet her. This +woman was taller and stouter than Mrs. Bray, and had a soft, sensual +face, but a resolute mouth, the under jaw slightly protruding. Her eyes +were small and close together, and had that peculiar wily and alert +expression you sometimes see, making you think of a serpent's eyes. She +was dressed in common finery and adorned by cheap jewelry. + +"What do you think of that, Pinky Swett?" exclaimed Mrs. Bray, in a +voice of exultation. "Got her all right, haven't I?" + +"Well, you have!" answered the woman, shaking all over with unrestrained +laughter. "The fattest pigeon I've happened to see for a month of +Sundays. Is she very rich?" + +"Her husband is, and that's all the same. And now, Pinky"--Mrs. Bray +assumed a mock gravity of tone and manner--"you know your fate--New +Orleans and the yellow fever. You must pack right off. Passage free and +a hundred dollars for funeral expenses. Nice wet graves down there--keep +off the fire;" and she gave a low chuckle. + +"Oh yes; all settled. When does the next steamer sail?" and Pinky almost +screamed with merriment. She had been drinking. + +"H-u-s-h! h-u-s-h! None of that here, Pinky. The people down stairs are +good Methodists, and think me a saint." + +"You a saint? Oh dear!" and she shook with repressed enjoyment. + +After this the two women grew serious, and put their heads together for +business. + +"Who is this woman, Fan? What's her name, and where does she live?" +asked Pinky Swett. + +"That's my secret, Pinky," replied Mrs. Bray, "and I can't let it go; it +wouldn't be safe. You get a little off the handle sometimes, and don't +know what you say--might let the cat out of the bag. Sally Long took the +baby away, and she died two months ago; so I'm the only one now in +the secret. All I want of you is to keep track of the baby. Here is a +five-dollar bill; I can't trust you with more at a time. I know your +weakness, Pinky;" and she touched her under the chin in a familiar, +patronizing way. + +Pinky wasn't satisfied with this, and growled a little, just showing her +teeth like an unquiet dog. + +"Give me ten," she said; "the woman gave you thirty. I heard her say so. +And she's going to bring you seventy to-morrow." + +"You'll only waste it, Pinky," remonstrated Mrs. Bray. "It will all be +gone before morning." + +"Fan," said the woman, leaning toward Mrs. Bray and speaking in a low, +confidential tone, "I dreamed of a cow last night, and that's good +luck, you know. Tom Oaks made a splendid hit last Saturday--drew twenty +dollars--and Sue Minty got ten. They're all buzzing about it down in our +street, and going to Sam McFaddon's office in a stream." + +"Do they have good luck at Sam McFaddon's?" asked Mrs. Bray, with +considerable interest in her manner. + +"It's the luckiest place that I know. Never dreamed of a cow or a hen +that I didn't make a hit, and I dreamed of a cow last night. She was +giving such a splendid pail of milk, full to the brim, just as old Spot +and Brindle used to give. You remember our Spot and Brindle, Fan?" + +"Oh yes." There was a falling inflection in Mrs. Bray's voice, as if +the reference had sent her thoughts away back to other and more innocent +days. + +The two women sat silent for some moments after that; and when Pinky +spoke, which she did first, it was in lower and softer tones: + +"I don't like to think much about them old times, Fan; do you? I might +have done better. But it's no use grizzling about it now. What's done's +done, and can't be helped. Water doesn't run up hill again after it's +once run down. I've got going, and can't stop, you see. There's nothing +to catch at that won't break as soon as you touch it. So I mean to be +jolly as I move along." + +"Laughing is better than crying at any time," returned Mrs. Bray; "here +are five more;" and she handed Pinky Swett another bank-bill. "I'm going +to try my luck. Put half a dollar on ten different rows, and we'll go +shares on what is drawn. I dreamed the other night that I saw a flock of +sheep, and that's good luck, isn't it?" + +Pinky thrust her hand into her pocket and drew out a worn and soiled +dream-book. + +"A flock of sheep; let me see;" and she commenced turning over the +leaves. "Sheep; here it is: 'To see them is a sign of sorrow--11, 20, +40, 48. To be surrounded by many sheep denotes good luck--2, 11, 55.' +That's your row; put down 2, 11, 55. We'll try that. Next put down 41 +11, 44--that's the lucky row when you dream of a cow." + +As Pinky leaned toward her friend she dropped her parasol. + +"That's for luck, maybe," she said, with a brightening face. "Let's see +what it says about a parasol;" and she turned over her dream-book. + +"For a maiden to dream she loses her parasol shows that her sweetheart +is false and will never marry her--5, 51, 56." + +"But you didn't dream about a parasol, Pinky." + +"That's no matter; it's just as good as a dream. 5, 51, 56 is the row. +Put that down for the second, Fan." + +As Mrs. Bray was writing out these numbers the clock on the mantel +struck five. + +"8, 12, 60," said Pinky, turning to the clock; "that's the clock row." + +And Mrs. Bray put down these figures also. + +"That's three rows," said Pinky, "and we want ten." She arose, as she +spoke, and going to the front window, looked down upon the street. + +"There's an organ-grinder; it's the first thing I saw;" and she came +back fingering the leaves of her dream-book. "Put down 40, 50, 26." + +Mrs. Bray wrote the numbers on her slip of paper. + +"It's November; let's find the November row." Pinky consulted her book +again. "Signifies you will have trouble through life--7, 9, 63. That's +true as preaching; I was born in November, and I've had it all trouble. +How many rows does that make?" + +"Five." + +"Then we will cut cards for the rest;" and Pinky drew a soiled pack from +her pocket, shuffled the cards and let her friends cut them. + +"Ten of diamonds;" she referred to the dream-book. "10, 13, 31; put that +down." + +The cards were shuffled and cut again. + +"Six of clubs--6, 35, 39." + +Again they were cut and shuffled. This time the knave of clubs was +turned up. + +"That's 17, 19, 28," said Pinky, reading from her book. + +The next cut gave the ace of clubs, and the policy numbers were 18, 63, +75. + +"Once more, and the ten rows will be full;" and the cards were cut +again. + +"Five of hearts--5, 12, 60;" and the ten rows were complete. + +"There's luck there, Fan; sure to make a hit," said Pinky, with almost +childish confidence, as she gazed at the ten rows of figures. "One +of 'em can't help coming out right, and that would be fifty +dollars--twenty-five for me and twenty-five for you; two rows would give +a hundred dollars, and the whole ten a thousand. Think of that, Fan! +five hundred dollars apiece." + +"It would break Sam McFaddon, I'm afraid," remarked Mrs. Bray. + +"Sam's got nothing to do with it," returned Pinky. + +"He hasn't?" + +"No." + +"Who has, then?" + +"His backer." + +"What's that?" + +"Oh, I found it all out--I know how it's done. Sam's got a backer--a man +that puts up the money. Sam only sells for his backer. When there's a +hit, the backer pays." + +"Who's Sam's backer, as you call him?" + +"Couldn't get him to tell; tried him hard, but he was close as an +oyster. Drives in the Park and wears a two thousand dollar diamond pin; +he let that out. So he's good for the hits. Sam always puts the money +down, fair and square." + +"Very well; you get the policy, and do it right off, Pinky, or the +money'll slip through your fingers." + +"All right," answered Pinky as she folded the slip of paper containing +the lucky rows. "Never you fear. I'll be at Sam McFaddon's in ten +minutes after I leave here." + +"And be sure," said Mrs. Bray, "to look after the baby to-night, and see +that it doesn't perish with cold; the air's getting sharp." + +"It ought to have something warmer than cotton rags on its poor little +body," returned Pinky. "Can't you get it some flannel? It will die if +you don't." + +"I sent it a warm petticoat last week," said Mrs. Bray. + +"You did?" + +"Yes; I bought one at a Jew shop, and had it sent to the woman." + +"Was it a nice warm one?" + +"Yes." + +Pinky drew a sigh. "I saw the poor baby last night; hadn't anything on +but dirty cotton rags. It was lying asleep in a cold cellar on a little +heap of straw. The woman had given it something, I guess, by the way +it slept. The petticoat had gone, most likely, to Sam McFaddon's. She +spends everything she can lay her hands on in policies and whisky." + +"She's paid a dollar a week for taking care of the baby at night and on +Sundays," said Mrs. Bray. + +"It wouldn't help the baby any if she got ten dollars," returned Pinky. +"It ought to be taken away from her." + +"But who's to do that? Sally Long sold it to the two beggar women, and +they board it out. I have no right to interfere; they own the baby, and +can do as they please with it." + +"It could be got to the almshouse," said Pinky; "it would be a thousand +times better off." + +"It mustn't go to the almshouse," replied Mrs. Bray; "I might lose track +of it, and that would never do." + +"You'll lose track of it for good and all before long, if you don't get +it out of them women's bands. No baby can hold out being begged with +long; it's too hard on the little things. For you know how it is, Fan; +they must keep 'em half starved and as sick as they will bear without +dying right off, so as to make 'em look pitiful. You can't do much at +begging with a fat, hearty-looking baby." + +"What's to be done about it?" asked Mrs. Bray. "I don't want that baby +to die." + +"Would its mother know it if she saw it?" asked Pinky. + +"No; for she never set eyes on it." + +"Then, if it dies, get another baby, and keep track of that. You can +steal one from a drunken mother any night in the week. I'll do it for +you. One baby is as good as another." + +"It will be safer to have the real one," replied Mrs. Bray. "And now, +Pinky that you have put this thing into my head, I guess I'll commission +you to get the baby away from that woman." + +"All right!" + +"But what are we to do with it? I can't have it here." + +"Of course you can't. But that's easily managed, if your're willing to +pay for it." + +"Pay for it?" + +"Yes; if it isn't begged with, and made to pay its way and earn +something into the bargain, it's got to be a dead weight on somebody. So +you see how it is, Fan. Now, if you'll take a fool's advice, you'll +let 'it go to the almshouse, or let it alone to die and get out of its +misery as soon as possible. You can find another baby that will do just +as well, if you should ever need one." + +"How much would it cost, do you think, to have it boarded with some one +who wouldn't abuse it? She might beg with it herself, or hire it out two +or three times a week. I guess it would stand that." + +"Beggars don't belong to the merciful kind," answered Pinky; "there's no +trusting any of them. A baby in their hands is never safe. I've seen 'em +brought in at night more dead than alive, and tossed on a dirty rag-heap +to die before morning. I'm always glad when they're out of their misery, +poor things! The fact is, Fan, if you expect that baby to live, you've +got to take it clean out of the hands of beggars." + +"What could I get it boarded for outright?" asked Mrs. Bray. + +"For 'most anything, 'cording to how it's done. But why not, while +you're about it, bleed the old lady, its grandmother, a little deeper, +and take a few drops for the baby?" + +"Guess you're kind o' right about that, Fan; anyhow, we'll make a start +on it. You find another place for the brat." + +"'Greed; when shall I do it?" + +"The sooner, the better. It might die of cold any night in that horrible +den. Ugh!" + +"I've been in worse places. Bedlow street is full of them, and so is +Briar street and Dirty alley. You don't know anything about it." + +"Maybe not, and maybe I don't care to know. At present I want to settle +about this baby. You'll find another place for it?" + +"Yes." + +"And then steal it from the woman who has it now?" + +"Yes; no trouble in the world. She's drunk every night," answered Pinky +Swett, rising to go. + +"You'll see me to-morrow?" said Mrs. Bray. + +"Oh yes." + +"And you won't forget about the policies?" + +"Not I. We shall make a grand hit, or I'm a fool. Day-day!" Pinky waved +her hand gayly, and then retired. + + + + +CHAPTER VI. + + + +_A COLD_ wet drizzling rain was beginning to fall when Pinky Swett +emerged from the house. Twilight was gathering drearily. She drew her +thin shawl closely, and shivered as the east wind struck her with a +chill. + +At hurried walk of five or ten minutes brought her to a part of the town +as little known to its citizens generally as if it were in the centre +of Africa--a part of the town where vice, crime, drunkenness and beggary +herd together in the closest and most shameless contact; where men and +women, living in all foulness, and more like wild beasts than human +beings, prey greedily upon each other, hurting, depraving and marring +God's image in all over whom they can get power or influenced--_a very +hell upon the earth!_--at part of the town where theft and robbery and +murder are plotted, and from which prisons and almshouses draw their +chief population. + +That such a herding together, almost in the centre of a great Christian +city, of the utterly vicious and degraded, should be permitted, when +every day's police and criminal records give warning of its cost +and danger, is a marvel and a reproach. Almost every other house, in +portions of this locality, is a dram-shop, where the vilest liquors are +sold. Policy-offices, doing business in direct violation of law, are in +every street and block, their work of plunder and demoralization going +on with open doors and under the very eyes of the police. Every one of +them is known to these officers. But arrest is useless. A hidden and +malign influence, more potent than justice, has power to protect the +traffic and hold the guilty offenders harmless. Conviction is rarely, if +ever, reached. + +The poor wretches, depraved and plundered through drink and +policy-gambling, are driven into crime. They rob and steal and debase +themselves for money with which to buy rum and policies, and sooner or +later the prison or death removes the greater number of them from their +vile companions. But drifting toward this fatal locality under the +attraction of affinity, or lured thither by harpies in search of new +supplies of human victims to repair the frightful waste perpetually +made, the region keeps up its dense population, and the work of +destroying human souls goes on. It is an awful thing to contemplate. +Thousands of men and women, boys and girls, once innocent as the +babes upon whom Christ laid his hand in blessing, are drawn into this +whirlpool of evil every year, and few come out except by the way of +prison or death. + +It was toward this locality that Pinky Swett directed her feet, after +parting with Mrs. Bray. Darkness was beginning to settle down as she +turned off from one of the most populous streets, crowded at the time by +citizens on their way to quiet and comfortable homes, few if any of whom +had ever turned aside to look upon and get knowledge of the world or +crime and wretchedness so near at hand, but girdled in and concealed +from common observation. + +Down a narrow street she turned from the great thoroughfare, walking +with quick steps, and shivering a little as the penetrating east wind +sent a chill of dampness through the thin shawl she drew closer and +closer about her shoulders. Nothing could be in stronger contrast than +the rows of handsome dwellings and stores that lined the streets through +which she had just passed, and the forlorn, rickety, unsightly and +tumble-down houses amid which she now found herself. + +Pinky had gone only a little way when the sharp cries of a child cut the +air suddenly, the shrill, angry voice of a woman and the rapid fall of +lashes mingled with the cries. The child begged for mercy in tones of +agony, but the loud voice, uttering curses and imprecations, and the +cruel blows, ceased not. Pinky stopped and shivered. She felt the pain +of these blows, in her quickly-aroused sympathy, almost as much as +if they had been falling on her own person. Opposite to where she had +paused was a one-story frame house, or enclosed shed, as unsightly +without as a pig-pen, and almost as filthy within. It contained two +small rooms with very low ceilings. The only things in these rooms that +could be called furniture were an old bench, two chairs from which the +backs had been broken, a tin cup black with smoke and dirt, two or +three tin pans in the same condition, some broken crockery and an iron +skillet. Pinky stood still for a moment, shivering, as we have said. She +knew what the blows and the curses and the cries of pain meant; she had +heard them before. A depraved and drunken woman and a child ten years +old, who might or might not be her daughter, lived there. The child was +sent out every day to beg or steal, and if she failed to bring home a +certain sum of money, was cruelly beaten by the woman. Almost every +day the poor child was cut with lashes, often on the bare flesh; almost +every day her shrieks rang out from the miserable hovel. But there was +no one to interfere, no one to save her from the smarting blows, no one +to care what she suffered. + +Pinky Swett could stand it no longer. She had often noticed the ragged +child, with her pale, starved face and large, wistful eyes, passing +in and out of this miserable woman's den, sometimes going to the +liquor-shops and sometimes to the nearest policy-office to spend for +her mother, if such the woman really was, the money she had gained by +begging. + +With a sudden impulse, as a deep wail and a more piteous cry for mercy +smote upon her ears, Pinky sprang across the street and into the hovel. +The sight that met her eyes left no hesitation in her mind. Holding up +with one strong arm the naked body of the poor child--she had drawn the +clothes over her head--the infuriated woman was raining down blows from +a short piece of rattan upon the quivering flesh, already covered with +welts and bruises. + +"Devil!" cried Pinky as she rushed upon this fiend in human shape and +snatched the little girl from her arm. "Do you want to kill the child?" + +She might almost as well have assaulted a tigress. + +The woman was larger, stronger, more desperate and more thoroughly given +over to evil passions than she. To thwart her in anything was to rouse +her into a fury. A moment she stood in surprise and bewilderment; in +the next, and ere Pinky had time to put herself on guard, she had sprung +upon her with a passionate cry that sounded more like that of a wild +beast than anything human. Clutching her by the throat with one hand, +and with the other tearing the child from her grasp, she threw the +frightened little thing across the room. + +"Devil, ha!" screamed the woman; "devil!" and she tightened her grasp +on Pinky's throat, at the same time striking her in the face with her +clenched fist. + +Like a war-horse that snuffs the battle afar off and rushes to the +conflict, so rushed the inhabitants of that foul neighborhood to the +spot from whence had come to their ears the familiar and not unwelcome +sound of strife. Even before Pinky had time to shake off her assailant, +the door of the hovel was darkened by a screen of eager faces. And +such faces! How little of God's image remained in them to tell of +their divine origination!--bloated and scarred, ashen pale and wasted, +hollow-eyed and red-eyed, disease looking out from all, yet all lighted +up with the keenest interest and expectancy. + +Outside, the crowd swelled with a marvelous rapidity. Every cellar and +room and garret, every little alley and hidden rookery, "hawk's nest" +and "wren's nest," poured out its unseemly denizens, white and black, +old and young, male and female, the child of three years old, keen, +alert and self-protective, running to see the "row" side by side with +the toothless crone of seventy; or most likely passing her on the way. +Thieves, beggars, pick-pockets, vile women, rag-pickers and the like, +with the harpies who prey upon them, all were there to enjoy the show. + +Within, a desperate fight was going on between Pinky Swett and the woman +from whose hands she had attempted to rescue the child--a fight in which +Pinky was getting the worst of it. One garment after another was torn +from her person, until little more than a single one remained. + +"Here's the police! look out!" was cried at this juncture. + +"Who cares for the police? Let 'em come," boldly retorted the woman. "I +haven't done nothing; it's her that's come in drunk and got up a row." + +Pushing the crowd aside, a policeman entered the hovel. + +"Here she is!" cried the woman, pointing toward Pinky, from whom she +had sprung back the moment she heard the word police. "She came in here +drunk and got up a row. I'm a decent woman, as don't meddle with nobody. +But she's awful when she gets drunk. Just look at her--been tearing her +clothes off!" + +At this there was a shout of merriment from the crowd who had witnessed +the fight. + +"Good for old Sal! she's one of 'em! Can't get ahead of old Sal, drunk +or sober!" and like expressions were shouted by one and another. + +Poor Pinky, nearly stripped of her clothing, and with a great bruise +swelling under one of her eyes, bewildered and frightened at the aspect +of things around her, could make no acceptable defence. + +"She ran over and pitched into Sal, so she did! I saw her! She made +the fight, she did!" testified one of the crowd; and acting on this +testimony and his own judgment of the case, the policeman said roughly, +as he laid his hand on Pinky. + +"Pick up your duds and come along." + +Pinky lifted her torn garments from the dirty floor and gathered them +about her person as best she could, the crowd jeering all the time. A +pin here and there, furnished by some of the women, enabled her to get +them into a sort of shape and adjustment. Then she tried to explain the +affair to the policeman, but he would not listen. + +"Come!" he said, sternly. + +"What are you going to do with me?" she asked, not moving from where she +stood. + +"Lock you up," replied the policeman. "So come along." + +"What's the matter here?" demanded a tall, strongly-built woman, +pressing forward. She spoke with a foreign accent, and in a tone of +command. The motley crowd, above whom she towered, gave way for her as +she approached. Everything about the woman showed her to be superior in +mind and moral force to the unsightly wretches about her. She had the +fair skin, blue eyes and light hair of her nation. Her features were +strong, but not masculine. You saw in them no trace of coarse sensuality +or vicious indulgence. + +"Here's Norah! here's the queen!" shouted a voice from the crowd. + +"What's the matter here?" asked the woman as she gained an entrance to +the hovel. + +"Going to lock up Pinky Swett," said a ragged little girl who had forced +her way in. + +"What for?" demanded the woman, speaking with the air of one in +authority. + +"'Cause she wouldn't let old Sal beat Kit half to death," answered the +child. + +"Ho! Sal's a devil and Pinky's a fool to meddle with her." Then turning +to the policeman, who still had his hand on the girl, she said, + +"What're you goin' to do, John?" + +"Goin' to lock her up. She's drunk an' bin a-fightin'." + +"You're not goin' to do any such thing." + +"I'm not drunk, and it's a lie if anybody says so," broke in Pinky. "I +tried to keep this devil from beating the life out of poor little Kit, +and she pitched into me and tore my clothes off. That's what's the +matter." + +The policeman quietly removed his hand from Pinky's shoulder, and +glanced toward the woman named Sal, and stood as if waiting orders. + +"Better lock _her_ up," said the "queen," as she had been called. Sal +snarled like a fretted wild beast. + +"It's awful, the way she beats poor Kit," chimed in the little girl who +had before spoken against her. "If I was Kit, I'd run away, so I would." + +"I'll wring your neck off," growled Sal, in a fierce undertone, making a +dash toward the girl, and swearing frightfully. But the child shrank to +the side of the policeman. + +"If you lay a finger on Kit to-night," said the queen, "I'll have her +taken away, and you locked up into the the bargain." + +Sal responded with another snarl. + +"Come." The queen moved toward the door. Pinky followed, the policeman +offering no resistance. A few minutes later, and the miserable crowd of +depraved human beings had been absorbed again into cellar and garret, +hovel and rookery, to take up the thread of their evil and sensual +lives, and to plot wickedness, and to prey upon and deprave each +other--to dwell as to their inner and real lives among infernals, to be +in hell as to their spirits, while their bodies yet remained upon the +earth. + +Pinky and her rescuer passed down the street for a short distance until +they came to another that was still narrower. On each side dim lights +shone from the houses, and made some revelation of what was going on +within. Here liquor was sold, and there policies. Here was a junk-shop, +and there an eating-saloon where for six cents you could make a meal out +of the cullings from beggars' baskets. Not very tempting to an ordinary +appetite was the display inside, nor agreeable to the nostrils the odors +that filled the atmosphere. But hunger like the swines', that was not +over-nice, satisfied itself amid these disgusting conglomerations, and +kept off starvation. + +Along this wretched street, with scarcely an apology for a sidewalk, +moved Pinky and the queen, until they reached a small two-story frame +house that presented a different aspect from the wretched tenements amid +which it stood. It was clean upon the outside, and had, as contrasted +with its neighbors, an air of superiority. This was the queen's +residence. Inside, all was plain and homely, but clean and in order. + +The excitement into which Pinky had been thrown was nearly over by this +time. + +"You've done me a good turn, Norah," she said as the door closed upon +them, "and I'll not soon forget you." + +"Ugh!" ejaculated Norah as she looked into Pinky's bruised face; "Sal's +hit you square in the eye; it'll be black as y'r boot by morning. I'll +get some cold water." + +A basin of cold water was brought, and Pinky held a wet cloth to the +swollen spot for a long time, hoping thereby not only to reduce the +swelling, but to prevent discoloration. + +"Y'r a fool to meddle with Sal," said Norah as she set the basin of +water before Pinky. + +"Why don't you meddle with her? Why do you let her beat poor little Kit +the way she does?" demanded Pinky. + +Norah shrugged her shoulders, and answered with no more feeling in her +voice than if she had been speaking of inanimate things: + +"She's got to keep Kit up to her work." + +"Up to her work!" + +"Yes; that's just it. Kit's lazy and cheats--buys cakes and candies; and +Sal has to come down on her; it's the way, you know. If Sal didn't come +down sharp on her all the while, Kit wouldn't bring her ten cents a day. +They all have to do it--so much a day or a lickin'; and a little lickin' +isn't any use--got to 'most kill some of 'em. We're used to it in here. +Hark!" + +The screams of a child in pain rang out wildly, the sounds coming from +across the narrow street. Quick, hard strokes of a lash were heard at +the same time. Pinky turned a little pale. + +"Only Mother Quig," said Norah, with an indifferent air; "she has to do +it 'most every night--no getting along any other way with Tom. It beats +all how much he can stand." + +"Oh, Norah, won't she never stop?" cried Pinky, starting up. "I can't +bear it a minute longer." + +"Shut y'r ears. You've got to," answered the woman, with some impatience +in her voice. "Tom has to be kept to his work as well as the rest of +'em. Half the fuss he's making is put on, anyhow; he doesn't mind a +beating any more than a horse. I know his hollers. There's Flanagan's +Nell getting it now," added Norah as the cries and entreaties of another +child were heard. She drew herself up and listened, a slight shade of +concern drifting across her face. + +A long, agonizing wail shivered through the air. + +"Nell's Sick, and can't do her work." The woman rose as she spoke. "I +saw her goin' off to-day, and told Flanagan she'd better keep her at +home." + +Saying this, Norah went out quickly, Pinky following. With head erect +and mouth set firmly, the queen strode across the street and a little +way down the pavement, to the entrance of a cellar, from which the cries +and sounds of whipping came. Down the five or six rotten and broken +steps she plunged, Pinky close after her. + +"Stop!" shouted Norah, in a tone of command. + +Instantly the blows ceased, and the cries were hushed. + +"You'll be hanged for murder if you don't take care," said Norah. +"What's Nell been doin'?" + +"Doin', the slut!" ejaculated the woman, a short, bloated, revolting +creature, with scarcely anything human in her face. "Doin', did ye say? +It's nothin' she's been doin', the lazy, trapsing huzzy! Who's that +intrudin' herself in here?" she added fiercely, as she saw Pinky, making +at the same time a movement toward the girl. "Get out o' here, or I'll +spile y'r pictur'!" + +"Keep quiet, will you?" said Norah, putting her hand on the woman and +pushing her back as easily as if she had been a child. "Now come here, +Nell, and let me look at you." + +Out of the far corner of the cellar into which Flanagan had thrown her +when she heard Norah's voice, and into the small circle of light made +by a single tallow candle, there crept slowly the figure of a child +literally clothed in rags. Norah reached out her hand to her as she came +up--there was a scared look on her pinched face--and drew her close to +the light. + +"Gracious! your hand's like an ice-ball!" exclaimed Norah. + +Pinky looked at the child, and grew faint at heart. She had large hazel +eyes, that gleamed with a singular lustre out of the suffering, grimed +and wasted little face, so pale and sad and pitiful that the sight of it +was enough to draw tears from any but the brutal and hardened. + +"Are you sick?" asked Norah. + +"No, she's not sick; she's only shamming," growled Flanagan. + +"You shut up!" retorted Norah. "I wasn't speaking to you." Then she +repeated her question: + +"Are you sick, Nell?" + +"Yes." + +"Where?" + +"I don't know." + +Norah laid her hand on the child's head: + +"Does it hurt here?" + +"Oh yes! It hurts so I can't see good," answered Nell. + +"It's all a lie! I know her; she's shamming." + +"Oh no, Norah!" cried the child, a sudden hope blending with the fear in +her voice. "I ain't shamming at all. I fell down ever so many times in +the street, and 'most got run over. Oh dear! oh dear!" and she clung to +the woman with a gesture of despair piteous to see. + +"I don't believe you are, Nell," said Norah, kindly. Then, to the woman, +"Now mind, Flanagan, Nell's sick; d'ye hear?" + +The woman only uttered a defiant growl. + +"She's not to be licked again to-night." Norah spoke as one having +authority. + +"I wish ye'd be mindin' y'r own business, and not come interfarin' wid +me. She's my gal, and I've a right to lick her if I plaze." + +"Maybe she is and maybe she isn't," retorted Norah. + +"Who says she isn't my gal?" screamed the woman, firing up at this and +reaching out for Nell, who shrunk closer to Norah. + +"Maybe she is and maybe she isn't," said the queen, quietly repeating +her last sentence; "and I think maybe she isn't. So take care and mind +what I say. Nell isn't to be licked any more to-night." + +"Oh, Norah," sobbed the child, in a husky, choking voice, "take me, +won't you? She'll pinch me, and she'll hit my head on the wall, and +she'll choke me and knock me. Oh, Norah, Norah!" + +Pinky could stand this no longer. Catching up the bundle of rags in +her arms, she sprang out of the cellar and ran across the street to the +queen's house, Norah and Flanagan coming quickly after her. At the +door, through which Pinky had passed, Norah paused, and turning to the +infuriated Irish woman, said, sternly, + +"Go back! I won't have you in here; and if you make a row, I'll tell +John to lock you up." + +"I want my Nell," said the woman, her manner changing. There was a shade +of alarm in her voice. + +"You can't have her to-night; so that's settled. And if there's any row, +you'll be locked up." Saying which, Norah went in and shut the door, +leaving Flanagan on the outside. + +The bundle of dirty rags with the wasted body of a child inside, the +body scarcely heavier than the rags, was laid by Pinky in the corner +of a settee, and the unsightly mass shrunk together like something +inanimate. + +"I thought you'd had enough with old Sal," said Norah, in a tone of +reproof, as she came in. + +"Couldn't help it," replied Pinky. "I'm bad enough, but I can't stand to +see a child abused like that--no, not if I die for it." + +Norah crossed to the settee and spoke to Nell. But there was no answer, +nor did the bundle of rags stir. + +"Nell! Nell!" She called to deaf ears. Then she put her hand on the +child and raised one of the arms. It dropped away limp as a withered +stalk, showing the ashen white face across which it had lain. + +The two women manifested no excitement. The child had fainted or was +dead--which, they did not know. Norah straightened out the wasted little +form and turned up the face. The eyes were shut, the mouth closed, the +pinched features rigid, as if still giving expression to pain, but there +was no mistaking the sign that life had gone out of them. It might be +for a brief season, it might be for ever. + +A little water was thrown into the child's face. Its only effect was to +streak the grimy skin. + +"Poor little thing!" said Pinky. "I hope she's dead." + +"They're tough. They don't die easy," returned Norah. + +"She isn't one of the tough kind." + +"Maybe not. They say Flanagan stole her when she was a little thing, +just toddling." + +"Don't let's do anything to try to bring her to," said Pinky. + +Norah stood for some moment's with an irresolute air, then bent over the +child and examined her more carefully. She could feel no pulse beat, nor +any motion of the heart, + +"I don't want the coroner here," she said, in a tone of annoyance. "Take +her back to Flanagan; it's her work, and she must stand by it." + +"Is she really dead?" asked Pinky. + +"Looks like it, and serves Flanagan right. I've told her over and over +that Nell wouldn't stand it long if she didn't ease up a little. Flesh +isn't iron." + +Again she examined the child carefully, but without the slightest sign +of feeling. + +"It's all the same now who has her," she said, turning off from the +settee. "Take her back to Flanagan." + +But Pinky would not touch the child, nor could threat or persuasion +lead her to do so. While they were contending, Flanagan, who had fired +herself up with half a pint of whisky, came storming through the door in +a blind rage and screaming out, + +"Where's my Nell? I want my Nell!" + +Catching sight of the child's inanimate form lying on the settee, she +pounced down upon it like some foul bird and bore it off, cursing and +striking the senseless clay in her insane fury. + +Pinky, horrified at the dreadful sight, and not sure that the child was +really dead, and so insensible to pain, made a movement to follow, but +Norah caught her arm with a tight grip and held her back. + +"Are you a fool?" said the queen, sternly. "Let Flanagan alone. Nell's +out of her reach, and I'm glad of it." + +"If I was only sure!" exclaimed Pinky. + +"You may be. I know death--I've seen it often enough. They'll have the +coroner over there in the morning. It's Flanagan's concern, not yours or +mine, so keep out of it if you know when you're well off." + +"I'll appear against her at the inquest," said Pinky. + +"You'll do no such thing. Keep your tongue behind your teeth. It's time +enough to show it when it's pulled out. Take my advice, and mind your +own business. You'll have enough to do caring for your own head, without +looking after other people's." + +"I'm not one of that kind," answered Pinky, a little tartly; "and if +there's any way to keep Flanagan from murdering another child, I'm going +to find it out." + +"You'll find out something else first," said Norah, with a slight curl +of her lip. + +"What?" + +"The way to prison." + +"Pshaw! I'm not afraid." + +"You'd better be. If you appear against Flanagan, she'll have you caged +before to-morrow night." + +"How can she do it?" + +"Swear against you before an alderman, and he'll send you down if it's +only to get his fee. She knows her man." + +"Suppose murder is proved against her?" + +"Suppose!" Norah gave a little derisive laugh. + +"They don't look after things in here as they do outside. Everybody's +got the screws on, and things must break sometimes, but it isn't called +murder. The coroner understands it all. He's used to seeing things +break." + + + + +CHAPTER VII. + + + +_FOR_ a short time the sounds of cruel exultation came over from +Flanagan's; then all was still. + +"Sal's put her mark on you," said Norah, looking steadily into Pinky's +face, and laughing in a cold, half-amused way. + +Pinky raised her hand to her swollen cheek. "Does it look very bad?" she +asked. + +"Spoils your beauty some." + +"Will it get black?" + +"Shouldn't wonder. But what can't be helped, can't. You'll mind your own +business next time, and keep out of Sal's way. She's dangerous. What's +the matter?" + +"Got a sort of chill," replied the girl, who from nervous reaction was +beginning to shiver. + +"Oh, want something to warm you up." Norah brought out a bottle of +spirits. Pinky poured a glass nearly half full, added some water, and +then drank off the fiery mixture. + +"None of your common stuff," said Norah, with a smile, as Pinky smacked +her lips. The girl drew her handkerchief from her pocket, and as she did +so a piece of paper dropped on the floor. + +"Oh, there it is!" she exclaimed, light flashing into her face. "Going +to make a splendid hit. Just look at them rows." + +Norah threw an indifferent glance on the paper. + +"They're lucky, every one of them," said Pinky. "Going to put half a +dollar on each row--sure to make a hit." + +The queen gave one of her peculiar shrugs. + +"Going to break Sam McFaddon," continued Pinky, her spirits rising under +the influence of Norah's treat. + +"Soft heads don't often break hard rocks," returned the woman, with a +covert sneer. + +"That's an insult!" cried Pinky, on whom the liquor she had just taken +was beginning to have a marked effect, "and I won't stand an insult from +you or anybody else." + +"Well, I wouldn't if I was you," returned Norah, coolly. A hard +expression began settling about her mouth. + +"And I don't mean to. I'm as good as you are, any day!" + +"You may be a great deal better, for all I care," answered Norah. "Only +take my advice, and keep a civil tongue in your head." There was a +threatening undertone in the woman's voice. She drew her tall person +more erect, and shook herself like a wild beast aroused from inaction. + +Pinky was too blind to see the change that had come so suddenly. A +stinging retort fell from her lips. But the words had scarcely died on +the air ere she found herself in the grip of vice-like hands. Resistance +was of no more avail than if she had been a child. In what seemed but a +moment of time she was pushed back through the door and dropped upon the +pavement. Then the door shut, and she was alone on the outside--no, +not alone, for scores of the denizens who huddle together in that foul +region were abroad, and gathered around her as quickly as flies about +a heap of offal, curious, insolent and aggressive. As she arose to her +feet she found herself hemmed in by a jeering crowd. + +"Ho! it's Pinky Swett!" cried a girl, pressing toward her. "Hi, Pinky! +what's the matter? What's up?" + +"Norah pitched her out! I saw it!" screamed a boy, one of the young +thieves that harbored in the quarter. + +"It's a lie!" Pinky answered back as she confronted the crowd. + +At this moment another boy, who had come up behind Pinky, gave her dress +so violent a jerk that she fell over backward on the pavement, striking +her head on a stone and cutting it badly. She lay there, unable to rise, +the crowd laughing with as much enjoyment as if witnessing a dog-fight. + +"Give her a dose of mud!" shouted one of the boys; and almost as soon +as the words were out of his mouth her face was covered with a paste of +filthy dirt from the gutter. This, instead of exciting pity, only gave +a keener zest to the show. The street rang with shouts and peals of +merriment, bringing a new and larger crowd to see the fun. With them +came one or two policemen. + +Seeing that it was only a drunken woman, they pushed back the crowd and +raised her to her feet. As they did so the blood streamed from the back +of her head and stained her dress to the waist. She was taken to the +nearest station-house. + +At eleven o'clock on the next morning, punctual to the minute, came Mrs. +Dinneford to the little third-story room in which she had met Mrs. Bray. +She repeated her rap at the door before it was opened, and noticed that +a key was turned in the lock. + +"You have seen the woman?" she said as she took an offered seat, coming +at once to the object of her visit. + +"Yes." + +"Well?" + +"I gave her the money." + +"Well?" + +Mrs. Bray shook her head: + +"Afraid I can't do much with her." + +"Why?" an anxious expression coming into Mrs. Dinneford's face. + +"These people suspect everybody; there is no honor nor truth in them, +and they judge every one by themselves. She half accused me of getting a +larger amount of money from you, and putting her off with the paltry sum +of thirty dollars." + +Mrs. Bray looked exceedingly hurt and annoyed. + +"Threatened," she went on, "to go to you herself--didn't want any +go-betweens nor brokers. I expected to hear you say that she'd been at +your house this morning." + +"Good Gracious! no!" Mrs. Dinneford's face was almost distorted with +alarm. + +"It's the way with all these people," coolly remarked Mrs. Bray. "You're +never safe with them." + +"Did you hint at her leaving the city?--going to New Orleans, for +instance?" + +"Oh dear, no! She isn't to be managed in that way--is deeper and more +set than I thought. The fact is, Mrs. Dinneford"--and Mrs. Bray lowered +her voice and looked shocked and mysterious--"I'm beginning to suspect +her as being connected with a gang." + +"With a gang? What kind of a gang?" Mrs. Dinneford turned slightly pale. + +"A gang of thieves. She isn't the right thing; I found that out long +ago. You remember what I said when you gave her the child. I told you +that she was not a good woman, and that it was a cruel thing to put a +helpless, new-born baby into her hands." + +"Never mind about that." Mrs. Dinneford waved her hand impatiently. +"The baby's out of her hands, so far as that is concerned. A gang of +thieves!" + +"Yes, I'm 'most sure of it. Goes to people's houses on one excuse and +another, and finds out where the silver is kept and how to get in. You +don't know half the wickedness that's going on. So you see it's no use +trying to get her away." + +Mrs. Bray was watching the face of her visitor with covert scrutiny, +gauging, as she did so, by its weak alarms, the measure of her power +over her. + +"Dreadful! dreadful!" ejaculated Mrs. Dinneford, with dismay. + +"It's bad enough," said Mrs. Bray, "and I don't see the end of it. She's +got you in her power, and no mistake, and she isn't one of the kind to +give up so splendid an advantage. I'm only surprised that she's kept +away so long." + +"What's to be done about it?" asked Mrs. Dinneford, her alarm and +distress increasing. + +"Ah! that's more than I can tell," coolly returned Mrs. Bray. "One thing +is certain--I don't want to have anything more to do with her. It isn't +safe to let her come here. You'll have to manage her yourself." + +"No, no, no, Mrs. Bray! You mustn't desert me!" answered Mrs. Dinneford, +her face growing pallid with fear. "Money is of no account. I'll pay +'most anything, reasonable or unreasonable, to have her kept away." + +And she drew out her pocket-book while speaking. At this moment there +came two distinct raps on the door. It had been locked after Mrs. +Dinneford's entrance. Mrs. Bray started and changed countenance, turning +her face quickly from observation. But she was self-possessed in an +instant. Rising, she said in a whisper, + +"Go silently into the next room, and remain perfectly still. I believe +that's the woman now. I'll manage her as best I can." + +Almost as quick as thought, Mrs. Dinneford vanished through a door that +led into an adjoining room, and closing it noiselessly, turned a key +that stood in the lock, then sat down, trembling with nervous alarm. The +room in which she found herself was small, and overlooked the street; +it was scantily furnished as a bed-room. In one corner, partly hid by +a curtain that hung from a hoop fastened to the wall, was an old wooden +chest, such as are used by sailors. Under the bed, and pushed as far +back as possible, was another of the same kind. The air of the room was +close, and she noticed the stale smell of a cigar. + +A murmur of voices from the room she had left so hastily soon reached +her ears; but though she listened intently, standing close to the door, +she was not able to distinguish a word. Once or twice she was sure that +she heard the sound of a man's voice. It was nearly a quarter of an +hour by her watch--it seemed two hours--before Mrs. Bray's visitor or +visitors retired; then there came a light rap on the door. She opened +it, and stood face to face again with the dark-eyed little woman. + +"You kept me here a long time," said Mrs. Dinneford, with ill-concealed +impatience. + +"No longer than I could help," replied Mrs. Bray. "Affairs of this kind +are not settled in a minute." + +"Then it was that miserable woman?" + +"Yes." + +"Well, what did you make out of her?" + +"Not much; she's too greedy. The taste of blood has sharpened her +appetite." + +"What does she want?" + +"She wants two hundred dollars paid into her hand to-day, and says that +if the money isn't here by sundown, you'll have a visit from her in less +than an hour afterward." + +"Will that be the end of it?" + +A sinister smile curved Mrs. Bray's lips slightly. + +"More than I can say," she answered. + +"Two hundred dollars?" + +"Yes. She put the amount higher, but I told her she'd better not go for +too big a slice or she might get nothing--that there was such a thing +as setting the police after her. She laughed at this in such a wicked, +sneering way that I felt my flesh creep, and said she knew the police, +and some of their masters, too, and wasn't afraid of them. She's a +dreadful woman;" and Mrs. Bray shivered in a very natural manner. + +"If I thought this would be the last of it!" said Mrs. Dinneford as she +moved about the room in a disturbed way, and with an anxious look on her +face. + +"Perhaps," suggested her companion, "it would be best for you to grapple +with this thing at the outset--to take our vampire by the throat and +strangle her at once. The knife is the only remedy for some forms of +disease. If left to grow and prey upon the body, they gradually suck +away its life and destroy it in the end." + +"If I only knew how to do it," replied Mrs. Dinneford. "If I could only +get her in my power, I'd make short works of her." Her eyes flashed with +a cruel light. + +"It might be done." + +"How?" + +"Mr. Dinneford knows the chief of police." + +The light went out of Mrs. Dinneford's eyes: + +"It can't be done in that way, and you know it as well as I do." + +Mrs. Dinneford turned upon Mrs. Bray sharply, and with a gleam of +suspicion in her face. + +"I don't know any other way, unless you go to the chief yourself," +replied Mrs. Bray, coolly. "There is no protection in cases like this +except through the law. Without police interference, you are wholly in +this woman's power." + +Mrs. Dinneford grew very pale. + +"It is always dangerous," went on Mrs. Bray, "to have anything to do +with people of this class. A woman who for hire will take a new-born +baby and sell it to a beggar-woman will not stop at anything. It is very +unfortunate that you are mixed up with her." + +"I'm indebted to you for the trouble," replied. Mrs. Dinneford, with +considerable asperity of manner. "You ought to have known something +about the woman before employing her in a delicate affair of this kind." + +"Saints don't hire themselves to put away new-born babies," retorted +Mrs. Bray, with an ugly gurgle in her throat. "I told you at the time +that she was a bad woman, and have not forgotten your answer." + +"What did I answer?" + +"That she might be the devil for all you cared!" + +"You are mistaken." + +"No; I repeat your very words. They surprised and shocked me at the +time, and I have not forgotten them. People who deal with the devil +usually have the devil to pay; and your case, it seems, is not to be an +exception." + +Mrs. Bray had assumed an air of entire equality with her visitor. + +A long silence followed, during which Mrs. Dinneford walked the floor +with the quick, restless motions of a caged animal. + +"How long do you think two hundred dollars will satisfy her?" she asked, +at length, pausing and turning to her companion. + +"It is impossible for me to say," was answered; "not long, unless you +can manage to frighten her off; you must threaten hard." + +Another silence followed. + +"I did not expect to be called on for so large a sum," Mrs. Dinneford +said at length, in a husky voice, taking out her pocket-book as she +spoke. "I have only a hundred dollars with me. Give her that, and put +her off until to-morrow." + +"I will do the best I can with her," replied Mrs. Bray, reaching out her +hand for the money, "but I think it will be safer for you to let me have +the balance to-day. She will, most likely, take it into her head that +I have received the whole sum from you, and think I am trying to cheat +her. In that case she will be as good as her word, and come down on +you." + +"Mrs. Bray!" exclaimed Mrs. Dinneford, suspicion blazing from her eyes. +"Mrs. Bray!"--and she turned upon her and caught her by the arms with +a fierce grip--"as I live, you are deceiving me. There is no woman but +yourself. You are the vampire!" + +She held the unresisting little woman in her vigorous grasp for some +moments, gazing at her in stern and angry accusation. + +Mrs. Bray stood very quit and with scarcely a change of countenance +until this outburst of passion had subsided. She was still holding the +money she had taken from Mrs. Dinneford. As the latter released her she +extended her hand, saying, in a low resolute voice, in which not the +faintest thrill of anger could be detected, + +"Take your money." She waited for a moment, and then let the little roll +of bank-bills fall at Mrs. Dinneford's feet and turned away. + +Mrs. Dinneford had made a mistake, and she saw it--saw that she was +now more than ever in the power of this woman, whether she was true or +false. If false, more fatally in her power. + +At this dead-lock in the interview between these women there came a +diversion. The sound of feet was heard on the stairs, then a hurrying +along the narrow passage; a hand was on the door, but the key had been +prudently turned on the inside. + +With a quick motion, Mrs. Bray waved her hand toward the adjoining +chamber. Mrs. Dinneford did not hesitate, but glided in noiselessly, +shutting and locking the door behind her. + +"Pinky Swett!" exclaimed Mrs. Bray, in a low voice, putting her finger +to her lips, as she admitted her visitor, at the same time giving a +warning glance toward the other room. Eyeing her from head to foot, she +added, "Well, you are an object!" + +Pinky had drawn aside a close veil, exhibiting a bruised and swollen +face. A dark band lay under one of her eyes, and there was a cut with +red, angry margins on the cheek. + +"You are an object," repeated Mrs. Bray as Pinky moved forward into the +room. + +"Well, I am, and no mistake," answered Pinky, with a light laugh. She +had been drinking enough to overcome the depression and discomfort of +her feelings consequent on the hard usage she had received and a night +in one of the city station-houses. "Who's in there?" + +Mrs. Bray's finger went again to her lips. "No matter," was replied. +"You must go away until the coast is clear. Come back in half an hour." + +And she hurried Pinky out of the door, locking it as the girl retired. +When Mrs. Dinneford came out of the room into which he had gone so +hastily, the roll of bank-notes still lay upon the floor. Mrs. Bray had +prudently slipped them into her pocket before admitting Pinky, but as +soon as she was alone had thrown them down again. + +The face of Mrs. Dinneford was pale, and exhibited no ordinary signs of +discomfiture and anxiety. + +"Who was that?" she asked. + +"A friend," replied Mrs. Bray, in a cold, self-possessed manner. + +A few moments of embarrassed silence followed. Mrs. Bray crossed the +room, touching with her foot the bank-bills, as if they were of no +account to her. + +"I am half beside myself," said Mrs. Dinneford. + +Mrs. Bray made no response, did not even turn toward her visitor. + +"I spoke hastily." + +"A vampire!" Mrs. Bray swept round upon her fiercely. "A blood-sucker!" +and she ground her teeth in well-feigned passion. + +Mrs. Dinneford sat down trembling. + +"Take your money and go," said Mrs. Bray, and she lifted the bills from +the floor and tossed them into her visitor's lap. "I am served right. It +was evil work, and good never comes of evil." + +But Mrs. Dinneford did not stir. To go away at enmity with this woman +was, so far as she could see, to meet exposure and unutterable disgrace. +Anything but that. + +"I shall leave this money, trusting still to your good offices," she +said, at length, rising. Her manner was much subdued. "I spoke hastily, +in a sort of blind desperation. We should not weigh too carefully the +words that are extorted by pain or fear. In less than an hour I will +send you a hundred dollars more." + +Mrs. Dinneford laid the bank-bills on a table, and then moved to the +door, but she dared not leave in this uncertainty. Looking back, she +said, with an appealing humility of voice and manner foreign to her +character, + +"Let us be friends still, Mrs. Bray; we shall gain nothing by being +enemies. I can serve you, and you can serve me. My suspicions were ill +founded. I felt wild and desperate, and hardly knew what I was saying." + +She stood anxiously regarding the little dark-eyed woman, who did not +respond by word or movement. + +Taking her hand from the door she was about opening, Mrs. Dinneford came +back into the room, and stood close to Mrs. Bray: + +"Shall I send you the money?" + +"You can do as you please," was replied, with chilling indifference. + +"Are you implacable?" + +"I am not used to suspicion, much less denunciation and assault. A +vampire! Do you know what that means?" + +"It meant, as used by me, only madness. I did not know what I was +saying. It was a cry of pain--nothing more. Consider how I stand, how +much I have at stake, in what a wretched affair I have become involved. +It is all new to me, and I am bewildered and at fault. Do not desert me +in this crisis. I must have some one to stand between me and this woman; +and if you step aside, to whom can I go?" + +Mrs. Bray relented just a little. Mrs. Dinneford pleaded and humiliated +herself, and drifted farther into the toils of her confederate. + +"You are not rich, Mrs. Bray," she said, at parting, "independent in +spirit as you are. I shall add a hundred dollars for your own use; and +if ever you stand in need, you will know where to find an unfailing +friend." + +Mrs. Bray put up her hands, and replied, "No, no, no; don't think of +such a thing. I am not mercenary. I never serve a friend for money." + +But Mrs. Dinneford heard the "yes" which flushed into the voice that +said "no." She was not deceived. + +A rapid change passed over Mrs. Bray on the instant her visitor left the +room. Her first act was to lock the door; her next, to take the roll of +bank-bills from the table and put it into her pocket. Over her face a +gleam of evil satisfaction had swept. + +"Got you all right now, my lady!" fell with a chuckle from her lips. "A +vampire, ha!" The chuckle was changed for a kind of hiss. "Well, have it +so. There is rich blood in your veins, and it will be no fault of mine +if I do not fatten upon it. As for pity, you shall have as much of it +as you gave to that helpless baby. Saints don't work in this kind of +business, and I'm not a saint." + +And she chuckled and hissed and muttered to herself, with many signs of +evil satisfaction. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. + + + +_FOR_ an hour Mrs. Bray waited the reappearance of Pinky Swett, but the +girl did not come back. At the end of this time a package which had been +left at the door was brought to her room. It came from Mrs. Dinneford, +and contained two hundred dollars. A note that accompanied the package +read as follows: + +"Forgive my little fault of temper. It is your interest to be my friend. +The woman must not, on any account, be suffered to come near me." + +Of course there was no signature. Mrs. Bray's countenance was radiant as +she fingered the money. + +"Good luck for me, but bad for the baby," she said, in a low, pleased +murmur, talking to herself. "Poor baby! I must see better to its +comfort. It deserves to be looked after. I wonder why Pinky doesn't +come?" + +Mrs. Bray listened, but no sound of feet from the stairs or entries, no +opening or shutting of doors, broke the silence that reigned through the +house. + +"Pinky's getting too low down--drinks too much; can't count on her any +more." Mrs. Bray went on talking to herself. "No rest; no quiet; never +satisfied; for ever knocking round, and for ever getting the worst +of it. She was a real nice girl once, and I always liked her. But she +doesn't take any care of herself." + +As Pinky went out, an hour before, she met a fresh-looking girl, not +over seventeen, and evidently from the country. She was standing on the +pavement, not far from the house in which Mrs. Bray lived, and had +a traveling-bag in her hand. Her perplexed face and uncertain manner +attracted Pinky's attention. + +"Are you looking for anybody?" she asked. + +"I'm trying to find a Mrs. Bray," the girl answered. "I'm a stranger +from the country." + +"Oh, you are?" said Pinky, drawing her veil more tightly so that her +disfigured face could not be seen. + +"Yes I'm from L----." + +"Indeed? I used to know some people there." + +"Then you've been in L----?" said the girl, with a pleased, trustful +manner, as of one who had met a friend at the right time. + +"Yes, I've visited there." + +"Indeed? Who did you know in L----?" + +"Are you acquainted with the Cartwrights?" + +"I know of them. They are among our first people," returned the girl. + +"I spent a week in their family a few years ago, and had a very pleasant +time," said Pinky. + +"Oh, I'm glad to know that," remarked the girl. "I'm a stranger here; +and if I can't find Mrs. Bray, I don't see what I am to do. A lady from +here who was staying at the hotel gave me at letter to Mrs. Bray. I was +living at the hotel, but I didn't like it; it was too public. I told the +lady that I wanted to learn a trade or get into a store, and she said +the city was just the place for me, and that she would give me a letter +to a particular friend, who would, on her recommendation, interest he +self for me. It's somewhere along here that she lived, I'm sure;" and +she took a letter from her pocket and examined the direction. + +The girl was fresh and young and pretty, and had an artless, confiding +manner. It was plain she knew little of the world, and nothing of its +evils and dangers. + +"Let me see;" and Pinky reached out her hand for the letter. She put it +under her veil, and read, + +"MRS. FANNY BRAY, "No. 631----street, "---- + +"By the hand of Miss Flora Bond." + +"Flora Bond," said Pinky, in a kind, familiar tone. + +"Yes, that is my name," replied the girl; "isn't this----street?" + +"Yes; and there, is the number you are looking for." + +"Oh, thank you! I'm so glad to find the place. I was beginning to feel +scared." + +"I will ring the bell for you," said Pinky, going to the door of No. +631. A servant answered the summons. + +"Is Mrs. Bray at home?" inquired Pinky. + +"I don't know," replied the servant, looking annoyed. "Her rooms are in +the third story;" and she held the door wide open for them to enter. As +they passed into the hall Pinky said to her companion, + +"Just wait here a moment, and I will run up stairs and see if she is +in." + +The girl stood in the hall until Pinky came back. + +"Not at home, I'm sorry to say." + +"Oh dear! that's bad; what shall I do?" and the girl looked distressed. + +"She'll be back soon, no doubt," said Pinky, in a light, assuring voice. +"I'll go around with you a little and see things." + +The girl looked down at her traveling-bag. + +"Oh, that's nothing; I'll help you to carry it;" and Pinky took it from +her hand. + +"Couldn't we leave it here?" asked Flora. + +"It might not be safe; servants are not always to be trusted, and +Mrs. Bray's rooms are locked; we can easily carry it between us. I'm +strong--got good country blood in my veins. You see I'm from the country +as well as you; right glad we met. Don't know what you would have done." + +And she drew the girl out, talking familiarly, as they went. + +"Haven't had your dinner yet?" + +"No; just arrived in the cars, and came right here." + +"You must have something to eat, then. I know a nice place; often get +dinner there when I'm out." + +The girl did not feel wholly at ease. She had not yet been able to get +sight of Pinky's closely-veiled features, and there was something in her +voice that made her feel uncomfortable. + +"I don't care for any dinner," she said; "I'm not hungry." + +"Well, I am, then, so come. Do you like oysters?" + +"Yes." + +"Cook them splendidly. Best place in the city. And you'd like to get +into a store or learn a trade?" + +"Yes." + +"What trade did you think of?" + +"None in particular." + +"How would you like to get into a book-bindery? I know two or three +girls in binderies, and they can make from five to ten dollars a week. +It's the nicest, cleanest work I know of." + +"Oh, do you?" returned Flora, with newly-awakening interest. + +"Yes; we'll talk it all over while we're eating dinner. This way." + +And Pinky turned the corner of a small street that led away from the +more crowded thoroughfare along which they had been passing. + +"It's a quiet and retired place, where only the nicest kind of people +go," she added. "Many working-girls and girls in stores get their +dinners there. We'll meet some of them, no doubt; and if any that I know +should happen in, we might hear of a good place. Just the thing, isn't +it? I'm right glad I met you." + +They had gone halfway down the square, when Pinky stopped before the +shop of a confectioner. In the window was a display of cakes, pies and +candies, and a sign with the words, "LADIES' RESTAURANT." + +"This is the place," she said, and opening the door, passed in, the +young stranger following. + +A sign of caution, unseen by Flora, was made to a girl who stood behind +the counter. Then Pinky turned, saying, + +"How will you have your oysters? stewed, fried, broiled or roasted?" + +"I'm not particular--any way," replied Flora. + +"I like them fried. Will you have them the same way?" + +Flora nodded assent. + +"Let them be fried, then. Come, we'll go up stairs. Anybody there?" + +"Two or three only." + +"Any girls from the bindery?" + +"Yes; I think so." + +"Oh. I'm glad of that! Want to see some of them. Come, Miss Bond." + +And Pinky, after a whispered word to the attendant, led the way to a +room up stairs in which were a number of small tables. At one of these +were two girls eating, at another a girl sitting by herself, and at +another a young man and a girl. As Pinky and her companion entered, +the inmates of the room stared at them familiarly, and then winked and +leered at each other. Flora did not observe this, but she felt a sudden +oppression and fear. They sat down at a table not far from one of the +windows. Flora looked for the veil to be removed, so that she might see +the face of her new friend. But Pinky kept it closely down. + +In about ten minutes the oysters were served. Accompanying them were two +glasses of some kind of liquor. Floating on one of these was a small bit +of cork. Pinky took this and handed the other to her companion, saying, + +"Only a weak sangaree. It will refresh you after your fatigue; and I +always like something with oysters, it helps to make them lay lighter on +the stomach." + +Meantime, one of the girls had crossed over and spoken to Pinky. After +word or two, the latter said, + +"Don't you work in a bindery, Miss Peter?" + +"Yes," was answered, without hesitation. + +"I thought so. Let me introduce you to my friend, Miss Flora Bond. She's +from the country, and wants to get into some good establishment. She +talked about a store, but I think a bindery is better." + +"A great deal better," was replied by Miss Peter. "I've tried them both, +and wouldn't go back to a store again on any account. If I can serve +your friend, I shall be most happy." + +"Thank you!" returned Flora; "you are very kind." + +"Not at all; I'm always glad when I can be of service to any one. You +think you'd like to go into a bindery?" + +"Yes. I've come to the city to get employment, and haven't much choice." + +"There's no place like the city," remarked the other. "I'd die in the +country--nothing going on. But you won't stagnate here. When did you +arrive?" + +"To-day." + +"Have you friends here?" + +"No. I brought a letter of introduction to a lady who resides in the +city." + +"What's her name?" + +"Mrs. Bray." + +Miss Peter turned her head so that Flora could not see her face. It was +plain from its expression that she knew Mrs. Bray. + +"Have you seen her yet?" she asked. + +"No. She was out when I called. I'm going back in a little while." + +The girl sat down, and went on talking while the others were eating. +Pinky had emptied her glass of sangaree before she was half through with +her oysters, and kept urging Flora to drink. + +"Don't be afraid of it, dear," she said, in a kind, persuasive way; +"there's hardly a thimbleful of wine in the whole glass. It will soothe +your nerves, and make you feel ever so much better." + +There was something in the taste of the sangaree that Flora did not +like--a flavor that was not of wine. But urged repeatedly by her +companion, whose empty glass gave her encouragement and confidence, she +sipped and drank until she had taken the whole of it. By this time she +was beginning to have a sense of fullness and confusion in the head, and +to feel oppressed and uncomfortable. Her appetite suddenly left her, and +she laid down her knife and fork and leaned her head upon her hand. + +"What's the matter?" asked Pinky. + +"Nothing," answered the girl; "only my head feels a little strangely. It +will pass off in a moment." + +"Riding in the cars, maybe," said Pinky. "I always feel bad after being +in the cars; it kind of stirs me up." + +Flora sat very quietly at the table, still resting her head upon +her hands. Pinky and the girl who had joined them exchanged looks of +intelligence. The former had drawn her veil partly aside, yet concealing +as much as possible the bruises on her face. + +"My! but you're battered!" exclaimed Miss Peter, in a whisper that was +unheard by Flora. + +Pinky only answered by a grimace. Then she said to Flora, with +well-affected concern, + +"I'm afraid you are ill, dear? How do you feel?" + +"I don't know," answered the poor girl, in a voice that betrayed great +anxiety, if not alarm. "It came over me all at once. I'm afraid that +wine was too strong; I am not used to taking anything." + +"Oh dear, no! it wasn't that. I drank a glass, and don't feel it any +more than if it had been water." + +"Let's go," said Flora, starting up. "Mrs. Bray must be home by this +time." + +"All right, if you feel well enough," returned Pinky, rising at the same +time. + +"Oh dear! how my head swims!" exclaimed Flora, putting both hands to +her temples. She stood for a few moments in an uncertain attitude, then +reached out in a blind, eager way. + +Pinky drew quickly to her side, and put one arm about her waist. + +"Come," she said, "the air is too close for you here;" and with the +assistance of the girl who had joined them, she steadied Flora down +stairs. + +"Doctored a little too high," whispered Miss Peter, with her mouth close +to Pinky's ear. + +"All right," Pinky whispered back; "they know how to do it." + +At the foot of the stairs Pinky said, + +"You take her out through the yard, while I pay for the oysters. I'll be +with you in a moment." + +Poor Flora, was already too much confused by the drugged liquor she had +taken to know what they were doing with her. + +Hastily paying for the oysters and liquor, Pinky was on hand in a few +moments. From the back door of the house they entered a small yard, and +passed from this through a gate into a narrow private alley shut in on +each side by a high fence. This alley ran for a considerable distance, +and had many gates opening into it from yards, hovels and rear +buildings, all of the most forlorn and wretched character. It terminated +in a small street. + +Along this alley Pinky and the girl she had met at the restaurant +supported Flora, who was fast losing strength and consciousness. When +halfway down, they held a brief consultation. + +"It won't do," said Pinky, "to take her through to----street. She's too +far gone, and the police will be down on us and carry her off." + +"Norah's got some place in there," said the other, pointing to an old +wooden building close by. + +"I'm out with Norah," replied Pinky, "and don't mean to have anything +more to do with her." + +"Where's your room?" + +"That isn't the go. Don't want her there. Pat Maley's cellar is just +over yonder. We can get in from the alley." + +"Pat's too greedy a devil. There wouldn't be anything left of her when +he got through. No, no, Pinky; I'll have nothing to do with it if she's +to go into Pat Maley's cellar." + +"Not much to choose between 'em," answered Pinky. "But it won't do to +parley here. We must get her in somewhere." + +And she pushed open a gate as she spoke. It swung back on one hinge +and struck the fence with a bang, disclosing a yard that beggared +description in its disorder and filth. In the back part of this yard +was a one-and-a-half-story frame building, without windows, looking more +like an old chicken-house or pig-stye than a place for human beings +to live in. The loft over the first story was reached by ladder on the +outside. Above and below the hovel was laid off in kind of stalls or +bunks furnished with straw. There were about twenty of these. It was +a ten-cent lodging-house, filled nightly. If this wretched hut or +stye--call it what you will--had been torn down, it would not have +brought ten dollars as kindling-wood. Yet its owner, a gentleman (?) +living handsomely up town, received for it the annual rent of two +hundred and fifty dollars. Subletted at an average of two dollars a +night, it gave an income of nearly seven hundred dollars a year. It was +known as the "Hawk's Nest," and no bird of prey ever had a fouler nest +than this. + +As the gate banged on the fence a coarse, evil-looking man, wearing a +dirty Scotch cap and a red shirt, pushed his head up from the cellar of +the house that fronted on the street. + +"What's wanted?" he asked, in a kind of growl, his upper lip twitching +and drawing up at one side in a nervous way, letting his teeth appear. + +"We want to get this girl in for a little while," said Pinky. "We'll +take her away when she comes round. Is anybody in there?" and she +pointed to the hovel. + +The man shook his head. + +"How much?" asked Pinky. + +"Ten cents apiece;" and he held out his hand. + +Pinky gave him thirty cents. He took a key from his pocket, and opened +the door that led into the lower room. The stench that came out as the +door swung back was dreadful. But poor Flora Bond was by this time so +relaxed in every muscle, and so dead to outward things, that it was +impossible to get her any farther. So they bore her into this horrible +den, and laid her down in one of the stalls on a bed of loose straw. +Inside, there was nothing but these stalls and straw--not a table or +chair, or any article of furniture. They filled up nearly the entire +room, leaving only a narrow passage between them. The only means of +ventilation was by the door. + +As soon as Pinky and her companion in this terrible wickedness were +alone with their victim, they searched her pocket for the key of her +traveling-bag. On finding it, Pinky was going to open it, when the other +said, + +"Never mind about that; we can examine her baggage in safer place. Let's +go for the movables." + +And saying this, she fell quickly to work on the person of Flora, +slipping out the ear-rings first, then removing her breast-pin and +finger-rings, while Pinky unbuttoned the new gaiter boots, and drew off +both boots and stockings, leaving upon the damp straw the small, bare +feet, pink and soft almost as a baby's. + +It did not take these harpies five minutes to possess themselves of +everything but the poor girl's dress and undergarments. Cloth oversack, +pocket-book, collar, linen cuffs, hat, shoes and stockings--all these +were taken. + +"Hallo!" cried the keeper of this foul den as the two girls hurried out +with the traveling-bag and a large bundle sooner than he had expected; +and he came quickly forth from the cellar in which he lived like a cruel +spider and tried to intercept them, but they glided through the gate +and were out of his reach before he could get near. He could follow them +only with obscene invectives and horrible oaths. Well he knew what had +been done--that there had been a robbery in the "Hawk's Nest," and he +not in to share the booty. + +Growling like a savage dog, this wretch, in whom every instinct of +humanity had long since died--this human beast, who looked on innocence +and helplessness as a wolf looks upon a lamb--strode across the yard and +entered the den. Lying in one of the stalls upon the foul, damp straw +he found Flora Bond. Cruel beast that he was, even he felt himself +held back as by an invisible hand, as he looked at the pure face of the +insensible girl. Rarely had his eyes rested on a countenance so full of +innocence. But the wolf has no pity for the lamb, nor the hawk for the +dove. The instinct of his nature quickly asserted itself. + +Avarice first. From the face his eyes turned to see what had been left +by the two girls. An angry imprecation fell from his lips when he saw +how little remained for him. But when he lifted Flora's head and unbound +her hair, a gleam of pleasure came info his foul face. It was a full +suit of rich chestnut brown, nearly three feet long, and fell in thick +masses over her breast and shoulders. He caught it up eagerly, drew it +through his great ugly hands, and gloated over it with something of a +miser's pleasure as he counts his gold. Then taking a pair of scissors +from his pocket, he ran them over the girl's head with the quickness and +skill of a barber, cutting close down, that he might not lose even the +sixteenth part of an inch of her rich tresses. An Indian scalping his +victim could not have shown more eagerness. An Indian's wild pleasure +was in his face as he lifted the heavy mass of brown hair and held it +above his head. It was not a trophy--not a sign of conquest and triumph +over an enemy--but simply plunder, and had a market value of fifteen or +twenty dollars. + +The dress was next examined; it was new, but not of a costly material. +Removing this, the man went out with his portion of the spoils, and +locked the door, leaving the half-clothed, unconscious girl lying on +the damp, filthy straw, that swarmed with vermin. It was cold as well as +damp, and the chill of a bleak November day began creeping into her warm +blood. But the stupefying draught had been well compounded, and held her +senses locked. + +Of what followed we cannot write, and we shiver as we draw a veil over +scenes that should make the heart of all Christendom ache--scenes that +are repeated in thousands of instances year by year in our large cities, +and no hand is stretched forth to succor and no arm to save. Under +the very eyes of the courts and the churches things worse than we have +described--worse than the reader can imagine--are done every day. The +foul dens into which crime goes freely, and into which innocence is +betrayed, are known to the police, and the evil work that is done +is ever before them. From one victim to another their keepers pass +unquestioned, and plunder, debauch, ruin and murder with an impunity +frightful to contemplate. As was said by a distinguished author, +speaking of a kindred social enormity, "There is not a country +throughout the earth on which a state of things like this would not +bring a curse. There is no religion upon earth that it would not deny; +there is no people on earth that it would not put to shame." + +And we are Christians! + +No. Of what followed we cannot write. Those who were near the "Hawk's +Nest" heard that evening, soon after nightfall, the single wild, +prolonged cry of a woman. It was so full of terror and despair that even +the hardened ears that heard it felt a sudden pain. But they were used +to such things in that region, and no one took the trouble to learn what +it meant. Even the policeman moving on his beat stood listening for only +a moment, and then passed on. + +Next day, in the local columns of a city paper, appeared the following: + +"FOUL PLAY.--About eleven o'clock last night the body of a beautiful +young girl, who could not have been over seventeen years of age, was +discovered lying on the pavement in----street. No one knew how she came +there. She was quite dead when found. There was nothing by which she +could be identified. All her clothes but a single undergarment had been +removed, and her hair cut off close to her head. There were marks of +brutal violence on her person. The body was placed in charge of the +coroner, who will investigate the matter." + +On the day after, this paragraph appeared: + +"SUSPICION OF FOUL PLAY.--The coroner's inquest elicited nothing in +regard to the young girl mentioned yesterday as having been found dead +and stripped of her clothing in----street. No one was able to identify +her. A foul deed at which the heart shudders has been done; but the +wretches by whom it was committed have been able to cover their tracks." + +And that was the last of it. The whole nation gives a shudder of fear at +the announcement of an Indian massacre and outrage. But in all our large +cities are savages more cruel and brutal in their instincts than the +Comanches, and they torture and outrage and murder a hundred poor +victims for every one that is exposed to Indian brutality, and there +comes no succor. Is it from ignorance of the fact? No, no, no! There is +not a Judge on the bench, not a lawyer at the bar, not a legislator at +the State capital, not a mayor or police-officer, not a minister who +preaches the gospel of Christ, who came to seek and to save, not an +intelligent citizen, but knows of all this. + +What then? Who is responsible? The whole nation arouses itself at news +of an Indian assault upon some defenseless frontier settlement, and the +general government sends troops to succor and to punish. But who takes +note of the worse than Indian massacres going on daily and nightly in +the heart of our great cities? Who hunts down and punishes the human +wolves in our midst whose mouths are red with the blood of innocence? +Their deeds of cruelty outnumber every year a hundred--nay, a +thousand--fold the deeds of our red savages. Their haunts are known, and +their work is known. They lie in wait for the unwary, they gather in the +price of human souls, none hindering, at our very church doors. Is no +one responsible for all this? Is there no help? Is evil stronger than +good, hell stronger than heaven? Have the churches nothing to do in this +matter? Christ came to seek and to save that which was lost--came to +the lowliest, the poorest and the vilest, to those over whom devils had +gained power, and cast out the devils. Are those who call themselves +by his name diligent in the work to which he put his blessed hands? +Millions of dollars go yearly into magnificent churches, but how +little to the work of saving and succoring the weak, the helpless, the +betrayed, the outcast and the dying, who lie uncared for at the mercy +of human fiends, and often so near to the temples of God that their +agonized appeals for help are drowned by the organ and choir! + + + + +CHAPTER IX. + + + +_THE_ two girls, on leaving the "Hawk's Nest" with their plunder, did +not pass from the narrow private alley into the small street at its +termination, but hurried along the way they had come, and re-entered the +restaurant by means of the gate opening into the yard. Through the back +door they gained a small, dark room, from which a narrow stairway led +to the second and third stories of the rear building. They seemed to be +entirely familiar with the place. + +On reaching the third story, Pinky gave two quick raps and then a single +rap on a closed door. No movement being heard within, she rapped again, +reversing the order--that is, giving one distinct rap, and then two in +quick succession. At this the door came slowly open, and the two girls +passed in with their bundle of clothing and the traveling-bag. + +The occupant of this room was a small, thin, well-dressed man, +with cold, restless gray eyes and the air of one who was alert and +suspicious. His hair was streaked with gray, as were also his full beard +and moustache. A diamond pin of considerable value was in his shirt +bosom. The room contained but few articles. There was a worn and faded +carpet on the floor, a writing-table and two or three chairs, and +a small bookcase with a few books, but no evidence whatever of +business--not a box or bundle or article of merchandise was to be seen. + +As the two girls entered he, shut the door noiselessly, and turned the +key inside. Then his manner changed; his eyes lighted, and there was an +expression of interest in his face. He looked toward the bag and bundle. + +Pinky sat down upon the floor and hurriedly unlocked the traveling-bag. +Thrusting in her hand, she drew out first a muslin nightgown and threw +it down, then a light shawl, a new barege dress, a pair of slippers, +collars, cuffs, ribbons and a variety of underclothing, and last of all +a small Bible and a prayer-book. These latter she tossed from her with a +low derisive laugh, which was echoed by her companion, Miss Peter. + +The bundle was next opened, and the cloth sacque, the hat, the boots +and stockings and the collar and cuffs thrown upon the floor with the +contents of the bag. + +"How much?" asked Pinky, glancing up at the man. + +They were the first words that had been spoken. At this the man knit +his brows in an earnest way, and looked business. He lifted each article +from the floor, examined it carefully and seemed to be making a close +estimate of its value. The traveling-bag was new, and had cost probably +five dollars. The cloth sacque could not have been made for less than +twelve dollars. A fair valuation of the whole would have been near forty +dollars. + +"How much?" repeated Pinky, an impatient quiver in her voice. + +"Six dollars," replied the man. + +"Six devils!" exclaimed Pinky, in a loud, angry voice. + +"Six devils! you old swindler!" chimed in Miss Peter. + +"You can take them away. Just as you like," returned the man, with cool +indifference. "Perhaps the police will give you more. It's the best I +can do." + +"But see here, Jerkin," said Pinky: "that sacque is worth twice the +money." + +"Not to me. I haven't a store up town. I can't offer it for sale in the +open market. Don't you understand?" + +"Say ten dollars." + +"Six." + +"Here's a breast-pin and a pair of ear-rings," said Miss Peter; "we'll +throw them in;" and she handed Jerkin, as he was called, the bits of +jewelry she had taken from the person of Flora Bond. He looked at them +almost contemptuously as he replied, + +"Wouldn't give you a dollar for the set." + +"Say eight dollars for the whole," urged Pinky. + +"Six fifty, and not a cent more," answered Jerkin. + +"Hand over, then, you old cormorant!" returned the girl, fretfully. +"It's a shame to swindle us in this way." + +The man took out his pocket-book and paid the money, giving half to each +of the girls. + +"It's just a swindle!" repeated Pinky. "You're an old hard-fisted +money-grubber, and no better than a robber. Three dollars and a quarter +for all that work! It doesn't pay for the trouble. We ought to have had +ten apiece." + +"You can make it ten or twenty, or maybe a hundred, if you will," said +Jerkin, with a knowing twinkle in his eyes. He gave his thumb a little +movement over his shoulder as he spoke. + +"That's so!" exclaimed Pinky, her manner undergoing a change, and her +face growing bright--at least as much of it as could brighten. "Look +here, Nell," speaking to Miss Peter, and drawing a piece of paper from +her pocket, "I've got ten rows here. Fanny Bray gave me five dollars to +go a half on each row. Meant to have gone to Sam McFaddon's last night, +but got into a muss with old Sal and Norah, and was locked up." + +"They make ten hits up there to one at Sam McFaddon's," said Jerkin, +again twitching his thumb over his shoulder. "It's the luckiest office I +ever heard of. Two or three hits every day for a week past--got a lucky +streak, somehow. If you go in anywhere, take my advice and go in there," +lifting his hand and twitching his thumb upward and over his shoulder +again. + +The two girls passed from the room, and the door was shut and locked +inside. No sooner had they done so than Jerkin made a new examination of +the articles, and after satisfying himself as to their value proceeded +to put them out of sight. Lifting aside a screen that covered the +fireplace, he removed from the chimney back, just above the line of +sight, a few loose bricks, and through the hole thus made thrust the +articles he had bought, letting them drop into a fireplace on the other +side. + +On leaving the room of this professional receiver of stolen goods, Pinky +and her friend descended to the second story, and by a door which had +been cut through into the adjoining property passed to the rear building +of the house next door. They found themselves on a landing, or little +square hall, with a stairway passing down to the lower story and another +leading to the room above. A number of persons were going up and coming +down--a forlorn set, for the most part, of all sexes, ages and colors. +Those who were going up appeared eager and hopeful, while those who were +coming down looked disappointed, sorrowful, angry or desperate. There +was a "policy shop" in one of the rooms above, and these were some of +its miserable customers. It was the hour when the morning drawings +of the lotteries were received at the office, or "shop," and the poor +infatuated dupes who had bet on their favorite "rows" were crowding in +to learn the result. + +Poor old men and women in scant or wretched clothing, young girls with +faces marred by evil, blotched and bloated creatures of both sexes, with +little that was human in their countenances, except the bare features, +boys and girls not yet in their teens, but old in vice and crime, and +drunkards with shaking nerves,--all these were going up in hope and +coming down in disappointment. Here and there was one of a different +quality, a scantily-dressed woman with a thin, wasted face and hollow +eyes, who had been fighting the wolf and keeping fast hold of her +integrity, or a tender, innocent-looking girl, the messenger of a weak +and shiftless mother, or a pale, bright-eyed boy whose much-worn but +clean and well-kept garments gave sad evidence of a home out of which +prop and stay had been removed. The strong and the weak, the pure and +the defiled, were there. A poor washerwoman who in a moment of weakness +has pawned the garments entrusted to her care, that she might venture +upon a "row" of which she had dreamed, comes shrinking down with a pale, +frightened face, and the bitterness of despair in her heart. She has +lost. What then? She has no friend from whom she can borrow enough money +to redeem the clothing, and if it is not taken home she may be arrested +as a thief and sent to prison. She goes away, and temptation lies close +at her feet. It is her extremity and the evil one's opportunity. So far +she has kept herself pure, but the disgrace of a public prosecution and +a sentence to prison are terrible things to contemplate. She is in peril +of her soul. God help her! + +Who is this dressed in rusty black garments and closely veiled, who +comes up from the restaurant, one of the convenient and unsuspected +entrances to this robber's den?--for a "policy-shop" is simply a robbery +shop, and is so regarded by the law, which sets a penalty upon the +"writer" and the "backer" as upon other criminals. But who is this +veiled woman in faded mourning garments who comes gliding as noiselessly +as a ghost out from one of the rooms of the restaurant, and along the +narrow entry leading to the stairway, now so thronged with visitors? +Every day she comes and goes, no one seeing her face, and every day, +with rare exceptions, her step is slower and her form visibly more +shrunken when she goes out than when she comes in. She is a broken-down +gentlewoman, the widow of an officer, who left her at his death a +moderate fortune, and quite sufficient for the comfortable maintenance +of herself and two nearly grown-up daughters. But she had lived at +the South, and there acquired a taste for lottery gambling. During her +husband's lifetime she wasted considerable money in lottery tickets, +once or twice drawing small prizes, but like all lottery dupes spending +a hundred dollars for one gained. The thing had become a sort of mania +with her. She thought so much of prizes and drawn numbers through the +day that she dreamed of them all night. She had a memorandum-book in +which were all the combinations she had ever heard of as taking prizes. +It contained page after page of lucky numbers and fancy "rows," and was +oftener in her hand than any other book. + +There being no public sale of lottery tickets in Northern cities, this +weak and infatuated woman found out where some of the "policy-shops" +were kept, and instead of buying tickets, as before, risked her money on +numbers that might or might not come out of the wheel in lotteries said +to be drawn in certain Southern States, but chiefly in Kentucky. The +numbers rarely if ever came out. The chances were too remote. After her +husband's death she began fretting over the smallness of her income. It +was not sufficient to give her daughters the advantages she desired +them to have, and she knew of but one way to increase it. That way was +through the policy-shops. So she gave her whole mind to this business, +with as much earnestness and self-absorption as a merchant gives himself +to trade. She had a dream-book, gotten up especially for policy buyers, +and consulted it as regularly as a merchant does his price-current or a +broker the sales of stock. Every day she bet on some "row" or series of +"rows," rarely venturing less than five dollars, and sometimes, when she +felt more than usually confident, laying down a twenty-dollar bill, +for the "hit" when made gave from fifty to two hundred dollars for each +dollar put down, varying according to the nature of the combinations. So +the more faith a policy buyer had in his "row," the larger the venture +he would feel inclined to make. + +Usually it went all one way with the infatuated lady. Day after day she +ventured, and day after day she lost, until from hundreds the sums she +was spending had aggregated themselves into thousands. She changed from +one policy-shop to another, hoping for better luck. It was her business +to find them out, and this she was able to do by questioning some of +those whom she met at the shops. One of these was in a building on a +principal street, the second story of which was occupied by a milliner. +It was visited mostly by ladies, who could pass in from the street, +no one suspecting their errand. Another was in the attic of a house in +which were many offices and places of business, with people going in and +coming out all the while, none but the initiated being in the secret; +while another was to be found in the rear of a photograph gallery. Every +day and often twice a day, as punctually as any man of business, did +this lady make her calls at one and another of these policy-offices to +get the drawings or make new ventures. At remote intervals she would +make a "hit;" once she drew twenty dollars, and once fifty. But for +these small gains she had paid thousands of dollars. + +After a "hit" the betting on numbers would be bolder. Once she selected +what was known as a "lucky row," and determined to double on it until it +came out a prize. She began by putting down fifty cents. On the next day +she put down a dollar upon the same combination, losing, of course, +Two dollars were ventured on the next day; and so she went on doubling, +until, in her desperate infatuation, she doubled for the ninth time, +putting down two hundred and fifty-six dollars. + +If successful now, she would draw over twenty-five thousand dollars. +There was no sleep for the poor lady during the night that followed. +She walked the floor of her chamber in a state of intense nervous +excitement, sometimes in a condition of high hope and confidence and +sometimes haunted by demons of despair. She sold five shares of stock +on which she had been receiving an annual dividend of ten per cent., in +order to get funds for this desperate gambling venture, in which over +five hundred dollars had now been absorbed. + +Pale and nervous, she made her appearance at the breakfast-table on the +next morning, unable to take a mouthful of food. It was in vain that her +anxious daughters urged her to eat. + +A little after twelve o'clock she was at the policy-office. The drawn +numbers for the morning were already in. Her combination was 4, 10, 40. +With an eagerness that could not be repressed, she caught up the slip +of paper containing the thirteen numbers out of seventy-five, which +purported to have been drawn that morning somewhere in "Kentucky," and +reported by telegraph--caught it up with hands that shook so violently +that she could not read the figures. She had to lay the piece of paper +down upon the little counter before which she stood, in order that it +might be still, so that she could read her fate. + +The first drawn number was 4. What a wild leap her heart gave! The next +was 24; the next 8; the next 70; the next 41, and the next 39. Her heart +grew almost still; the pressure as of a great hand was on her bosom. 10 +came next. Two numbers of her row were out. A quiver of excitement ran +through her frame. She caught up the paper, but it shook as before, so +that she could not see the figures. Dashing it back upon the counter, +and holding it down almost violently, she bent over, with eyes starting +from their sockets, and read the line of figures to the end, then sank +over upon the counter with a groan, and lay there half fainting and too +weak to lift herself up. If the 40 had been there, she would have made a +hit of twenty-five thousand dollars. But the 40 was not there, and this +made all the difference. + +"Once more," said the policy-dealer, in a tone of encouragement, as he +bent over the miserable woman. "Yesterday, 4 came out; to-day, 4, 10; +tomorrow will be the lucky chance; 4, 10, 40 will surely be drawn. I +never knew this order to fail. If it had been 10 first, and then 4, 10, +or 10, 4, I would not advise you to go on. But 4, 10, 40 will be drawn +to-morrow as sure as fate." + +"What numbers did you say? 4, 10, 40?" asked an old man, ragged and +bloated, who came shuffling in as the last remarks was made. + +"Yes," answered the dealer. "This lady has been doubling, and as the +chances go, her row is certain to make a hit to-morrow." + +"Ha! What's the row? 4, 10, 40?" + +"Yes." + +The old man fumbled in his pocket, and brought out ten cents. + +"I'll go that on the row. Give me a piece." + +The dealer took a narrow slip of paper and wrote on it the date, the +sum risked and the combination of figures, and handed it to the old man, +saying, + +"Come here to-morrow; and if the bottom of the world doesn't drop out, +you'll find ten dollars waiting for you." + +Two or three others were in by this time, eager to look over the list of +drawn numbers and to make new bets. + +"Glory!" cried one of them, a vile-looking young woman, and she +commenced dancing about the room. + +All was excitement now. "A hit! a hit!" was cried. "How much? how much?" +and they gathered to the little counter and desk of the policy-dealer. + +"1, 2, 3," cried the girl, dancing about and waving her little slip +of paper over her head. "I knew it would come--dreamed of them numbers +three nights hand running! Hand over the money, old chap! Fifteen +dollars for fifteen cents! That's the go!" + +The policy-dealer took the girl's "piece," and after comparing it with +the record of drawn numbers, said, in a pleased voice, + +"All right! A hit, sure enough. You're in luck to-day." + +The girl took the money, that was promptly paid down, and as she counted +it over the dealer remarked, + +"There's a doubling game going on, and it's to be up to-morrow, sure." + +"What's the row?" inquired the girl. + +"4, 10, 40," said the dealer. + +"Then count me in;" and she laid down five dollars on the counter. + +"Take my advice and go ten," urged the policy-dealer. + +"No, thank you! shouldn't know what to do with more than five hundred +dollars. I'll only go five dollars this time." + +The "writer," as a policy-seller is called, took the money and gave +the usual written slip of paper containing the selected numbers; +loudly proclaiming her good luck, the girl then went away. She was an +accomplice to whom a "piece" had been secretly given after the drawn +numbers were in. + +Of course this hit was the sensation of the day among the policy-buyers +at that office, and brought in large gains. + +The wretched woman who had just seen five hundred dollars vanish into +nothing instead of becoming, as under the wand of an enchanter, a +great heap of gold, listened in a kind of maze to what passed around +her--listened and let the tempter get to her ear again. She went away, +stooping in her gait as one bearing a heavy burden. Before an hour had +passed hope had lifted her again into confidence. She had to make but +one venture more to double on the risk of the day previous, and secure a +fortune that would make both herself and daughters independent for life. + +Another sale of good stocks, another gambling venture and another loss, +swelling the aggregate in this wild and hopeless "doubling" experiment +to over a thousand dollars. + +But she was not cured. As regularly as a drunkard goes to the bar went +she to the policy-shops, every day her fortune growing less. Poverty +began to pinch. The house in which she lived with her daughters was +sold, and the unhappy family shrunk into a single room in a third-rate +boarding-house. But their income soon became insufficient to meet the +weekly demand for board. Long before this the daughters had sought for +something to do by which to earn a little money. Pride struggled hard +with them, but necessity was stronger than pride. + +We finish the story in a few words. In a moment of weakness, with want +and hard work staring her in the face, one of the daughters married +a man who broke her heart and buried her in less than two years. The +other, a weak and sickly girl, got a situation as day governess in the +family of an old friend of her father's, where she was kindly treated, +but she lived only a short time after her sister's death. + +And still there was no abatement of the mother's infatuation. She was +more than half insane on the subject of policy gambling, and confident +of yet retrieving her fortunes. + +At the time Pinky Swett and her friend in evil saw her come gliding up +from the restaurant in faded mourning garments and closely veiled, she +was living alone in a small, meagrely furnished room, and cooking her +own food. + +Everything left to her at her husband's death was gone. She earned a +dollar or two each week by making shirts and drawers for the slop-shops, +spending every cent of this in policies. A few old friends who pitied +her, but did not know of the vice in which she indulged, paid her +rent and made occasional contributions for her support. All of these +contributions, beyond the amount required for a very limited supply of +food, went to the policy-shops. It was a mystery to her friends how she +had managed to waste the handsome property left by her husband, but no +one suspected the truth. + + + + +CHAPTER X. + + + +"_WHO'S_ that, I wonder?" asked Nell Peter as the dark, close-veiled +figure glided past them on the stairs. + +"Oh, she's a policy-drunkard," answered Pinky, loud enough to be heard +by the woman, who, as if surprised or alarmed, stopped and turned her +head, her veil falling partly away, and disclosing features so pale and +wasted that she looked more like a ghost than living flesh and blood. +There was a strange gleam in her eyes. She paused only for an instant, +but her steps were slower as she went on climbing the steep and narrow +stairs that led to the policy-office. + +"Good Gracious, Pinky! did you ever see such a face?" exclaimed Nell +Peter. "It's a walking ghost, I should say, and no woman at all." + +"Oh, I've seen lots of 'em," answered Pinky. "She's a policy-drunkard. +Bad as drinking when it once gets hold of 'em. They tipple all the time, +sell anything, beg, borrow, steal or starve themselves to get money to +buy policies. She's one of 'em that's starving." + +By this time they had reached the policy-office. It was in a small room +on the third floor of the back building, yet as well known to the police +of the district as if it had been on the front street. One of these +public guardians soon after his appointment through political influence, +and while some wholesome sense of duty and moral responsibility yet +remained, caused the "writer" in this particular office to be arrested. +He thought that he had done a good thing, and looked for approval and +encouragement. But to his surprise and chagrin he found that he had +blundered. The case got no farther than the alderman's. Just how it was +managed he did not know, but it was managed, and the business of the +office went on as before. + +A little light came to him soon after, on meeting a prominent politician +to whom he was chiefly indebted for his appointment. Said this +individual, with a look of warning and a threat in his voice, + +"See here, my good fellow; I'm told that you've been going out of your +way and meddling with the policy-dealers. Take my advice, and mind your +own business. If you don't, it will be all day with you. There isn't a +man in town strong enough to fight this thing, so you'd better let it +alone." + +And he did let it alone. He had a wife and three little children, and +couldn't afford to lose his place. So he minded his own business, and +let it alone. + +Pinky and her friend entered this small third-story back room. Behind a +narrow, unpainted counter, having a desk at one end, stood a middle-aged +man, with dark, restless eyes that rarely looked you in the face. He +wore a thick but rather closely-cut beard and moustache. The police knew +him very well; so did the criminal lawyers, when he happened to come in +their way; so did the officials of two or three State prisons in which +he had served out partial sentences. He was too valuable to political +"rings" and associations antagonistic to moral and social well-being +to be left idle in the cell of a penitentiary for the whole term of a +commitment. Politicians have great influence, and governors are human. + +On the walls of the room were pasted a few pictures cut from the +illustrated papers, some of them portraits of leading politicians, and +some of them portraits of noted pugilists and sporting-men. The picture +of a certain judge, who had made himself obnoxious to the fraternity +of criminals by his severe sentences, was turned upside down. There was +neither table nor chair in the room. + +The woman in black had passed in just before the girls, and was waiting +her turn to examine the drawn numbers. She had not tasted food since the +day before, having ventured her only dime on a policy, and was feeling +strangely faint and bewildered. She did not have to wait long. It was +the old story. Her combination had not come out, and she was starving. +As she moved back toward the door she staggered a little. Pinky, who had +become curious about her, noticed this, and watched her as she went out. + +"It's about up with the old lady, I guess," she said to her companion, +with an unfeeling laugh. + +And she was right. On the next morning the poor old woman was found dead +in her room, and those who prepared her for burial said that she +was wasted to a skeleton. She had, in fact, starved herself in her +infatuation, spending day after day in policies what she should have +spent for food. Pinky's strange remark was but too true. She had become +a policy-drunkard--a vice almost as disastrous in its effects as its +kindred, vice, intemperance, though less brutalizing and less openly +indulged. + +"Where now?" was the question of Pinky's friend as they came down, after +spending in policies all the money they had received from the sale of +Flora Bond's clothing. "Any other game?" + +"Yes." + +"What?" + +"Come along to my room, and I'll tell you." + +"Round in Ewing street?" + +"Yes. Great game up, if I can only get on the track." + +"What is it?" + +"There's a cast-off baby in Dirty Alley, and Fan Bray knows its mother, +and she's rich." + +"What?" + +"Fan's getting lots of hush-money." + +"Goody! but that is game!" + +"Isn't it? The baby's owned by two beggar-women who board it in Dirty +Alley. It's 'most starved and frozen to death, and Fan's awful 'fraid +it may die. She wants me to steal it for her, so that she may have it +better taken care of, and I was going to do it last night, when I got +into a muss." + +"Who's the woman that boards it?" + +"She lives in a cellar, and is drunk every night. Can steal the brat +easily enough; but if I can't find out who it belongs to, you see it +will be trouble for nothing." + +"No, I don't see any such thing," answered Nell Peter. "If you can't get +hush-money out of its mother, you can bleed Fanny Bray." + +"That's so, and I'm going to bleed her. The mother, you see, thinks +the baby's dead. The proud old grandmother gave it away, as soon as was +born, to a woman that Fan Bray found for her. Its mother was out of her +head, and didn't know nothing. That woman sold the baby to the women who +keep it to beg with. She's gone up the spout now, and nobody knows who +the mother and grandmother are but Fan, and nobody knows where the baby +is but me and Fan. She's bleeding the old lady, and promises to share +with me if I keep track of the baby and see that it isn't killed or +starved to death. But I don't trust her. She puts me off with fives and +tens, when I'm sure she gets hundreds. Now, if we have the baby all +to ourselves, and find out the mother and grandmother, won't we have a +splendid chance? I'll bet you on that." + +"Won't we? Why, Pinky, this is a gold-mine!" + +"Didn't I tell you there was great game up? I was just wanting some one +to help me. Met you in the nick of time." + +The two girls had now reached Pinky's room in Ewing street, where they +continued in conference for a long time before settling their plans. + +"Does Fan know where you live?" queried Nell Peter. + +"Yes." + +"Then you will have to change your quarters." + +"Easily done. Doesn't take half a dozen furniture-cars to move me." + +"I know a room." + +"Where?" + +"It's a little too much out of the way, you'll think, maybe, but +it's just the dandy for hiding in. You cart keep the brat there, and +nobody--" + +"Me keep the brat?" interrupted Pinky, with a derisive laugh. "That's a +good one! I see myself turned baby-tender! Ha! ha! that's funny!" + +"What do you expect to do with the child after you steal it?" asked +Pinky's friend. + +"I don't intend to nurse it or have it about me." + +"What then?" + +"Board if with some one who doesn't get drunk or buy policies." + +"You'll hunt for a long time." + +"Maybe, but I'll try. Anyhow, it can't be worse off than it is now. What +I'm afraid of is that it will be out of its misery before we can get +hold of it. The woman who is paid for keeping it at night doesn't give +it any milk--just feeds it on bread soaked in water, and that is slow +starvation. It's the way them that don't want to keep their babies get +rid of them about here." + +"The game's up if the baby dies," said Nell Peter, growing excited under +this view of the case. "If it only gets bread soaked in water, it can't +live. I've seen that done over and over again. They're starving a baby +on bread and water now just over from my room, and it cries and frets +and moans all the time it's awake, poor little wretch! I've been +in hopes for a week that they'd give it an overdose of paregoric or +something else." + +"We must fix it to-night in some way," answered Pinky. "Where's the room +you spoke of?" + +"In Grubb's court. You know Grubb's court?--a kind of elbow going off +from Rider's court. There's a room up there that you can get where even +the police would hardly find you out." + +"Thieves live there," said Pinky. + +"No matter. They'll not trouble you or the baby." + +"Is the room furnished?" + +"Yes. There's a bed and a table and two chairs." + +After farther consultation it was decided that Pinky should move at +once from her present lodgings to the room in Grubb's court, and get, if +possible, possession of the baby that very night. The moving was easily +accomplished after the room was secured. Two small bundles of clothing +constituted Pinky's entire effects; and taking these, the two girls went +quietly out, leaving a week's rent unpaid. + +The night that closed this early winter day was raw and cold, the +easterly wind still prevailing, with occasional dashes of rain. In a +cellar without fire, except a few bits of smouldering wood in an old +clay furnace, that gave no warmth to the damp atmosphere, and with +scarcely an article of furniture, a woman half stupid from drink sat on +a heap of straw, her bed, with her hands clasped about her knees. She +was rocking her body backward and forward, and crooning to herself in a +maudlin way. A lighted tallow candle stood on the floor of the cellar, +and near it a cup of water, in which was a spoon and some bread soaking. + +"Mother Hewitt!" called a voice from the cellar door that opened on the +street. "Here, take the baby!" + +Mother Hewitt, as she was called, started up and made her way with an +unsteady gait to the front part of the cellar, where a woman in not +much better condition than herself stood holding out a bundle of rags in +which a fretting baby was wrapped. + +"Quick, quick!" called the woman. "And see here," she continued as +Mother Hewitt reached her arms for the baby; "I don't believe you're +doing the right thing. Did he have plenty of milk last night and this +morning?" + +"Just as much as he would take." + +"I don't believe it. He's been frettin' and chawin' at the strings of +his hood all the afternoon, when he ought to have been asleep, and he's +looking punier every day. I believe you're giving him only bread and +water." + +But Mother Hewitt protested that she gave him the best of new milk, and +as much as he would take. + +"Well, here's a quarter," said the woman, handing Mother Hewitt some +money; "and see that he is well fed to-night and to-morrow morning. He's +getting 'most too deathly in his face. The people won't stand it if they +think a baby's going to die--the women 'specially, and most of all the +young things that have lost babies. One of these--I know 'em by the way +they look out of their eyes--came twice to-day and stood over him sad +and sorrowful like; she didn't give me anything. I've seen her before. +Maybe she's his mother. As like as nor, for nobody knows where he came +from. Wasn't Sally Long's baby; always thought she'd stole him from +somebody. Now, mind, he's to have good milk every day, or I'll change +his boarding-house. D'ye hear!" + +And laughing at this sally, the woman turned away to spend in a night's +debauch the money she had gained in half a day's begging. + +Left to herself, Mother Hewitt went staggering back with the baby in +her arms, and seated herself on the ground beside the cup of bread and +water, which was mixed to the consistence of cream. As she did so the +light of her poor candle fell on the baby's face. It was pinched and +hungry and ashen pale, the thin lips wrought by want and suffering into +such sad expressions of pain that none but the most stupid and hardened +could look at them and keep back a gush of tears. + +But Mother Hewitt saw nothing of this--felt nothing of this. Pity and +tenderness had long since died out of her heart. As she laid the baby +back on one arm she took a spoonful of the mixture prepared for its +supper, and pushed it roughly into its mouth. The baby swallowed it with +a kind of starving eagerness, but with no sign of satisfaction on +its sorrowful little face. But Mother Hewitt was too impatient to get +through with her work of feeding the child, and thrust in spoonful after +spoonful until it choked, when she shook it angrily, calling it vile +names. + +The baby cried feebly at this, when she shook it again and slapped it +with her heavy hand. Then it grew still. She put the spoon again to its +lips, but it shut them tightly and turned its head away. + +"Very well," said Mother Hewitt. "If you won't, you won't;" and she +tossed the helpless thing as she would have tossed a senseless bundle +over upon the heap of straw that served as a bed, adding, as she did so, +"I never coaxed my own brats." + +The baby did not cry. Mother Hewitt then blew out the candle, and +groping her way to the door of the cellar that opened on the street, +went out, shutting down the heavy door behind her, and leaving the child +alone in that dark and noisome den--alone in its foul and wet garments, +but, thanks to kindly drugs, only partially conscious of its misery. + +Mother Hewitt's first visit was to the nearest dram-shop. Here she spent +for liquor five cents of the money she had received. From the dram-shop +she went to Sam McFaddon's policy-office. This was not hidden away, +like most of the offices, in an upper room or a back building or in some +remote cellar, concealed from public observation, but stood with open +door on the very street, its customers going in and out as freely and +unquestioned as the customers of its next-door neighbor, the dram-shop. +Policemen passed Sam's door a hundred times in every twenty-four hours, +saw his customers going in and out, knew their errand, talked with Sam +about his business, some of them trying their luck occasionally after +there had been an exciting "hit," but none reporting him or in any way +interfering with his unlicensed plunder of the miserable and besotted +wretches that crowded his neighborhood. + +From the whisky-shop to the policy-shop went Mother Hewitt. Here she put +down five cents more; she never bet higher than this on a "row." From +the policy-shop she went back to the whisky-shop, and took another +drink. By this time she was beginning to grow noisy. It so happened that +the woman who had left the baby with her a little while before came in +just then, and being herself much the worse for drink, picked a quarrel +with Mother Hewitt, accusing her of getting drunk on the money she +received for keeping the baby, and starving it to death. A fight was the +consequence, in which they were permitted to tear and scratch and bruise +each other in a shocking way, to the great enjoyment of the little +crowd of debased and brutal men and women who filled the dram-shop. But +fearing a visit from the police, the owner of the den, a strong, coarse +Irishman, interfered, and dragging the women apart, pushed Mother Hewitt +out, giving her so violent an impetus that she fell forward into the +middle of the narrow street, where she lay unable to rise, not from any +hurt, but from sheer intoxication. + +"What's up now?" cried one and another as this little ripple of +disturbance broke upon that vile and troubled sea of humanity. + +"Only Mother Hewitt drunk again!" lightly spoke a young girl not out +of her teens, but with a countenance that seemed marred by centuries of +debasing evil. Her laugh would have made an angel shiver. + +A policeman came along, and stood for a little while looking at the +prostrate woman. + +"It's Mother Hewitt," said one of the bystanders. + +"Here, Dick," and the policeman spoke to a man near him. "Take hold of +her feet." + +The man did as told, and the policeman lifting the woman's head and +shoulders, they carried her a short distance, to where a gate opened +into a large yard used for putting in carts and wagons at night, and +deposited her on the ground just inside. + +"She can sleep it off there," said the policeman as he dropped his +unseemly load. "She'll have a-plenty to keep her company before +morning." + +And so they left her without covering or shelter in the wet and chilly +air of a late November night, drunk and asleep. + +As the little crowd gathered by this ripple of excitement melted away, a +single figure remained lurking in a corner of the yard and out of sight +in its dark shadow. It was that of a man. The moment he was alone with +the unconscious woman he glided toward her with the alert movements of +an animal, and with a quickness that made his work seem instant, rifled +her pockets. His gains were ten cents and the policy-slip she had just +received at Sam McFaddon's. He next examined her shoes, but they were of +no value, lifted her dirty dress and felt its texture for a moment, then +dropped it with a motion of disgust and a growl of disappointment. + +As he came out from the yard with his poor booty, the light from a +street-lamp fell on as miserable a looking wretch as ever hid himself +from the eyes of day--dirty, ragged, bloated, forlorn, with scarcely a +trace of manhood in his swollen and disfigured face. His steps, quick +from excitement a few moments before, were now shambling and made +with difficulty. He had not far to walk for what he was seeking. The +ministers to his appetite were all about him, a dozen in every block of +that terrible district that seemed as if forsaken by God and man. Into +the first that came in his way he went with nervous haste, for he had +not tasted of the fiery stimulant he was craving with a fierce and +unrelenting thirst for many hours. He did not leave the bar until he had +drank as much of the burning poison its keeper dispensed as his booty +would purchase. In less than half an hour he was thrown dead drunk into +the street and then carried by policemen to the old wagon-yard, to take +his night's unconscious rest on the ground in company with Mother Hewitt +and a score besides of drunken wretches who were pitilessly turned out +from the various dram-shops after their money was spent, and who +were not considered by the police worth the trouble of taking to the +station-house. + +When Mother Hewitt crept back into her cellar at daylight, the baby was +gone. + + + + +CHAPTER XI. + + + +_FOR_ more than a week after Edith's call on Dr. Radcliffe she seemed to +take but little interest in anything, and remained alone in her room +for a greater part of the time, except when her father was in the house. +Since her questions about her baby a slight reserve had risen up between +them. During this time she went out at least once every day, and when +questioned by her mother as to where she had been, evaded any direct +answer. If questioned more closely, she would show a rising spirit and +a decision of manner that had the effect to silence and at the same time +to trouble Mrs. Dinneford, whose mind was continually on the rack. + +One day the mother and daughter met in a part of the city where neither +of them dreamed of seeing the other. It was not far from where Mrs. Bray +lived. Mrs. Dinneford had been there on a purgational visit, and had +come away lighter in purse and with a heavier burden of fear and anxiety +on her heart. + +"What are you doing here?" she demanded. + +"I've been to St. John's mission sewing-school," replied Edith. "I have +a class there." + +"You have! Why didn't you tell me this before? I don't like such doings. +This is no place for you." + +"My place is where I can do good," returned Edith, speaking slowly, but +with great firmness. + +"Good! You can do good if you want to without demeaning yourself to work +like this. I don't want you mixed up with these low, vile people, and I +won't have it!" Mrs. Dinneford spoke in a sharp, positive voice. + +Edith made no answer, and they walked on together. + +"I shall speak to your father about this," said Mrs. Dinneford. "It +isn't reputable. I wouldn't have you seen here for the world." + +"I shall walk unhurt; you need not fear," returned Edith. + +There was silence between them for some time, Edith not caring to speak, +and her mother in doubt as to what it were best to say. + +"How long have you been going to St. John's mission school?" at length +queried Mrs. Dinneford. + +"I've been only a few times," replied Edith. + +"And have a class of diseased and filthy little wretches, I +suppose--gutter children?" + +"They are God's children," said Edith, in a tone of rebuke. + +"Oh, don't preach to me!" was angrily replied. + +"I only said what was true," remarked Edith. + +There was silence again. + +"Are you going directly home?" asked Mrs. Dinneford, after they had +walked the distance of several blocks. Edith replied that she was. + +"Then you'd better take that car. I shall not be home for an hour yet." + +They separated, Edith taking the car. As soon as she was alone Mrs. +Dinneford quickened her steps, like a person who had been held back +from some engagement. A walk of ten minutes brought her to one of +the principal hotels of the city. Passing in, she went up to a +reception-parlor, where she was met by a man who rose from a seat +near the windows and advanced to the middle of the room. He was of low +stature, with quick, rather nervous movements, had dark, restless eyes, +and wore a heavy black moustache that was liberally sprinkled with +gray. The lower part of his face was shaved clean. He showed some +embarrassment as he came forward to meet Mrs. Dinneford. + +"Mr. Feeling," she said, coldly. + +The man bowed with a mixture of obsequiousness and familiarity, and +tried to look steadily into Mrs. Dinneford's face, but was not able to +do so. There was a steadiness and power in her eyes that his could not +bear. + +"What do you want with me, sir?" she demanded, a little sharply. + +"Take a chair, and I will tell you," replied Freeling, and he turned, +moving toward a corner of the room, she following. They sat down, taking +chairs near each other. + +"There's trouble brewing," said the man, his face growing dark and +anxious. + +"What kind of trouble?" + +"I had a letter from George Granger yesterday." + +"What!" The color went out of the lady's face. + +"A letter from George Granger. He wished to see me." + +"Did you go?" + +"Yes." + +"What did he want?" + +Freeling took a deep breath, and sighed. His manner was troubled. + +"What did he want?" Mrs. Dinneford repeated the question. + +"He's as sane as you or I," said Freeling. + +"Is he? Oh, very well! Then let him go to the State's prison." Mrs. +Dinneford said this with some bravado in her manner. But the color did +not come back to her face. + +"He has no idea of that," was replied. + +"What then?" The lady leaned toward Freeling. Her hands moved nervously. + +"He means to have the case in court again, but on a new issue." + +"He does!" + +"Yes; says that he's innocent, and that you and I know it--that he's the +victim of a conspiracy, and that we are the conspirators!" + +"Talk!--amounts to nothing," returned Mrs. Dinneford, with a faint +little laugh. + +"I don't know about that. It's ugly talk, and especially so, seeing that +it's true." + +"No one will give credence to the ravings of an insane criminal." + +"People are quick to credit an evil report. They will pity and believe +him, now that the worst is reached. A reaction in public feeling has +already taken place. He has one or two friends left who do not hesitate +to affirm that there has been foul play. One of these has been tampering +with a clerk of mine, and I came upon them with their heads together +on the street a few days ago, and had my suspicions aroused by their +startled look when they saw me." + +"'What did that man want with you?' I inquired, when the clerk came in. + +"He hesitated a moment, and then replied, 'He was asking me something +about Mr. Granger.' + +"'What about him?' I queried. 'He asked me if I knew anything in regard +to the forgery,' he returned. + +"I pressed him with questions, and found that suspicion was on the right +track. This friend of Granger's asked particularly about your visits +to the store, and whether he had ever noticed anything peculiar in +our intercourse--anything that showed a familiarity beyond what would +naturally arise between a customer and salesman." + +"There's nothing in that," said Mrs. Dinneford. "If you and I keep our +own counsel, we are safe. The testimony of a condemned criminal goes for +nothing. People may surmise and talk as much as they please, but no one +knows anything about those notes but you and I and George." + +"A pardon from the governor may put a new aspect on the case." + +"A pardon!" There was a tremor of alarm in Mrs. Dinneford's voice. + +"Yes; that, no doubt, will be the first move." + +"The first move! Why, Mr. Freeling, you don't think anything like this +is in contemplation?" + +"I'm afraid so. George, as I have said, is no more crazy than you or I. +But he cannot come out of the asylum, as the case now stands, without +going to the penitentiary. So the first move of his friends will be to +get a pardon. Then he is our equal in the eyes of the law. It would be +an ugly thing for you and me to be sued for a conspiracy to ruin this +young man, and have the charge of forgery added to the count." + +Mrs. Dinneford gave a low cry, and shivered. + +"But it may come to that." + +"Impossible!" + +"The prudent man foreseeth the evil and hideth himself, but the simple +pass on and are punished," said Freeling. "It is for this that I have +sent for you. It's an ugly business, and I was a weak fool ever to have +engaged in it." + +"You were a free agent." + +"I was a weak fool." + +"As you please," returned Mrs. Dinneford, coldly, and drawing herself +away from him. + +It was some moments before either of them spoke again. Then Freeling +said, + +"I was awake all night, thinking over this matter, and it looks uglier +the more I think of it. It isn't likely that enough evidence could be +found to convict either of us, but to be tried on such an accusation +would be horrible." + +"Horrible! horrible!" ejaculated Mrs. Dinneford. "What is to be done?" +She gave signs of weakness and terror. Freeling observed her closely, +then felt his way onward. + +"We are in great peril," he said. "There is no knowing what turn affairs +will take. I only wish I were a thousand miles from here. It would be +safer for us both." Then, after a pause, he added, "If I were foot-free, +I would be off to-morrow." + +He watched Mrs. Dinneford closely, and saw a change creep over her face. + +"If I were to disappear suddenly," he resumed, "suspicion, if it took +a definite shape, would fall on me. You would not be thought of in the +matter." + +He paused again, observing his companion keenly but stealthily. He was +not able to look her fully in the face. + +"Speak out plainly," said Mrs. Dinneford, with visible impatience. + +"Plainly, then, madam," returned Freeling, changing his whole bearing +toward her, and speaking as one who felt that he was master of the +situation, "it has come to this: I shall have to break up and leave +the city, or there will be a new trial in which you and I will be the +accused. Now, self-preservation is the first law of nature. I don't mean +to go to the State's prison if I can help it. What I am now debating +are the chances in my favor if Granger gets a pardon, and then makes +an effort to drive us to the wall, which he most surely will. I have +settled it so far--" + +Mrs. Dinneford leaned toward him with an anxious expression on her +countenance, waiting for the next sentence. But Freeling did not go on. + +"How have you settled it?" she demanded, trembling as she spoke with the +excitement of suspense. + +"That I am not going to the wall if I can help it." + +"How will you help it?" + +"I have an accomplice;" and this time he was able to look at Mrs. +Dinneford with such a fixed and threatening gaze that her eyes fell. + +"You have?" she questioned, in a husky voice. + +"Yes." + +"Who?" + +"Mrs. Helen Dinneford. And do you think for a moment that to save myself +I would hesitate to sacrifice her?" + +The lady's face grew white. She tried to speak, but could not. + +"I am talking plainly, as you desired, madam," continued Freeling. +"You led me into this thing. It was no scheme of mine; and if more evil +consequences are to come, I shall do my best to save my own head. Let +the hurt go to where it rightfully belongs." + +"What do you mean?" Mrs. Dinneford tried to rally herself. + +"Just this," was answered: "if I am dragged into court, I mean to go +in as a witness, and not as a criminal. At the first movement toward an +indictment, I shall see the district attorney, whom I know very well, +and give him such information in the case as will lead to fixing the +crime on you alone, while I will come in as the principal witness. This +will make your conviction certain." + +"Devil!" exclaimed Mrs. Dinneford, her white face convulsed and her eyes +starting from their sockets with rage and fear. "Devil!" she repeated, +not able to control her passion. + +"Then you know me," was answered, with cool self-possession, "and what +you have to expect." + +Neither spoke for a considerable time. Up to this period they had been +alone in the parlor. Guests of the house now came in and took seats +near them. They arose and walked the floor for a little while, still in +silence, then passed into an adjoining parlor that happened to be empty, +and resumed the conference. + +"This is a last resort," remarked Freeling, softening his voice as they +sat down--"a card that I do not wish to play, and shall not if I can +help it. But it is best that you should know that it is in my hand. If +there is any better way of escape, I shall take it." + +"You spoke of going away," said Mrs. Dinneford. + +"Yes. But that involves a great deal." + +"What?" + +"The breaking up of my business, and loss of money and opportunities +that I can hardly hope ever to regain." + +"Why loss of money?" + +"I shall have to wind up hurriedly, and it will be impossible to collect +more than a small part of my outstanding claims. I shall have to go +away under a cloud, and it will not be prudent to return. Most of these +claims will therefore become losses. The amount of capital I shall be +able to take will not be sufficient to do more than provide for a small +beginning in some distant place and under an assumed name. On the other +hand, if I remain and fight the thing through, as I have no doubt I can, +I shall keep my business and my place in society here--hurt, it may be, +in my good name, but still with the main chance all right. But it will +be hard for you. If I pass the ordeal safely, you will not. And the +question to consider is whether you can make it to my interest to go +away, to drop out of sight, injured in fortune and good name, while you +go unscathed. You now have it all in a nutshell. I will not press you to +a decision to-day. Your mind is too much disturbed. To-morrow, at noon, +I would like to see you again." + +Freeling made a motion to rise, but Mrs. Dinneford did not stir. + +"Perhaps," he said, "you decide at once to let things take their course. +Understand me, I am ready for either alternative. The election is with +yourself." + +Mrs. Dinneford was too much stunned by all this to be able to come to +any conclusion. She seemed in the maze of a terrible dream, full of +appalling reality. To wait for twenty-four hours in this state of +uncertainty was more than her thoughts could endure. And yet she must +have time to think, and to get command of her mental resources. + +"Will you be disengaged at five o'clock?" she asked. + +"Yes." + +"I will be here at five." + +"Very well." + +Mrs. Dinneford arose with a weary air. + +"I shall want to hear from you very explicitly," she said. "If your +demand is anywhere in the range of reason and possibility, I may +meet it. If outside of that range, I shall of course reject it. It is +possible that you may not hold all the winning cards--in fact, I know +that you do not." + +"I will be here at five," said Freeling. + +"Very well. I shall be on time." + +And they turned from each other, passing from the parlor by separate +doors. + + + + +CHAPTER XII. + + + +_ONE_ morning, about two weeks later, Mr. Freeling did not make his +appearance at his place of business as usual. At ten o'clock a clerk +went to the hotel where he boarded to learn the cause of his absence. He +had not been there since the night before. His trunks and clothing were +all in their places, and nothing in the room indicated anything more +than an ordinary absence. + +Twelve o'clock, and still Mr. Freeling had not come to the store. Two +or three notes were to be paid that day, and the managing-clerk began +to feel uneasy. The bank and check books were in a private drawer in the +fireproof of which Mr. Freeling had the key. So there was no means of +ascertaining the balances in bank. + +At one o'clock it was thought best to break open the private drawer and +see how matters stood. Freeling kept three bank-accounts, and it was +found that on the day before he had so nearly checked out all the +balances that the aggregate on deposit was not over twenty dollars. In +looking back over these bank-accounts, it was seen that within a week he +had made deposits of over fifty thousand dollars, and that most of +the checks drawn against these deposits were in sums of five thousand +dollars each. + +At three o'clock he was still absent. His notes went to protest, and on +the next day his city creditors took possession of his effects. One fact +soon became apparent--he had been paying the rogue's game on a pretty +liberal scale, having borrowed on his checks, from business friends +and brokers, not less than sixty or seventy thousand dollars. It was +estimated, on a thorough examination of his business, that he had +gone off with at least a hundred thousand dollars. To this amount Mrs. +Dinneford had contributed from her private fortune the sum of twenty +thousand dollars. Not until she had furnished him with that large amount +would he consent to leave the city. He magnified her danger, and so +overcame her with terrors that she yielded to his exorbitant demand. + +On the day a public newspaper announcement of Freeling's rascality was +made, Mrs. Dinneford went to bed sick of a nervous fever, and was for a +short period out of her mind. + +Neither Mr. Dinneford nor Edith had failed to notice a change in Mrs. +Dinneford. She was not able to hide her troubled feelings. Edith was +watching her far more closely than she imagined; and now that she was +temporarily out of her mind, she did not let a word or look escape +her. The first aspect of her temporary aberration was that of fear and +deprecation. She was pursued by some one who filled her with terror, +and she would lift her hands to keep him off, or hide her head in abject +alarm. Then she would beg him to keep away. Once she said, + +"It's no use; I can't do anything more. You're a vampire!" + +"Who is a vampire?" asked Edith, hoping that her mother would repeat +some name. + +But the question seemed to put her on her guard. The expression of fear +went out of her face, and she looked at her daughter curiously. + +Edith did not repeat the question. In a little while the mother's +wandering thoughts began to find words again, and she went on talking +in broken sentences out of which little could be gleaned. At length she +said, turning to Edith and speaking with the directness of one in her +right mind, + +"I told you her name was Gray, didn't I? Gray, not Bray." + +It was only by a quick and strong effort that Edith could steady her +voice as she replied: + +"Yes; you said it was Gray." + +"Gray, not Bray. You thought it was Bray." + +"But it's Gray," said Edith, falling in with her mother's humor. Then +she added, still trying to keep her voice even, + +"She was my nurse when baby was born." + +"Yes; she was the nurse, but she didn't--" + +Checking herself, Mrs. Dinneford rose on one arm and looked at Edith in +a frightened way, then said, hurriedly, + +"Oh, it's dead, it's dead! You know that; and the woman's dead, too." + +Edith sat motionless and silent as a statue, waiting for what more might +come. But her mother shut her lips tightly, and turned her head away. + +A long time elapsed before she was able to read in her mother's confused +utterances anything to which she could attach a meaning. At last Mrs. +Dinneford spoke out again, and with an abruptness that startled her: + +"Not another dollar, sir! Remember, you don't hold _all_ the winning +cards!" + +Edith held her breath, and sat motionless. Her mother muttered and +mumbled incoherently for a while, and then said, sharply, + +"I said I would ruin him, and I've done it!" + +"Ruin who?" asked Edith, in a repressed voice. + +This question, instead of eliciting an answer, as Edith had hoped, +brought her mother back to semi-consciousness. She rose again in bed, +and looked at her daughter in the same frightened way she had done a +little while before, then laid herself over on the pillows again. Her +lips were tightly shut. + +Edith was almost wild with suspense. The clue to that sad and painful +mystery which was absorbing her life seemed almost in her grasp. A +word from those closely-shut lips, and she would have certainty for +uncertainty. But she waited and waited until she grew faint, and still +the lips kept silent. + +But after a while Mrs. Dinneford grew uneasy, and began talking. She +moved her head from side to side, threw her arms about restlessly and +appeared greatly disturbed. + +"Not dead, Mrs. Bray?" she cried out, at last, in a clear, strong voice. + +Edith became fixed as a statue once more. + +A few moments, and Mrs. Dinneford added, + +"No, no! I won't have her coming after me. More money! You're a +vampire!" + +Then she muttered, and writhed and distorted her face like one in some +desperate struggle. Edith shuddered as she stood over her. + +After this wild paroxysm Mrs. Dinneford grew more quiet, and seemed to +sleep. Edith remained sitting by the bedside, her thoughts intent on the +strange sentences that had fallen from her Mother's lips. What mystery +lay behind them? Of what secret were they an obscure revelation? "Not +dead!" Who not dead? And again, "It's dead! You know that; and the +woman's dead, too." Then it was plain that she had heard aright the name +of the person who had called on her mother, and about whom her mother +had made a mystery. It was Bray; if not, why the anxiety to make her +believe it Gray? And this woman had been her nurse. It was plain, also, +that money was being paid for keeping secret. What secret? Then a life +had been ruined. "I said I would ruin him, and I've done it!" Who? who +could her mother mean but the unhappy man she had once called husband, +now a criminal in the eyes of the law, and only saved by insanity from a +criminal's cell? + +Putting all together, Edith's mind quickly wrought out a theory, and +this soon settled into a conviction--a conviction so close to fact that +all the chief elements were true. + +During her mother's temporary aberration, Edith never left her room +except for a few minutes at a time. Not a word or sentence escaped +her notice. But she waited and listened in vain for anything more. The +talking paroxysm was over. A stupor of mind and body followed. Out +of this a slow recovery came, but it did not progress to a full +convalescence. Mrs. Dinneford went forth from her sick-chamber weak and +nervous, starting at sudden noises, and betraying a perpetual uneasiness +and suspense. Edith was continually on the alert, watching every look +and word and act with untiring scrutiny. Mrs. Dinneford soon became +aware of this. Guilt made her wary, and danger inspired prudence. +Edith's whole manner had changed. Why? was her natural query. Had she +been wandering in her mind? Had she given any clue to the dark secrets +she was hiding? Keen observation became mutual. Mother and daughter +watched each other with a suspicion that never slept. + +It was over a month from the time Freeling disappeared before Mrs. +Dinneford was strong enough to go out, except in her carriage. In every +case where she had ridden out, Edith had gone with her. + +"If you don't care about riding, it's no matter," the mother would say, +when she saw Edith getting ready. "I can go alone. I feel quite well and +strong." + +But Edith always had some reason for going against which her mother +could urge no objections. So she kept her as closely under observation +as possible. One day, on returning from a ride, as the carriage passed +into the block where they lived, she saw a woman standing on the step in +front of their residence. She had pulled the bell, and was waiting for a +servant to answer it. + +"There is some one at our door," said Edith. + +Mrs. Dinneford leaned across her daughter, and then drew back quickly, +saying, + +"It's Mrs. Barker. Tell Henry to drive past. I don't want to see +visitors, and particularly not Mrs. Barker." + +She spoke hurriedly, and with ill-concealed agitation. Edith kept her +eyes on the woman, and saw her go in, but did not tell the driver to +keep on past the house. It was not Mrs. Barker. She knew that very well. +In the next moment their carriage drew up at the door. + +"Go on, Henry!" cried Mrs. Dinneford, leaning past her daughter, and +speaking through the window that was open on that side. "Drive down to +Loring's." + +"Not till I get out, Henry," said Edith, pushing open the door and +stepping to the pavement. Then with a quick movement she shut the door +and ran across the pavement, calling back to the driver as she did so, + +"Take mother to Loring's." + +"Stop, Henry!" cried Mrs. Dinneford, and with an alertness that was +surprising sprung from the carriage, and was on the steps of their house +before Edith's violent ring had brought a servant to the door. They +passed in, Edith holding her place just in advance. + +"I will see Mrs. Barker," said Mrs. Dinneford, trying to keep out of her +voice the fear and agitation from which she was suffering. "You can go +up to your room." + +"It isn't Mrs. Barker. You are mistaken." There was as much of betrayal +in the voice of Edith as in that of her mother. Each was trying to hide +herself from the other, but the veil in both cases was far too thin for +deception. + +Mother and daughter entered the parlor together. As they did so a woman +of small stature, and wearing a rusty black dress, arose from a seat +near the window. The moment she saw Edith she drew a heavy dark veil +over her face with a quickness of movement that had in it as much of +discomfiture as surprise. + +Mrs. Dinneford was equal to the occasion. The imminent peril in which +she stood calmed the wild tumult within, as the strong wind calms this +turbulent ocean, and gave her thoughts clearness and her mind decision. +Edith saw before the veil fell a startled face, and recognized the +sallow countenance and black, evil eyes, the woman who had once before +called to see her mother. + +"Didn't I tell you not to come here, Mrs. Gray?" cried out Mrs. +Dinneford, with an anger that was more real than feigned, advancing +quickly upon the woman as she spoke. "Go!" and she pointed to the door, +"and don't you dare to come here again. I told you when you were here +last time that I wouldn't be bothered with you any longer. I've done all +I ever intend doing. So take yourself away." + +And she pointed again to the door. Mrs. Bray--for it was that +personage--comprehended the situation fully. She was as good an actor as +Mrs. Dinneford, and quite as equal to the occasion. Lifting her hand in +a weak, deprecating way, and then shrinking like one borne down by the +shock of a great disappointment, she moved back from the excited woman +and made her way to the hall, Mrs. Dinneford following and assailing her +in passionate language. + +Edith was thrown completely off her guard by this unexpected scene. She +did not stir from the spot where she stood on entering the parlor until +the visitor was at the street door, whither her mother had followed the +retreating figure. She did not hear the woman say in the tone of one who +spoke more in command than entreaty, + +"To-morrow at one o'clock, or take the consequences." + +"It will be impossible to-morrow," Mrs. Dinneford whispered back, +hurriedly; "I have been very ill, and have only just begun to ride out. +It may be a week, but I'll surely come. I'm watched. Go now! go! go!" + +And she pushed Mrs. Bray out into the vestibule and shut the door after +her. Mrs. Dinneford did not return to the parlor, but went hastily up to +her own room, locking herself in. + +She did not come out until dinner-time, when she made an effort to seem +composed, but Edith saw her hand tremble every time it was lifted. She +drank three glasses of wine during the meal. After dinner she went to +her own apartment immediately, and did not come down again that day. + +On the next morning Mrs. Dinneford tried to appear cheerful and +indifferent. But her almost colorless face, pinched about the lips and +nostrils, and the troubled expression that would not go out of her eyes, +betrayed to Edith the intense anxiety and dread that lay beneath the +surface. + +Days went by, but Edith had no more signs. Now that her mother was +steadily getting back both bodily strength and mental self-poise, the +veil behind which she was hiding herself, and which had been broken into +rifts here and there during her sickness, grew thicker and thicker. Mrs. +Dinneford had too much at stake not to play her cards with exceeding +care. She knew that Edith was watching her with an intentness that let +nothing escape. Her first care, as soon as she grew strong enough to +have the mastery over herself, was so to control voice, manner and +expression of countenance as not to appear aware of this surveillance. +Her next was to re-establish the old distance between herself and +daughter, which her illness had temporarily bridged over, and her next +was to provide against any more visits from Mrs. Bray. + + + + +CHAPTER XIII. + + + +_AS_ for Edith, all doubts and questionings as to her baby's fate were +merged into a settled conviction that it was alive, and that her mother +knew where it was to be found. From her mother's pity and humanity she +had nothing to hope for the child. It had been cruelly cast adrift, +pushed out to die; by what means was cared not, so that it died and left +no trace. + +The face of Mrs. Bray had, in the single glance Edith obtained of it, +become photographed in her mind. If she had been an artist, she could +have drawn it from memory so accurately that no one who knew the woman +could have failed to recognize her likeness. Always when in the street +her eyes searched for this face; she never passed a woman of small +stature and poor dark clothing without turning to look at her. Every day +she went out, walking the streets sometimes for hours looking for this +face, but not finding it. Every day she passed certain corners and +localities where she had seen women begging, and whenever she found one +with a baby in her arms would stop to look at the poor starved thing, +and question her about it. + +Gradually all her thoughts became absorbed in the condition of poor, +neglected and suffering children. Her attendance at the St. John's +mission sewing-school, which was located in the neighborhood of one +of the worst places in the city, brought her in contact with little +children in such a wretched state of ignorance, destitution and vice +that her heart was moved to deepest pity, intensified by the thought +that ever and anon flashed across her mind: "And my baby may become like +one of these!" + +Sometimes this thought would drive her almost to madness. Often she +would become so wild in her suspense as to be on the verge of openly +accusing her mother with having knowledge of her baby's existence and +demanding of her its restoration. But she was held back by the fear that +such an accusation would only shut the door of hope for ever. She had +come to believe her mother capable of almost any wickedness. Pressed +to the wall she would never be if there was any way of escape, and to +prevent such at thing there was nothing so desperate that she would not +do it; and so Edith hesitated and feared to take the doubtful issue. + +Week after week and month after month now went on without a single, +occurrence that gave to Edith any new light. Mrs. Dinneford wrought with +her accomplice so effectually that she kept her wholly out of the way. +Often, in going and returning from the mission-school, Edith would +linger about the neighborhood where she had once met her mother, hoping +to see her come out of some one of the houses there, for she had got it +into her mind that the woman called Mrs. Gray lived somewhere in this +locality. + +One day, in questioning a child who had come to the sewing-school as to +her home and how she lived, the little girl said something about a baby +that her mother said she knew must have been stolen. + +"How old is the baby?" asked Edith, hardly able to keep the tremor out +of her voice. + +"It's a little thing," answered the child. "I don't know how old it is; +maybe it's six months old, or maybe it's a year. It can sit upon the +floor." + +"Why does your mother think it has been stolen?" + +"Because two bad girls have got it, and they pay a woman to take care of +it. It doesn't belong to them, she knows. Mother says it would be a good +thing if it died." + +"Why does she say that?" + +"Oh she always talks that way about babies--says she's glad when they +die." + +"Is it a boy or a girl?" + +"It's a boy baby," answered the child. + +"Does the woman take good care of it?" + +"Oh dear, no! She lets it sit on the floor 'most all the time, and it +cries so that I often go up and nurse it. The woman lives in the room +over ours." + +"Where do you live?" + +"In Grubb's court." + +"Will you show me the way there after school is over?" + +The child looked up into Edith's face with an expression of surprise and +doubt. Edith repeated her question. + +"I guess you'd better not go," was answered, in a voice that meant all +the words expressed. + +"Why not?" + +"It isn't a good place." + +"But you live there?" + +"Yes, but nobody's going to trouble me." + +"Nor me," said Edith. + +"Oh, but you don't know what kind of a place it is, nor what dreadful +people live there." + +"I could get a policeman to go with me, couldn't I?" + +"Yes, maybe you could, or Mr. Paulding, the missionary. He goes about +everywhere." + +"Where can I find Mr. Paulding?" + +"At the mission in Briar street." + +"You'll show me the way there after school?" + +"Oh yes; it isn't a nice place for you to go, but I guess nobody'll +trouble you." + +After the school closed, Edith, guided by the child, made her way to the +Briar st. mission-house. As she entered the narrow street in which it +was situated, the aspect of things was so strange and shocking to her +eyes that she felt a chill creep to her heart. She had never imagined +anything so forlorn and squalid, so wretched and comfortless. Miserable +little hovels, many of them no better than pig-styes, and hardly cleaner +within, were crowded together in all stages of dilapidation. Windows +with scarcely a pane of glass, the chilly air kept out by old hats, bits +of carpet or wads of newspaper, could be seen on all sides, with here +and there, showing some remains of an orderly habit, a broken pane +closed with a smooth piece of paper pasted to the sash. Instinctively +she paused, oppressed by a sense of fear. + +"It's only halfway down," said the child. "We'll 'go quick. I guess +nobody'll speak to you. They're afraid of Mr. Paulding about here. He's +down on 'em if they meddle with anybody that's coming to the mission." + +Edith, thus urged, moved on. She had gone but a few steps when two men +came in sight, advancing toward her. They were of the class to be seen +at all times in that region--debased to the lowest degree, drunken, +ragged, bloated, evil-eyed, capable of any wicked thing. They were +singing when they came in sight, but checked their drunken mirth as soon +as they saw Edith, whose heart sunk again. She stopped, trembling. + +"They're only drunk," said the child. "I don't believe they'll hurt +you." + +Edith rallied herself and walked on, the men coming closer and closer. +She saw them look at each other with leering eyes, and then at her in +a way that made her shiver. When only a few paces distant, they paused, +and with the evident intention of barring her farther progress. + +"Good-afternoon, miss," said one of them, with a low bow. "Can we do +anything for you?" + +The pale, frightened face of Edith was noticed by the other, and it +touched some remnant of manhood not yet wholly extinguished. + +"Let her alone, you miserable cuss!" he cried, and giving his drunken +companion a shove, sent him staggering across the street. This made the +way clear, and Edith sprang forward, but she had gone only a few feet +when she came face to face with another obstruction even more frightful, +if possible, than the first. A woman with a red, swollen visage, black +eye, soiled, tattered, drunk, with arms wildly extended, came rushing up +to her. The child gave a scream. The wretched creature caught at a shawl +worn by Edith, and was dragging it from her shoulders, when the door of +one of the houses flew open, and a woman came out hastily. Grasping +the assailant, she hurled her across the street with the strength of a +giant. + +"We're going to the mission," said the child. + +"It's just down there. Go 'long. I'll stand here and see that no one +meddles with you again." + +Edith faltered her thanks, and went on. + +"That's the queen," said her companion. + +"The queen!" Edith's hasty tones betrayed her surprise. + +"Yes; it's Norah. They're all afraid of her. I'm glad she saw us. She's +as strong as a man." + +In a few minutes they reached the mission, but in those few minutes +Edith saw more to sadden the heart, more to make it ache for humanity, +than could be described in pages. + +The missionary was at home. Edith told him the purpose of her call and +the locality she desired to visit. + +"I wanted to go alone," she remarked, "but this little girl, who is in +my class at the sewing-school, said it wouldn't be safe, and that you +would go with me." + +"I should be sorry to have you go alone into Grubb's court," said the +missionary, kindly, and with concern in his voice, "for a worse place +can hardly be found in the city--I was going to say in the world. You +will be safe with me, however. But why do you wish to visit Grubb's +court? Perhaps I can do all that is needed." + +"This little girl who lives in there, has been telling me about a +poor neglected baby that her mother says has no doubt been stolen, +and--and--" Edith voice faltered, but she quickly gained steadiness +under a strong effort of will: "I thought perhaps I might be able to +do something for it--to get it into one of the homes, maybe. It is +dreadful, sir, to think of little babies being neglected." + +Mr. Paulding questioned the child who had brought Edith to the +mission-house, and learned from her that the baby was merely boarded by +the woman who had it in charge, and that she sometimes took it out and +sat on the street, begging. The child repeated what she had said to +Edith--that the baby was the property, so to speak, of two abandoned +women, who paid its board. + +"I think," said the missionary, after some reflection, "that if getting +the child out of their hands is your purpose, you had better not go +there at present. Your visit would arouse suspicion; and if the two +women have anything to gain by keeping the child in their possession, +it will be at once taken to a new place. I am moving about in these +localities all the while, and can look in upon the baby without anything +being thought of it." + +This seemed so reasonable that Edith, who could not get over the nervous +tremors occasioned by what she had already seen and encountered, readily +consented to leave the matter for the present in Mr. Paulding's hands. + +"If you will come here to-morrow," said the missionary, "I will tell you +all I can about the baby." + +Out of a region where disease, want and crime shrunk from common +observation, and sin and death held high carnival, Edith hurried with +trembling feet, and heart beating so heavily that she could hear it +throb, the considerate missionary going with her until she had crossed +the boundary of this morally infected district. + +Mr. Dinneford met Edith at the door on her arrival home. + +"My child," he exclaimed as he looked into her face, back to which the +color had not returned since her fright in Briar street, "are you sick?" + +"I don't feel very well;" and she tried to pass him hastily in the hall +as they entered the house together. But he laid his hand on her arm +and held her back gently, then drew her into the parlor. She sat down, +trembling, weak and faint. Mr. Dinneford waited for some moments, +looking at her with a tender concern, before speaking. + +"Where have you been, my dear?" he asked, at length. + +After a little hesitation, Edith told her father about her visit to +Briar street and the shock she had received. + +"You were wrong," he answered, gravely. "It is most fortunate for you +that you took the child's advice and called at the mission. If you had +gone to Grubb's court alone, you might not have come out alive." + +"Oh no, father! It can't be so bad as that." + +"It is just as bad as that," he replied, with a troubled face and +manner. "Grubb's court is one of the traps into which unwary victims +are drawn that they may be plundered. It is as much out of common +observation almost as the lair of a wild beast in some deep wilderness. +I have heard it described by those who have been there under protection +of the police, and shudder to think of the narrow escape you have made. +I don't want you to go into that vile district again. It is no place for +such as you." + +"There's a poor little baby there," said Edith, her voice trembling and +tears filling her eyes. Then, after a brief struggle with her feelings, +she threw herself upon her father, sobbing out, "And oh, father, it may +be my baby!" + +"My poor child," said Mr. Dinneford, not able to keep his voice +firm--"my poor, poor child! It is all a wild dream, the suggestion of +evil spirits who delight in torment." + +"What became of my baby, father? Can you tell me?" + +"It died, Edith dear. We know that," returned her father, trying to +speak very confidently. But the doubt in his own mind betrayed itself. + +"Do you know it?" she asked, rising and confronting her father. + +"I didn't actually see it die. But--but--" + +"You know no more about it than I do," said Edith; "if you did, you +might set my heart at rest with a word. But you cannot. And so I am left +to my wild fears, that grow stronger every day. Oh, father, help me, if +you can. I must have certainty, or I shall lose my reason." + +"If you don't give up this wild fancy, you surely will," answered Mr. +Dinneford, in a distressed voice. + +"If I were to shut myself up and do nothing," said Edith, with greater +calmness, "I would be in a madhouse before a week went by. My safety +lies in getting down to the truth of this wild fancy, as you call it. It +has taken such possession of me that nothing but certainty can give me +rest. Will you help me?" + +"How can I help you? I have no clue to this sad mystery." + +"Mystery! Then you are as much in the dark as I am--know no more of what +became of my baby than I do! Oh, father, how could you let such a thing +be done, and ask no questions--such a cruel and terrible thing--and I +lying helpless and dumb? Oh, father, my innocent baby cast out like a +dog to perish--nay, worse, like a lamb among wolves to be torn by their +cruel teeth--and no one to put forth a hand to save! If I only knew that +he was dead! If I could find his little grave and comfort my heart over +it!" + +Weak, naturally good men, like Mr. Dinneford, often permit great wrongs +to be done in shrinking from conflict and evading the sterner duties of +life. They are often the faithless guardians of immortal trusts. + +There was a tone of accusation and rebuke in Edith's voice that smote +painfully on her father's heart. He answered feebly: + +"What could I do? How should I know that anything wrong was being done? +You were very ill, and the baby was sent away to be nursed, and then I +was told that it was dead." + +"Oh, father! Sent away without your seeing it! My baby! Your little +grandson! Oh, father!" + +"But you know, dear, in what a temper of mind your mother was--how +impossible it is for me to do anything with her when she once sets +herself to do a thing." + +"Even if it be murder!" said Edith, in a hoarse whisper. + +"Hush, hush, my child! You must not speak so," returned the agitated +father. + +A silence fell between them. A wall of separation began to grow up. +Edith arose, and was moving from the room. + +"My daughter!" There was a sob in the father's voice. + +Edith stopped. + +"My daughter, we must not part yet. Come back; sit down with me, and let +us talk more calmly. What is past cannot be changed. It is with the now +of this unhappy business that we have to do." + +Edith came back and sat down again, her father taking a seat beside her. + +"That is just it," she answered, with a steadiness of tone and manner +that showed how great was the self-control she was able to exert. "It +is with the now of this unhappy affair that we have to do. If I spoke +strongly of the past, it was that a higher and intenser life might be +given to present duty." + +"Let there be no distance between us. Let no wall of separation grow +up," said Mr. Dinneford, tenderly. "I cannot bear to think of this. +Confide in me, consult with me. I will help you in all possible ways to +solve this mystery. But do not again venture alone into that dreadful +place. I will go with you if you think any good will come of it." + +"I must see Mr. Paulding in the morning," said Edith, with calm +decision. + +"Then I will go with you," returned Mr. Dinneford. + +"Thank you, father;" and she kissed him. "Until then nothing more can +be done." She kissed him again, and then went to her own room. After +locking the door she sank on her knees, leaning forward, with her face +buried in the cushion of a chair, and did not rise for a long time. + + + + +CHAPTER XIV. + + + +_ON_ the next morning, after some persuasion, Edith consented to +postpone her visit to Grubb's court until after her father had seen Mr. +Paulding, the missionary. + +"Let me go first and gain what information I can," he urged. "It may +save you a fruitless errand." + +It was not without a feeling of almost unconquerable repugnance that +Mr. Dinneford took his way to the mission-house, in Briar street. His +tastes, his habits and his naturally kind and sensitive feelings all +made him shrink from personal contact with suffering and degradation. +He gave much time and care to the good work of helping the poor and the +wretched, but did his work in boards and on committees, rather than in +the presence of the needy and suffering. He was not one of those who +would pass over to the other side and leave a wounded traveler to +perish, but he would avoid the road to Jericho, if he thought it likely +any such painful incident would meet him in the way and shock his fine +sensibilities. He was willing to work for the downcast, the wronged, the +suffering and the vile, but preferred doing so at a distance, and not in +immediate contact. Thus it happened that, although one of the managers +of the Briar street mission and familiar with its work in a general way, +he had never been at the mission-house--had never, in fact, set his foot +within the morally plague-stricken district in which it stood. He had +often been urged to go, but could not overcome his reluctance to meet +humanity face to face in its sadder and more degraded aspects. + +Now a necessity was upon him, and he had to go. It was about ten o'clock +in the morning when, at almost a single step, he passed from what seemed +paradise to purgatory, the sudden contrast was so great. There were but +few persons in the little street; where the mission was situated at that +early hour, and most of these were children--poor, half-clothed, dirty, +wan-faced, keen-eyed and alert bits of humanity, older by far than their +natural years, few of them possessing any higher sense of right and +wrong than young savages. The night's late orgies or crimes had left +most of their elders in a heavy morning sleep, from which they did +not usually awaken before midday. Here and there one and another came +creeping out, impelled by a thirst no water could quench. Now it was a +bloated, wild-eyed man, dirty and forlorn beyond description, +shambling into sight, but disappearing in a moment or two in one of the +dram-shops, whose name was legion, and now it was a woman with the +angel all gone out of her face, barefooted, blotched, coarse, red-eyed, +bruised and awfully disfigured by her vicious, drunken life. Her steps +too made haste to the dram-shop. + +Such houses for men and women to live in as now stretched before +his eyes in long dreary rows Mr. Dinneford had never seen, except in +isolated cases of vice and squalor. To say that he was shocked would but +faintly express his feelings. Hurrying along, he soon came in sight of +the mission. At this moment a jar broke the quiet of the scene. Just +beyond the mission-house two women suddenly made their appearance, one +of them pushing the other out upon the street. Their angry cries rent +the air, filling it with profane and obscene oaths. They struggled +together for a little while, and then one of them, a woman with gray +hair and not less than sixty years of age, fell across the curb with her +head on the cobble-stones. + +As if a sorcerer had stamped his foot, a hundred wretched creatures, +mostly women and children, seemed to spring up from the ground. It was +like a phantasy. They gathered about the prostrate woman, laughing and +jeering. A policeman who was standing at the corner a little way off +came up leisurely, and pushing the motley crew aside, looked down at the +prostrate woman. + +"Oh, it's you again!" he said, in a tone of annoyance, taking hold of +one arm and raising her so that she sat on the curb-stone. Mr. Dinneford +now saw her face distinctly; it was that of an old woman, but red, +swollen and terribly marred. Her thin gray hair had fallen over her +shoulders, and gave her a wild and crazy look. + +"Come," said the policeman, drawing on the woman's arm and trying to +raise her from the ground. But she would not move. + +"Come," he said, more imperatively. + +"Nature you going to do with me?" she demanded. + +"I'm going to lock you up. So come along. Have had enough of you about +here. Always drunk and in a row with somebody." + +Her resistance was making the policeman angry. + +"It'll take two like you to do that," returned the woman, in a spiteful +voice, swearing foully at the same time. + +At this a cheer arose from the crowd. A negro with a push-cart came +along at the moment. + +"Here! I want you," called the policeman. + +The negro pretended not to hear, and the policeman had to threaten him +before he would stop. + +Seeing the cart, the drunken woman threw herself back upon the pavement +and set every muscle to a rigid strain. And now came one of those +shocking scenes--too familiar, alas! in portions of our large Christian +cities--at which everything pure and merciful and holy in our nature +revolts: a gray-haired old woman, so debased by drink and an evil life +that all sense of shame and degradation had been extinguished, fighting +with a policeman, and for a time showing superior strength, swearing +vilely, her face distorted with passion, and a crowd made up chiefly +of women as vile and degraded as herself, and of all ages, and colors, +laughing, shouting and enjoying the scene intensely. + +At last, by aid of the negro, the woman was lifted into the cart and +thrown down upon the floor, her head striking one of the sides with a +sickening _thud_. She still swore and struggled, and had to be held down +by the policeman, who stood over her, while the cart was pushed off to +the nearest station-house, the excited crowd following with shouts and +merry huzzas. + +Mr. Dinneford was standing in a maze, shocked and distressed by this +little episode, when a man at his side said in a grave, quiet voice, + +"I doubt if you could see a sight just like that anywhere else in all +Christendom." Then added, as he extended his hand, + +"I am glad to see you here, Mr. Dinneford." + +"Oh, Mr. Paulding!" and Mr. Dinneford put out his hand and grasped that +of the missionary with a nervous grip. "This is awful! I am sixty years +old, but anything so shocking my eyes have not before looked upon." + +"We see things worse than this every day," said the missionary. "It is +only one of the angry boils on the surface, and tells of the corrupt +and vicious blood within. But I am right glad to find you here, Mr. +Dinneford. Unless you see these things with your own eyes, it is +impossible for you to comprehend the condition of affairs in this by-way +to hell." + +"Hell, itself, better say," returned Mr. Dinneford. "It is hell pushing +itself into visible manifestation--hell establishing itself on the +earth, and organizing its forces for the destruction of human souls, +while the churches are too busy enlarging their phylacteries and making +broader and more attractive the hems of their garments to take note of +this fatal vantage-ground acquired by the enemy." + +Mr. Dinneford stood and looked around him in a dazed sort of way. + +"Is Grubb's court near this?" he asked, recollecting the errand upon +which he had come. + +"Yes." + +"A young lady called to see you yesterday afternoon to ask about a child +in that court?" + +"Oh yes! You know the lady?" + +"She is my daughter. One of the poor children in her sewing-class +told her of a neglected baby in Grubb's court, and so drew upon her +sympathies that she started to go there, but was warned by the child +that it would be dangerous for a young lady like her to be seen in that +den of thieves and harlots, and so she came to you. And now I am here in +her stead to get your report about the baby. I would not consent to her +visiting this place again." + +Mr. Paulding took his visitor into the mission-house, near which they +were standing. After they were seated, he said, + +"I have seen the baby about which your daughter wished me to make +inquiry. The woman who has the care of it is a vile creature, well known +in this region--drunken and vicious. She said at first that it was her +own baby, but afterward admitted that she didn't know who its mother +was, and that she was paid for taking care of it. I found out, after +a good deal of talking round, and an interview with the mother of the +child who is in your daughter's sewing-class, that a girl of notoriously +bad character, named Pinky Swett, pays the baby's board. There's a +mystery about the child, and I am of the opinion that it has been +stolen, or is known to be the offcast of some respectable family. The +woman who has the care of it was suspicious, and seemed annoyed at my +questions." + +"Is it a boy?" asked Mr. Dinneford. + +"Yes, and has a finely-formed head and a pair of large, clear, hazel +eyes. Evidently it is of good parentage. The vicious, the sensual and +the depraved mark their offspring with the unmistakable signs of their +moral depravity. You cannot mistake them. But this baby has in its +poor, wasted, suffering little face, in its well-balanced head and deep, +almost spiritual eyes, the signs of a better origin." + +"It ought at once to be taken away from the woman," said Mr. Dinneford, +in a very decided manner. + +"Who is to take it?" asked the missionary. + +Mr. Dinneford was silent. + +"Neither you nor I have any authority to do so. If I were to see it cast +out upon the street, I might have it sent to the almshouse; but until I +find it abandoned or shamefully abused, I have no right to interfere." + +"I would like to see the baby," said Mr. Dinneford, on whose mind +painful suggestions akin to those that were so disturbing his daughter +were beginning to intrude themselves. + +"It would hardly be prudent to go there to-day," said Mr. Paulding. + +"Why not?" + +"It would arouse suspicion; and if there is anything wrong, the baby +would drop out of sight. You would not find it if you went again. These +people are like birds with their wings half lifted, and fly away at the +first warning of danger. As it is, I fear my visit and inquiries will be +quite sufficient to the cause the child's removal to another place." + +Mr. Dinneford mused for a while: + +"There ought to be some way to reach a case like this, and there is, +I am sure. From what you say, it is more than probable that this poor +little waif may have drifted out of some pleasant home, where love would +bless it with the tenderest care, into this hell of neglect and cruelty. +It should be rescued on the instant. It is my duty--it is yours--to see +that it is done, and that without delay. I will go at once to the mayor +and state the case. He will send an officer with me, I know, and we will +take the child by force. If its real mother then comes forward and shows +herself at all worthy to have the care of it, well; if not, I will see +that it is taken care of. I know where to place it." + +To this proposition Mr. Paulding had no objection to offer. + +"If you take that course, and act promptly, you can no doubt get +possession of the poor thing. Indeed, sir"--and the missionary spoke +with much earnestness--"if men of influence like yourself would come +here and look the evil of suffering and neglected children in the face, +and then do what they could to destroy that evil, there would soon be +joy in heaven over the good work accomplished by their hands. I could +give you a list of ten or twenty influential citizens whose will would +be next to law in a matter like this who could in a month, if they put +heart and hand to it, do such a work for humanity here as would make the +angels glad. But they are too busy with their great enterprises to give +thought and effort to a work like this." + +A shadow fell across the missionary's face. There was a tone of +discouragement in his voice. + +"The great question is _what_ to do," said Mr. Dinneford. "There are no +problems so hard to solve as these problems of social evil. If men and +women choose to debase themselves, who is to hinder? The vicious heart +seeks a vicious life. While the heart is depraved the life will be evil. +So long as the fountain is corrupt the water will be foul." + +"There is a side to all this that most people do not consider," answered +Mr. Paulding. "Self-hurt is one thing, hurt of the neighbor quite +another. It may be questioned whether society has a right to touch the +individual freedom of a member in anything that affects himself alone. +But the moment he begins to hurt his neighbor, whether from ill-will +or for gain, then it is the duty of society to restrain him. The common +weal demands this, to say nothing of Christian obligation. If a man were +to set up an exhibition in our city dangerous to life and limb, but +so fascinating as to attract large numbers to witness and participate +therein, and if hundreds were maimed or killed every year, do you think +any one would question the right of our authorities to repress it? And +yet to-day there are in our city more than twenty thousand persons who +live by doing things a thousand times more hurtful to the people than +any such exhibition could possibly be. And what is marvelous to think +of, the larger part of these persons are actually licensed by the State +to get gain by hurting, depraving and destroying the people. Think of +it, Mr. Dinneford! The whole question lies in a nutshell. There is +no difficulty about the problem. Restrain men from doing harm to each +other, and the work is more than half done." + +"Is not the law all the while doing this?" + +"The law," was answered, "is weakly dealing with effect--how weakly let +prison and police statistics show. Forty thousand arrests in our city +for a single year, and the cause of these arrests clearly traced to the +liquor licenses granted to five or six thousand persons to make money +by debasing and degrading the people. If all of these were engaged in +useful employments, serving, as every true citizen is bound to do, the +common good, do you think we should have so sad and sickening a record? +No, sir! We must go back to the causes of things. Nothing but radical +work will do." + +"You think, then," said Mr. Dinneford, "that the true remedy for all +these dreadful social evils lies in restrictive legislation?" + +"Restrictive only on the principles of eternal right," answered the +missionary. "Man's freedom over himself must not be touched. Only his +freedom to hurt his neighbor must be abridged. Here society has a right +to put bonds on its members--to say to each individual, You are free to +do anything by which your neighbor is served, but nothing to harm him. +Here is where the discrimination must be made; and when the mass of the +people come to see this, we shall have the beginning of a new day. There +will then be hope for such poor wretches as crowd this region; or if +most of them are so far lost as to be without hope, their places, +when they die, will not be filled with new recruits for the army of +perdition." + +"If the laws we now have were only executed," said Mr. Dinneford, +"there might be hope in our legislative restrictions. But the people +are defrauded of justice through defects in its machinery. There are +combinations to defeat good laws. There are men holding high office +notoriously in league with scoundrels who prey upon the people. Through +these, justice perpetually fails." + +"The people are alone to blame," replied the missionary. "Each is busy +with his farm and his merchandise with his own affairs, regardless +of his neighbor. The common good is nothing, so that his own good is +served. Each weakly folds his hands and is sorry when these troublesome +questions are brought to his notice, but doesn't see that he can do +anything. Nor can the people, unless some strong and influential leaders +rally them, and, like great generals, lead them to the battle. As I said +a little while ago, there are ten or twenty men in this city who, if +they could be made to feel their high responsibility--who, if they could +be induced to look away for a brief period from their great enterprises +and concentrate thought and effort upon these questions of social +evil, abuse of justice and violations of law--would in a single month +inaugurate reforms and set agencies to work that would soon produce +marvelous changes. They need not touch the rottenness of this half-dead +carcass with knife or poultice. Only let them cut off the sources +of pollution and disease, and the purified air will do the work of +restoration where moral vitality remains, or hasten the end in those who +are debased beyond hope." + +"What could these men do? Where would their work begin?" asked Mr. +Dinneford. + +"Their own intelligence would soon discover the way to do this work if +their hearts were in it. Men who can organize and successfully conduct +great financial and industrial enterprises, who know how to control +the wealth and power of the country and lead the people almost at will, +would hardly be at fault in the adjustment of a matter like this. +What would be the money influence of 'whisky rings' and gambling +associations, set against the social and money influence of these +men? Nothing, sir, nothing! Do you think we should long have over six +thousand bars and nearly four hundred lottery-policy shops in our city +if the men to whom I refer were to take the matter in hand?" + +"Are there so many policy-shops?" asked Mr. Dinneford, in surprise. + +"There may be more. You will find them by scores in every locality +where poor and ignorant people are crowded together, sucking out +their substance, and in the neighborhood of all the market-houses and +manufactories, gathering in spoil. The harm they are doing is beyond +computation. The men who control this unlawful business are rich and +closely organized. They gather in their dishonest gains at the rate of +hundreds of thousands of dollars every year, and know how and where +to use this money for the protection of their agents in the work of +defrauding the people, and the people are helpless because our men +of wealth and influence have no time to give to public justice or the +suppression of great social wrongs. With them, as things now are, rests +the chief responsibility. They have the intelligence, the wealth and +the public confidence, and are fully equal to the task if they will put +their hands to the work. Let them but lift the standard and sound the +trumpet of reform, and the people will rally instantly at the call. +It must not be a mere spasmodic effort--a public meeting with wordy +resolutions and strong speeches only--but organized work based on true +principles of social order and the just rights of the people." + +"You are very much in earnest about this matter," said Mr. Dinneford, +seeing how excited the missionary had grown. + +"And so would you and every other good citizen become if, standing +face to face, as I do daily, with this awful debasement and crime and +suffering, you were able to comprehend something of its real character. +If I could get the influential citizens to whom I have referred to come +here and see for themselves, to look upon this pandemonium in their +midst and take in an adequate idea of its character, significance and +aggressive force, there would be some hope of making them see their +duty, of arousing them to action. But they stand aloof, busy with +personal and material interest, while thousands of men, women and +children are yearly destroyed, soul and body, through their indifference +to duty and ignorance of their fellows' suffering." + +"It is easy to say such things," answered Mr. Dinneford, who felt the +remarks of Mr. Paulding as almost personal. + +"Yes, it is easy to say them," returned the missionary, his voice +dropping to a lower key, "and it may be of little use to say them. I am +sometimes almost in despair, standing so nearly alone as I do with my +feet on the very brink of this devastating flood of evil, and getting +back only faint echoes to my calls for help. But when year after year +I see some sheaves coming in as the reward of my efforts and of the few +noble hearts that work with me, I thank God and take courage, and I lift +my voice and call more loudly for help, trusting that I may be heard by +some who, if they would only come up to the help of the Lord against the +mighty, would scatter his foes like chaff on the threshing-floor. But +I am holding you back from your purpose to visit the mayor; I think +you had better act promptly if you would get possession of the child. +I shall be interested in the result, and will take it as a favor if you +will call at the mission again." + + + + +CHAPTER XV. + + + +_WHEN_ Mr. Dinneford and the policeman sent by the mayor at his +solicitation visited Grubb's court, the baby was not to be found. The +room in which it had been seen by Mr. Paulding was vacant. Such a room +as it was!--low and narrow, with bare, blackened walls, the single +window having scarcely two whole panes of glass, the air loaded with the +foulness that exhaled from the filth-covered floor, the only furniture a +rough box and a dirty old straw bed lying in a corner. + +As Mr. Dinneford stood at the door of this room and inhaled its fetid +air, he grew sick, almost faint. Stepping back, with a shocked and +disgusted look on his face, he said to the policeman, + +"There must be a mistake. This cannot be the room." + +Two or three children and a coarse, half-clothed woman, seeing a +gentleman going into the house accompanied by a policeman, had followed +them closely up stairs. + +"Who lives in this room?" asked the policeman, addressing the woman. + +"Don't know as anybody lives there now," she replied, with evident +evasion. + +"Who did live here?" demanded the policeman. + +"Oh, lots!" returned the woman, curtly. + +"I want to know who lived here last," said the policeman, a little +sternly. + +"Can't say--never keep the run of 'em," answered the woman, with more +indifference than she felt. "Goin' and comin' all the while. Maybe it +was Poll Davis." + +"Had she a baby?" + +The woman gave a vulgar laugh as she replied: "I rather think not." + +"It was Moll Fling," said one of the children, "and she had a baby." + +"When was she here last?" inquired the policeman. + +The woman, unseen by the latter, raised her fist and threatened the +child, who did not seem to be in the least afraid of her, for she +answered promptly: + +"She went away about an hour ago." + +"And took the baby?" + +"Yes. You see Mr. Paulding was here asking about the baby, and she got +scared." + +"Why should that scare her?" + +"I don't know, only it isn't her baby." + +"How do you know that?" + +"'Cause it isn't--I know it isn't. She's paid to take care of it." + +"Who by?" + +"Pinky Swett." + +"Who's Pinky Swett?" + +"Don't you know Pinky Swett?" and the child seemed half surprised. + +"Where does Pinky Swett live?" asked the policeman. + +"She did live next door for a while, but I don't know where she's gone." + +Nothing beyond this could be ascertained. But having learned the names +of the women who had possession of the child, the policeman said there +would be no difficulty about discovering them. It might take a little +time, but they could not escape the vigilance of the police. + +With this assurance, Mr. Dinneford hastened from the polluted air of +Grubb's court, and made his way to the mission in Briar street, in order +to have some further conference with Mr. Paulding. + +"As I feared," said the missionary, on learning that the baby could not +be found. "These creatures are as keen of scent as Indians, and know +the smallest sign of danger. It is very plain that there is something +wrong--that these women have no natural right to the child, and that +they are not using it to beg with." + +"Do you know a woman called Pinky Swett?" asked the policeman. + +"I've heard of her, but do not know her by sight. She bears a hard +reputation even here, and adds to her many evil accomplishments the +special one of adroit robbery. A victim lured to her den rarely escapes +without loss of watch or pocket-book. And not one in a hundred dares to +give information, for this would expose him to the public, and so her +crimes are covered. Pinky Swett is not the one to bother herself about +a baby unless its parentage be known, and not then unless the knowledge +can be turned to advantage." + +"The first thing to be done, then, is to find this woman," said the +policeman. + +"That will not be very hard work. But finding the baby, if she thinks +you are after it, would not be so easy," returned Mr. Paulding. "She's +as cunning as a fox." + +"We shall see. If the chief of police undertakes to find the baby, it +won't be out of sight long. You'd better confer with the mayor again," +added the policeman, addressing Mr. Dinneford. + +"I will do so without delay," returned that gentleman. + +"I hope to see you here again soon," said the missionary as Mr. +Dinneford was about going. "If I can help you in any way, I shall do so +gladly." + +"I have no doubt but that you can render good service." Then, in half +apology, and to conceal the real concern at his heart, Mr. Dinneford +added, "Somehow, and strangely enough when I come to think of it, I have +allowed myself to get drawn into this thing, and once in, the natural +persistence of my character leads me to go on to the end. I am one of +those who cannot bear to give up or acknowledge a defeat; and so, having +set my hand to this work, I am going to see it through." + +When the little girl who had taken Edith to the mission-house in Briar +street got home and told her story, there was a ripple of excitement in +that part of Grubb's court where she lived, and a new interest was felt +in the poor neglected baby. Mr. Paulding's visit and inquiries added to +this interest. It had been several days since Pinky Swett's last visit +to the child to see that it was safe. On the morning after Edith's call +at the mission she came in about ten o'clock, and heard the news. In +less than twenty minutes the child and the woman who had charge of it +both disappeared from Grubb's court. Pinky sent them to her own room, +not many squares distant, and then drew from the little girl who was in +Edith's sewing-class all she knew about that young lady. It was not much +that the child could tell. She was very sweet and good and handsome, and +wore such beautiful clothes, was so kind and patient with the girls, but +she did not remember her name, thought it was Edith. + +"Now, see here," said Pinky, and she put some money into the child's +hand; "I want you to find out for me what her name is and where she +lives. Mind, you must be very careful to remember." + +"What do you want to know for?" asked the little girl. + +"That's none of your business. Do what I tell you," returned Pinky, with +impatience; "and if you do it right, I'll give you a quarter more. When +do you go again?" + +"Next week, on Thursday." + +"Not till next Thursday!" exclaimed Pinky, in a tone of disappointment. + +"The school's only once a week." + +Pinky chafed a good deal, but it was of no use; she must wait. + +"You'll be sure and go next Thursday?" she said. + +"If Mother lets me," replied the child. + +"Oh, I'll see to that; I'll make her let you. What time does the school +go in?" + +"At three o'clock." + +"Very well. You wait for me. I'll come round here at half-past two, and +go with you. I want to see the young lady. They'll let me come into the +school and learn to sew, won't they?" + +"I don't know; you're too big, and you don't want to learn." + +"How do you know I don't?" + +"Because I do." + +Pinky laughed, and then said, + +"You'll wait for me?" + +"Yes, if mother says so." + +"All right;" and Pinky hurried away to take measures for hiding the baby +from a search that she felt almost sure was about being made. The first +thing she did was to soundly abuse the woman in whose care she had +placed the hapless child for her neglect and ill treatment, both of +which were too manifest, and then to send her away under the new aspect +of affairs she did not mean to trust this woman, nor indeed to trust +anybody who knew anything of the inquiries which had been made about the +child. A new nurse must be found, and she must live as far away from the +old locality as possible. Pinky was not one inclined to put things off. +Thought and act were always close together. Scarcely had the woman been +gone ten minutes, before, bundling the baby in a shawl, she started off +to find a safer hiding-place. This time she was more careful about the +character and habits of the person selected for a nurse, and the baby's +condition was greatly improved. The woman in whose charge she placed it +was poor, but neither drunken nor depraved. Pinky arranged with her to +take the care of it for two dollars a week, and supplied it with clean +and comfortable clothing. Even she, wicked and vile as she was, could +not help being touched by the change that appeared in the baby's +shrunken face, and in its sad but beautiful eyes, after its wasted +little body had been cleansed and clothed in clean, warm garments and it +had taken its fill of nourishing food. + +"It's a shame, the way it has been abused," said Pinky, speaking from an +impulse of kindness, such as rarely swelled in her evil heart. + +"A crying shame," answered the woman as she drew the baby close against +her bosom and gazed down upon its pitiful face, and into the large brown +eyes that were lifted to hers in mute appeal. + +The real motherly tenderness that was in this woman's heart was quickly +perceived by the child, who did not move its eyes from hers, but lay +perfectly still, gazing up at her in a kind of easeful rest such as it +had never before known. She spoke to it in loving tones, touched its +thin cheeks with her finger in playful caresses, kissed it on its lips +and forehead, hugged it to her bosom; and still the eyes were fixed on +hers in a strange baby-wonder, though not the faintest glinting of a +smile played on its lips or over its serious face. Had it never learned +to smile? + +At last the poor thin lips curved a little, crushing out the lines of +suffering, and into the eyes there came a loving glance in place of the +fixed, wondering look that was almost a stare. A slight lifting of the +hands, a motion of the head, a thrill through the whole body came next, +and then a tender cooing sound. + +"Did you ever see such beautiful eyes?" said the woman. "It will be a +splendid baby when it has picked up a little." + +"Let it pick up as fast as it can," returned Pinky; "but mind what I +say: you are to be mum. Here's your pay for the first week, and you +shall have it fair and square always. Call it your own baby, if you +will, or your grandson. Yes, that's better. He's the child of your dead +daughter, just sent to you from somewhere out of town. So take good +care of him, and keep your mouth shut. I'll be round again in a little +while." + +And with this injunction Pinky went away. On the next Thursday she +visited the St. John's mission sewing-school in company with the little +girl from Grubb's court, but greatly to her disappointment, Edith did +not make her appearance. There were four or five ladies in attendance +on the school, which, under the superintendence of one of them, a woman +past middle life, with a pale, serious face and a voice clear and sweet, +was conducted with an order and decorum not often maintained among a +class of children such as were there gathered together. + +It was a long time since Pinky had found herself so repressed and ill +at ease. There was a spiritual atmosphere in the place that did not +vitalize her blood. She felt a sense of constriction and suffocation. +She had taken her seat in the class taught usually by Edith, with the +intention of studying that young lady and finding out all she could +about her, not doubting her ability to act the part in hand with perfect +self-possession. But she had not been in the room a minute before +confidence began to die, and very soon she found herself ill at ease and +conscious of being out of her place. The bold, bad woman felt weak and +abashed. An unseen sphere of purity and Christian love surrounded and +touched her soul with as palpable an impression as outward things give +to the body. She had something of the inward distress and pain a devil +would feel if lifted into the pure air of heaven, and the same desire +to escape and plunge back into the dense and impure atmosphere in +which evil finds its life and enjoyment. If she had come with any good +purpose, it would have been different, but evil, and only evil, was in +her heart; and when this felt the sphere of love and purity, her breast +was constricted and life seemed going out of her. + +It was little less than torture to Pinky for the short time she +remained. As soon as she was satisfied that Edith would not be there, +she threw down the garment on which she had been pretending to sew, and +almost ran from the room. + +"Who is that girl?" asked the lady who was teaching the class, looking +in some surprise after the hurrying figure. + +"It's Pinky Swett," answered the child from Grubb's court. "She wanted +to see our teacher." + +"Who is your regular teacher?" was inquired. + +"Don't remember her name." + +"It's Edith," spoke up one of the girls. "Mrs. Martin called her that." + +"What did this Pinky Swett want to see her about?" + +"Don't know," answered the child as she remembered the money Pinky had +given her and the promise of more. + +The teacher questioned no further, but went on with her work in the +class. + + + + +CHAPTER XVI. + + + +_IT_ was past midday when Mr. Dinneford returned home after his +fruitless search. Edith, who had been waiting for hours in restless +suspense, heard his step in the hall, and ran down to meet him. + +"Did you see the baby?"' she asked, trying to keep her agitation down. + +Mr. Dinneford only shook his head, + +"Why, not, father?" Her voice choked. + +"It could not be found." + +"You saw Mr. Paulding?" + +"Yes." + +"Didn't he find the baby?" + +"Oh yes. But when I went to Grubb's court this morning, it was not +there, and no one could or would give any information about it. As the +missionary feared, those having possession of the baby had taken alarm +and removed it to another place. But I have seen the mayor and some of +the police, and got them interested. It will not be possible to hide the +child for any length of time." + +"You said that Mr. Paulding saw it?" + +"Yes." + +"What did he say?" Edith's voice trembled as she asked the question. + +"He thinks there is something wrong." + +"Did he tell you how the baby looked?" + +"He said that it had large, beautiful brown eyes." + +Edith clasped her hands, and drew them tightly against her bosom. + +"Oh, father! if it should be my baby!" + +"My dear, dear child," said Mr. Dinneford, putting his arms about Edith +and holding her tightly, "you torture yourself with a wild dream. The +thing is impossible." + +"It is somebody's baby," sobbed Edith, her face on her father's breast, +"and it may be mine. Who knows?" + +"We will do our best to find it," returned Mr. Dinneford, "and then do +what Christian charity demands. I am in earnest so far, and will leave +nothing undone, you may rest assured. The police have the mayor's +instructions to find the baby and give it into my care, and I do not +think we shall have long to wait." + +An ear they thought not of, heard all this. Mrs. Dinneford's suspicions +had been aroused by many things in Edith's manner and conduct of late, +and she had watched her every look and word and movement with a keenness +of observation that let nothing escape. Careful as her husband and +daughter were in their interviews, it was impossible to conceal anything +from eyes that never failed in watchfulness. An unguarded word here, a +look of mutual intelligence there, a sudden silence when she appeared, +an unusual soberness of demeanor and evident absorbed interest in +something they were careful to conceal, had the effect to quicken all +Mrs. Dinneford's alarms and suspicions. + +She had seen from the top of the stairs a brief but excited interview +pass between Edith and her father as the latter stood in the vestibule +that morning, and she had noticed the almost wild look on her daughter's +face as she hastened back along the hall and ran up to her room. Here +she stayed alone for over an hour, and then came down to the parlor, +where she remained restless, moving about or standing by the window for +a greater part of the morning. + +There was something more than usual on hand. Guilt in its guesses came +near the truth. What could all this mean, if it had not something to +do with the cast-off baby? Certainty at last came. She was in the +dining-room when Edith ran down to meet her father in the hall, and +slipped noiselessly and unobserved into one of the parlors, where, +concealed by a curtain, she heard everything that passed between her +husband and daughter. + +Still as death she stood, holding down the strong pulses of her heart. +From the hall Edith and her father turned into one of the parlors--the +same in which Mrs. Dinneford was concealed behind the curtain--and sat +down. + +"It had large brown eyes?" said Edith, a yearning tenderness in her +voice. + +"Yes, and a finely-formed bead, showing good parentage," returned the +father. + +"Didn't you find out who the women were--the two bad women the little +girl told me about? If we had their names, the police could find them. +The little girl's mother must know who they are." + +"We have the name of one of them," said Mr. Dinneford. "She is called +Pinky Swett, and it can't be long before the police are on her track. +She is said to be a desperate character. Nothing more can be done now; +we must wait until the police work up the affair. I will call at the +mayor's office in the morning and find out what has been done." + +Mrs. Dinneford heard no more. The bell rang, and her husband and +daughter left the parlor and went up stairs. The moment they were beyond +observation she glided noiselessly through the hall, and reached her +chamber without being noticed. Soon afterward she came down dressed for +visiting, and went out hastily, her veil closely drawn. Her manner was +hurried. Descending the steps, she stood for a single moment, as if +hesitating which way to go, and then moved off rapidly. Soon she had +passed out of the fashionable neighborhood in which she lived. After +this she walked more slowly, and with the air of one whose mind was +in doubt or hesitation. Once she stopped, and turning about, slowly +retraced her steps for the distance of a square. Then she wheeled +around, as if from some new and strong resolve, and went on again. At +last she paused before a respectable-looking house of moderate size in a +neighborhood remote from the busier and more thronged parts of the city. +The shutters were all bowed down to the parlor, and the house had a +quiet, unobtrusive look. Mrs. Dinneford gave a quick, anxious glance up +and down the street, and then hurriedly ascended the steps and rang the +bell. + +"Is Mrs. Hoyt in?" she asked of a stupid-looking girl who came to the +door. + +"Yes, ma'am," was answered. + +"Tell her a lady wants to see her;" and she passed into the +plainly-furnished parlor. There were no pictures on the walls nor +ornaments on the mantel-piece, nor any evidence of taste--nothing +home-like--in the shadowed room, the atmosphere of which was close and +heavy. She waited here for a few moments, when there was a rustle of +garments and the sound of light, quick feet on the stairs. A small, +dark-eyed, sallow-faced woman entered the parlor. + +"Mrs. Bray--no, Mrs. Hoyt." + +"Mrs. Dinneford;" and the two women stood face to face for a few +moments, each regarding the other keenly. + +"Mrs. Hoyt--don't forget," said the former, with a warning emphasis in +her voice. "Mrs. Bray is dead." + +In her heart Mrs. Dinneford wished that it were indeed so. + +"Anything wrong?" asked the black-eyed little woman. + +"Do you know a Pinky Swett?" asked Mrs. Dinneford, abruptly. + +Mrs. Hoyt--so we must now call her--betrayed surprise at this +question, and was about answering "No," but checked herself and gave a +half-hesitating "Yes," adding the question, "What about her?" + +Before Mrs. Dinneford could reply, however, Mrs. Hoyt took hold of her +arm and said, "Come up to my room. Walls have ears sometimes, and I will +not answer for these." + +Mrs. Dinneford went with her up stairs to a chamber in the rear part of +the building. + +"We shall be out of earshot here," said Mrs. Hoyt as she closed the +door, locking it at the same time. "And now tell me what's up, and what +about Pinky Swett." + +"You know her?" + +"Yes, slightly." + +"More than slightly, I guess." + +Mrs. Hoyt's eyes flashed impatiently. Mrs. Dinneford saw it, and took +warning. + +"She's got that cursed baby." + +"How do you know?" + +"No matter how I know. It's enough that I know. Who is she?" + +"That question may be hard to answer. About all I know of her is that +she came from the country a few years ago, and has been drifting about +here ever since." + +"What is she doing with that baby? and how did she get hold of it?" + +"Questions more easily asked than answered." + +"Pshaw! I don't want any beating about the bush, Mrs. Bray." + +"Mrs. Hoyt," said the person addressed. + +"Oh, well, Mrs. Hoyt, then. We ought to understand each other by this +time." + +"I guess we do;" and the little woman arched her brows. + +"I don't want any beating about the bush," resumed Mrs. Dinneford. "I am +here on business." + +"Very well; let's to business, then;" and Mrs. Hoyt leaned back in her +chair. + +"Edith knows that this woman has the baby," said Mrs. Dinneford. + +"What!" and Mrs. Hoyt started to her feet. + +"The mayor has been seen, and the police are after her." + +"How do you know?" + +"Enough that I know. And now, Mrs. Hoyt, this thing must come to an +end, and there is not an instant to be lost. Has Pinky Swett, as she is +called, been told where the baby came from?" + +"Not by me." + +"By anybody?" + +"That is more than I can say." + +"What has become of the woman I gave it to?" + +"She's about somewhere." + +"When did you see her?" + +Mrs. Hoyt pretended to think for some moments, and then replied: + +"Not for a month or two." + +"Had she the baby then?" + +"No; she was rid of it long before that." + +"Did she know this Pinky Swett?" + +"Yes." + +"Curse the brat! If I'd thought all this trouble was to come, I'd have +smothered it before it was half an hour old." + +"Risky business," remarked Mrs. Hoyt. + +"Safer than to have let it live," said Mrs. Dinneford, a hard, evil +expression settling around her mouth. "And now I want the thing done. +You understand. Find this Pinky Swett. The police are after her, and may +be ahead of you. I am desperate, you see. Anything but the discovery and +possession of this child by Edith. It must be got out of the way. If it +will not starve, it must drown." + +Mrs. Dinneford's face was distorted by the strength of her evil +passions. Her eyes were full of fire, flashing now, and now glaring like +those of a wild animal. + +"It might fall out of a window," said Mrs. Hoyt, in a low, even voice, +and with a faint smile on her lips. "Children fall out of windows +sometimes." + +"But don't always get killed," answered Mrs. Dinneford, coldly. + +"Or, it might drop from somebody's arms into the river--off the deck of +a ferryboat, I mean," added Mrs. Hoyt. + +"That's better. But I don't care how it's done, so it's done." + +"Accidents are safer," said Mrs. Hoyt. + +"I guess you're right about that. Let it be an accident, then." + +It was half an hour from the time Mrs. Dinneford entered this house +before she came away. As she passed from the door, closely veiled, a +gentleman whom she knew very well was going by on the opposite side +of the street. From something in his manner she felt sure that he +had recognized her, and that the recognition had caused him no little +surprise. Looking back two or three times as she hurried homeward, she +saw, to her consternation, that he was following her, evidently with the +purpose of making sure of her identity. + +To throw this man off of her track was Mrs. Dinneford's next concern. +This she did by taking a street-car that was going in a direction +opposite to the part of the town in which she lived, and riding for +a distance of over a mile. An hour afterward she came back to her own +neighborhood, but not without a feeling of uneasiness. Just as she +was passing up to the door of her residence a gentleman came hurriedly +around the nearest corner. She recognized him at a glance. It seemed as +if the servant would never answer her ring. On he came, until the sound +of his steps was in her ears. He was scarcely ten paces distant when the +door opened and she passed in. When she gained her room, she sat down +faint and trembling. Here was a new element in the danger and disgrace +that were digging her steps so closely. + +As we have seen, Edith did not make her appearance at the mission +sewing-school on the following Thursday, nor did she go there for many +weeks afterward. The wild hope that had taken her to Briar street, the +nervous strain and agitation attendant on that visit, and the reaction +occasioned by her father's failure to get possession of the baby, were +too much for her strength, and an utter prostration of mind and body was +the consequence. There was no fever nor sign of any active disease--only +weakness, Nature's enforced quietude, that life and reason might be +saved. + + + + +CHAPTER XVII. + + + +_THE_ police were at fault. They found Pinky Swett, but were not able to +find the baby. Careful as they were in their surveillance, she managed +to keep them on the wrong track and to baffle every effort to discover +what had been done with the child. + +In this uncertainty months went by. Edith came up slowly from her +prostrate condition, paler, sadder and quieter, living in a kind of +waking dream. Her father tried to hold her back from her mission work +among the poor, but she said, "I must go, father; I will die if I do +not." + +And so her life lost itself in charities. Now and then her mother +made an effort to draw her into society. She had not yet given up her +ambition, nor her hope of one day seeing her daughter take social rank +among the highest, or what she esteemed the highest. But her power over +Edith was entirely gone. She might as well have set herself to turn +the wind from its course as to influence her in anything. It was all in +vain. Edith had dropped out of society, and did not mean to go back. She +had no heart for anything outside of her home, except the Christian work +to which she had laid her hands. + +The restless, watchful, suspicious manner exhibited for a long time by +Mrs. Dinneford, and particularly noticed by Edith, gradually wore off. +She grew externally more like her old self, but with something new in +the expression of her face when in repose, that gave a chill to the +heart of Edith whenever she saw its mysterious record, that seemed in +her eyes only an imperfect effort to conceal some guilty secret. + +Thus the mother and daughter, though in daily personal contact, stood +far apart--were internally as distant from each other as the antipodes. + +As for Mr. Dinneford, what he had seen and heard on his first visit to +Briar street had aroused him to a new and deeper sense of his duty as +a citizen. Against all the reluctance and protests of his natural +feelings, he had compelled himself to stand face to face with the +appalling degradation and crime that festered and rioted in that almost +Heaven-deserted region. He had heard and read much about its evil +condition; but when, under the protection of a policeman, he went from +house to house, from den to den, through cellar and garret and hovel, +comfortless and filthy as dog-kennels and pig-styes, and saw the sick +and suffering, the utterly vile and debauched, starving babes and +children with faces marred by crime, and the legion of harpies who were +among them as birds of prey, he went back to his home sick at heart, and +with a feeling of helplessness and hopelessness out of which he found it +almost impossible to rise. + +We cannot stain our pages with a description of what he saw. It is so +vile and terrible, alas, so horrible, that few would credit it. The few +imperfect glimpses of life in that region which we have already given +are sad enough and painful enough, but they only hint at the real truth. + +"What can be done?" asked Mr. Dinneford of the missionary, at their next +meeting, in a voice that revealed his utter despair of a remedy. "To me +it seems as if nothing but fire could purify this region." + +"The causes that have produced this would soon create another as bad," +was answered. + +"What are the causes?" + +"The primary cause," said Mr. Paulding, "is the effort of hell to +establish itself on the earth for the destruction of human souls; the +secondary cause lies in the indifference and supineness of the people. +'While the husband-men slept the enemy sowed tares.' Thus it was of +old, and thus it is to-day. The people are sleeping or indifferent, the +churches are sleeping or indifferent, while the enemy goes on sowing +tares for the harvest of death." + +"Well may you say the harvest of death," returned Mr. Dinneford, +gloomily. + +"And hell," added the missionary, with a stern emphasis. "Yes, sir, it +is the harvest of death and hell that is gathered here, and such a +full harvest! There is little joy in heaven over the sheaves that are +garnered in this accursed region. What hope is there in fire, or any +other purifying process, if the enemy be permitted to go on sowing his +evil seed at will?" + +"How will you prevent it?" asked Mr. Dinneford. + +"Not by standing afar off and leaving the enemy in undisputed +possession--not by sleeping while he sows and reaps and binds into +bundles for the fires, his harvests of human souls! We must be as alert +and wise and ready of hand as he; and God being our helper, we can drive +him from the field!" + +"You have thought over this sad problem a great deal," said Mr. +Dinneford. "You have stood face to face with the enemy for years, and +know his strength and his resources. Have you any well-grounded hope of +ever dislodging him from this stronghold?" + +"I have just said it, Mr. Dinneford. But until the churches and the +people come up to the help of the Lord against the mighty, he cannot be +dislodged. I am standing here, sustained in my work by a small band of +earnest Christian men and women, like an almost barren rock in the midst +of a down-rushing river on whose turbulent surface thousands are being +swept to destruction. The few we are able to rescue are as a drop in +the bucket to the number who are lost. In weakness and sorrow, almost +in despair sometimes, we stand on our rock, with the cry of lost souls +mingling with the cry of fiends in our ears, and wonder at the churches +and the people, that they stand aloof--nay, worse, turn from us coldly +often--when we press the claims of this worse than heathen people who +are perishing at their very doors. + +"Sir," continued the missionary, warming on his theme, "I was in a +church last Sunday that cost its congregation over two hundred thousand +dollars. It was an anniversary occasion, and the collections for the day +were to be given to some foreign mission. How eloquently the preacher +pleaded for the heathen! What vivid pictures of their moral and +spiritual destitution he drew! How full of pathos he was, even to tears! +And the congregation responded in a contribution of over three thousand +dollars, to be sent somewhere, and to be disbursed by somebody of whom +not one in a hundred of the contributors knew anything or took the +trouble to inform themselves. I felt sick and oppressed at such a +waste of money and Christian sympathy, when heathen more destitute and +degraded than could be found in any foreign land were dying at home in +thousands every year, unthought of and uncared for. I gave no amens to +his prayers--I could not. They would have stuck in my throat. I said to +myself, in bitterness and anger, 'How dare a watchman on the walls +of Zion point to an enemy afar off, of whose movements and power and +organization he knows but little, while the very gates of the city are +being stormed and its walls broken down?' But you must excuse me, Mr. +Dinneford. I lose my calmness sometimes when these things crowd my +thoughts too strongly. I am human like the rest, and weak, and cannot +stand in the midst of this terrible wickedness and suffering year after +year without being stirred by it to the very inmost of my being. In my +intense absorption I can see nothing else sometimes." + +He paused for a little while, and then said, in a quiet, business way, + +"In seeking a remedy for the condition of society found here, we must +let common sense and a knowledge of human nature go hand in hand with +Christian charity. To ignore any of these is to make failure certain. If +the whisky-and policy-shops were all closed, the task would be easy. In +a single month the transformation would be marvelous. But we cannot hope +for this, at least not for a long time to come--not until politics and +whisky are divorced, and not until associations of bad men cease to +be strong enough in our courts to set law and justice at defiance. Our +work, then, must be in the face of these baleful influences." + +"Is the evil of lottery-policies so great that you class it with the +curse of rum?" asked Mr. Dinneford. + +"It is more concealed, but as all-pervading and almost as disastrous in +its effects. The policy-shops draw from the people, especially the poor +and ignorant, hundreds of thousands of dollars every year. There is no +more chance of thrift for one who indulges in this sort of gambling than +there is for one who indulges in drink. The vice in either case drags +its subject down to want, and in most cases to crime. I could point you +to women virtuous a year ago, but who now live abandoned lives; and they +would tell you, if you would question them, that their way downward +was through the policy-shops. To get the means of securing a hoped-for +prize--of getting a hundred or two hundred dollars for every single +one risked, and so rising above want or meeting some desperate +exigency--virtue was sacrificed in an evil moment." + +"The whisky-shops brutalize, benumb and debase or madden with cruel and +murderous passions; the policy-shops, more seductive and fascinating in +their allurements, lead on to as deep a gulf of moral ruin and hopeless +depravity. I have seen the poor garments of a dying child sold at a +pawn-shop for a mere trifle by its infatuated mother, and the money +thrown away in this kind of gambling. Women sell or pawn their clothing, +often sending their little children to dispose of these articles, while +they remain half clad at home to await the daily drawings and receive +the prize they fondly hope to obtain, but which rarely, if ever, comes. + +"Children learn early to indulge this vice, and lie and steal in order +to obtain money to gratify it. You would be amazed to see the scores of +little boys and girls, white and black, who daily visit the policy-shops +in this neighborhood to put down the pennies they have begged or +received for stolen articles on some favorite numbers--quick-witted, +sharp, eager little wretches, who talk the lottery slang as glibly as +older customers. What hope is there in the future for these children? +Will their education in the shop of a policy-dealer fit them to become +honest, industrious citizens?" + +All this was so new and dreadful to Mr. Dinneford that he was stunned +and disheartened; and when, after an interview with the missionary +that lasted over an hour, he went away, it was with a feeling of utter +discouragement. He saw little hope of making head against the flood of +evil that was devastating this accursed region. + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII. + + + +_MRS. HOYT_, _alias_ Bray, found Pinky Swett, but she did not find the +poor cast-off baby. Pinky had resolved to make it her own capital in +trade. She parleyed and trifled with Mrs. Hoyt week after week, and each +did her best to get down to the other's secret, but in vain. Mutually +baffled, they parted at last in bitter anger. + +One day, about two months after the interview between Mrs. Dinneford +and Mrs. Hoyt described in another chapter, the former received in an +envelope a paragraph cut from a newspaper. It read as follows: + +"A CHILD DROWNED.--A sad accident occurred yesterday on board the +steamer Fawn as she was going down the river. A woman was standing with +a child in her arms near the railing on the lower deck forward. Suddenly +the child gave a spring, and was out of her arms in a moment. She caught +after it frantically, but in vain. Every effort was made to recover the +child, but all proved fruitless. It did not rise to the surface of the +water." + +Mrs. Dinneford read the paragraph twice, and then tore it into little +bits. Her mouth set itself sternly. A long sigh of relief came up from +her chest. After awhile the hard lines began slowly to disappear, giving +place to a look of satisfaction and comfort. + +"Out of my way at last," she staid, rising and beginning to move about +the room. But the expression of relief and confidence which had come +into her face soon died out. The evil counselors that lead the soul into +sin become its tormentors after the sin is committed, and torture it +with fears. So tortured they this guilty and wretched woman at every +opportunity. They led her on step by step to do evil, and then crowded +her mind with suggestions of perils and consequences the bare thought of +which filled her with terror. + +It was only a few weeks after this that Mrs. Dinneford, while looking +over a morning paper, saw in the court record the name of Pinky +Swett. This girl had been tried for robbing a man of his pocket-book, +containing five hundred dollars, found guilty, and sentenced to prison +for a term of two years. + +"Good again!" exclaimed Mrs. Dinneford, with satisfaction. "The wheel +turns." + +After that she gradually rose above the doubts and dread of exposure +that haunted her continually, and set herself to work to draw her +daughter back again into society. But she found her influence over Edith +entirely gone. Indeed, Edith stood so far away from her that she seemed +more like a stranger than a child. + +Two or three times had Pinky Swett gone to the mission sewing-school in +order to get a sight of Edith. Her purpose was to follow her home, and +so find out her name and were she lived. With this knowledge in her +possession, she meant to visit Mrs. Bray, and by a sudden or casual +mention by name of Edith as the child's mother throw her off her guard, +and lead her to betray the fact if it were really so. But Edith was sick +at home, and did not go to the school. After a few weeks the little girl +who was to identify Edith as the person who had shown so much interest +in the baby was taken away from Grubb's court by her mother, and nobody +could tell where to find her. So, Pinky had to abandon her efforts in +this direction, and Edith, when she was strong enough to go back to +the sewing-school, missed the child, from whom she was hoping to hear +something that might give a clue to where the poor waif had been taken. + +Up to the time of her arrest and imprisonment, Pinky had faithfully paid +the child's board, and looked in now and then upon the woman who had it +in charge, to see that it was properly cared for. How marvelously the +baby had improved in these two or three months! The shrunken limb's were +rounded into beautiful symmetry, and the pinched face looked full and +rosy. The large brown eyes, in which you once saw only fear or a mystery +of suffering, were full of a happy light, and the voice rang out often +in merry child-laughter. The baby had learned to walk, and was daily +growing more and more lovable. + +But after Pinky's imprisonment there was a change. The woman--Mrs. Burke +by name--in whose care the child had been placed could not afford to +keep him for nothing. The two dollars week received for his board added +just enough to her income to enable her to remain at home. But failing +to receive this, she must go out for day's work in families at least +twice in every week. + +What, then, was to be done with little Andy, as the baby was called? +At first Mrs. Burke thought of getting him into one of the homes +for friendless children, but the pleasant child had crept into her +affections, and she could not bear the thought of giving him up. His +presence stirred in her heart old and tender things long buried out of +sight, and set the past, with its better and purer memories, side +by side with the present. She had been many times a mother, but her +children were all dead but one, and she--Alas! the thought of her, +whenever it came, made her heart heavy and sad. + +"I will keep him a while and see, how it comes out," she said, on +getting the promise of a neighbor to let Andy play with her children and +keep an eye on him whenever she was out. He had grown strong, and could +toddle about and take care of himself wonderfully well for a child of +his age. + +And now began a new life for the baby--a life in which he must look +out for himself and hold his own in a hand-to-hand struggle. He had no +rights that the herd of children among whom he was thrown felt bound to +respect; and if he were not able to maintain his rights, he must go down +helplessly, and he did go down daily, often hourly. But he had will and +vital force, and these brought him always to his feet again, and with +strength increased rather than lost. On the days that Mrs. Burke went +out he lived for most of the time in the little street, playing with the +children that swarmed its pavements, often dragged from before wheels or +horses' hoofs by a friendly hand, or lifted from some gutter in which he +had fallen, dripping with mud. + +When Mrs. Burke came home on the evening of her first day out, the baby +was a sight to see. His clothes were stiff with dirt, his shoes and +stockings wet, and his face more like that of a chimney-sweep than +anything else. But this was not all; there was a great lump as large +as a pigeon's egg on the back of his head, a black-and-blue spot on his +forehead and a bad cut on his upper lip. His joy at seeing her and the +tearful cry he gave as he threw his arm's about her neck quite overcame +Mrs. Burke, and caused her eyes to grow dim. She was angry at the plight +in which she found him, and said some hard things to the woman who had +promised to look after the child, at which the latter grew angry in +turn, and told her to stay at home and take care of the brat herself, or +put him in one of the homes. + +The fresh care and anxiety felt by Mrs. Burke drew little Andy nearer +and made her reject more decidedly the thought of giving him up. She +remained at home on the day following, but did not find it so easy as +before to keep the baby quiet. He had got a taste of the free, wild life +of the street, of its companionship and excitement, and fretted to go +out. Toward evening she put by her work and went on the pavement with +Andy. It was swarming with children. At the sight of them he began to +scream with pleasure. Pulling his hand free from that of Mrs. Burke, +he ran in among them, and in a moment after was tumbled over on the +pavement. His head got a hard knock, but he didn't seem to mind it, for +he scrambled to his feet and commenced tossing his hands about, laughing +and crying out as wildly as the rest. In a little while, over he was +knocked again, and as he fell one of the children stepped on his hand +and hurt him so that he screamed with pain. Mrs. Burke caught him in her +arms; but when he found that she was going to take him in the house he +stopped crying and struggled to get down. He was willing to take the +knocks and falls. The pleasure of this free life among children was more +to him than any of the suffering it brought. + +On the next day Mrs. Burke had to go out again. Another neighbor +promised to look after Andy. When she returned at night, she found +things worse, if anything, than before. The child was dirtier, if that +were possible, and there were two great lumps on his head, instead of +one. He had been knocked down by a horse in the street, escaping death +by one of the narrowest of chances, and had been discovered and removed +from a ladder up which he had climbed a distance of twenty feet. + +What help was there? None that Mrs. Burke knew, except to give up the +child, and she was not unselfish enough for this. The thought of sending +him away was always attended with pain. It would take the light out of +her poor lonely life, into which he had brought a few stray sunbeams. + +She could not, she would not, give him up. He must take his chances. Ah, +but they were hard chances! Children mature fast under the stimulus +of street-training. Andy had a large brain and an active, nervous +organization. Life in the open air gave vigor and hardness to his +body. As the months went by he learned self-reliance, caution, +self-protection, and took a good many lessons in the art of aggression. +A rapidly-growing child needs a large amount of nutritious food to +supply waste and furnish material for the daily-increasing bodily +structure. Andy did not get this. At two years of age he had lost all +the roundness of babyhood. His limbs were slender, his body thin and his +face colorless and hungry-looking. + +About this time--that is, when Andy was two years old--Mrs. Burke took +sick and died. She had been failing for several months, and unable to +earn sufficient even to pay her rent. But for the help of neighbors and +an occasional supply of food or fuel from some public charity, she would +have starved. At her death Andy had no home and no one to care for him. +One pitying neighbor after another would take him in at night, or let +him share a meal with her children, but beyond this he was utterly cast +out and friendless. It was summer-time when Mrs. Burke died, and the +poor waif was spared for a time the suffering of cold. + +Now and then a mother's heart would be touched, and after a +half-reluctantly given supper and a place where he might sleep for the +night would mend and wash his soiled clothes and dry them by the fire, +ready for morning. The pleased look that she saw in his large, sad +eyes--for they had grown wistful and sad since the only one he had known +as a mother died--was always her reward, and something not to be put +out of her memory. Many of the children took kindly to Andy, and often +supplied him with food. + +"Andy is so hungry, mamma; can't I take him something to eat?" rarely +failed to bring the needed bread for the poor little cast-adrift. And +if he was discovered now and then sound asleep in bed with some pitying +child who had taken him in stealthily after dark, few were hard-hearted +enough to push him into the street, or make him go down and sleep on the +kitchen floor. Yet this was not unfrequently done. Poverty is sometimes +very cruel, yet often tender and compassionate. + +One day, a few months after Mrs. Burke's death, Andy, who was beginning +to drift farther and farther away from the little street, yet always +managing to get back into it as darkness came on, that he might lay his +tired body in some friendly place, got lost in strange localities. +He had wandered about for many hours, sitting now on some step or +cellar-door or horse-block, watching the children at play and sometimes +joining in their sports, when they would let him, with the spontaneous +abandon of a puppy or a kitten, and now enjoying some street-show or +attractive shop-window. There was nothing of the air of a lost child +about him. For all that his manner betrayed, his home might have been in +the nearest court or alley. So, he wandered along from street to +street without attracting the special notice of any--a bare-headed, +bare-footed, dirty, half-clad atom of humanity not three years old. + +Hungry, tired and cold, for the summer was gone and mid-autumn had +brought its chilly nights, Andy found himself, as darkness fell, in a +vile, narrow court, among some children as forlorn and dirty as himself. +It was Grubb's court--his old home--though in his memory there was of +course no record of the place. + +Too tired and hungry for play, Andy was sitting on the step of a +wretched hovel, when the door opened and a woman called sharply the +names of her two children. They answered a little way off. "Come in +this minute, and get your suppers," she called again, and turning back +without noticing Andy, left the door open for her children. The poor +cast-adrift looked in and saw light and food and comfort--a home that +made him heartsick with longing, mean and disordered and miserable as +it would have appeared to your eyes and mine, reader. The two children, +coming at their mother's call, found him standing just on the threshold +gazing in wistfully; and as they entered, he, drawn by their attraction, +went in also. Then, turning toward her children, the mother saw Andy. + +"Out of this!" she cried, in quick anger, raising her hand and moving +hastily toward the child. "Off home with you!" + +Andy might well be frightened at the terrible face and threatening words +of this woman, and he was frightened. But he did not turn and fly, as +she meant that he should. He had learned, young as he was, that if he +were driven off by every rebuff, he would starve. It was only through +importunity and perseverance that he lived. So he held his ground, his +large, clear eyes fixed steadily on the woman's face as she advanced +upon him. Something in those eyes and in the firmly-set mouth checked +the woman's purpose if she had meant violence, but she thrust him out +into the damp street, nevertheless, though not roughly, and shut the +door against him. + +Andy did not cry; poor little baby that he was, he had long since +learned that for him crying did no good. It brought him nothing. Just +across the street a door stood open. As a stray kitten creeps in through +an open door, so crept he through this one, hoping for shelter and a +place of rest. + +"Who're you?" growled the rough but not unkindly voice of a man, coming +from the darkness. At the same moment a light gleamed out from a match, +and then the steadier flame of a candle lit up the small room, not more +than eight or nine feet square, and containing little that could be +called furniture. The floor was bare. In one corner were some old bits +of carpet and a blanket. A small table, a couple of chairs with the +backs broken off and a few pans and dishes made up the inventory of +household goods. + +As the light made all things clear in this poor room, Andy saw the +bloodshot eyes, and grizzly face of a man, not far past middle life. + +"Who are you, little one?" he growled again as the light gave him a view +of Andy's face. This growl had in it a tone of kindness and welcome to +the ears of Andy who came forward, saying, + +"I'm Andy." + +"Indeed! You're Andy, are you?" and he reached out one of his hands. + +"Yes; I'm Andy," returned the child, fixing his eyes with a look so +deep and searching on the man's face that they held him as by a kind of +fascination. + +"Well, Andy, where did you come from?" asked the man. + +"Don't know," was answered. + +"Don't know!" + +Andy shook his head. + +"Where do you live?" + +"Don't live nowhere," returned the child; "and I'm hungry." + +"Hungry?" The man let the hand he was still holding drop, and getting up +quickly, took some bread from a closet and set it on the old table. + +Andy did not wait for an invitation, but seized upon the bread and +commenced eating almost ravenously. As he did so the man fumbled in his +pockets. There were a few pennies there. He felt them over, counting +them with his fingers, and evidently in some debate with himself. +At last, as he closed the debate, he said, with a kind of compelled +utterance, + +"I say, young one, wouldn't you like some milk with your bread?" + +"Milk! oh my I oh goody! yes," answered the child, a gleam of pleasure +coming into his face. + +"Then you shall have some;" and catching up a broken mug, the man went +out. In a minute or two he returned with a pint of milk, into which he +broke a piece of bread, and then sat watching Andy as he filled himself +with the most delicious food he had tasted for weeks, his marred face +beaming with a higher satisfaction than he had known for a long time. + +"Is it good?" asked the man. + +"I bet you!" was the cheery answer. + +"Well, you're a little brick," laughed the man as he stroked Andy's +head. "And you don't live anywhere?" + +"No." + +"Is your mother dead?" + +"Yes." + +"And your father?" + +"Hain't got no father." + +"Would you like to live here?" + +Andy looked toward the empty bowl from which he had made such a +satisfying meal, and said, + +"Yes." + +"It will hold us both. You're not very big;" and as he said this the man +drew his arm about the boy in a fond sort of way. + +"I guess you're tired," he added, for Andy, now that an arm was drawn +around him, leaned against it heavily. + +"Yes, I'm tired," said the child. + +"And sleepy too, poor little fellow! It isn't much of a bed I can give +you, but it's better than a door-step or a rubbish corner." + +Then he doubled the only blanket he had, and made as soft a bed as +possible. On this he laid Andy, who was fast asleep almost as soon as +down. + +"Poor little chap!" said the man, in a tender, half-broken voice, as he +stood over the sleeping child, candle in hand. "Poor little chap!" + +The sight troubled him. He turned with a quick, disturbed movement and +put the candle down. The light streaming upward into his face showed +the countenance of a man so degraded by intemperance that everything +attractive had died out of it. His clothes were scanty, worn almost +to tatters, and soiled with the slime and dirt of many an ash-heap or +gutter where he had slept off his almost daily fits of drunkenness. +There was an air of irresolution about him, and a strong play of feeling +in his marred, repulsive face, as he stood by the table on which he +had set the candle. One hand was in his pocket, fumbling over the few +pennies yet remaining there. + +As if drawn by an attraction he could not resist, his eyes kept turning +to the spot where Andy lay sleeping. Once, as they came back, they +rested on the mug from which the child had taken his supper of bread and +milk. + +"Poor little fellow!" came from his lips, in a tone of pity. + +Then he sat down by the table and leaned his head on his hand. His face +was toward the corner of the room where the child lay. He still fumbled +the small coins in his pocket, but after a while his fingers ceased to +play with them, then his hand was slowly withdrawn from the pocket, a +deep sigh accompanying the act. + +After the lapse of several minutes he took up the candle, and going over +to the bed, crouched down and let the light fall on Andy's face. The +large forehead, soiled as it was, looked white to the man's eyes, and +the brown matted hair, as he drew it through his fingers, was soft and +beautiful. Memory had taken him back for years, and he was looking at +the fair forehead and touching the soft brown hair of another baby. His +eyes grew dim. He set the candle upon the floor, and putting his hands +over his face, sobbed two or three times. + +When this paroxysm of feeling went off, he got up with a steadier air, +and set the light back upon the table. The conflict going on in his +mind was not quite over, but another look at Andy settled the question. +Stooping with a hurried movement, he blew out the candle, then groped +his way over to the bed, and lying down, took the child in his arms and +drew him close to his breast. So the morning found them both asleep. + + + + +CHAPTER XIX. + + + +_MR. DINNEFORD_ had become deeply interested in the work that was going +on in Briar street, and made frequent visits to the mission house. +Sometimes he took heart in the work, but oftener he suffered great +discouragement of feeling. In one of his many conversations with Mr. +Paulding he said, + +"Looking as I do from the standpoint gained since I came here, I am +inclined to say there is no hope. The enemy is too strong for us." + +"He is very strong," returned the missionary, "but God is stronger, and +our cause is his cause. We have planted his standard here in the very +midst of the enemy's territory, and have not only held our ground for +years, but gained some victories. If we had the people, the churches and +the law-officers on our side, we could drive him out in a year. But we +have no hope of this--at least not for a long time to come; and so, as +wisely as we can, as earnestly as we can, and with the limited means at +our control, we are fighting the foe and helping the weak, and gaining a +little every year." + +"And you really think there is gain?" + +"I know it," answered the missionary, with a ringing confidence in his +voice. "It is by comparisons that we are able to get at true results. +Come with me into our school-room, next door." + +They passed from the office of the mission into the street. + +"These buildings," said Mr. Paulding, "erected by that true Christian +charity which hopeth all things, stand upon the very site of one of the +worst dens once to be found in this region. In them we have a chapel for +worship, two large and well ventilated school-rooms, where from two to +three hundred children that would not be admitted into any public school +are taught daily, a hospital and dispensary and bathrooms. Let me show +you the school. Then I will give you a measure of comparison." + +Mr. Dinneford went up to the school-rooms. He found them crowded with +children, under the care of female teachers, who seemed to have but +little trouble in keeping them in order. Such a congregation of boys and +girls Mr. Dinneford had never seen before. It made his heart ache as he +looked into some of their marred and pinched, faces, most of which bore +signs of pain, suffering, want and evil. It moved him to tears when he +heard them sing, led by one of the teachers, a tender hymn expressive of +the Lord's love for poor neglected children. + +"The Lord Jesus came to seek and to save that which was lost," said the +missionary as they came down from the school-room, "and we are trying to +do the same work. And that our labor is not all in vain will be evident +when I show you what this work was in the beginning. You have seen a +little of what it is now." + +They went back to the office of the missionary. + +"It is nearly twenty years," said Mr. Paulding, "since the organization +of our mission. The question of what to do for the children became +at once the absorbing one. The only building in which to open a +Sunday-school that could be obtained was an old dilapidated frame house +used as a receptacle for bones, rags, etc.; but so forbidding was its +aspect, and so noisome the stench arising from the putrefying bones +and rotting rags, that it was feared for the health of those who +might occupy it. However it was agreed to try the effect of scraping, +scrubbing, white-washing and a liberal use of chloride of lime. This +was attended with such good effects that, notwithstanding the place was +still offensive to the olfactories, the managers concluded to open in it +our first Sabbath-school. + +"No difficulty was experienced in gathering in a sufficient number of +children to compose a school; for, excited by such a novel spectacle +as a Sabbath-school in that region, they came in crowds. But such a +Sabbath-school as that first one was beyond all doubt the rarest thing +of the kind that any of those interested in its formation had ever +witnessed. The jostling, tumbling, scratching, pinching, pulling of +hair, little ones crying and larger ones punching each other's heads and +swearing most profanely, altogether formed a scene of confusion and +riot that disheartened the teachers in the start, and made them begin to +think they had undertaken a hopeless task. + +"As to the appearance of these young Ishmaelites, it was plain that they +had rarely made the acquaintance of soap and water. Hands, feet and +face exhibited a uniform crust of mud and filth. As it was necessary to +obtain order, the superintendent, remembering that 'music hath charms +to soothe the savage breast,' decided to try its effects on the untamed +group before him; and giving out a line of a hymn adapted to the tune of +'Lily Dale,' he commenced to sing. The effect was instantaneous. It was +like oil on troubled waters. The delighted youngsters listened to the +first line, and then joined in with such hearty good-will that the old +shanty rang again. + +"The attempt to engage and lead them in prayer was, however, a matter of +great difficulty. They seemed to regard the attitude of kneeling as very +amusing, and were reluctant to commit themselves so far to the ridicule +of their companions as to be caught in such a posture. After reading to +them a portion of the Holy Scriptures and telling them of Jesus, +they were dismissed, greatly pleased with their first visit to a +Sabbath-school. + +"As for ourselves, we had also received a lesson. We found--what indeed +we had expected--that the poor children were very ignorant, but we also +found what we did not expect--namely, such an acute intelligence and +aptitude to receive instruction as admonished us of the danger of +leaving them to grow up under evil influences to become master-spirits +in crime and pests to society. Many of the faces that we had just seen +were very expressive--indeed, painfully so. Some of them seemed to +exhibit an unnatural and premature development of those passions whose +absence makes childhood so attractive. + +"Hunger! ay, its traces were also plainly written there. It is painful +to see the marks of hunger on the human face, but to see the cheeks of +childhood blanched by famine, to behold the attenuated limbs and bright +wolfish eyes, ah! that is a sight. + +"The organization of a day-school came next. There were hundreds of +children in the district close about the mission who were wholly without +instruction. They were too dirty, vicious and disorderly to be admitted +into any of the public schools; and unless some special means of +education were provided, they must grow up in ignorance. It was +therefore resolved to open a day-school, but to find a teacher with her +heart in such a work was a difficulty hard to be met; moreover, it was +thought by many unsafe for a lady to remain in this locality alone, even +though a suitable one should offer. But one brave and self-devoted +was found, and one Sunday it was announced to the children in the +Sabbath-school that a day school would be opened in the same building at +nine o'clock on Monday morning. + +"About thirty neglected little ones from the lanes and alleys around +the mission were found at the schoolroom door at the appointed hour. But +when admitted, very few of them had any idea of the purpose for which +they were collected. The efforts of the teacher to seat them proved a +failure. The idea among them seemed to be that each should take some +part in amusing the company. One would jump from the back of a bench +upon which he had been seated, while others were creeping about the +floor; another, who deemed himself a proficient in turning somersaults, +would be trying his skill in this way, while his neighbor, equally +ambitious, would show the teacher how he could stand on his head. +Occasionally they would pause and listen to the singing of a hymn or the +reading of a little story; then all would be confusion again; and thus +the morning wore away. The first session having closed, the teacher +retired to her home, feeling that a repetition of the scenes through +which she had passed could scarcely be endured. + +"Two o'clock found her again at the door, and the children soon gathered +around her. Upon entering the schoolroom, most of them were induced +to be seated, and a hymn was sung which they had learned in the +Sabbath-school. When it was finished, the question was asked, 'Shall we +pray?' With one accord they answered, 'Yes.' 'And will you be quiet?' +They replied in the affirmative. All were then requested to be silent +and cover their faces. In this posture they remained until the prayer +was closed; and after resuming their seats, for some minutes order was +preserved. This was the only encouraging circumstance of the day. + +"For many weeks a stranger would scarcely have recognized a school in +this disorderly gathering which day after day met in the old gloomy +building. Very many difficulties which we may not name were met and +conquered. Fights were of common occurrence. A description of one may +give the reader an idea of what came frequently under our notice. + +"A rough boy about fourteen years of age, over whom some influence had +been gained, was chosen monitor one morning; and as he was a leader in +all the mischief, it was hoped that putting him upon his honor would +assist in keeping order. Talking aloud was forbidden. For a few minutes +matters went on charmingly, until some one, tired of the restraint, +broke silence. The monitor, feeling the importance of his position, and +knowing of but one mode of redress, instantly struck him a violent blow +upon the ear, causing him to scream with pain. In a moment the school +was a scene of confusion, the friends of each boy taking sides, and +before the cause of trouble could be ascertained most of the boys +were piled upon each other in the middle of the room, creating sounds +altogether indescribable. The teacher, realizing that she was alone, and +not well understanding her influence, feared for a moment to interfere; +but as matters were growing worse, something must be done. She made +an effort to gain the ear of the monitor, and asked why he did so. He, +confident of being in the right, answered, + +"'Teacher, he didn't mind you; he spoke, and I licked him; and I'll do +it again if he don't mind you.' + +"His services were of course no longer required, although he had done +his duty according to his understanding of the case. + +"Thus it was at the beginning of this work nearly twenty years ago," +said the missionary. "Now we have an orderly school of over two hundred +children, who, but for the opportunity here given, would grow up without +even the rudiments of all education. Is not this a gain upon the enemy? +Think of a school like this doing its work daily among these neglected +little ones for nearly a score of years, and you will no longer feel as +if nothing had been done--as if no headway had been gained. Think, +too, of the Sabbath-school work in that time, and of the thousands of +children who have had their memories filled with precious texts from the +Bible, who have been told of the loving Saviour who came into the world +and suffered and died for them, and of his tender love and perpetual +care over his children, no matter how poor and vile and afar off +from him they may be. It is impossible that the good seed of the word +scattered here for so long a time should not have taken root in many +hearts. We know that they have, and can point to scores of blessed +instances--can take you to men and women, now good and virtuous +people, who, but for our day-and Sabbath-schools, would, in all human +probability, be now among the outcast, the vicious and the criminal. + +"So much for what has been done among the children. Our work with men +and women has not been so fruitful as might well be supposed, and yet +great good has been accomplished even among the hardened, the desperate +and the miserably vile and besotted. Bad as things are to-day--awful +to see and to contemplate, shocking and disgraceful to a Christian +community--they were nearly as bad again at the time this mission set +up the standard of God and made battle in his name. Our work began as a +simple religious movement, with street preaching." + +"And with what effect?" asked Mr. Dinneford. + +"With good effect, in a limited number of cases, I trust. In a degraded +community like this there will always be some who had a different +childhood from that of the crowds of young heathen who swarm its courts +and alleys; some who in early life had religious training, and in whose +memories were stored up holy things from Scripture; some who have +tender and sweet recollection of a mother and home and family prayer and +service in God's temples. In the hearts of such God's Spirit in moving +could touch and quicken and flush with reviving life these old memories, +and through them bring conviction of sin, and an intense desire to rise +out of the horrible pit into which they had fallen and the clay wherein +their feet were mired. Angels could come near to these by what of good +and true was to be found half hidden, but not erased from their book of +life, and so help in the work of their recovery and salvation. + +"But, sir, beyond this class there is small hope, I fear, in preaching +and praying. The great mass of these wretched beings have had little or +no early religious instruction. There, are but few, if any, remains +of things pure and good and holy stored away since childhood in their +memories to be touched and quickened by the Spirit of God. And so we +must approach them in another and more external way. We must begin with +their physical evils, and lessen these as fast as possible; we must +remove temptation from their doors, or get them as far as possible +out of the reach of temptation, but in this work not neglecting the +religious element as an agency, of untold power. + +"Christ fed the hungry, and healed the sick, and clothed the naked, +and had no respect unto the persons of men. And we, if we would lift up +fallen humanity, must learn by his example. It is not by preaching and +prayer and revival meetings that the true Christian philanthropist can +hope to accomplish any great good among the people here, but by doing +all in his power to change their sad external condition and raise them +out of their suffering and degradation. Without some degree of external +order and obedience to the laws of natural life, it is, I hold, next to +impossible, to plant in the mind any seeds of spiritual truth. There +is no ground there. The parable of the sower that went forth to sow +illustrates this law. Only the seed that fell on good ground brought +forth fruit. Our true work, then, among this heathen people, of whom the +churches take so little care, is first to get the ground in order for +the planting, of heavenly seed. Failing in this, our hope is small." + +"This mission has changed its attitude since the beginning," said Mr. +Dinneford. + +"Yes. Good and earnest men wrought for years with the evil elements +around them, trusting in God's Spirit to change the hearts of the vile +and abandoned sinners among whom they preached and prayed. But there was +little preparation of the ground, and few seeds got lodgment except +in stony places, by the wayside and among thorns. Our work now is to +prepare the ground, and in this work, slowly as it is progressing, +we have great encouragement. Every year we can mark the signs of +advancement. Every year we make some head against the enemy. Every year +our hearts take courage and are refreshed by the smell of grasses and +the odor of flowers and the sight of fruit-bearing plants in once barren +and desolate places. The ground is surely being made ready for the +sower." + +"I am glad to hear you speak so encouragingly," returned Mr. Dinneford. +"To me the case looked desperate--wellnigh hopeless. Anything worse than +I have witnessed here seemed impossible." + +"It is only by comparisons, as I said before, that we can get at the +true measure of change and progress," answered the missionary. "Since +we have been at work in earnest to improve the external life of this +region, we have had much to encourage us. True, what we have done has +made only a small impression on the evil that exists here; but the value +of this impression lies in the fact that it shows what can be done +with larger agencies. Double our effective force, and we can double the +result. Increase it tenfold, and ten times as much can be done." + +"What is your idea of this work?" said Mr. Dinneford. "In other words, +what do you think the best practical way to purify this region?" + +"If you draw burning brands and embers close together, your fire grows +stronger; if you scatter them apart, it will go out," answered the +missionary. "Moral and physical laws correspond to each other. Crowd +bad men and women together, and they corrupt and deprave each other. +Separate them, and you limit their evil power and make more possible for +good the influence of better conditions. Let me give you an instance: A +man and his wife who had lived in a wretched way in one of the poorest +hovels in Briar street for two years, and who had become idle and +intemperate, disappeared from among us about six months ago. None of +their neighbors knew or cared much what had become of them. They had +two children. Last week, as I was passing the corner of a street in the +south-western part of the city in which stood a row of small new houses, +a neatly-dressed woman came out of a store with a basket in her hand. I +did not know her, but by the brightening look in her face I saw that she +knew me. + +"'Mr. Paulding,' she said, in a pleased way, holding out her hand; 'you +don't know me,' she added, seeing the doubt in my face. 'I am Mrs.--.' + +"'Impossible!' I could not help exclaiming. + +"'But it's true, Mr. Paulding,' she averred, a glow of pleasure on her +countenance. 'We've turned over a new leaf.' + +"'So I should think from your appearance,' I replied. 'Where do you +live?' + +"'In the third house from the corner,' pointing to the neat row of small +brick houses I have mentioned. 'Come and look at our new home. I want to +tell you about it!' + +"I was too much pleased to need a second invitation. + +"'I've got as clean steps as my neighbors,' she said, with pride in her +voice, 'and shades to my windows, and a bright door-knob. It wasn't so +in Briar street. One had no heart there. Isn't this nice?' + +"And she glanced around the little parlor we had entered. + +"It was nice, compared to the dirty and disorderly place they had called +their home in Briar street. The floor was covered with a new ingrain +carpet. There were a small table and six cane-seat chairs in the room, +shades at the windows, two or three small pictures on the walls and some +trifling ornaments on the mantel. Everything was clean and the air of +the room sweet. + +"'This is my little Emma,' she said as a cleanly-dressed child came into +the room; 'You remember she was in the school.' + +"I did remember her as a ragged, dirty-faced child, forlorn and +neglected, like most of the children about here. It was a wonderful +transformation. + +"'And now,' I said, 'tell me how all this has come about.' + +"'Well, you see, Mr. Paulding,' she answered, 'there was no use in John +and me trying to be anything down there. It was temptation on every +hand, and we were weak and easily tempted. There was nothing to make us +look up or to feel any pride. We lived like our neighbors, and you know +what kind of a way that was. + +"'One day John said to me, "Emma," says he, "it's awful, the way we're +living; we'd better be dead." His voice was shaky-like, and it kind of +made me feel bad. "I know it, John," said I, "but what can we do?" "Go +'way from here," he said. "But where?" I asked. "Anywhere. I'm not all +played out yet;" and he held up his hand and shut it tight. "There's +good stuff in me yet, and if you're willing to make a new start, I am." +I put my hand in his, and said, "God helping me, I will try, John." He +went off that very day and got a room in a decent neighborhood, and we +moved in it before night. We had only one cart-load, and a wretched load +of stuff it was. But I can't tell you how much better it looked when we +got it into our new room, the walls of which were nicely papered, and +the paint clean and white. I fixed up everything and made it as neat as +possible. John was so pleased. "It feels something like old times," he +said. He had been knocking about a good while, picking up odd jobs and +not half working, but he took heart now, quit drinking and went to work +in good earnest, and was soon making ten dollars a week, every cent of +which he brought home. He now gets sixteen dollars. We haven't made a +back step since. But it wouldn't have been any use trying if we'd stayed +in Briar street. Pride helped us a good deal in the beginning, sir. I +was ashamed not to have my children looking as clean as my neighbors, +and ashamed not to keep things neat and tidy-like. I didn't care +anything about it in Briar street.' + +"I give you this instance, true in nearly every particular," said the +missionary, "in order to show you how incurable is the evil condition of +the people here; unless we can get the burning brands apart, they help +to consume each other." + +"But how to get them apart? that is the difficult question," said Mr. +Dinneford. + +"There are two ways," was replied--"by forcing the human brands apart, +and by interposing incombustible things between them. As we have no +authority to apply force, and no means at hand for its exercise if we +had the authority, our work has been in the other direction. We have +been trying to get in among these burning brands elements that would +stand the fire, and, so lessen the ardor of combustion." + +"How are you doing this?" + +"By getting better houses for the people to live in. Improve the house, +make it more sightly and convenient, and in most cases you will improve +the person who lives in it. He will not kindle so easily, though he yet +remain close to the burning brands." + +"And are you doing this?" + +"A little has been done. Two or three years ago a building association +was organized by a few gentlemen of means, with a view to the purchase +of property in this district and the erection of small but good houses, +to be rented at moderate cost to honest and industrious people. A number +of such houses have already been built, and they are now occupied +by tenants of a better class, whose influence on their neighbors is +becoming more and more apparent every day. Brady street--once the worst +place in all this district--has changed wonderfully. There is scarcely +a house in the two blocks through which it runs that does not show some +improvement since the association pulled down half a dozen of its worst +frame tenements and put neat brick dwellings in their places. It is no +uncommon thing now to see pavement sweeping and washing in front of +some of the smallest and poorest of the houses in Brady street where two +years ago the dirt would stick to your feet in passing. A clean muslin +half curtain, a paper shade or a pot of growing plants will meet your +eyes at a window here and there as you pass along. The thieves who once +harbored in this street, and hid their plunder in cellars and garrets +until it could be sold or pawned, have abandoned the locality. They +could not live side by side with honest industry." + +"And all this change may be traced to the work of our building +association, limited as are its means and half-hearted as are its +operations. The worst of our population--the common herd of thieves, +beggars and vile women who expose themselves shamelessly on the +street--are beginning to feel less at home and more in danger of arrest +and exposure. The burning brands are no longer in such close contact, +and so the fires of evil are raging less fiercely. Let in the light, and +the darkness flees. Establish the good, and evil shrinks away, weak and +abashed." + + + + +CHAPTER XX. + + + +_SO_ the morning found them fast asleep. The man awoke first and felt +the child against his bosom, soft and warm. It was some moments ere he +understood what it meant. It seemed as if the wretched life he had been +leading was all a horrible dream out of which he had awakened, and that +the child sleeping in his bosom was his own tenderly-loved baby. But +the sweet illusions faded away, and the hard, sorrowful truth stood out +sternly before him. + +Then Andy's eyes opened and looked into his face. There was nothing +scared in the look-hardly an expression of surprise. But the man saw a +mute appeal and a tender confidence that made his heart swell and yearn +toward the homeless little one. + +"Had a nice sleep?" he asked, in a tone of friendly encouragement. + +Andy nodded his head, and then gazed curiously about the room. + +"Want some breakfast?" + +The hungry face lit up with a flash of pleasure. + +"Of course you do, little one." + +The man was on his feet by this time, with his hand in his pocket, +from which he drew a number of pennies. These he counted over carefully +twice. The number was just ten. If there had been only himself to +provide for, it would not have taken long to settle the question of +expenditure. Five cents at an eating-shop where the caterer supplied +himself from the hodge-podge of beggars' baskets would have given him +a breakfast fit for a dog or pig, while the remaining five cents would +have gone for fiery liquor to quench a burning thirst. + +But another mouth had too be fed. All at once this poor degraded man +had risen to a sense of responsibility, and was practicing the virtue of +self-denial. A little child was leading him. + +He had no toilette to make, no ablutions to practice. There was neither +pail nor wash-basin in his miserable kennel. So, without any delay of +preparation, he caught up the broken mug and went out, as forlorn a +looking wretch as was to be seen in all that region. Almost every house +that he passed was a grog-shop, and his nerves were all unstrung and his +mouth and throat dry from a night's abstinence. But he was able to go +by without a pause. In a few minutes he returned with a loaf of bread, a +pint of milk and a single dried sausage. + +What a good breakfast the two made. Not for a long time had the man so +enjoyed a meal. The sight of little Andy, as he ate with the fine relish +of a hungry child, made his dry bread and sausage taste sweeter than +anything that had passed his lips for weeks. + +Something more than the food he had taken steadied the man's nerves and +allayed his thirst. Love was beating back into his heart--love for this +homeless wanderer, whose coming had supplied the lost links in the chain +which bound him to the past and called up memories that had slept almost +the sleep of death for years. Good resolutions began forming in his +mind. + +"It may be," he said to himself as new and better impressions than he +had known for a long time began to crowd upon him, "that God has led +this baby here." + +The thought sent a strange thrill to his soul. He trembled with excess +of feeling. He had once been a religious man; and with the old instinct +of dependence on God, he clasped his hands together with a sudden, +desperate energy, and looking up, cried, in a half-despairing, +half-trustful voice, + +"Lord, help me!" + +No earnest cry like that ever goes up without an instant answer in the +gift of divine strength. The man felt it in a stronger purpose and a +quickening hope. He was conscious of a new power in himself. + +"God being my helper," he said in the silence of his heart, "I will be a +man again." + +There was a long distance between him and a true manhood. The way +back was over very rough and difficult places, and through dangers and +temptations almost impossible to resist. Who would have faith in him? +Who would help him in his great extremity? How was he to live? Not any +longer by begging or petty theft. He must do honest work. There was no +hope in anything else. If God were to be his helper, he must be honest, +and work. To this conviction he had come. + +But what was to be done with Andy while he was away trying to earn +something? The child might get hurt in the street or wander off in his +absence and never find his way back. The care he felt for the little one +was pleasure compared to the thought of losing him. + +As for Andy, the comfort of a good breakfast and the feeling that he +had a home, mean as it was, and somebody to care for him, made his heart +light and set his lips to music. + +When before had the dreary walls of that poor hovel echoed to the happy +voice of a light-hearted child? But there was another echo to the voice, +and from walls as long a stranger to such sounds as these--the walls in +the chambers of that poor man's memory. A wellnigh lost and ruined soul +was listening to the far-off voices of children. Sunny-haired little +ones were thronging about him; he was looking into their tender eyes; +their soft arms were clinging to his neck; he was holding them tightly +clasped to his bosom. + +"Baby," he said. It was the word that came most naturally to his lips. + +Andy, who was sitting where a few sunbeams came in through a rent in +the wall, with the warm light on his head, turned and looked into the +bleared but friendly eyes gazing at him so earnestly. + +"I'm going out, baby. Will you stay here till I come back?" + +"Yes," answered the child, "I'll stay." + +"I won't be gone very long, and I'll bring you an apple and something +good for dinner." + +Andy's face lit up and his eyes danced. + +"Don't go out until I come back. Somebody might carry you off, and then +I couldn't give you the nice red apple." + +"I'll stay right here," said Andy, in a positive tone. + +"And won't go into the street till I come back?" + +"No, I won't." Andy knit his brows and closed his lips firmly. + +"All right, little one," answered the man, in a cheery sort of voice +that was so strange to his own ears that it seemed like the voice of +somebody else. + +Still, he could not feel satisfied. He was living in the midst of +thieves to whom the most insignificant thing upon which they could lay +their hands was booty. Children who had learned to be hard and cruel +thronged the court, and he feared, if he left Andy alone in the hovel, +that it would not only be robbed of its meagre furniture, but the child +subjected to ill-treatment. He had always fastened the door on going +out, but hesitated now about locking Andy in. + +All things considered, it was safest, he felt, to lock the door. There +was nothing in the room that could bring harm to the child--no fire or +matches, no stairs to climb or windows out of which he could fall. + +"I guess I'd better lock the door, hadn't I, so that nobody can carry +off my little boy?" he asked of Andy. + +Andy made no objections. He was ready for anything his kind friend might +propose. + +"And you mustn't cry or make a noise. The police might break in if you +did." + +"All right," said Andy, with the self-assertion of a boy of ten. + +The man stroked the child's head and ran his fingers through his hair in +a fond way; then, as one who tore himself from an object of attraction, +went hastily out and locked the door. + +And now was to begin a new life. Friendless, debased, repulsive in +appearance, everything about him denoting the abandoned drunkard, this +man started forth to get honest bread. Where should he go? What could +he do? Who would give employment to an object like him? The odds were +fearfully against him--no, not that, either. In outward respects, +fearful enough were the odds, but on the other side agencies invisible +to mortal sight were organizing for his safety. In to his purpose +to lead a new life and help a poor homeless child God's strength was +flowing. Angels were drawing near to a miserable wreck of humanity with +hands outstretched to save. All heaven was coming to the rescue. + +He was shuffling along in the direction of a market-house, hoping to +earn a little by carrying home baskets, when he came face to face with +an old friend of his better days, a man with whom he had once held close +business relations. + +"Mr. Hall!" exclaimed this man in a tone of sorrowful surprise, +stopping and looking at him with an expression of deepest pity on his +countenance. "This is dreadful!" + +"You may well say that, Mr. Graham. It dreadful enough. No one knows +that better than I do," was answered, with a bitterness that his old +friend felt to be genuine. + +"Why, then, lead this terrible life a day longer?" asked the friend. + +"I shall not lead it a day longer if God will help me," was replied, +with a genuineness of purpose that was felt by Mr. Graham. + +"Give me your hand on that, Andrew Hall," he exclaimed. Two hands closed +in a tight grip. + +"Where are you going now?" inquired the friend. + +"I'm in search of something to do--something that will give me honest +bread. Look at my hand." + +He held it up. + +"It shakes, you see. I have not tasted liquor this morning. I could have +bought it, but I did not." + +"Why?" + +"I said, 'God being my helper, I will be a man again,' and I am trying." + +"Andrew Hall," said his old friend, solemnly, as he laid his hand on his +shoulder, "if you are really in earnest--if you do mean, in the help of +God, to try--all will be well. But in his help alone is there any hope. +Have you seen Mr. Paulding?" + +"No." + +"Why not?" + +"He has no faith in me. I have deceived him too often." + +"What ground of faith is there now?" asked Mr. Graham. + +"This," was the firm but hastily spoken answer. "Last night as I sat in +the gloom of my dreary hovel, feeling so wretched that I wished I could +die, a little child came in--a poor, motherless, homeless wanderer, +almost a baby--and crept down to my heart, and he is lying there still, +Mr. Graham, soft, and warm and precious, a sweet burden to bear. I +bought him a supper and a breakfast of bread and milk with the money, +I had saved for drink, and now, both for his sake and mine, I am out +seeking for work. I have locked him in, so that no one can harm or carry +him away while I earn enough to buy him his dinner, and maybe something +better to wear, poor little homeless thing!" + +There was a genuine earnestness and pathos about the man that could not +be mistaken. + +"I think," said Mr. Graham, his voice not quite steady, "that God +brought us together this morning. I know Mr. Paulding. Let us go first +to the mission, and have some talk with him. You must have a bath +and better, and cleaner clothes before you are in a condition to get +employment." + +The bath and a suit of partly-worn but good clean clothes were supplied +at the mission house. + +"Now come with me, and I will find you something to do," said the old +friend. + +But Andrew Hall stood hesitating. + +"The little child--I told him I'd come back soon. He's locked up all +alone, poor baby!" + +He spoke with a quiver in his voice. + +"Oh, true, true!" answered Mr. Graham; "the baby must be looked after;" +and he explained to the missionary. + +"I will go round with you and get the child," said Mr. Paulding. "My +wife will take care of him while you are away with Mr. Graham." + +They found little Andy sitting patiently on the floor. He did not know +the friend who had given him a home and food and loving words, and +looked at him half scared and doubting. But his voice made the child +spring to his feet with a bound, and flushed his thin-face with the joy +of a glad recognition. + +Mrs. Paulding received him with a true motherly kindness, and soon a +bath and clean clothing wrought as great a change in the child as they +had done in the man. + +"I want your help in saving him," said Mr. Graham, aside, to the +missionary. "He was once among our most respectable citizens, a good +church-member, a good husband and father, a man of ability and large +influence. Society lost much when it lost him. He is well worth saving, +and we must do it if possible. God sent him this little child to touch +his heart and flood it with old memories, and then he led me to come +down here that I might meet and help him just when his good purposes +made help needful and salvation possible. It is all of his loving care +and wise providence of his tender mercy, which is over the poorest +and weakest and most degraded of his children. Will you give him your +special care?" + +"It is the work I am here to do," answered the missionary. "The Master +came to seek and to save that which was lost, and I am his humble +follower." + +"The child will have to be provided for," said Mr. Graham. "It cannot, +of course, be left with him. It needs a woman's care." + +"It will not do to separate them," returned the missionary. "As you +remarked just now, God sent him this little child to touch his heart and +lead him back from the wilderness in which he has strayed. His safety +depends on the touch of that hand. So long as he feels its clasp and its +pull, he will walk in the new way wherein God is setting his feet. No, +no; the child must be left with him--at least for the present. We will +take care of it while he is at work during the day, and at night it can +sleep in his arms, a protecting angel." + +"What kind of a place does he live in?" asked Mr. Graham. + +"A dog might dwell there in comfort, but not a man," replied the +missionary. + +Mr. Graham gave him money: "Provide a decent room. If more is required, +let me know." + +He then went away, taking Mr. Hall with him. + +"You will find the little one here when you come back," said Mr. +Paulding as he saw the anxious, questioning look that was cast toward +Andy. + +Clothed and in his right mind, but in no condition for work, was Andrew +Hall. Mr. Graham soon noticed, as he walked by his side, that he was in +a very nervous condition. + +"What had you for breakfast this morning" he asked, the right thought +coming into his mind. + +"Not much. Some bread and a dried sausage." + +"Oh dear! that will never do! You must have something more nutritious--a +good beefsteak and a cup of coffee to steady your nerves. Come." + +And in a few minutes they were in an eating-house. When they came out, +Hall was a different man. Mr. Graham then took him to his store and set +him to work to arrange and file a number of letters and papers, which +occupied him for several hours. He saw that he had a good dinner and at +five o'clock gave him a couple of dollars for his day's work, aid after +many kind words of advice and assurance told him to come back in the +morning, and he would find something else for him to do. + +Swiftly as his feet would carry him, Andrew Hall made his way to the +Briar street mission. He did not at first know the clean, handsome child +that lifted his large brown eyes to his face as he came in, nor did the +child know him until he spoke. Then a cry of pleasure broke from the +baby's lips, and he ran to the arms reached out to clasp him. + +"We'll go home now," he said, as if anxious to regain possession of the +child. + +"Not back to Grubb's court," was answered by Mr. Paulding. "If you are +going to be a new man, you must have a new and better home, and I've +found one for you just a little way from here. It's a nice clean room, +and I'll take you there. The rent is six dollars a month, but you can +easily pay that when you get fairly to work." + +The room was in the second story of a small house, better kept than most +of its neighbors, and contained a comfortable bed, with other needed +furniture, scanty, but clean and good. It was to Mr. Hall like the +chamber of a prince compared with what he had known for a long time; and +as he looked around him and comprehended something of the blessed change +that was coming over his life, tears filled his eyes. + +"Bring Andy around in the morning," said the missionary as he turned to +go. "Mrs. Paulding will take good care of him." + +That night, after undressing the child and putting on him the clean +night-gown which good Mrs. Paulding had not forgotten, he said, + +"And now Andy will say his prayers." + +Andy looked at him with wide-open, questioning eyes. Mr. Hall saw that +he was not understood. + +"You know, 'Now I lay me'?" he said. + +"No, don't know it," replied Andy. + +"'Our Father,' then?" + +The child knit his brow. It was plain that he did not understand what +his good friend meant. + +"You've said your prayers?" + +Andy shook his head in a bewildered way. + +"Never said your prayers!" exclaimed Mr. Hall, in a voice so full of +surprise and pain that Andy grew half frightened. + +"Poor baby!" was said, pityingly, a moment after. Then the question, +"Wouldn't you like to say your prayers?" brought the quick answer, +"Yes." + +"Kneel down, then, right here." Andy knelt, looking up almost +wonderingly into the face that bent over him. + +"We have a good Father in heaven," said Mr. Hall, with tender reverence +in his tone, pointing upward as he spoke, "He loves us and takes care of +us. He brought you to me, and told me to love you and take care of you +for him, and I'm going to do it. Now, I want you to say a little prayer +to this good and kind Father before you go to bed. Will you?" + +"Yes, I will," came the ready answer. + +"Say it over after me. 'Now I lay me down to sleep.'" + +Andy repeated the words, his little hands clasped together, and followed +through the verse which thousands of little children in thousands of +Christian homes were saying at the very same hour. + +There was a subdued expression on the child's face as he rose from his +knees; and when Mr. Hall lifted him from the floor to lay him in bed, he +drew his arms about his neck and hugged him tightly. + +How beautiful the child looked as he lay with shut eyes, the long brown +lashes fringing his flushed cheeks, that seemed already to have gained +a healthy roundness! The soft breath came through his parted lips, about +which still lingered the smile of peace that rested there after his +first prayer was said; his little hands lay upon his breast. + +As Mr. Hall sat gazing at this picture there came a rap on his door. +Then the missionary entered. Neither of the men spoke for some moments. +Mr. Paulding comprehended the scene, and felt its sweet and holy +influence. + +"Blessed childhood!" he said, breaking the silence. "Innocent childhood! +The nearer we come to it, the nearer we get to heaven." Then, after a +pause, he added, "And heaven is our only hope, Mr. Hall." + +"I have no hope but in God's strength," was answered, in a tone of +solemn earnestness. + +"God is our refuge, our rock of defence, our hiding-place, our sure +protector. If we trust in him, we shall dwell in safety," said the +mission. "I am glad to hear you speak of hoping in God. He will give you +strength if you lean upon him, and there is not power enough in all hell +to drag you down if you put forth this God-given strength. But remember, +my friend, that you must use it as if it were your own. You must resist. +God's strength outside of our will and effort is of no use to any of us +in temptation. But looking to our Lord and Saviour in humble yet earnest +prayer for help in the hour of trial and need if we put forth our +strength in resistance of evil, small though it be, then into our weak +efforts will come an influx of divine power that shall surely give us +the victory. Have you a Bible?" + +Mr. Hall shook his head. + +"I have brought you one;" and the missionary drew a small Bible from his +pocket. "No man is safe without a Bible." + +"Oh, I am glad! I was just wishing for a Bible," said Hall as he reached +out his hand to receive the precious book. + +"If you read it every night and morning--if you treasure its holy +precepts in your memory, and call them up in times of trial, or when +evil enticements are in your way--God can come near to your soul to +succor and to save, for the words of the holy book are his words, and +he is present in them. If we take them into our thoughts, reverently +seeking to obey them, we make a dwelling-place for the Lord, so that he +can abide with us; and in his presence there is safety." + +"And nowhere else," responded Hall, speaking from a deep sense of +personal helplessness. + +"Nowhere else," echoed the missionary. "And herein lies the hope or the +despair of men. It is pitiful, it is heart-aching, to see the vain but +wild and earnest efforts made by the slaves of intemperance to get free +from their cruel bondage. Thousands rend their fetters every year after +some desperate struggle, and escape. But, alas! how many are captured +and taken back into slavery! Appetite springs upon them in some +unguarded moment, and in their weakness there is none to succor. They do +not go to the Strong for strength, but trust in themselves, and are cast +down. Few are ever redeemed from the slavery of intemperance but those +who pray to God and humbly seek his aid. And so long as they depend on +him, they are safe. He will be as a wall of fire about them." + +As the missionary talked, the face of Mr. Hall underwent a remarkable +change. It grew solemn and very thoughtful. His hands drew together and +the fingers clasped. At the last words of Mr. Paulding a deep groan came +from his heart; and lifting his gaze upward, he cried out, + +"Lord, save me, or I perish!" + +"Let us pray," said the missionary, and the two men knelt together, +one with bowed head and crouching body, the other with face uplifted, +tenderly talking to Him who had come down to the lowliest and the vilest +that he might make them pure as the angels, about the poor prodigal now +coming back to his Father's house. + +After the prayer, Mr. paulding read a chapter from the Bible aloud, and +then, after words of hope and comfort, went away. + + + + +CHAPTER XXI. + + + +"_I TAKE_ reproof to myself," said Mr. Dinneford. "As one of your board +of managers, I ought to have regarded my position as more than a nominal +one. I understand better now what you said about the ten or twenty of +our rich and influential men who, if they could be induced to look away +for a brief period from their great enterprises, and concentrate thought +and effort upon the social evils, abuse of justice, violations of law, +poverty and suffering that exist here and in other parts of our city, +would inaugurate reforms and set beneficent agencies at work that would +soon produce marvelous changes for good." + +"Ah, yes," sighed Mr. Paulding. "If we had for just a little while the +help of our strong men--the men of brains and will and money, the men +who are used to commanding success, whose business it is to organize +forces and set impediments at defiance, the men whose word is a kind +of law to the people--how quickly, and as if by magic, would all this +change! + +"But we cannot now hope to get this great diversion in our favor. Until +we do we must stand in the breach, small in numbers and weak though we +are--must go on doing our best and helping when we may. Help is help and +good is good, be it ever so small. If I am able to rescue but a single +life where many are drowning, I make just so much head against death and +destruction. Shall I stand off and refuse to put forth my hand because I +cannot save a score? + +"Take heart, Mr. Dinneford. Our work is not in vain. Its fruits may be +seen all around. Bad as you find everything, it is not so bad as it was. +When our day-school was opened, the stench from the filthy children who +were gathered in was so great that the teachers were nauseated. They +were dirty in person as well as dirty in their clothing. This would +not do. There was no hope of moral purity while such physical impurity +existed. So the mission set up baths, and made every child go in and +thoroughly wash his body. Then they got children's clothing--new and +old--from all possible sources, and put clean garments on their little +scholars. From the moment they were washed and cleanly clad, a new and +better spirit came upon them. They were more orderly and obedient, and +more teachable. There was, or seemed to be, a tenderer quality in their +voices as they sang their hymns of praise." + +Just then there came a sudden outcry and a confusion of voices from +the street. Mr. Dinneford arose quickly and went to the window. A man, +apparently drunk and in a rage, was holding a boy tightly gripped by the +collar with one hand and cuffing him about the head and face with the +other. + +"It's that miserable Blind Jake!" said Mr. Paulding. + +In great excitement, Mr. Dinneford threw up the window and called for +the police. At this the man stopped beating the boy, but swore at +him terribly, his sightless eyes rolling and his face distorted in a +frightful way. A policeman who was not far off came now upon the scene. + +"What's all this about?" he asked, sternly. + +"Jake's drunk again, that's the row," answered a voice. + +"Lock him up, lock him up!" cried two or three from the crowd. + +An expression of savage defiance came into the face of the blind man, +and he moved his arms and clenched his fist like one who was bent on +desperate resistance. He was large and muscular, and, now that he was +excited by drink and bad passions, had a look that was dangerous. + +"Go home and behave yourself," said the policeman, not caring to have a +single-handed tussle with the human savage, whose strength and desperate +character he well knew. + +Blind Jake, as he was called, stood for a few moments half defiant, +growling and distorting his face until it looked more like a wild +animal's than a man's, then jerked out the words, + +"Where's that Pete?" with a sound like the crack of a whip. + +The boy he had been beating in his drunken fury, and who did not seem to +be much hurt, came forward from the crowd, and taking him by the hand, +led him away. + +"Who is this blind man? I have seen him before," said Mr. Dinneford. + +"You may see him any day standing at the street corners, begging, a +miserable-looking object, exciting the pity of the humane, and gathering +in money to spend in drunken debauchery at night. He has been known to +bring in some days as high as ten and some fifteen dollars, all of which +is wasted in riot before the next morning. He lives just over the way, +and night after night I can hear his howls and curses and laughter +mingled with those of the vile women with whom he herds." + +"Surely this cannot be?" said Mr. Dinneford. + +"Surely it is," was replied. "I know of what I speak. There is hardly a +viler wretch in all our city than this man, who draws hundreds--I +might say, without exaggeration, thousands--of dollars from weak and +tender-hearted people every year to be spent as I have said; and he +is not the only one. Out of this district go hundreds of thieves and +beggars every day, spreading themselves over the city and gathering in +their harvests from our people. I see them at the street corners, coming +out of yards and alley-gates, skulking near unguarded premises and +studying shop-windows. They are all impostors or thieves. Not one of +them is deserving of charity. He who gives to them wastes his money and +encourages thieving and vagrancy. One half of the successful burglaries +committed on dwelling-houses are in consequence of information gained by +beggars. Servant-girls are lured away by old women who come in the guise +of alms-seekers, and by well-feigned poverty and a seeming spirit +of humble thankfulness--often of pious trust in God--win upon their +sympathy and confidence. Many a poor weak girl has thus been led to +visit one of these poor women in the hope of doing her some good, +and many a one has thus been drawn into evil ways. If the people only +understood this matter as I understand it, they would shut hearts and +hands against all beggars. I add beggary as a vice to drinking and +policy-buying as the next most active agency in the work of making +paupers and criminals." + +"But there are deserving poor," said Dinneford. "We cannot shut our +hearts against all who seek for help." + +"The deserving poor," replied Mr. Paulding, "are never common +beggars--never those who solicit in the street or importune from house +to house. They try always to help themselves, and ask for aid only when +in great extremity. They rarely force themselves on your attention; they +suffer and die often in dumb despair. We find them in these dreary and +desolate cellars and garrets, sick and starving and silent, often dying, +and minister to them as best we can. If the money given daily to idle +and vicious beggars could be gathered into a fund and dispensed with a +wise Christian charity, it would do a vast amount of good; now it does +only evil." + +"You are doubtless right in this," returned Mr. Dinneford. "Some one has +said that to help the evil is to hurt the good, and I guess his saying +is near the truth." + +"If you help the vicious and the idle," was answered, "you simply +encourage vice and idleness, and these never exist without doing a hurt +to society. Withhold aid, and they will be forced to work, and so not +only do something for the common good, but be kept out of the evil ways +into which idleness always leads. + +"So you see, sir, how wrong it is to give alms to the vast crew of +beggars that infest our cities, and especially to the children who are +sent out daily to beg or steal as opportunity offers. + +"But there is another view of the case," continued Mr. Paulding, "that +few consider, and which would, I am sure, arouse the people to immediate +action if they understood it as I do. We compare the nation to a great +man. We call it a 'body politic.' We speak of its head, its brain, its +hands, its feet, its arteries and vital forces. We know that no part +of the nation can be hurt without all the other parts feeling in some +degree the shock and sharing the loss or suffering. What is true of the +great man of the nation is true of our smaller communities, our States +and cities and towns. Each is an aggregate man, and the health and +well-being of this man depend on the individual men and the groups +and societies of men by which it is constituted. There cannot be an +unhealthy organ in the human system without a communication of disease +to the whole body. A diseased liver or heart or lung, a useless hand +or foot, an ulcer or local obstruction, cannot exist without injury and +impediment to the whole. In the case of a malignant ulcer, how soon the +blood gets poisoned! + +"Now, here is a malignant ulcer in the body politic of our city. Is it +possible, do you think, for it to exist, and in the virulent condition +we find it, and not poison the blood of our whole community? Moral and +spiritual laws are as unvarying in their action, out of natural sight +though they be, as physical laws. Evil and good are as positive entities +as fire, and destroy or consume as surely. As certainly as an ulcer +poisons with its malignant ichor this blood that visits every part of +the body, so surely is this ulcer poisoning every part of our community. +Any one who reflects for a moment will see that it cannot be otherwise. +From this moral ulcer there flows out daily and nightly an ichor as +destructive as that from a cancer. Here theft and robbery and murder +have birth, nurture and growth until full formed and organized, and then +go forth to plunder and destroy. The life and property of no citizen is +safe so long as this community exists. It has its schools of instruction +for thieves and housebreakers, where even little children are educated +to the business of stealing and robbery. Out from it go daily hundreds +of men and women, boys and girls, on their business of beggary, theft +and the enticement of the weak and unwary into crime. In it congregate +human vultures and harpies who absorb most of the plunder that is gained +outside, and render more brutal and desperate the wretches they rob in +comparative safety. + +"Let me show you how this is done. A man or a woman thirsting for liquor +will steal anything to get money for whisky. The article stolen may be +a coat, a pair of boots or a dress--something worth from five to twenty +dollars. It is taken to one of these harpies, and sold for fifty cents +or a dollar--anything to get enough for a drunken spree. I am speaking +only of what I know. Then, again, a man or a woman gets stupidly drunk +in one of the whisky-shops. Before he or she is thrown out upon the +street, the thrifty liquor-seller 'goes through' the pockets of the +insensible wretch, and confiscates all he finds. Again, a vile woman has +robbed one of her visitors, and with the money in her pocket goes to a +dram-shop. The sum may be ten dollars or it may be two hundred. A glass +or so unlooses her tongue; she boasts of her exploit, and perhaps shows +her booty. Not once in a dozen times will she take this booty away. +If there are only a few women in the shop, the liquor-seller will most +likely pounce on her at once and get the money by force. There is no +redress. To inform the police is to give information against herself. He +may give her back a little to keep her quiet or he may not, just as he +feels about it. If he does not resort to direct force, he will manage in +some other way to get the money. I could take you to the dram-shop of a +man scarcely a stone's throw from this place who came out of the State's +prison less than four years ago and set up his vile trap where it now +stands. He is known to be worth fifty thousand dollars to-day. How did +he make this large sum? By the profits of his bar? No one believes this. +It has been by robbing his drunken and criminal customers whenever he +could get them in his power." + +"I am oppressed by all this," said Mr. Dinneford. "I never dreamed of +such a state of things." + +"Nor does one in a hundred of our good citizens, who live in quiet +unconcern with this pest-house of crime and disease in their midst. And +speaking of disease, let me give you another fact that should be widely +known. Every obnoxious epidemic with which our city has been visited in +the last twenty years has originated here--ship fever, relapsing fever +and small-pox--and so, getting a lodgment in the body politic, have +poured their malignant poisons into the blood and diseased the whole. +Death has found his way into the homes of hundreds of our best citizens +through the door opened for him here." + +"Can this be so?" exclaimed Mr. Dinneford. + +"It is just as I have said," was replied. "And how could it be +otherwise? Whether men take heed or not, the evil they permit to lie at +their doors will surely do them harm. Ignorance of a statute, a moral +or a physical law gives no immunity from consequence if the law be +transgressed--a fact that thousands learn every year to their sorrow. +There are those who would call this spread of disease, originating here, +all over our city, a judgment from God, to punish the people for that +neglect and indifference which has left such a hell as this in their +midst. I do not so read it. God has no pleasure in punishments and +retributions. The evil comes not from him. It enters through the door +we have left open, just as a thief enters our dwellings, invited through +our neglect to make the fastenings sure. It comes under the operations +of a law as unvarying as any law in physics. And so long as we have this +epidemic-breeding district in the very heart of our city, we must expect +to reap our periodical harvests of disease and death. What it is to be +next year, or the next, none can tell." + +"Does not your perpetual contact with all this give your mind an +unhealthy tone--a disposition to magnify its disastrous consequences?" +said Mr. Dinneford. + +The missionary dropped his eyes. The flush and animation went out of his +face. + +"I leave you to judge for yourself," he answered, after a brief silence, +and in a voice that betrayed a feeling of disappointment. "You have the +fact before you in the board of health, prison, almshouse, police, house +of refuge, mission and other reports that are made every year to the +people. If they hear not these, neither will they believe, though one +rose from the dead." + +"All is too dreadfully palpable for unbelief," returned Mr. Dinneford. +"I only expressed a passing thought." + +"My mind may take an unhealthy tone--does often, without doubt," said +Mr. Paulding. "I wonder, sometimes, that I can keep my head clear and my +purposes steady amid all this moral and physical disorder and suffering. +But exaggeration of either this evil or its consequences is impossible. +The half can never be told." + +Mr. Dinneford rose to go. As he did so, two little Italian children, a +boy and a girl, not over eight years of age, tired, hungry, pinched and +starved-looking little creatures, the boy with a harp slung over his +shoulder, and the girl carrying a violin, went past on the other side. + +"Where in the world do all of these little wretches come from?" asked +Mr. Dinneford. "They are swarming our streets of late. Yesterday I saw +a child who could not be over two years of age tinkling her triangle, +while an older boy and girl were playing on a harp and violin. She +seemed so cold and tired that it made me sad to look at her. There is +something wrong about this." + +"Something very wrong," answered the missionary. "Doubtless you think +these children are brought here by their parents or near relatives. No +such thing. Most of them are slaves. I speak advisedly. The slave-trade +is not yet dead. Its abolition on the coast of Africa did not abolish +the cupidity that gave it birth. And the 'coolie' trade, one of its new +forms, is not confined to the East." + +"I am at a loss for your meaning," said Mr. Dinneford. + +"I am not surprised. The new slave-trade, which has been carried on +with a secresy that is only now beginning to attract attention, has its +source of supply in Southern Italy, from which large numbers of children +are drawn every year and brought to this country. + +"The headquarters of this trade--cruel enough in some of its features +to bear comparison with the African slave-trade itself--are in New York. +From this city agents are sent out to Southern Italy every year, where +little intelligence and great poverty exist. These agents tell grand +stories of the brilliant prospects offered to the young in America. Let +me now read to you from the published testimony of one who has made a +thorough investigation of this nefarious business, so that you may get a +clear comprehension of its extent and iniquity. + +"He says: 'One of these agents will approach the father of a family, and +after commenting upon the beauty of his children, will tell him that his +boys "should be sent at once to America, where they must in time become +rich." "There are no poor in America." "The children should go when +young, so that they may grow up with the people and the better acquire +the language." "None are too young or too old to go to America." The +father, of course, has not the means to go himself or to send his +children to this delightful country. The agent then offers to take the +children to America, and to pay forty or fifty dollars to the father +upon his signing an indenture abandoning all claims upon them. He often, +also, promises to pay a hundred or more at the end of a year, but, of +course, never does it. + +"'After the agent has collected a sufficient number of children, they +are all supplied with musical instruments, and the trip on foot through +Switzerland and France begins. They are generally shipped to Genoa, +and often to Marseilles, and accomplish the remainder of the journey to +Havre or Calais by easy stages from village to village. Thus they +become a paying investment from the beginning. This journey occupies +the greater portion of the summer months; and after a long trip in the +steerage of a sailing-vessel, the unfortunate children land at Castle +Garden. As the parents never hear from them again, they do not know +whether they are doing well or not. + +"'They are too young and ignorant to know how to get themselves +delivered from oppression; they do not speak our language, and find +little or no sympathy among the people whom they annoy. They are +thus left to the mercy of their masters, who treat them brutally, and +apparently without fear of the law or any of its officers. They are +crowded into small, ill-ventilated, uncarpeted rooms, eighteen or twenty +in each, and pass the night on the floor, with only a blanket to protect +them from the severity of the weather. In the mornings they are fed by +their temporary guardian with maccaroni, served in the filthiest manner +in a large open dish in the centre of the room, after which they are +turned out into the streets to beg or steal until late at night. + +"'More than all this, when the miserable little outcasts return to their +cheerless quarters, they are required to deliver every cent which they +have gathered during the day; and if the same be deemed insufficient, +the children are carefully searched and soundly beaten. + +"'The children are put through a kind of training in the arts of +producing discords on their instruments, and of begging, in the whole of +which the cruelty of the masters and the stolid submission of the pupils +are the predominant features. The worst part of all is that the children +become utterly unfitted for any occupation except vagrancy and theft.' + +"You have the answer to your question, 'Where do all these little +wretches come from?'" said the missionary as he laid aside the paper +from which he had been reading. "Poor little slaves!" + + + + +CHAPTER XXII. + + + +_EDITH'S_ life, as we have seen, became lost, so to speak, in charities. +Her work lay chiefly with children, She was active in mission-schools +and in two or three homes for friendless little ones, and did much to +extend their sphere of usefulness. Her garments were plain and sombre, +her fair young face almost colorless, and her aspect so nun-like as +often to occasion remark. + +Her patience and tender ways with poor little children, especially +with the youngest, were noticed by all who were associated with her. +Sometimes she would show unusual interest in a child just brought to one +of the homes, particularly if it were a boy, and only two or three years +old. She would hover about it and ask it questions, and betray an eager +concern that caused a moment's surprise to those who noticed her. Often, +at such times, the pale face would grow warm with the flush of blood +sent out by her quicker heartbeats, and her eyes would have a depth of +expression and a brightness that made her beauty seem the reflection of +some divine beatitude. Now and then it was observed that her manner +with these little waifs and cast-adrifts that were gathered in from the +street had in it an expression of pain, that her eyes looked at them +sadly, sometimes tearfully. Often she came with light feet and a manner +almost cheery, to go away with eyes cast down and lips set and curved +and steps that were slow and heavy. + +Time had not yet solved the mystery of her baby's life or death; and +until it was solved, time had no power to abate the yearning at her +heart, to dull the edge of anxious suspense or to reconcile her to a +Providence that seemed only cruel. In her daily prayers this thought +of cruelty in God often came in to hide his face from her, and she rose +from her knees more frequently in a passion of despairing tears than +comforted. How often she pleaded with God, weeping bitter tears, that he +would give her certainty in place of terrible doubts! Again, she would +implore his loving care over her poor baby, wherever it might be. + +So the days wore on, until nearly three years had elapsed since Edith's +child was born. + +It was Christmas eve, but there were no busy hands at work, made light +by loving hearts, in the home of Mr. Dinneford. All its chambers were +silent. And yet the coming anniversary was not to go uncelebrated. +Edith's heart was full of interest for the children of the poor, the +lowly, the neglected and the suffering, whom Christ came to save and to +bless. Her anniversary was to be spent with them, and she was looking +forward to its advent with real pleasure. + +"We have made provision for four hundred children, said her father. "The +dinner is to be at twelve o'clock, and we must be there by nine or +ten. We shall be busy enough getting everything ready. There are forty +turkeys to cut up and four hundred plates to fill." + +"And many willing hands to do it," remarked Edith, with a quiet smile; +"ours among the rest." + +"You'd better keep away from there," spoke up Mrs. Dinneford, with a jar +in her voice. "I don't see what possesses you. You can find poor little +wretches anywhere, if you're so fond of them, without going to Briar +street. You'll bring home the small-pox or something worse." + +Neither Edith nor her father made any reply, and there fell a silence +on the group that was burdensome to all. Mrs. Dinneford felt it most +heavily, and after the lapse of a few minutes withdrew from the room. + +"A good dinner to four hundred hungry children, some of them half +starved," said Edith as her mother shut the door. "I shall enjoy the +sight as much as they will enjoy the feast." + +A little after ten o'clock on the next morning, Mr. Dinneford and Edith +took their way to the mission-school in Briar street. They found from +fifteen to twenty ladies and gentlemen already there, and at work +helping to arrange the tables, which were set in the two long upper +rooms. There were places for nearly four hundred children, and in front +of each was an apple, a cake and a biscuit, and between every four a +large mince pie. The forty turkeys were at the baker's, to be ready at +a little before twelve o'clock, the dinner-hour, and in time for the +carvers, who were to fill the four hundred plates for the expected +guests. + +At eleven o'clock Edith and her father went down to the chapel on the +first floor, where the children had assembled for the morning exercises, +that were to continue for an hour. + +Edith had a place near the reading-desk where she could see the +countenances of all those children who were sitting side by side in +row after row and filling every seat in the room, a restless, eager, +expectant crowd, half disciplined and only held quiet by the order and +authority they had learned to respect. Such faces as she looked into! +In scarcely a single one could she find anything of true childhood, and +they were so marred by suffering and evil! In vain she turned from one +to another, searching for a sweet, happy look or a face unmarked by pain +or vice or passion. It made her heart ache. Some were so hard and brutal +in their expression, and so mature in their aspect, that they seemed +like the faces of debased men on which a score of years, passed in +sensuality and crime, had cut their deep deforming lines, while others +were pale and wasted, with half-scared yet defiant eyes, and thin, +sharp, enduring lips, making one tearful to look at them. Some were +restless as caged animals, not still for a single instant, hands moving +nervously and bodies swaying to and fro, while others sat stolid and +almost as immovable as stone, staring at the little group of men and +women in front who were to lead them in the exercises of the morning. + +At length one face of the many before her fixed the eyes of Edith. It +was the face of a little boy scarcely more than three years old. He was +only a few benches from her, and had been hidden from view by a larger +boy just in front of him. When Edith first noticed this child, he was +looking at her intently from a pair of large, clear brown eyes that had +in them a wistful, hungry expression. His hair, thick and wavy, had +been smoothly brushed by some careful hand, and fell back from a large +forehead, the whiteness and smoothness of which was noticeable in +contrast with those around him. His clothes were clean and good. + +As Edith turned again and again to the face of this child, the youngest +perhaps in the room, her heart began to move toward him. Always she +found him with his great earnest eyes upon her. There seemed at last to +be a mutual fascination. His eyes seemed never to move from her face; +and when she tried to look away and get interested in other faces, +almost unconsciously to herself her eyes would wander back, and she +would find herself gazing at the child. + +At eleven o'clock Mr. Paulding announced that the exercises for the +morning would begin, when silence fell on the restless company of +undisciplined children. A hymn was read, and then, as the leader struck +the tune, out leaped the voices of these four hundred children, each +singing with a strange wild abandon, many of them swaying their heads +and bodies in time to the measure. As the first lines of the hymn, + + "Jesus, gentle Shepherd, lead us, + Much we need thy tender care," + +swelled up from the lips of those poor neglected children, the eyes of +Edith grew blind with tears. + +After a prayer was offered up, familiar addresses, full of kindness and +encouragement, were made to the children, interspersed with singing and +other appropriate exercises. These were continued for an hour. At their +close the children were taken up stairs to the two long school-rooms, +in which their dinner was to be served. Here were Christmas trees loaded +with presents, wreaths of evergreen on the walls and ceilings, and +illuminated texts hung here and there, and everything was provided to +make the day's influence as beautiful and pleasant as possible to the +poor little ones gathered in from cheerless and miserable homes. + +Meantime, the carvers had been very busy at work on the forty +turkeys--large, tender fellows, full of dressing and cooked as nicely as +if they had been intended for a dinner of aldermen--cutting them up and +filling the plates. There was no stinting of the supply. Each plate +was loaded with turkey, dressing, potatoes that had been baked with the +fowls, and a heaping spoonful of cranberry sauce, and as fast as filled +conveyed to the tables by the lady attendants, who had come, many of +them, from elegant homes, to assist the good missionary's wife and the +devoted teachers of the mission-school in this labor of love. And so, +when the four hundred hungry children came streaming into the rooms, +they found tables spread with such bounty as the eyes of many of them +had never looked upon, and kind gentlemen and beautiful ladies already +there to place them at these tables and serve them while eating. + +It was curious and touching, and ludicrous sometimes, to see the many +ways in which the children accepted this bountiful supply of food. A +few pounced upon it like hungry dogs, devouring whole platefuls in a few +minutes, but most of them kept a decent restraint upon themselves in the +presence of the ladies and gentlemen, for whom they could not but feel +an instinctive respect. Very few of them could use at fork except in the +most awkward manner. Some tried to cut their meat, but failing in the +task, would seize it with their hands and eagerly convey it to their +hungry mouths. Here and there would be seen a mite of a boy sitting in +a kind of maze before a heaped-up dinner-plate, his hands, strangers, no +doubt, to knife or fork, lying in his lap, and his face wearing a kind +of helpless look. But he did not have to wait long. Eyes that were on +the alert soon saw him; ready hands cut his food, and a cheery voice +encouraged him to eat. If these children had been the sons and daughters +of princes, they could not have been ministered to with a more gracious +devotion to their wants and comfort than was shown by their volunteer +attendants. + +Edith, entering into the spirit of the scene, gave herself to the work +in hand with an interest that made her heart glow with pleasure. She had +lost sight of the little boy in whom she had felt so sudden and strong +an interest, and had been searching about for him ever since the +children came up from the chapel. At last she saw him, shut in and +hidden between two larger boys, who were eating with a hungry eagerness +and forgetfulness of everything around them almost painful to see. He +was sitting in front of his heaped-up plate, looking at the tempting +food, with his knife and fork lying untouched on the table. There was a +dreamy, half-sad, half-bewildered look about him. + +"Poor little fellow!" exclaimed Edith as soon as she saw him, and in a +moment she was behind his chair. + +"Shall I cut it up for you?" she asked as she lifted his knife and fork +from the table. + +The child turned almost with a start, and looked up at her with a quick +flash of feeling on his face. She saw that he remembered her. + +"Let me fix it all nicely," she said as she stooped over him and +commenced cutting up his piece of turkey. The child did not look at his +plate while she cut the food, but with his head turned kept his large +eyes on her countenance. + +"Now it's all right," said Edith, encouragingly, as she laid the knife +and fork on his plate, taking a deep breath at the same time, for her +heart beat so rapidly that her lungs was oppressed with the inflowing +of blood. She felt, at the same time, an almost irresistible desire to +catch him up into her arms and draw him lovingly to her bosom. The child +made no attempt to eat, and still kept looking at her. + +"Now, my little man," she said, taking his fork and lifting a piece of +the turkey to his mouth. It touched his palate, and appetite asserted +its power over him; his eyes went down to his plate with a hungry +eagerness. Then Edith put the fork into his hand, but he did not know +how to use it, and made but awkward attempts to take up the food. + +Mrs. Paulding, the missionary's wife, came by at the moment, and seeing +the child, put her hand on him, and said, kindly, + +"Oh, it's little Andy," and passed on. + +"So your name's Andy?" + +"Yes, ma'am." It was the first time Edith had heard his voice. It fell +sweet and tender on her ears, and stirred her heart strangely. + +"Where do you live?" + +He gave the name of a street she had never heard of before. + +"But you're not eating your dinner. Come, take your fork just so. There! +that's the way;" and Edith took his hand, in which he was still +holding the fork, and lifted two or three mouthfuls, which he ate with +increasing relish. After that he needed no help, and seemed to forget in +the relish of a good dinner the presence of Edith, who soon found others +who needed her service. + +The plentiful meal was at last over, and the children, made happy for +one day at least, were slowly dispersing to their dreary homes, drifting +away from the better influences good men and women had been trying to +gather about them even for a little while. The children were beginning +to leave the tables when Edith, who had been busy among them, remembered +the little boy who had so interested her, and made her way to the place +where he had been sitting. But he was not there. She looked into the +crowd of boys and girls who were pressing toward the door, but could not +see the child. A shadow of disappointment came over her feelings, and a +strange heaviness weighed over her heart. + +"Oh, I'm so sorry," she said to herself. "I wanted to see him again." + +She pressed through the crowd of children, and made her way down among +them to the landing below and out upon the street, looking this way and +that, but could not see the child. Then she returned to the upper rooms, +but her search was in vain. Remembering that Mrs. Paulding had called +him by name, she sought for the missionary's wife and made inquiry about +him. + +"Do you mean the little fellow I called Andy?" said Mrs. Paulding. + +"Yes, that's the one," returned Edith. + +"A beautiful boy, isn't he?" + +"Indeed he is. I never saw such eyes in a child. Who is he, Mrs. +Paulding, and what is he doing here? He cannot be the child of depraved +or vicious parents." + +"I do not think he is. But from whence he came no one knows. He drifted +in from some unknown land of sorrow to find shelter on our inhospitable +coast. I am sure that God, in his wise providence, sent him here, for +his coming was the means of saving a poor debased man who is well worth +the saving." + +Then she told in a few words the story of Andy's appearance at Mr. +Hall's wretched hovel and the wonderful changes that followed--how a +degraded drunkard, seemingly beyond the reach of hope and help, had +been led back to sobriety and a life of honest industry by the hand of a +little child cast somehow adrift in the world, yet guarded and guided +by Him who does not lose sight in his good providence of even a single +sparrow. + +"Who is this man, and where does he live?" asked Mr. Dinneford, who had +been listening to Mrs. Paulding's brief recital. + +"His name is Andrew Hall," was replied. + +"Andrew Hall!" exclaimed Mr. Dinneford, with a start and a look of +surprise. + +"Yes, sir. That is his name, and he is now living alone with the child +of whom we have been speaking, not very far from here, but in a much +better neighborhood. He brought Andy around this morning to let him +enjoy the day, and has come for him, no doubt, and taken him home." + +"Give me the street and number, if you please, Mr. Paulding," said Mr. +Dinneford, with much repressed excitement. "We will go there at once," +he added, turning to his daughter. + +Edith's face had become pale, and her father felt her hand tremble as +she laid it on his arm. + +At this moment a man came up hurriedly to Mrs. Paulding, and said, with +manifest concern, + +"Have you seen Andy, ma'am? I've been looking all over, but can't find +him." + +"He was here a little while ago," answered the missionary's wife. "We +were just speaking of him. I thought you'd taken him home." + +"Mr. Hall!" said Edith's father, in a tone of glad recognition, +extending his hand at the same time. + +"Mr. Dinneford!" The two men stood looking at each other, with shut lips +and faces marked by intense feeling, each grasping tightly the other's +hand. + +"It is going to be well with you once more, my dear old friend!" said +Mr. Dinneford. + +"God being my helper, yes!" was the firm reply. "He has taken my feet +out of the miry clay and set them on firm ground, and I have promised +him that they shall not go down into the pit again. But Andy! I must +look for him." + +And he was turning away. + +"I saw Andy a little while ago," now spoke up a woman who had come in +from the street and heard the last remark. + +"Where?" asked Mr. Hall. + +"A girl had him, and she was going up Briar street on the run, fairly +dragging Andy after her. She looked like Pinky Swett, and I do believe +it was her. She's been in prison, you know but I guess her time's up." + +Mr. Hall stopped to hear no more, but ran down stairs and up the street, +going in the direction said to have been taken by the woman. Edith sat +down, white and faint. + +"Pinky Swett!" exclaimed Mrs. Paulding. "Why, that's the girl who had +the child you were looking after a long time ago, Mr. Dinneford." + +"Yes; I remember the name, and no doubt this is the very child she had +in her possession at that time. Are you sure she has been in prison +for the last two years?" and Mr. Dinneford turned to the woman who had +mentioned her name. + +"Oh yes, Sir; I remember all about it," answered the woman. "She stole a +man's pocket-book, and got two years for it." + +"You know her?" + +"Oh yes, indeed! And she's a bad one, I can tell you. She had somebody's +baby round in Grubb's court, and it was 'most starved to death. I heard +it said it belonged to some of the big people up town, and that she was +getting hush-money for it, but I don't know as it was true. People will +talk." + +"Do you know what became of that baby?" asked Edith, with ill-repressed +excitement. Her face was still very pale, and her forehead contracted as +by pain. + +"No, ma'am. The police came round asking questions, and the baby wasn't +seen in Grubb's court after that." + +"You think it was Pinky Swett whom you saw just now?" + +"I'm dead sure of it, sir," turning to Mr. Dinneford, who had asked the +question. + +"And you are certain it was the little boy named Andy that she had with +her?" + +"I'm as sure as death, sir." + +"Did he look frightened?" + +"Oh dear, yes, sir--scared as could be. He pulled back all his might, +but she whisked him along as if he'd been only a chicken. I saw them go +round the corner of Clayton street like the wind." + +Mr. Paulding now joined them, and became advised of what had happened. +He looked very grave. + +"We shall find the little boy," he said. "He cannot be concealed by this +wretched woman as the baby was; he is too old for that. The police will +ferret him out. But I am greatly concerned for Mr. Hall. That child is +the bond which holds him at safe anchorage. Break this bond, and he may +drift to sea again. I must go after him." + +And the missionary hurried away. + +For over an hour Edith and her father remained at the mission waiting +for some news of little Andy. At the end of this time Mr. Paulding came +back with word that nothing could be learned beyond the fact that a +woman with a child answering to the description of Andy had been seen +getting into an up-town car on Clayton street about one o'clock. She +came, it was said by two or three who professed to have seen her, from +the direction of Briar street. The chief of police had been seen, and he +had already telegraphed to all the stations. Mr. Hall was at the central +station awaiting the result. + +After getting a promise from Mr. Paulding to send a messenger the moment +news of Andy was received, Mr. Dinneford and Edith returned home. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIII. + + + +_AS_ Edith glanced up, on arriving before their residence, she saw for +a moment her mother's face at the window. It vanished like the face of +a ghost, but not quick enough to prevent Edith from seeing that it was +almost colorless and had a scared look. They did not find Mrs. Dinneford +in the parlor when they came in, nor did she make her appearance until +an hour afterward, when dinner was announced. Then it was plain to both +her husband and daughter that something had occurred since morning to +trouble her profoundly. The paleness noticed by Edith at the window and +the scared look remained. Whenever she turned her eyes suddenly upon +her mother, she found her looking at her with a strange, searching +intentness. It was plain that Mrs. Dinneford saw in Edith's face as +great a change and mystery as Edith saw in hers, and the riddle of her +husband's countenance, so altered since morning, was harder even than +Edith's to solve. + +A drearier Christmas dinner, and one in which less food was taken +by those who ate it, could hardly have been found in the city. The +Briar-street feast was one of joy and gladness in comparison. The +courses came and went with unwonted quickness, plates bearing off the +almost untasted viands which they had received. Scarcely a word was +spoken during the meal. Mrs. Dinneford asked no question about the +dinner in Briar street, and no remark was made about it by either +Edith or her father. In half the usual time this meal was ended. Mrs. +Dinneford left the table first, and retired to her own room. As she did +so, in taking her handkerchief from her pocket, she drew out a letter, +which fell unnoticed by her upon the floor. Mr. Dinneford was about +calling her attention to it when Edith, who saw his purpose and was near +enough to touch his hand, gave a quick signal to forbear. The instant +her mother was out of the room she sprang from her seat, and had just +secured the letter when the dining-room door was pushed open, and Mrs. +Dinneford came in, white and frightened. She saw the letter in Edith's +hand, and with a cry like some animal in pain leaped upon her and tried +to wrest it from her grasp. But Edith held it in her closed hand with +a desperate grip, defying all her mother's efforts to get possession of +it. In her wild fear and anger Mrs. Dinneford exclaimed, + +"I'll kill you if you don't give me that letter!" and actually, in +her blind rage, reached toward the table as if to get a knife. Mr. +Dinneford, who had been for a moment stupefied, now started forward, +and throwing his arms about his wife, held her tightly until Edith +could escape with the letter, not releasing her until the sound of his +daughter's retiring feet were no longer heard. By this time she had +ceased to struggle; and when he released her, she stood still in a +passive, dull sort of way, her arms falling heavily to her sides. He +looked into her face, and saw that the eyes were staring wildly and +the muscles in a convulsive quiver. Then starting and reaching out +helplessly, she fell forward. Catching her in his arms, Mr. Dinneford +drew her toward a sofa, but she was dead before he could raise her from +the floor. + +When Edith reached her room, she shut and locked the door. Then all her +excitement died away. She sat down, and opening the letter with hands +that gave no sign of inward agitation or suspense, read it through. It +was dated at Havana, and was as follows: + +"MRS. HELEN DINNEFORD: MADAM--My physician tells me that I cannot live a +week--may die at any moment; and I am afraid to die with one unconfessed +and unatoned sin upon my conscience--a sin into which I was led by you, +the sharer of my guilt. I need not go into particulars. You know to what +I refer--the ruin of an innocent, confiding young man, your daughter's +husband. I do not wonder that he lost his reason! But I have information +that his insanity has taken on the mildest form, and that his friends +are only keeping him at the hospital until they can get a pardon from +the governor. It is in your power and mine to establish his innocence +at once. I leave you a single mouth in which to do this, and at the same +time screen yourself, if that be possible. If, at the end of a month, it +is not done, then a copy of this letter, with a circumstantial statement +of the whole iniquitous affair, will be placed in the hands of your +husband, and another in the hands of your daughter. I have so provided +for this that no failure can take place. So be warned and make the +innocence of George Granger as clear as noonday. + +"LLOYD FREELING." + +Twice Edith read this letter through before a sign of emotion was +visible. She looked about the room, down at herself, and again at the +letter. + +"Am I really awake?" she said, beginning to tremble. Then the glad +but terrible truth grappled with her convictions, and through the wild +struggle and antagonism, of feeling that shook her soul there shone into +her face a joy so great that the pale features grew almost radiant. + +"Innocent! innocent!" fell from her lips, over which crept a smile of +ineffable love. But it faded out quickly, and left in its place a shadow +of ineffable pain. + +"Innocent! innocent!" she repeated, now clasping her hands and lifting +her eyes heavenward. "Dear Lord and Saviour! My heart is full of +thankfulness! Innocent! Oh, let it be made as clear as noonday! And my +baby, Lord--oh, my baby, my baby! Give him back to me!" + +She fell forward upon her bed, kneeling, her face hidden among the +pillows, trembling and sobbing. + +"Edith! Edith!" came the agitated voice of her father from without. She +rose quickly, and opening the door, saw his pale, convulsed countenance. + +"Quick! quick! Your mother!" and Mr. Dinneford turned and ran down +stairs, she following. On reaching the dining-room, Edith found her +mother lying on a sofa, with the servants about her in great excitement. +Better than any one did she comprehend what she saw. + +"Dead," fell almost coldly from her lips. + +"I have sent for Dr. Radcliffe. It may only be a fainting fit," answered +Mr. Dinneford. + +Edith stood a little way off from her mother, as if held from personal +contact by an invisible barrier, and looked upon her ashen face without +any sign of emotion. + +"Dead, and better so," she said, in an undertone heard only by her +father. + +"My child! don't, don't!" exclaimed Mr. Dinneford in a deprecating +whisper. + +"Dead, and better so," she repeated, firmly. + +While the servants chafed the hands and feet of Mrs. Dinneford, and did +what they could in their confused way to bring her back to life, Edith +stood a little way off, apparently undisturbed by what she saw, and +not once touching her mother's body or offering a suggestion to the +bewildered attendants. + +When Dr. Radcliffe came and looked at Mrs. Dinneford, all saw by his +countenance that he believed her dead. A careful examination proved the +truth of his first impression. She was done with life in this world. + +As to the cause of her death, the doctor, gathering what he could from +her husband, pronounced it heart disease. The story told outside was +this--so the doctor gave it, and so it was understood: Mrs. Dinneford +was sitting at the table when her head was seen to sink forward, and +before any one could get to her she was dead. It was not so stated to +him by either Mr. Dinneford or Edith, but he was a prudent man, and +careful of the good fame of his patients. Family affairs he held as +sacred trusts. We'll he knew that there had been a tragedy in this +home--a tragedy for which he was in part, he feared, responsible; and he +did not care to look into it too closely. But of all that was involved +in this tragedy he really knew little. Social gossip had its guesses +at the truth, often not very remote, and he was familiar with these, +believing little or much as it suited him. + +It is not surprising that Edith's father, on seeing the letter of Lloyd +Freeling, echoed his daughter's words, "Better so!" + +Not a tear was shed on the grave of Mrs. Dinneford. Husband and daughter +saw her body carried forth and buried out of sight with a feeling of +rejection and a sense of relief. Death had no power to soften their +hearts toward her. Charity had no mantle broad enough to cover her +wickedness; filial love was dead, and the good heart of her husband +turned away at remembrance with a shudder of horror. + +Yes, it was "better so!" They had no grief, but thankfulness, that she +was dead. + +On the morning after the funeral there came a letter from Havana +addressed to Mr. Dinneford. It was from the man Freeling. In it he +related circumstantially all the reader knows about the conspiracy to +destroy Granger. The letter enclosed an affidavit made by Freeling, and +duly attested by the American consul, in which he stated explicitly +that all the forgeries were made by himself, and that George Granger was +entirely ignorant of the character of the paper he had endorsed with the +name of the firm. + +Since the revelation made to Edith by Freeling's letter to her mother, +all the repressed love of years, never dead nor diminished, but only +chained, held down, covered over, shook itself free from bonds and the +wrecks and debris of crushed hopes. It filled her heart with an agony +of fullness. Her first passionate impulse was to go to him and throw +herself into his arms. But a chilling thought came with the impulse, and +sent all the outgoing heart-beats back. She was no longer the wife of +George Granger. In a weak hour she had yielded to the importunities of +her father, and consented to an application for divorce. No, she was no +longer the wife of George Granger. She had no right to go to him. If it +were true that reason had been in part or wholly restored, would he not +reject her with scorn? The very thought made her heart stand still. It +would be more than she could bear. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIV. + + + +_NO_ other result than the one that followed could have been hoped for. +The strain upon Edith was too great. After the funeral of her +mother mind and body gave way, and she passed several weeks in a +half-unconscious state. + +Two women, leading actors in this tragedy of life, met for the first +time in over two years--Mrs. Hoyt, _alias_ Bray, and Pinky Swett. It had +not gone very well with either of them during that period. Pinky, as the +reader knows, had spent the time in prison, and Mrs. Bray, who had also +gone a step too far in her evil ways, was now hiding from the police +under a different name from any heretofore assumed. They met, by what +seemed an accident, on the street. + +"Pinky!" + +"Fan!" + +Dropped from their lips in mutual surprise and pleasure. A little while +they held each other's hands, and looked into each other's faces with +keenly-searching, sinister eyes, one thought coming uppermost in the +minds of both--the thought of that long-time-lost capital in trade, the +cast-adrift baby. + +From the street they went to Mrs. Bray's hiding-place a small +ill-furnished room in one of the suburbs of the city--and there took +counsel together. + +"What became of that baby?" was one of Mrs. Bray's first questions. + +"It's all right," answered Pinky. + +"Do you know where it is?" + +"Yes." + +"And can you put your hand on it?" + +"At any moment." + +"Not worth the trouble of looking after now," said Mrs. Bray, assuming +an indifferent manner. + +"Why?" Pinky turned on her quickly. + +"Oh, because the old lady is dead." + +"What old lady?" + +"The grandmother." + +"When did she die?" + +"Three or four weeks ago." + +"What was her name?" asked Pinky. + +Mrs. Bray closed her lips tightly and shook her head. + +"Can't betray thatt secret," she replied. + +"Oh, just as you like;" and Pinky gave her head an impatient toss. "High +sense of honor! Respect for the memory of a departed friend! But it +won't go down with me, Fan. We know each other too well. As for the +baby--a pretty big one now, by the way, and as handsome a boy as you'll +find in all this city--he's worth something to somebody, and I'm on that +somebody's track. There's mother as well as a grandmother in the case, +Fan." + +Mrs. Bray's eyes flashed, and her face grew red with an excitement she +could not hold back. Pinky watched her keenly. + +"There's somebody in this town to-day who would give thousands to get +him," she added, still keeping her eyes on her companion. "And as I was +saying, I'm on that somebody's track. You thought no one but you and +Sal Long knew anything, and that when she died you had the secret all to +yourself. But Sal didn't keep mum about it." + +"Did she tell you anything?" demanded Mrs. Bray, thrown off her guard by +Pinky's last assertion. + +"Enough for me to put this and that together and make it nearly all +out," answered Pinky, with great coolness. "I was close after the game +when I got caught myself. But I'm on the track once more, and don't mean +to be thrown off. A link or two in the chain of evidence touching the +parentage of this child, and I am all right. You have these missing +links, and can furnish them if you will. If not, I am bound to find +them. You know me, Fan. If I once set my heart on doing a thing, heaven +and earth can't stop me." + +"You're devil enough for anything, I know, and can lie as fast as you +can talk," returned Mrs. Bray, in considerable irritation. "If I could +believe a word you said! But I can't." + +"No necessity for it," retorted Pinky, with a careless toss of her head. +"If you don't wish to hunt in company, all right. I'll take the game +myself." + +"You forget," said Mrs. Bray, "I can spoil your game." + +"Indeed! how?" + +"By blowing the whole thing to Mr.--" + +"Mr. who?" asked Pinky, leaning forward eagerly as her companion paused +without uttering the name that was on her lips. + +"Wouldn't you like to know?" Mrs. Bray gave a low tantalizing laugh. + +"I'm not sure that I would, from you. I'm bound to know somehow, and it +will be cheapest to find out for myself," replied Pinky, hiding her real +desire, which was to get the clue she sought from Mrs. Bray, and which +she alone could give. "As for blowing on me, I wouldn't like anything +better. I wish you'd call on Mr. Somebody at once, and tell him I've +got the heir of his house and fortune, or on Mrs. Somebody, and tell her +I've got her lost baby. Do it, Fan; that's a deary." + +"Suppose I were to do so?" asked Mrs. Bray, repressing the anger that +was in her heart, and speaking with some degree of calmness. + +"What then?" + +"The police would be down on you in less than an hour." + +"And what then?" + +"Your game would be up." + +Pinky laughed derisively: + +"The police are down on me now, and have been coming down on me for +nearly a month past. But I'm too much for them. I know how to cover my +tracks." + +"Down on you! For what?" + +"They're after the boy." + +"What do they know about him? Who set them after him?" + +"I grabbed him up last Christmas down in Briar street after being on his +track for a week, and them that had him are after him sharp." + +"Who had him?" + +"I'm a little puzzled at the rumpus it has kicked up," said Pinky, in +reply. "It's stirred things amazingly." + +"How?" + +"Oh, as I said, the police are after me sharp. They've had me before the +mayor twice, and got two or three to swear they saw me pick up the child +in Briar street and run off with him. But I denied it all." + +"And I can swear that you confessed it all to me," said Mrs. Bray, with +ill-concealed triumph. + +"It won't do, Fan," laughed Pinky. "They'll not be able to find him +any more then than now. But I wish you would. I'd like to know this Mr. +Somebody of whom you spoke. I'll sell out to him. He'll bid high, I'm +thinking." + +Baffled by her sharper accomplice, and afraid to trust her with the +secret of the child's parentage lest she should rob her of the last gain +possible to receive out of this great iniquity, Mrs. Bray became wrought +up to a state of ungovernable passion, and in a blind rage pushed Pinky +from her room. The assault was sudden and unexpected---so sudden that +Pinky, who was the stronger, had no time to recover herself and take +the offensive before she was on the outside and the door shut and locked +against her. A few impotent threats and curses were interchanged between +the two infuriated women, and then Pinky went away. + +On the day following, as Mr. Dinneford was preparing to go out, he was +informed that a lady had called and was waiting down stairs to see him. +She did not send her card nor give her name. On going into the room +where the visitor had been shown, he saw a little woman with a dark, +sallow complexion. She arose and came forward a step or two in evident +embarrassment. + +"Mr. Dinneford?" she said. + +"That is my name, madam," was replied. + +"You do not know me?" + +Mr. Dinneford looked at her closely, and then answered, + +"I have not that pleasure, madam." + +The woman stood for a moment or two, hesitating. + +"Be seated, madam," said Mr. Dinneford. + +She sat down, seeming very ill at ease. He took a chair in front of her. + +"You wish to see me?" + +"Yes, sir, and on a matter that deeply concerns you. I was your +daughter's nurse when her baby was born." + +She paused at this. Mr. Dinneford had caught his breath. She saw the +almost wild interest that flushed his face. + +After waiting a moment for some response, she added, in a low, steady +voice, + +"That baby is still alive, and I am the only person who can clearly +identify him." + +Mr. Dinneford did not reply immediately. He saw by the woman's face +that she was not to be trusted, and that in coming to him she had only +sinister ends in view. Her story might be true or false. He thought +hurriedly, and tried to regain exterior calmness. As soon as he felt +that he could speak without betraying too much eagerness, he said, with +an appearance of having recognized her, + +"You are Mrs.----?" + +He paused, but she did not supply the name. + +"Mrs.----? Mrs.----? what is it?" + +"No matter, Mr. Dinneford," answered Mrs. Bray, with the coolness and +self-possession she had now regained. "What I have just told you is +true. If you wish to follow up the matter--wish to get possession of +your daughter's child--you have the opportunity; if not, our interview +ends, of course;" and she made a feint, as if going to rise. + +"Is it the child a woman named Pinky Swett stole away from Briar street +on Christmas day?" asked Mr. Dinneford, speaking from a thought that +flashed into his mind, and so without premeditation. He fixed his eyes +intently on Mrs. Bray's face, and saw by its quick changes and blank +surprise that he had put the right question. Before she could recover +herself and reply, he added, + +"And you are, doubtless, this same Pinky Swett." + +The half smile, half sneer, that curved the woman's lips, told Mr. +Dinneford that he was mistaken. + +"No, sir," was returned, with regained coolness. "I am not 'this same +Pinky Swett.' You are out there." + +"But you know her?" + +"I don't know anything just now, sir," answered the woman, with a chill +in her tones. She closed her lips tightly, and shrunk back in her chair. + +"What, then, are your here for?" asked Mr. Dinneford, showing +considerable sternness of manner. + +"I thought you understood," returned the woman. "I was explicit in my +statement." + +"Oh, I begin to see. There is a price on your information," said Mr. +Dinneford. + +"Yes, sir. You might have known that from the first. I will be frank +with you." + +"But why have you kept this secret for three years? Why did you not come +before?" asked Mr. Dinneford. + +"Because I was paid to keep the secret. Do you understand?" + +Too well did Mr. Dinneford understand, and it was with difficulty he +could suppress a groan as his head drooped forward and his eyes fell to +the floor. + +"It does not pay to keep it any longer," added the woman. + +Mr. Dinneford made no response. + +"Gain lies on the other side. The secret is yours, if you will have it." + +"At what price?" asked Mr. Dinneford, without lifting his eyes. + +"One thousand dollars, cash in hand." + +"On production of the child and proof of its identity?" + +Mrs. Bray took time to answer. "I do not mean to have any slip in this +matter," she said. "It was a bad business at the start, as I told Mrs. +Dinneford, and has given me more trouble than I've been paid for, ten +times over. I shall not be sorry to wash my hands clean of it; but +whenever I do so, there must be compensation and security. I haven't the +child, and you may hunt me to cover with all the police hounds in the +city, and yet not find him." + +"If I agree to pay your demand," replied Mr. Dinneford, "it can only be +on production and identification of the child." + +"After which your humble servant will be quickly handed over to the +police," a low, derisive laugh gurgling in the woman's throat. + +"The guilty are ever in dread, and the false always in fear of +betrayal," said Mr. Dinneford. "I can make no terms with you for any +antecedent reward. The child must be in my possession and his parentage +clearly proved before I give you a dollar. As to what may follow to +yourself, your safety will lie in your own silence. You hold, and will +still hold, a family secret that we shall not care to have betrayed. If +you should ever betray it, or seek, because of its possession, to annoy +or prey upon us, I shall consider all honorable contract we may have at +an end, and act accordingly." + +"Will you put in writing, an obligation to pay me one thousand dollars +in case I bring the child and prove its identity?" + +"No; but I will give you my word of honor that this sum shall be placed +in your hands whenever you produce the child." + +Mrs. Bray remained silent for a considerable time, then, as if +satisfied, arose, saying, + +"You will hear from me by to-morrow or the day after, at farthest. +Good-morning." + +As she was moving toward the door Mr. Dinneford said, + +"Let me have your name and residence, madam." + +The woman quickened her steps, partly turning her head as she did so, +and said, with a sinister curl of the lip, + +"No, I thank you, sir." + +In the next moment she was gone. + + + + +CHAPTER XXV. + + + +_NOTHING_ of all this was communicated to Edith. After a few weeks +of prostration strength came slowly back to mind and body, and with +returning strength her interest in her old work revived. Her feet went +down again into lowly ways, and her hands took hold of suffering. + +Immediately on receipt of Freeling's letter and affidavit, Mr. Dinneford +had taken steps to procure a pardon for George Granger. It came within +a few days after the application was made, and the young man was taken +from the asylum where he had been for three years. + +Mr. Dinneford went to him with Freeling's affidavit and the pardon, and +placing them in his hands, watched him closely to see the effect they +would produce. He found him greatly changed in appearance, looking older +by many years. His manner was quiet, as that of one who had learned +submission after long suffering. But his eyes were clear and steady, and +without sign of mental aberration. He read Freeling's affidavit first, +folded it in an absent kind of way, as if he were dreaming, reopened and +read it through again. Then Mr. Dinneford saw a strong shiver pass over +him; he became pale and slightly convulsed. His face sunk in his hands, +and he sat for a while struggling with emotions that he found it almost +impossible to hold back. + +When he looked up, the wild struggle was over. + +"It is too late," he said. + +"No, George, it is never too late," replied Mr. Dinneford. "You have +suffered a cruel wrong, but in the future there are for you, I doubt +not, many compensations." + +He shook his head in a dreary way, murmuring, + +"I have lost too much." + +"Nothing that may not be restored. And in all you have not lost a good +conscience." + +"No, thank God!" answered the young man, with a sudden flush in his +face. "But for that anchor to my soul, I should have long ago drifted +out to sea a helpless wreck. No thank God! I have not lost a good +conscience." + +"You have not yet read the other paper," said Mr. Dinneford. "It is your +pardon." + +"Pardon!" An indignant flash came into Granger's eyes. "Oh, sir, that +hurts too deeply. Pardon! I am not a criminal." + +"Falsely so regarded in the eyes of the law, but now proved to be +innocent, and so expressed by the governor. It is not a pardon in any +sense of remission, but a declaration of innocence and sorrow for the +undeserved wrongs you have suffered." + +"It is well," he answered, gloomily--"the best that can be done; and I +should be thankful." + +"You cannot be more deeply thankful than I am, George." Mr. Dinneford +spoke with much feeling. "Let us bury this dreadful past out of our +sight, and trust in God for a better future. You are free again, and +your innocence shall, so far as I have power to do it, be made as clear +as noonday. You are at liberty to depart from here at once. Will you go +with me now?" + +Granger lifted a half-surprised look to Mr. Dinneford's face. + +"Thank you," he replied, after a few moments' thought. "I shall never +forget your kindness, but I prefer remaining here for a few days, until +I can confer with my friends and make some decision as to the future." + +Granger's manner grew reserved, almost embarrassed. Mr. Dinneford was +not wrong in his impression of the cause. How could he help thinking of +Edith, who, turning against him with the rest, had accepted the theory +of guilt and pronounced her sentence upon him, hardest of all to bear? +So it appeared to him, for he had nothing but the hard fact before him +that she had applied for and obtained a divorce. + +Yes, it was the thought of Edith that drew Granger back and covered him +with reserve. What more could Mr. Dinneford say? He had not considered +all the hearings of this unhappy case; but now that he remembered the +divorce, he began to see, how full of embarrassment it was, and how +delicate the relation he bore to this unhappy victim of his wife's +dreadful crime. + +What could he say for Edith? Nothing! He knew that her heart had never +turned itself away from this man, though she had, under a pressure she +was not strong enough to resist, turned her back upon him and cast aside +his dishonored name, thus testifying to the world that she believed him +base and criminal. If he should speak of her, would not the young man +answer with indignant scorn? + +"Give me the address of your friends, and I will call upon them +immediately," said Mr. Dinneford, replying, after a long silence, to +Granger's last remark. "I am here to repair, to any extent that in me +lies the frightful wrongs you have suffered. I shall make your cause my +own, and never rest until every false tarnish shall be wiped from your +name. In honor and conscience I am bound to this." + +Looking at the young man intently, he saw a grateful response in the +warmer color that broke into his face and in the moisture that filled +his eyes. + +"I would be base if I were not thankful, Mr. Dinneford," Granger +replied. "But you cannot put yourself in my place, cannot know what I +have suffered, cannot comprehend the sense of wrong and cruel rejection +that has filled my soul with the very gall of bitterness. To be cast out +utterly, suddenly and without warning from heaven into hell, and for no +evil thought or act! Ah, sir! you do not understand." + +"It was a frightful ordeal, George," answered Mr. Dinneford, laying his +hand on Granger with the tenderness of a father. "But, thank God! it +is over. You have stood the terrible heat, and now, coming out of the +furnace, I shall see to it that not even the smell of fire remain upon +your garments." + +Still the young man could not be moved from his purpose to remain at the +asylum until he had seen and conferred with his friends, in whose hands +Mr. Dinneford placed the governor's pardon and the affidavit of Lloyd +Freeling setting forth his innocence. + +Mrs. Bray did not call on Mr. Dinneford, as she had promised. She had +quarreled with Pinky Swett, as the reader will remember, and in a fit +of blind anger thrust her from the room. But in the next moment she +remembered that she did not know where the girl lived, and if she lost +sight of her now, might not again come across her for weeks or months. +So putting on her hat and cloak hurriedly, she waited until she heard +Pinky going down stairs, and then came out noiselessly, and followed her +into the street. She had to be quick in her movements, for Pinky, hot +with anger, was dashing off at a rapid speed. For three or four blocks +Mrs. Bray kept her in view; but there being only a few persons in the +street, she had to remain at a considerable distance behind, so as not +to attract her attention. Suddenly, she lost sight of Pinky. She had +looked back on hearing a noise in the street; turning again, she could +see nothing of the girl. Hurrying forward to the corner which Pinky had +in all probability turned, Mrs. Bray looked eagerly up and down, but to +her disappointment Pinky was not in sight. + +"Somewhere here. I thought it was farther off," said Mrs. Bray to +herself. "It's too bad that I should have lost sight of her." + +She stood irresolute for a little while, then walked down one of the +blocks and back on the other side. Halfway down, a small street or alley +divided the block. + +"It's in there, no doubt," said Mrs. Bray, speaking to herself again. +On the corner was a small shop in which notions and trimmings were sold. +Going into this, she asked for some trifling articles, and while looking +over them drew the woman who kept the shop into conversation. + +"What kind of people live in this little street?" she inquired, in a +half-careless tone. + +The woman smiled as she answered, with a slight toss of the head, + +"Oh, all kinds." + +"Good, bad and indifferent?" + +"Yes, white sheep and black." + +"So I thought. The black sheep will get in. You can't keep 'em out." + +"No, and 'tisn't much use trying," answered the shop-keeper, with a +levity of manner not unmarked by Mrs. Bray, who said, + +"The black sheep have to live as well as the white ones." + +"Just so. You hit the nail there." + +"And I suppose you find their money as good as that of the whitest?" + +"Oh yes." + +"And quite as freely spent?" + +"As to that," answered the woman, who was inclined to be talkative and +gossipy, "we make more out of the black sheep than out of the white +ones. They don't higgle so about prices. Not that we have two prices, +but you see they don't try to beat us down, and never stop to worry +about the cost of a thing if they happen to fancy it. They look and buy, +and there's the end of it." + +"I understand," remarked Mrs. Bray, with a familiar nod. "It may be +wicked to say so; but if I kept a store like this, I'd rather have the +sinners for customers than the saints." + +She had taken a seat at the counter; and now, leaning forward upon her +arms and looking at the shop-woman in a pleasant, half-confidential way, +said, + +"You know everybody about here?" + +"Pretty much." + +"The black sheep as well as the white?" + +"As customers." + +"Of course; that's all I mean," was returned. "I'd be sorry if you knew +them in any other way--some of them, at least." Then, after a pause, "Do +you know a girl they call Pinky?" + +"I may know her, but not by that name. What kind of a looking person is +she?" + +"A tall, bold-faced, dashing, dare-devil sort of a girl, with a snaky +look in her eyes. She wears a pink hat with a white feather." + +"Yes, I think I have seen some one like that, but she's not been around +here long." + +"When did you see her last?" + +"If it's the same one you mean, I saw her go by here not ten minutes +ago. She lives somewhere down the alley." + +"Do you know the house?" + +"I do not; but it can be found, no doubt. You called her Pinky." + +"Yes. Her name is Pinky Swett." + +"O-h! o-h!" ejaculated the shop-woman, lifting her eyebrows in a +surprised way. "Why, that's the girl the police were after. They said +she'd run off with somebody's child." + +"Did they arrest her?" asked Mrs. Bray, repressing, as far as possible, +all excitement. + +"They took her off once or twice, I believe, but didn't make anything +out of her. At any rate, the child was not found. It belonged, they +said, to a rich up-town family that the girl was trying to black-mail. +But I don't see how that could be." + +"The child isn't about here?" + +"Oh dear, no! If it was, it would have been found long before this, for +the police are hunting around sharp. If it's all as they say, she's got +it hid somewhere else." + +While Mrs. Bray talked with the shop-woman, Pinky, who had made a +hurried call at her room, only a hundred yards away, was going as fast +as a street-car could take her to a distant part of the city. On leaving +the car at the corner of a narrow, half-deserted street, in which the +only sign of life was a child or two at play in the snow and a couple +of goats lying on a cellar-door, she walked for half the distance of +a block, and then turned into a court lined on both sides with small, +ill-conditioned houses, not half of them tenanted. Snow and ice blocked +the little road-way, except where a narrow path had been cut along close +to the houses. + +Without knocking, Pinky entered one of these poor tenements. As she +pushed open the door, a woman who was crouching down before a small +stove, on which something was cooking, started up with a look of +surprise that changed to one of anxiety and fear the moment she +recognized her visitor. + +"Is Andy all right?" cried Pinky, alarm in her face. + +The woman tried to stammer out something, but did not make herself +understood. At this, Pinky, into whose eyes flashed a fierce light, +caught her by the wrists in a grip that almost crushed the bones. + +"Out with it! where is Andy?" + +Still the frightened woman could not speak. + +"If that child isn't here, I'll murder you!" said Pinky, now white with +anger, tightening her grasp. + +At this, with a desperate effort, the woman flung her off, and catching +up a long wooden bench, raised it over her head. + +"If there's to be any murder going on," she said, recovering her powers +of speech, "I'll take the first hand! As for the troublesome brat, he's +gone. Got out of the window and climbed down the spout. Wonder he wasn't +killed. Did fall--I don't know how far--and must have hurt himself, +for I heard a noise as if something heavy had dropped in the yard, but +thought it was next door. Half an hour afterward, in going up stairs +and opening the door of the room where I kept him locked in, I found it +empty and the window open. That's the whole story. I ran out and looked +everywhere, but he was off. And now, if the murder is to come, I'm going +to be in first." + +And she still kept the long wooden bench poised above her head. + +Pinky saw a dangerous look in the woman's eyes. + +"Put that thing down," she cried, "and don't be a fool. Let me see;" +and she darted past the woman and ran up stairs. She found the window +of Andy's prison open and the print of his little fingers on the +snow-covered sill outside, where he had held on before dropping to the +ground, a distance of many feet. There was no doubt now in her mind as +to the truth of the woman's story. The child had made his escape. + +"Have you been into all the neighbors' houses?" asked Pinky as she came +down hastily. + +"Into some, but not all," she replied. + +"How long is it since he got away?" + +"More than two hours." + +"And you've been sticking down here, instead of ransacking every hole +and corner in the neighborhood. I can hardly keep my hands off of you." + +The woman was on the alert. Pinky saw this, and did not attempt to put +her threat into execution. After pouring out her wrath in a flood +of angry invectives, she went out and began a thorough search of the +neighborhood, going into every house for a distance of three or four +blocks in all directions. But she could neither find the child nor get +the smallest trace of him. He had dropped out of sight, so far as she +was concerned, as completely as if he had fallen into the sea. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVI. + + + +_DAY_ after day Mr. Dinneford waited for the woman who was to restore +the child of Edith, but she did not come. Over a week elapsed, but she +neither called nor sent him a sign or a word. He dared not speak +about this to Edith. She was too weak in body and mind for any further +suspense or strain. + +Drew Hall had been nearly thrown down again by the events of that +Christmas day. The hand of a little child was holding him fast to a +better life; but when that hand was torn suddenly away from his grasp, +he felt the pull of evil habits, the downward drift of old currents. His +steps grew weak, his knees trembled. But God did not mean that he should +be left alone. He had reached down to him through the hand of a little +child, had lifted him up and led him into a way of safety; and now that +this small hand, the soft, touch of which had gone to his heart and +stirred him with old memories, sad and sweet and holy, had dropped away +from him, and he seemed to be losing his hold of heaven, God sent +him, in Mr. Dinneford, an angel with a stronger hand. There were old +associations that held these men together. They had been early and +attached friends, and this meeting, after many years of separation, +under such strange circumstances, and with a common fear and anxiety +at heart, could not but have the effect of arousing in the mind of Mr. +Dinneford the deepest concern for the unhappy man. He saw the new peril +into which he was thrown by the loss of Andy, and made it his first +business to surround him with all possible good and strengthening +influences. So the old memories awakened by the coming of Andy did not +fade out and lose their power over the man. He had taken hold of the +good past again, and still held to it with the tight grasp of one +conscious of danger. + +"We shall find the child--no fear of that," Mr. Dinneford would say to +him over and over again, trying to comfort his own heart as well, as +the days went by and no little Andy could be found. "The police have the +girl under the sharpest surveillance, and she cannot baffle them much +longer." + +George Granger left the asylum with his friends, and dropped out +of sight. He did not show himself in the old places nor renew old +associations. He was too deeply hurt. The disaster had been too great +for any attempt on his part at repairing the old dwelling-places of his +life. His was not what we call a strong nature, but he was susceptible +of very deep impressions. He was fine and sensitive, rather than strong. +Rejected by his wife and family without a single interview with her or +even an opportunity to assert his innocence, he felt the wrong so deeply +that he could not get over it. His love for his wife had been profound +and tender, and when it became known to him that she had accepted the +appearances of guilt as conclusive, and broken with her own hands the +tie that bound them, it was more than he had strength to bear, and a +long time passed before he rallied from this hardest blow of all. + +Edith knew that her father had seen Granger after securing his pardon, +and she had learned from him only, particulars of the interview. Beyond +this nothing came to her. She stilled her heart, aching with the +old love that crowded all its chambers, and tried to be patient and +submissive. It was very hard. But she was helpless. Sometimes, in the +anguish and wild agitation of soul that seized her, she would resolve +to put in a letter all she thought and felt, and have it conveyed to +Granger; but fear and womanly delicacy drove her back from this. What +hope had she that he would not reject her with hatred and scorn? It was +a venture she dared not make, for she felt that such a rejection would +kill her. But for her work among the destitute and the neglected, Edith +would have shut herself up at home. Christian charity drew her forth +daily, and in offices of kindness and mercy she found a peace and rest +to which she would otherwise have been stranger. + +She was on her way home one afternoon from a visit to the mission-school +where she had first heard of the poor baby in Grubb's court. All that +day thoughts of little Andy kept crowding into her mind. She could not +push aside his image as she saw it on Christmas, when he sat among the +children, his large eyes resting in such a wistful look upon her face. +Her eyes often grew dim and her heart full as she looked upon that +tender face, pictured for her as distinctly as if photographed to +natural sight. + +"Oh my baby, my baby!" came almost audibly from her lips, in a burst +of irrepressible feeling, for ever since she had seen this child, the +thought of him linked itself with that of her lost baby. + +Up to this time her father had carefully concealed his interview +with Mrs. Bray. He was in so much doubt as to the effect that woman's +communication might produce while yet the child was missing that he +deemed it best to maintain the strictest silence until it could be +found. + +Walking along with heart and thought where they dwelt for so large a +part of her time, Edith, in turning a corner, came upon a woman who +stopped at sight of her as if suddenly fastened to the ground--stopped +only for an instant, like one surprised by an unexpected and unwelcome +encounter, and then made a motion to pass on. But Edith, partly from +memory and partly from intuition, recognized her nurse, and catching +fast hold of her, said in a low imperative voice, while a look of wild +excitement spread over her face, + +"Where is my baby?" + +The woman tried to shake her off, but Edith held her with a grasp that +could not be broken. + +"For Heaven's sake," exclaimed the woman "let go of me! This is the +public street, and you'll have a crowd about us in a moment, and the +police with them." + +But Edith kept fast hold of her. + +"First tell me where I can find my baby," she answered. + +"Come along," said the woman, moving as she spoke in the direction Edith +was going when they met. "If you want a row with the police, I don't." + +Edith was close to her side, with her hand yet upon her and her voice in +her ears. + +"My baby! Quick! Say! Where can I find my baby?" + +"What do I know of your baby? You are a fool, or mad!" answered the +woman, trying to throw her off. "I don't know you." + +"But I know you, Mrs. Bray," said Edith, speaking the name at a venture +as the one she remembered hearing the servant give to her mother. + +At this the woman's whole manner changed, and Edith saw that she was +right--that this was, indeed, the accomplice of her mother. + +"And now," she added, in voice grown calm and resolute, "I do not mean +to let you escape until I get sure knowledge of my child. If you fly +from me, I will follow and call for the police. If you have any of +the instincts of a woman left, you will know that I am desperately +in earnest. What is a street excitement or a temporary arrest by the +police, or even a station-house exposure, to me, in comparison with the +recovery of my child? Where is he?" + +"I do not know," replied Mrs. Bray. "After seeing your father--" + +"My father! When did you see him?" exclaimed Edith, betraying in her +surprised voice the fact that Mr. Dinneford had kept so far, even from +her, the secret of that brief interview to which she now referred. + +"Oh, he hasn't told you! But it's no matter--he will do that in good +time. After seeing your father, I made an effort to get possession of +your child and restore him as I promised to do. But the woman who had +him hidden somewhere managed to keep out of my way until this morning. +And now she says he got off from her, climbed out of a second-story +window and disappeared, no one knows where." + +"This woman's name is Pinky Swett?" said Edith. + +"Yes." + +Mrs. Bray felt the hand that was still upon her arm shake as if from a +violent chill. + +"Do you believe what she says?--that the child has really escaped from +her?" + +"Yes." + +"Where does she live?" + +Mrs. Bray gave the true directions, and without hesitation. + +"Is this child the one she stole from the Briar-street mission on +Christmas day?" asked Edith. + +"He is," answered Mrs. Bray. + +"How shall I know he is mine? What proof is there that little Andy, as +he is called, and my baby are the same?" + +"I know him to be your child, for I have never lost sight of him," +replied the woman, emphatically. "You may know him by his eyes and mouth +and chin, for they are yours. Nobody can mistake the likeness. But there +is another proof. When I nursed you, I saw on your arm, just above the +elbow, a small raised mark of a red color, and noticed a similar one on +the baby's arm. You will see it there whenever you find the child that +Pinky Swett stole from the mission-house on Christmas day. Good-bye!" + +And the woman, seeing that her companion was off of her guard, sprang +away, and was out of sight in the crowd before Edith could rally herself +and make an attempt to follow. How she got home she could hardly tell. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVII. + + + +_FOR_ weeks the search for Andy was kept up with unremitting vigilance, +but no word of him came to the anxious searchers. A few days after the +meeting with Mrs. Bray, the police report mentioned the arrest of both +Pinky Swett and Mrs. Bray, _alias_ Hoyt, _alias_ Jewett, charged with +stealing a diamond ring of considerable value from a jewelry store. They +were sent to prison, in default of bail, to await trial. Mr. Dinneford +immediately went to the prison and had an interview with the two women, +who could give him no information about Andy beyond what Mrs. Bray had +already communicated in her hurried talk with Edith. Pinky could get no +trace of him after he had escaped. Mr. Dinneford did not leave the two +women until he had drawn from them a minute and circumstantial account +of all they knew of Edith's child from the time it was cast adrift. When +he left them, he had no doubt as to its identity with Andy. There was no +missing link in the chain of evidence. + +The new life that had opened to little Andy since the dreary night on +which, like a stray kitten, he had crept into Andrew Hall's miserable +hovel, had been very pleasant. To be loved and caressed was a strange +and sweet experience. Poor little heart! It fluttered in wild terror, +like a tiny bird in the talons of a hawk, when Pinky Swett swooped down +and struck her foul talons into the frightened child and bore him off. + +"If you scream, I'll choke you to death!" she said, stooping to his ear, +as she hurried him from the mission-house. Scared into silence, Andy did +not cry out, and the arm that grasped and dragged him away was so strong +that he felt resistance to be hopeless. Passing from Briar street, Pinky +hurried on for a distance of a block, when she signaled a street-car. +As she lifted Andy upon the platform, she gave him another whispered +threat: + +"Mind! if you cry, I'll kill you!" + +There were but few persons in the car, and Pinky carried the child +to the upper end and sat him down with his face turned forward to the +window, so as to keep it as much out of observation as possible. He sat +motionless, stunned with surprise and fear. Pinky kept her eyes upon +him. His hands were laid across his breast and held against it tightly. +They had not gone far before Pinky saw great tear-drops falling upon the +little hands. + +"Stop crying!" she whispered, close to his ear; "I won't have it! You're +not going to be killed." + +Andy tried to keep back the tears, but in spite of all he could do they +kept blinding his eyes and falling over his hands. + +"What's the matter with your little boy?" asked a sympathetic, motherly +woman who had noticed the child's distress. + +"Cross, that's all." Pinky threw out the sentence in at snappish, +mind-your-own-business tone. + +The motherly woman, who had leaned forward, a look of kindly interest on +her face, drew back, chilled by this repulse, but kept her eyes upon the +child, greatly to Pinky's annoyance. After riding for half a mile, Pinky +got out and took another car. Andy was passive. He had ceased crying, +and was endeavoring to get back some of the old spirit of brave +endurance. He was beginning to feel like one who had awakened from a +beautiful dream in which dear ideals had almost reached fruition, to +the painful facts of a hard and suffering life, and was gathering up +his patience and strength to meet them. He sat motionless by the side of +Pinky, with his eyes cast down, his chin on his breast and his lips shut +closely together. + +Another ride of nearly half a mile, when Pinky left the car and struck +away from the common thoroughfare into a narrow alley, down which she +walked for a short distance, and then disappeared in one of the small +houses. No one happened to observe her entrance. Through a narrow +passage and stairway she reached a second-story room. Taking a key from +her pocket, she unlocked the door and went in. There was a fire in +a small stove, and the room was comfortable. Locking the door on the +inside she said to Andy, in a voice changed and kinder, + +"My! your hands are as red as beets. Go up to the stove and warm +yourself." + +Andy obeyed, spreading out his little hands, and catching the grateful +warmth, every now and then looking up into Pinky's face, and trying with +a shrewder insight than is usually given to a child of his age to read +the character and purposes it half concealed and half made known. + +"Now, Andy," said Pinky, in a mild but very decided way--"your name's +Andy?" + +"Yes, ma'am," answered the child, fixing his large, intelligent eyes on +her face. + +"Well, Andy, if you'll be a good and quiet boy, you needn't be afraid of +anything--you won't get hurt. But if you make a fuss, I'll throw you at +once right out of the window." + +Pinky frowned and looked so wicked as she uttered the last sentence that +Andy was frightened. It seemed as if a devouring beast glared at him out +of her eyes. She saw the effect of her threat, and was satisfied. + +The short afternoon soon passed away. The girl did not leave the room, +nor talk with the child except in very low tones, so as not to attract +the attention of any one in the house. As the day waned snow began to +fall, and by the time night set in it was coming down thick and fast. As +soon as it was fairly dark, Pinky wrapped a shawl about Andy, pinning it +closely, so as to protect him from the cold, and quietly left the house. +He made no resistance. A car was taken, in which they rode for a long +distance, until they were on the outskirts of the city. The snow had +already fallen to a depth of two or three inches, and the storm was +increasing. When she left the car in that remote neighborhood, not a +person was to be seen on the street. Catching Andy into her arms, Pinky +ran with him for the distance of half a block, and then turned into a +close alley with small houses on each side. At the lower end she stopped +before one of these houses, and without knocking pushed open the door. + +"Who's that?" cried a voice from an upper room, the stairway to which +led up from the room below. + +"It's me. Come down, and be quiet," answered Pinky, in a warning voice. + +A woman, old and gray, with all the signs of a bad life on her wrinkled +face, came hastily down stairs and confronted Pinky. + +"What now? What's brought you here?" she demanded, in no friendly tones. + +"There, there, Mother Peter! smooth down your feathers. I've got +something for you to do, and it will pay," answered Pinky, who had shut +the outside door and slipped the bolt. + +At this, the manner of Mother Peter, as Pinky had called her, softened, +and she said, + +"What's up? What deviltry are you after now, you huzzy?" + +Without replying to this, Pinky began shaking the snow from Andy and +unwinding the shawl with which she had bound him up. After he was free +from his outside wrappings, she said, looking toward the woman, + +"Now, isn't he a nice little chap? Did you ever see such eyes?" + +The worn face of the woman softened as she turned toward the beautiful +child, but not with pity. To that feeling she had long been a stranger. + +"I want you to keep him for a few days," said Pinky, speaking in +the woman's ears. "I'll tell you more about it after he's in bed and +asleep." + +"He's to be kept shut up out of sight, mind," was Pinky's injunction, +in the conference that followed. "Not a living soul in the neighborhood +must know he's in the house, for the police will be sharp after him. +I'll pay you five dollars a week, and put it down in advance. Give him +plenty to eat, and be as good to him as you can, for you see it's a fat +job, and I'll make it fatter for you if all comes out right." + +The woman was not slow to promise all that Pinky demanded. The house in +which she lived had three rooms, one below and two smaller ones above. +From the room below a stove-pipe went up through the floor into a +sheet-iron drum in the small back chamber, and kept it partially heated. +It was arranged that Andy should be made a close prisoner in this room, +and kept quiet by fear. It had only one window, looking out upon the +yard, and there was no shed or porch over the door leading into the yard +below upon which he could climb out and make his escape. In order to +have things wholly secure the two women, after Andy was asleep, pasted +paper over the panes of glass in the lower sash, so that no one could +see his face at the window, and fastened the sash down by putting a nail +into a gimlet-hole at the top. + +"I guess thatt will fix him," said Pinky, in a tone of satisfaction. +"All you've got to do now is to see that he doesn't make a noise." + +On the next morning Andy was awake by day-dawn. At first he did not know +where he was, but he kept very still, looking around the small room and +trying to make out what it all meant. Soon it came to him, and a vague +terror filled his heart. By his side lay the woman into whose hands +Pinky had given him. She was fast asleep, and her face, as he gazed in +fear upon it, was even more repulsive than it had looked on the night +before. His first impulse, after comprehending his situation, was to +escape if possible. Softly and silently he crept out of bed, and made +his way to the door. It was fastened. He drew the bolt back, when it +struck the guard with a sharp click. In an instant the old woman was +sitting up in bed and glaring at him. + +"You imp of Satan!" she cried, springing after him with a singular +agility for one of her age, and catching him by the arm with a vice-like +grip that bruised the tender flesh and left it marked for weeks, drew +him back from the door and flung him upon the bed. + +"Stay there till I tell you to get up," she added, with a cruel threat +in her voice. "And mind you, there's to be no fooling with me." + +The frightened child crept under the bed-clothes, and hid his face +beneath them. Mother Peter did not lie down again, but commenced +dressing herself, muttering and grumbling as she did so. + +"Keep where you are till I come back," she said to Andy, with the same +cruel threat in her voice. Going out, she bolted the door on the other +side. It was nearly half an hour before the woman returned, bringing a +plate containing two or three slices of bread and butter and a cup of +milk. + +"Now get up and dress yourself," was her sharply-spoken salutation to +Andy as she came into the room. "And you're to be just as still as a +mouse, mind. There's your breakfast." She set the plate on a table and +went out, bolting, as before, the door on the other side. Andy did not +see her again for over an hour. Left entirely alone in his prison, +his restless spirit chafed for freedom. He moved about the apartment, +examining everything it contained with the closest scrutiny, yet without +making any noise, for the woman's threat, accompanied as it had been +with such a wicked look, was not forgotten. He had seen in that look a +cruel spirit of which he was afraid. Two or three times he thought he +heard a step and a movement in the adjoining chamber, and waited, almost +holding his breath, with his eyes upon the door, expecting every moment +to see the scowling face of his jailer. But no hand touched the door. + +Tired at last with everything in the room, he went to the window and +sought to look out, as he had already done many times. He could not +understand why this window, was so different from any he had ever seen, +and puzzled over it in his weak, childish way. As he moved from pane to +pane, trying to see through, he caught a glimpse of something outside, +but it was gone in a moment. He stepped back, then came up quickly to +the glass, all the dull quietude of manner leaving him. As he did so a +glimpse of the outside world came again, and now he saw a little hole in +the paper not larger than a pin's head. To scrape at this was a simple +instinct. In a moment he saw it enlarging, as the paper peeled off +from the glass. Scraping away with his finger-nail, the glass was soon +cleared of paper for the space of an inch in diameter, and through this +opening he stood gazing out upon the yards, below, and the houses that +came up to them from a neighboring street. There was a woman in one +of these yards, and she looked up toward the window where Andy stood, +curiously. + +"You imp of Satan!" were the terrible words that fell upon his ears at +this juncture, and he felt himself caught up as by a vulture. He knew +the cruel voice and the grip of the cruel hands that had already left +their marks in his tender flesh. Mother Peter, her face red with passion +and her eyes slowing like coals of fire, held him high in the air, +and shook him with savage violence. She did not strike, but continued +shaking him until the sudden heat of her passion had a little cooled. + +"Didn't I tell you not to meddle with anything in this room?" and with +another bruising grip of Andy's arms, she threw him roughly upon the +floor. + +The little hole in the paper was then repaired by pasting another piece +of paper over it, after which Andy was left alone, but with a threat +from Mother Peter that if he touched the window again she would beat the +life out of him. She had no more trouble with him that day. Every half +hour or so she would come up stairs noiselessly, and listen at the door, +or break in upon the child suddenly and without warning. But she did not +find him again at the window. The restlessness at first exhibited had +died out, and he sat or lay upon the floor in a kind of dull, despairing +stupor. So that day passed. + +On the second day of Andy's imprisonment he distinctly heard the old +woman go out at the street door and lock it after her. He listened for a +long time, but could hear no sound in the house. A feeling of relief and +a sense of safety came over him. He had not been so long in his prison +alone without the minutest examination of every part, and it had not +escaped his notice that the panes of glass in the upper sash of the +window were not covered with paper, as were those below. But for the +fear of one of Mother Peter's noiseless pouncings in upon him, he would +long since have climbed upon the sill and taken a look through the upper +sash. He waited now for full half an hour to be sure that his jailer had +left the house, and then, climbing to the window-sill with the agility +of a squirrel, held on to the edge of the lower sash and looked out +through the clear glass above. Dreary and unsightly as was all that lay +under his gaze, it was beautiful in the eyes of the child. His little +heart swelled and glowed; he longed, as a prisoner, for freedom. As he +stood there he saw that a nail held down the lower sash, which he had so +often tried, but in vain, to lift. Putting his finger on this nail, he +felt it move. It had been placed loosely in a gimlet-hole, and could +be drawn out easily. For a little while he stood there, taking out and +putting in the nail. While doing this he thought he heard a sound below, +and instantly dropped noiselessly from the window. He had scarcely done +so when the door of his room opened and Mother Peter came in. She looked +at him sharply, and then retired without speaking. + +All the next day Andy listened after Mother Peter, waiting to hear her +go out. But she did not leave the house until after he was asleep in the +evening. + +On the next day, after waiting until almost noon, the child's impatience +of confinement grew so strong that he could no longer defer his +meditated escape from the window, for ever since he had looked over the +sash and discovered how it was fastened down, his mind had been running +on this thing. He had noticed that Mother Peter's visits to his room +were made after about equal intervals of time, and that after she gave +him his dinner she did not come up stairs again for at least an hour. +This had been brought, and he was again alone. + +For nearly five minutes after the woman went out, he sat by the untasted +food, his head bent toward the door, listening. Then he got up quietly, +climbed upon the window-sill and pulled the nail out. Dropping back upon +the floor noiselessly, he pushed his hands upward against the sash, and +it rose easily. Like an animal held in unwilling confinement, he did +not stop to think of any danger that might lie in the way of escape +when opportunity for escape offered. The fear behind was worse than any +imagined fear that could lie beyond. Pushing up the sash, Andy, without +looking down from the window, threw himself across the sill and dropped +his body over, supporting himself with his hands on the snow-encrusted +ledge for a moment, and then letting himself fall to the ground, a +distance of nearly ten feet. He felt his breath go as he swept through +the air, and lost his senses for an instant or two. + +Stunned by the fall, he did not rise for several minutes. Then he got +up with a slow, heavy motion and looked about him anxiously. He was in +a yard from which there was no egress except by way of the house. It +was bitter cold, and he had on nothing but the clothing worn in the room +from which he had just escaped. His head was bare. + +The dread of being found here by Mother Peter soon lifted him above +physical impediment or suffering. Through a hole in the fence he saw an +alley-way; and by the aid of an old barrel that stood in the yard, he +climbed to the top of the fence and let himself down on the other side, +falling a few feet. A sharp pain was felt in one of his ankles as his +feet touched the ground. He had sprained it in his leap from the window, +and now felt the first pangs attendant on the injury. + +Limping along, he followed the narrow alley-way, and in a little while +came out upon a street some distance from the one in which Mother Peter +lived. There were very few people abroad, and no one noticed or spoke to +him as he went creeping along, every step sending a pain from the hurt +ankle to his heart. Faint with suffering and chilled to numbness, Andy +stumbled and fell as he tried, in crossing a street, to escape from a +sleigh that turned a corner suddenly. It was too late for the driver to +rein up his horse. One foot struck the child, throwing him out of the +track of the sleigh. He was insensible when taken up, bleeding and +apparently dead. A few people came out of the small houses in the +neighborhood, attracted by the accident, but no one knew the child or +offered to take him in. + +There were two ladies in the sleigh, and both were greatly pained and +troubled. After a hurried consultation, one of them reached out her +hands for the child, and as she received and covered him with the +buffalo-robe said something to the driver, who turned his horse's head +and drove off at a rapid speed. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVIII. + + + +_EVERY_ home for friendless children, every sin or poverty-blighted ward +and almost every hovel, garret and cellar where evil and squalor shrunk +from observation were searched for the missing child, but in vain. No +trace of him could be found. The agony of suspense into which Edith's +mind was brought was beginning to threaten her reason. It was only by +the strongest effort at self-compulsion that she could keep herself to +duty among the poor and suffering, and well for her it was that she did +not fail here; it was all that held her to safe mooring. + +One day, as she was on her way home from some visit of mercy, a lady +who was passing in a carriage called to her from the window, at the same +time ordering her driver to stop. The carriage drew up to the sidewalk. + +"Come, get in," said the lady as she pushed open the carriage door. "I +was thinking of you this very moment, and want to have some talk about +our children's hospital. We must have you on our ladies' visiting +committee." + +Edith shook her head, saying, "It won't be possible, Mrs. Morton. I am +overtaxed now, and must lessen, instead of increasing, my work." + +"Never mind, about that now. Get in. I want to have some talk with you." + +Edith, who knew the lady intimately, stepped into the carriage and took +a seat by her side. + +"I don't believe you have ever been to our hospital," said the lady as +the carriage rolled on. "I'm going there now, and want to show you how +admirably everything is conducted, and what a blessing it is to poor +suffering children." + +"It hurts me so to witness suffering in little children," returned +Edith, "that it seems as if I couldn't bear it much longer. I see so +much of it." + +"The pain is not felt as deeply when we are trying to relieve that +suffering," answered her friend. "I have come away from the hospital +many times after spending an hour or two among the beds, reading and +talking to the children, with an inward peace in my soul too deep for +expression. I think that Christ draws very near to us while we are +trying to do the work that he did when he took upon himself our nature +in, the world and stood face to face visibly with men--nearer to us, +it may be, than at any other time; and in his presence there is +peace--peace that passeth understanding." + +They were silent for a little while, Edith not replying. "We have now," +resumed the lady, "nearly forty children under treatment--poor +little things who, but for this charity, would have no tender care or +intelligent ministration. Most of them would be lying in garrets or +miserable little rooms, dirty and neglected, disease eating out their +lives, and pain that medical skill now relieves, racking their poor worn +bodies. I sat by the bed of a little girl yesterday who has been in the +hospital over six months. She has hip disease. When she was brought here +from one of the vilest places in the city, taken away from a drunken +mother, she was the saddest-looking child I ever saw. Dirty, emaciated, +covered with vermin and pitiable to behold, I could hardly help crying +when I saw her brought in. Now, though still unable to leave her +bed, she has as bright and happy a face as you ever saw. The care and +tenderness received since she came to us have awakened a new life in her +soul, and she exhibits a sweetness of temper beautiful to see. After +I had read a little story for her yesterday, she put her arms about +my neck and kissed me, saying, in her frank, impulsive way, 'Oh, Mrs. +Morton, I do love you so!' I had a great reward. Never do I spend an +hour among these children without thanking God that he put it into the +hearts of a few men and women who could be touched with the sufferings +of children to establish and sustain so good an institution." + +The carriage stopped, and the driver swung open the door. They were +at the children's hospital. Entering a spacious hall, the two ladies +ascended to the second story, where the wards were located. There were +two of these on opposite sides of the hall, one for boys and one for +girls. Edith felt a heavy pressure on her bosom as they passed into the +girls' ward. She was coming into the presence of disease and pain, of +suffering and weariness, in the persons of little children. + +There were twenty beds in the room. Everything was faultlessly clean, +and the air fresh and pure. On most of these beds lay, or sat up, +supported by pillows, sick or crippled children from two years of age +up to fifteen or sixteen, while a few were playing about the room. Edith +caught her breath and choked back a sob that came swiftly to her throat +as she stood a few steps within the door and read in a few quick glances +that passed from face to face the sorrowful records that pain had +written upon them. + +"Oh, there's Mrs. Morton!" cried a glad voice, and Edith saw a girl who +was sitting up in one of the beds clap her hands joyfully. + +"That's the little one I was telling you about," said the lady, and she +crossed to the bed, Edith following. The child reached up her arms and +put them about Mrs. Morton's neck, kissing her as she did so. + +It took Edith some time to adjust herself to the scene before her. Mrs. +Morton knew all the children, and had a word of cheer or sympathy for +most of them as she passed from bed to bed through the ward. Gradually +the first painful impressions wore off, and Edith felt herself drawn to +the little patients, and before five minutes had passed her heart was +full of a strong desire to do whatever lay in her power to help and +comfort them. After spending half an hour with the girls, during which +time Edith talked and read to a number of them, Mrs. Morton said, + +"Now let us go into the boys' ward." + +They crossed the hall together, and entered the room on the other side. +Here, as in the opposite ward, Mrs. Morton was recognized as welcome +visitor. Every face that happened to be turned to the door brightened at +her entrance. + +"There's a dear child in this ward," said Mrs. Morton as they stood for +a moment in the door looking about the room. "He was picked up in the +street about a week ago, hurt by a passing vehicle, and brought here. We +have not been able to learn anything about him." + +Edith's heart gave a sudden leap, but she held it down with all the +self-control she could assume, trying to be calm. + +"Where is he?" she asked, in a voice so altered from its natural tone +that Mrs. Morton turned and looked at her in surprise. + +"Over in that corner," she answered, pointing down the room. + +Edith started forward, Mrs. Morton at her side. + +"Here he is," said the latter, pausing at a bed on which child with +fair face, blue eyes and golden hair was lying. A single glance sent the +blood back to Edith's heart. A faintness came over her; everything grew +dark. She sat down to keep from falling. + +As quickly as possible and by another strong effort of will she rallied +herself. + +"Yes," she said, in a faint undertone in which was no apparent interest, +"he is a dear little fellow." + +As she spoke she laid her hand softly on the child's head, but not in a +way to bring any response. He looked at her curiously, and seemed half +afraid. + +Meanwhile, a child occupying a bed only a few feet off had started up +quickly on seeing Edith, and now sat with his large brown eyes fixed +eagerly upon her, his lips apart and his hands extended. But Edith did +not notice him. Presently she got up from beside the bed and was turning +away when the other child, with a kind of despairing look in his face, +cried out, + +"Lady, lady! oh, lady!" + +The voice reached Edith's ears. She turned, and saw the face of Andy. +Swift as a flash she was upon him, gathering him in her arms and crying +out, in a wild passion of joy that could not be repressed, + +"Oh, my baby! my baby! my boy! my boy! Bless God! thank God! oh, my +baby!" + +Startled by this sudden outcry, the resident physician and two nurses +who were in the ward hurried down the room to see what it meant. Edith +had the child hugged tightly to her bosom, and resisted all their +efforts to remove him. + +"My dear madam," said the doctor, "you will do him some harm if you +don't take care." + +"Hurt my baby? Oh no, no!" she answered, relaxing her hold and gazing +down upon Andy as she let him fall away from her bosom. Then lifting her +eyes to the physician, her face so flooded with love and inexpressible +joy that it seemed like some heavenly transfiguration, she murmured, in +a low voice full of the deepest tenderness, + +"Oh no. I will not do my baby any harm." + +"My dear, dear friend," said Mrs. Morton, recovering from the shock of +her first surprise and fearing that Edith had suddenly lost her mind, +"you cannot mean what you say;" and she reached down for the child and +made a movement as if she were going to lift him away from her arms. + +A look of angry resistance swept across Edith's pale face. There was a +flash of defiance in her eyes. + +"No, no! You must not touch him," she exclaimed; "I will die before +giving him up. My baby!" + +And now, breaking down from her intense excitement, she bent over +the child again, weeping and sobbing. Waiting until this paroxysm had +expended itself, Mrs. Morton, who had not failed to notice that Andy +never turned his eyes for an instant away from Edith, nor resisted her +strained clasp or wild caresses, but lay passive against her with a look +of rest and peace in his face, said, + +"How shall we know that he is your baby?" + +At this Edith drew herself up, the light on her countenance fading +out. Then catching at the child's arm, she pulled the loose sleeve that +covered it above the elbow with hands that shook like aspens. Another +cry of joy broke from her as she saw a small red mark standing out clear +from the snowy skin. She kissed it over and over again, sobbing, + +"My baby! Yes, thank God! my own long-lost baby!" + +And still the child showed no excitement, but lay very quiet, looking at +Edith whenever he could see her countenance, the peace and rest on his +face as unchanging as if it were not really a living and mobile face, +but one cut into this expression by the hands of an artist. + +"How shall you know?" asked Edith, now remembering the question of Mrs. +Morton. And she drew up her own sleeve and showed on one of her arms a +mark as clearly defined and bright as that on the child's arm. + +No one sought to hinder Edith as she rose to her feet holding Andy, +after she had wrapped the bed-clothes about him. + +"Come!" she spoke to her friend, and moved away with her precious +burden. + +"You must go with us," said Mrs. Morton to the physician. + +They followed as Edith hurried down stairs, and entering the carriage +after her, were driven away from the hospital. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIX. + + + +_ABOUT_ the same hour that Edith entered the boys' ward of the +children's hospital, Mr. Dinneford met Granger face to face in the +street. The latter tried to pass him, but Mr. Dinneford stopped, and +taking his almost reluctant hand, said, as he grasped it tightly, + +"George Granger!" in a voice that had in it a kind of helpless cry. + +The young man did not answer, but stood looking at him in a surprised, +uncertain way. + +"George," said Mr. Dinneford, his utterance broken, "we want you!" + +"For what?" asked Granger, whose hand still lay in that of Mr. +Dinneford. He had tried to withdraw it at first, but now let it remain. + +"To help us find your child." + +"My child! What of my child?" + +"Your child and Edith's," said Mr. Dinneford. "Come!" and he drew his +arm within that of Granger, the two men moving away together. "It has +been lost since the day of its birth--cast adrift through the same +malign influence that cursed your life and Edith's. We are on its track, +but baffled day by day. Oh, George, we want you, frightfully wronged as +you have been at our hands--not Edith's. Oh no, George! Edith's heart +has never turned from you for an instant, never doubted you, though in +her weakness and despair she was driven to sign that fatal application +for a divorce. If it were not for the fear of a scornful rejection, she +would be reaching out her hands to you now and begging for the old sweet +love, but such a rejection would kill her, and she dare not brave the +risk." + +Mr. Dinneford felt the young man's arm begin to tremble violently. + +"We want you, George," he pursued. "Edith's heart is calling out for +you, that she may lean it upon your heart, so that it break not in this +great trial and suspense. Your lost baby is calling for you out of some +garret or cellar or hovel where it lies concealed. Come, my son. The +gulf that lies between the dreadful past and the blessed future can be +leaped at a single bound if you choose to make it. We want you--Edith +and I and your baby want you." + +Mr. Dinneford, in his great excitement, was hurrying the young man along +at a rapid speed, holding on to his arm at the same time, as if afraid +he would pull it away and escape. + +Granger made no response, but moved along passively, taking in every +word that was said. A great light seemed to break upon his soul, a great +mountain to be lifted off. He did not pause at the door from which, +when he last stood there, he had been so cruelly rejected, but went in, +almost holding his breath, bewildered, uncertain, but half realizing the +truth of what was transpiring, like one in a dream. + +"Wait here," said Mr. Dinneford, and he left him in the parlor and ran +up stairs to find Edith. + +George Granger had scarcely time to recognize the objects around him, +when a carriage stopped at the door, and in a moment afterward the bell +rang violently. + +The image that next met his eyes was that of Edith standing in the +parlor door with a child all bundled up in bed-clothing held closely in +her arms. Her face was trembling with excitement. He started forward on +seeing her with an impulse of love and joy that he could not restrain. +She saw him, and reading his soul in his eyes, moved to meet him. + +"Oh, George, and you too!" she exclaimed. "My baby and my husband, all +at once! It is too much. I cannot bear if all!" + +Granger caught her in his arms as she threw herself upon him and laid +the child against his breast. + +"Yours and mine," she sobbed. "Yours and mine, George!" and she put up +her face to his. Could he do less than cover it with kisses? + +A few hours later, and a small group of very near friends witnessed a +different scene from this. Not another tragedy as might well be feared, +under the swift reactions that came upon Edith. No, no! She did not die +from a excess of joy, but was filled with new life and strength. Two +hands broken asunder so violently a few years ago were now clasped +again, and the minister of God as he laid them together pronounced in +trembling tones the marriage benediction. + +This was the scene, and here we drop the curtain. + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Cast Adrift, by T. S. 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Arthur + +Release Date: October, 2003 [Etext #4592] +[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule] +[This file was first posted on February 12, 2002] + +Edition: 10 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +The Project Gutenberg Etext of Cast Adrift +by T. S. Arthur +******This file should be named cstdr10.txt or cstdr10.zip****** + +Corrected EDITIONS of our etexts get a new NUMBER, cstdr11.txt +VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, cstdr10a.txt + +Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the US +unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we usually do not +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + +The "legal small print" and other information about this book +may now be found at the end of this file. Please read this +important information, as it gives you specific rights and +tells you about restrictions in how the file may be used. + +*** +This etext was created by Charles Aldarondo (Aldarondo@yahoo.com) + +CAST ADRIFT. + +BY T. S. ARTHUR + +AUTHOR OF "THREE YEARS IN A MAN-TRAP," "ORANGE BLOSSOMS," ETC., ETC. + +PHILADELPHIA: +CINCINNATI: +NEW YORK: +BOSTON: +CHICAGO, ILLS.: +NEW CASTLE, PA.: +SAN FRANCISCO, CAL.: + +1873 + + + + + + +TO THE READER. + +IN this romance of real life, in which the truth is stranger than +the fiction, I have lifted only in part the veil that hides the +victims of intemperance and other terrible vices--after they have +fallen to the lower deeps of degradation to be found in our large +cities, where the vile and degraded herd together more like wild +beasts than men and women--and told the story of sorrow, suffering, +crime and debasement as they really exist in Christian America with +all the earnestness and power that in me lies. + +Strange and sad and terrible as are some of the scenes from which I +hare drawn this veil, I have not told the half of what exists. My +book, apart from the thread of fiction that runs through its pages, +is but a series of photographs from real life, and is less a work of +the imagination than a record of facts. + +If it stirs the hearts of American readers profoundly, and so +awakens the people to a sense of their duty; if it helps to +inaugurate more earnest and radical modes of reform for a state of +society of which a distinguished author has said, "There is not a +country throughout the earth on which it would not bring a curse; +there is no religion upon the earth that it would not deny; there is +no people upon the earth it would not put to shame;"--then will not +my work be in vain. + +Sitting in our comfortable homes with well-fed, well-clothed and +happy-hearted children about us--children who have our tenderest +care, whose cry of pain from a pin-prick or a fall on the carpeted +floor hurts us like a blow---how few of us know or care anything +about the homes in which some other children dwell, or of the hard +and cruel battle for life they are doomed to fight from the very +beginning! + +To get out from these comfortable homes and from the midst of +tenderly cared-for little ones, and stand face to face with squalor +and hunger, with suffering, debasement and crime, to look upon the +starved faces of children and hear their helpless cries, is what +scarcely one in a thousand will do. It is too much for our +sensibilities. And so we stand aloof, and the sorrow, and suffering, +the debasement, the wrong and the crime, go on, and because we heed +it not we vainly imagine that no responsibility lies at our door; +and yet there is no man or woman who is not, according to the +measure of his or her influence, responsible for the human +debasement and suffering I have portrayed. + +The task I set for myself has not been a pleasant one. It has hurt +my sensibilities and sickened my heart many times as I stood face to +face with the sad and awful degradation that exists in certain +regions of our larger cities; and now that my work is done, I take a +deep breath of relief. The result is in your hands, good citizen, +Christian reader, earnest philanthropist! If it stirs your heart in +the reading as it stirred mine in the writing, it will not die +fruitless. + +THE AUTHOR. + + + + + + + + + + +CONTENTS. + + +CHAPTER I. The unwelcome babe--The defrauded young mother--The +struggle between life and death--"Your baby is in heaven"--A brief +retrospect--A marriage for social position--An ambitious wife and a +disappointed husband--The young daughter--The matrimonial +market--The Circassian slaves of modern society--The highest +bidder--Disappearance--The old sad story--Secret marriage--The +letters--Disappointed ambition--Interview between the parents--The +mother's purpose--"Baffled, but not defeated"--The father's +surprise--The returned daughter--Forgiven--"I am not going away +again, father dear"--Insecurity and distrust + +CHAPTER II. The hatred of a bad woman--Mrs. Dinneford's plans for +the destruction of Granger--Starting in business--Plots of Mrs. +Dinneford and Freeling--The discounted notes--The trap--Granger's +suspicions aroused--Forgery--Mrs. Dinneford relentless--The +arrest--Fresh evidence of crime upon Granger's person--The shock to +Edith--"That night her baby was born" + +CHAPTER III. "It is a splendid boy"--A convenient, non-interfering +family doctor--Cast adrift--Into the world in a basket, unnamed and +disowned--Edith's second struggle back to life--Her mind a +blank--Granger convicted of forgery--Seeks to gain knowledge of his +child--The doctor's evasion and ignorance--An insane asylum instead +of State's prison--Edith's slow return to intelligence--"There's +something I can't understand, mother"--"Where is my baby?"--"What of +George?"--No longer a child, but a broken hearted woman--The divorce + +CHAPTER IV. Sympathy between father and daughter--Interest in public +charities--A dreadful sight--A sick babe in the arms of a +half-drunken woman--"Is there no law to meet such cases?"---"The +poor baby has no vote!"--Edith seeks for the grave of her child, but +cannot find it--She questions her mother, who baffles her +curiosity--Mrs. Bray's visit--Interview between Mrs. Dinneford and +Mrs. Bray--"The baby isn't living?"--"Yes; I saw it day before +yesterday in the arms of a beggar-woman"--Edith's suspicions +aroused--Determined to discover the fate of her child--Visits the +doctor--"Your baby is in heaven"--"Would to God it were so, for I +saw a baby in hell not long ago!" + +CHAPTER V. Mrs. Dinneford visits Mrs. Bray--"The woman to whom you +gave that baby was here yesterday"--The woman must be put out of the +way--Exit Mrs. Dinneford, enter Pinky Swett--"You know your +fate--New Orleans and the yellow fever"--"All I want of you is to +keep track of the baby"--Division of the spoils--Lucky +dreams--Consultation of the dream-book for lucky figures--Sam +McFaddon and his backer, who "drives in the Park and wears a two +thousand dollar diamond pin"--The fate of a baby begged with--The +baby must not die--The lottery-policies + +CHAPTER VI. Rottenness at the heart of a great city--Pinky Swett's +attempted rescue of a child from cruel beating--The fight--Pinky's +arrest--Appearance of the "queen"--Pinky's release at her +command--The queen's home--The screams of children being beaten--The +rescue of "Flanagan's Nell"--Death the great rescuer--"They don't +look after things in here as they do outside--Everybody's got the +screws on, and things must break sometimes, but it isn't called +murder--The coroner understands it all" + +CHAPTER VII. Pinky Swett at the mercy of the crowd in the +street--Taken to the nearest station-house--Mrs. Dinneford visits +Mrs. Bray again--Fresh alarms--"She's got you in her power"---"Money +is of no account"--The knock at the door--Mrs. Dinneford in +hiding--The visitor gone--Mrs. Bray reports the woman insatiable in +her demands--Must have two hundred dollars by sundown--No way of +escape except through police interference--"People who deal with the +devil generally have the devil to pay"--Suspicion--A mistake--Sound +of feet upon the stairs--Mrs. Dinneford again in hiding--Enter Pinky +Swett--Pinky disposed of--Mrs. Dinneford again released--Mrs. Bray's +strategy--"Let us be friends still, Mrs. Bray"--Mrs. Dinneford's +deprecation and humiliation--Mrs. Bray's triumph + +CHAPTER VIII. Mrs. Bray receives a package containing two hundred +dollars--"Poor baby! I must see better to its comfort"--Pinky meets +a young girl from the country--The "Ladies' Restaurant"--Fried +oysters and sangaree--The "bindery" girl--"My head feels +strangely"--Through the back alley--The ten-cent lodging +house--Robbery--A second robbery--A veil drawn--A wild prolonged cry +of a woman--The policeman listens only for a moment, and then passes +on--Foul play--"In all our large cities are savages more cruel and +brutal in their instincts than the Comanches"--Who is responsible? + +CHAPTER IX. Valuation of the spoils--The receiver--The "policy-shop" +and its customers--A victim of the lottery mania + +CHAPTER X. "Policy-drunkards"--A newly-appointed policeman's +blunder--The end of a "policy-drunkard"--Pinky and her friend in +consultation over "a cast-off baby in Dirty alley"--"If you can't +get hush-money out of its mother, you can bleed Fanny Bray"--The way +to starve a baby--Pinky moves her quarters without the use of "a +dozen furniture cars"--A baby's home--The baby's night nurse--The +baby's supper--The baby's bed--How the baby's money is spent--Where +the baby's nurse passes the night--The baby's disappearance + +CHAPTER XI. Reserve between mother and daughter--Mrs. Dinneford +disapproves of Edith's charitable visits--Mrs. Dinneford meets +Freeling by appointment at a hotel--"There's trouble brewing"--"A +letter from George Granger"--Accused of conspiracy--Possibility of +Granger's pardon by the governor--An ugly business--In great +peril--Freeling's threats of exposure--A hint of an alternative + +CHAPTER XII. Mr. Freeling fails to appear at his place of +business--Examination of his bank accounts--It is discovered that he +has borrowed largely of his friends--Mrs. Dinneford has supplied him +$20,000 from her private purse--Mrs. Dinneford falls sick, and +temporarily loses her reason--"I told you her name was Gray--Gray, +not Bray"--Half disclosures--Recovery--Mother and daughter mutually +suspicious--The visitor--Mrs. Dinneford equal to the +emergency--Edith thrown off the track + +CHAPTER XIII. Edith is satisfied that her babe is alive--She has a +desire to teach the children of the poor--"My baby may become like +one of these"--She hears of a baby which has been stolen--Resolves +to go and see it, and to apply to Mr. Paulding of the Briar street +mission for assistance in her attempt--Mr. Paulding persuades her +that it is best not to see the child, and promises that he himself +will look after it--Returns home--Her father remonstrates with her, +finally promises to help her + +CHAPTER XIV. Mr. Dinneford sets out for the mission-house--An +incident on the way--Encounters Mr. Paulding--Mr. Paulding makes his +report--"The vicious mark their offspring with unmistakable signs of +moral depravity; this baby has signs of a better origin"--A +profitable conversation--"I think you had better act promptly" + +CHAPTER XV. Mr. Dinneford with a policeman goes in quest of the +baby--The baby is gone--Inquiries--Mr. Dinneford resolves to +persevere--Cause of the baby's disappearance--Pinky Swett's +curiosity--Change of baby's nurse--Baby's improved condition--Baby's +first experience of motherly tenderness--Baby's first smile--"Such +beautiful eyes"--Pinky Swett visits the St. John mission-school-- +Edith is not there + +CHAPTER XVI. Mr. Dinneford's return, and Edith's disappointment--"It +is somebody's baby, and it may be mine"--An unsuspected +listener--Mrs. Dinneford acts promptly--Conference between Mrs. +Dinneford and Mrs. Hoyt, _alias_ Bray--The child must be got out of +the way--"If it will not starve, it must drown"--Mrs. Dinneford sees +an acquaintance as she leaves Mrs. Hoyt's, and endeavors to escape +his observation--A new danger and disgrace awaiting her + +CHAPTER XVII. Mental conditions of mother and daughter--Mr. +Dinneford aroused to a sense of his moral responsibilities--The +heathen in our midst--The united evil of policy-lotteries and +whisky-shops--The education of the policy-shops + +CHAPTER XVIII. News item: "A child drowned"--Another news item: +Pinky Swett sentenced to prison for robbery--Baby's improved +condition--Mrs. Burke's efforts to retain the baby after Pinky +Swett's imprisonment--Baby Andy's rough life in the street--Mrs. +Burke's death--Cast upon the world--Andy's adventures--He finds a +home and a friend + +CHAPTER XIX. Mr. Dinneford visits the mission-school--A comparison +of the present with the past--The first mission-school-- +Reminiscences of the school in its early days--The zealous +scholar--Good effects of the mission--"Get the burning brands +apart, or interpose incombustible things between them"--An +illustration--"Let in light, and the darkness flees" + +CHAPTER XX. "The man awoke and felt the child against his bosom, +soft and warm"--Led by a little child--"God being my helper, I will +be a man again"--A new life--Meeting of an old friend--A friend in +need--Food, clothes, work--A new home--God's strength our only +safety + +CHAPTER XXI. Intimate relations of physical and moral purity--Blind +Jake--The harvest of the thieves and beggars--Inconsiderate +charity--Beggary a vice--"The deserving poor are never common +beggars"--"To help the evil is to hurt the good" The malignant ulcer +in the body politic of our city--The breeding-places of epidemics +and malignant diseases--Little Italian street musicians--The +existence of slavery in our midst--Facts in regard to it + +CHAPTER XXII. Edith's continued interest in the children of the +poor--Christmas dinner at the mission-house--Edith perceives Andy, +and feels a strange attraction toward him--Andy's disappearance +after dinner--Pinky Swett has been seen dragging him away--Lost +sight of + +CHAPTER XXIII. Christmas dinner at Mr. Dinneford's--The dropped +letter--It is missed--A scene of wild excitement--Mrs. Dinneford's +sudden death--Edith reads the letter--A +revelation--"Innocent!"--Edith is called to her mother--"Dead, and +better so!"--Granger's innocence established--An agony of +affection--No longer Granger's wife + +CHAPTER XXIV. Edith's sickness--Meeting of Mrs. Bray and Pinky +Swett--A trial of sharpness, in which neither gains the +advantage--Mr. Dinneford receives a call from a lady--The lady, who +is Mrs. Bray, offers information--Mr. Dinneford surprises her into +admitting an important fact--Mrs. Bray offers to produce the child +for a price--Mr. Dinneford consents to pay the price on certain +stipulations--Mrs. Bray departs, promising to come again + +CHAPTER XXV. Granger's pardon procured--How he receives his +pardon--Mrs. Bray tries to trace Pinky home--Loses sight of her in +the street--Mrs. Bray interviews a shop-woman--Pinky's +destination--The child is gone + +CHAPTER XXVI. Mrs. Bray does not call on Mr. Dinneford, as she +promised--Peril to Andrew Hall through loss of the +child--Help--Edith longs to see or write to Granger, but does +not--Edith encounters Mrs. Bray in the street--"Where is my +baby?"--Disappointment--How to identify the child if found + +CHAPTER XXVII. No trace of Andy--Account of Andy's abduction--Andy's +prison--An outlook from prison--A loose nail--The escape--The +sprained ankle--The accident + +CHAPTER XXVIII. Edith's visit to the children's hospital--"Oh, my +baby! thank God! my baby!"--The identification + +CHAPTER XXIX. Meeting of Mr. Dinneford and George Granger--"We want +you to help us find your child"--"Edith's heart is calling out for +you"--The meeting--The marriage benediction + + + + + + +CAST ADRIFT. + +CHAPTER I. + + + + + +_A BABY_ had come, but he was not welcome. Could anything be sadder? + +The young mother lay with her white face to the wall, still as +death. A woman opened the chamber door noiselessly and came in, the +faint rustle of her garments disturbing the quiet air. + +A quick, eager turning of the head, a look half anxious, half +fearful, and then the almost breathless question, + +"Where is my baby?" + +"Never mind about the baby," was answered, almost coldly; "he's well +enough. I'm more concerned about you." + +"Have you sent word to George?" + +"George can't see you. I've said that before." + +"Oh, mother! I must see my husband." + +"Husband!" The tone of bitter contempt with which the word was +uttered struck the daughter like a blow. She had partly risen in her +excitement, but now fell back with a low moan, shutting her eyes and +turning her face away. Even as she did so, a young man stepped back +from the door of the elegant house in which she lay with a baffled, +disappointed air. He looked pale and wretched. + +"Edith!" Two hours afterward the doctor stood over the young mother, +and called her name. She did not move nor reply. He laid his hand on +her cheek, and almost started, then bent down and looked at her +intently for a moment or two. She had fever. A serious expression +came into his face, and there was cause. + +The sweet rest and heavenly joy of maternity had been denied to his +young patient. The new-born babe had not been suffered to lie even +for one blissful moment on her bosom. Hard-hearted family pride and +cruel worldliness had robbed her of the delight with which God ever +seeks to dower young motherhood, and now the overtaxed body and +brain had given way. + +For many weeks the frail young creature struggled with +delirium--struggled and overcame. + +"Where is my baby?" + +The first thought of returning consciousness was of her baby. + +A woman who sat in a distant part of the chamber started up and +crossed to the bed. She was past middle life, of medium stature, +with small, clearly cut features and cold blue eyes. Her mouth was +full, but very firm. Self-poise was visible even in her surprised +movements. She bent over the bed and looked into Edith's wistful +eyes. + +"Where is my baby, mother?" Mrs. Dinneford put her fingers lightly +on Edith's lips. + +"You must be very quiet," she said, in a low, even voice. "The +doctor forbids all excitement. You have been extremely ill." + +"Can't I see my baby, mother? It won't hurt me to see my baby." + +"Not now. The doctor--" + +Edith half arose in bed, a look of doubt and fear coming into her +face. + +"I want my baby, mother," she said, interrupting her. + +A hard, resolute expression came into the cold blue eyes of Mrs. +Dinneford. She put her hand firmly against Edith and pressed her +back upon the pillow. + +"You have been very ill for nearly two months," she said, softening +her voice. "No one thought you could live. Thank God! the crisis is +over, but not the danger." + +"Two months! Oh, mother!" + +The slight flush that had come into Edith's wan face faded out, and +the pallor it had hidden for a few moments became deeper. She shut +her eyes and lay very still, but it was plain from the expression of +her face that thought was busy. + +"Not two whole months, mother?" she said, at length, in doubtful +tones. "Oh no! it cannot be." + +"It is just as I have said, Edith; and now, my dear child, as you +value your life, keep quiet; all excitement is dangerous." + +But repression was impossible. To Edith's consciousness there was no +lapse of time. It seemed scarcely an hour since the birth of her +baby and its removal from her sight. The inflowing tide of +mother-love, the pressure and yearning sweetness of which she had +begun to feel when she first called for the baby they had not +permitted to rest, even for an instant, on her bosom, was now +flooding her heart. Two months! If that were so, what of the baby? +To be submissive was impossible. + +Starting up half wildly, a vague terror in her face, she cried, +piteously, + +"Oh, mother, bring me my baby. I shall die if you do not!" + +"Your baby is in heaven," said Mrs. Dinneford, softening her voice +to a tone of tender regret. + +Edith caught her breath, grew very white, and then, with a low, +wailing cry that sent a shiver through Mrs. Dinneford's heart, fell +back, to all appearance dead. + +The mother did not call for help, but sat by the bedside of her +daughter, and waited for the issue of this new struggle between life +and death. There was no visible excitement, but her mouth was +closely set and her cold blue eyes fixed in a kind of vacant stare. + +Edith was Mrs. Dinneford's only child, and she had loved her with +the strong, selfish love of a worldly and ambitious woman. In her +own marriage she had not consulted her heart. Mr. Dinneford's social +position and wealth were to her far more than his personal +endowments. She would have rejected him without a quicker pulse-beat +if these had been all he had to offer. He was disappointed, she was +not. Strong, self-asserting, yet politic, Mrs Dinneford managed her +good husband about as she pleased in all external matters, and left +him to the free enjoyment of his personal tastes, preferences and +friendships. The house they lived in, the furniture it contained, +the style and equipage assumed by the family, were all of her +choice, Mr. Dinneford giving merely a half-constrained or +half-indifferent consent. He had learned, by painful and sometimes. +humiliating experience, that any contest with Mrs. Helen Dinneford +upon which he might enter was sure to end in his defeat. + +He was a man of fine moral and intellectual qualities. His wealth +gave him leisure, and his tastes, feelings and habits of thought +drew him into the society of some of the best men in the city where +he lived--best in the true meaning of that word. In all enlightened +social reform movements you would be sure of finding Mr. Howard +Dinneford. He was an active and efficient member in many boards of +public charity, and highly esteemed in them all for his enlightened +philanthropy and sound judgment. Everywhere but at home he was +strong and influential; there he was weak, submissive and of little +account. He had long ago accepted the situation, making a virtue of +necessity. A different man--one of stronger will and a more +imperious spirit--would have held his own, even though it wrought +bitterness and sorrow. But Mr. Dinneford's aversion to strife, and +gentleness toward every one, held him away from conflict, and so his +home was at least tranquil. + +Mrs. Dinneford had her own way, and so long as her husband made no +strong opposition to that way all was peaceful. + +For Edith, their only child, who was more like her father than her +mother, Mr. Dinneford had the tenderest regard. The well-springs of +love, choked up so soon after his marriage, were opened freely +toward his daughter, and he lived in her a new, sweet and satisfying +life. The mother was often jealous of her husband's demonstrative +tenderness for Edith. A yearning instinct of womanhood, long +repressed by worldliness and a mean social ambition, made her crave +at times the love she had cast away, and then her cup of life was +very bitter. But fear of Mr. Dinneford's influence over Edith was +stronger than any jealousy of his love. She had high views for her +daughter. In her own marriage she had set aside all considerations +but those of social rank. She had made it a stepping-stone to a +higher place in society than the one to which she was born. Still, +above them stood many millionnaire families, living in palace-homes, +and through her daughter she meant to rise into one of them. It +mattered not for the personal quality of the scion of the house; he +might be as coarse and common as his father before him, or weak, +mean, selfish, and debased by sensual indulgence. This was of little +account. To lift Edith to the higher social level was the all in all +of Mrs. Dinneford's ambition. + +But Mr. Dinneford taught Edith a nobler life-lesson than this, gave +her better views of wedlock, pictured for her loving heart the bliss +of a true marriage, sighing often as he did so, but unconsciously, +at the lost fruition of his own sweet hopes. He was careful to do +this only when alone with Edith, guarding his speech when Mrs. +Dinneford was present. He had faith in true principles, and with +these he sought to guard her life. He knew that she would be pushed +forward into society, and knew but too well that one so pure and +lovely in mind as well as person would become a centre of +attraction, and that he, standing on the outside as it were, would +have no power to save her from the saddest of all fates if she were +passive and her mother resolute. Her safety must lie in herself. + +Edith was brought out early. Mrs. Dinneford could not wait. At +seventeen she was thrust into society, set up for sale to the +highest bidder, her condition nearer that of a Circassian than a +Christian maiden, with her mother as slave-dealer. + +So it was and so, it is. You may see the thing every day. But it did +not come out according to Mrs. Dinneford's programme. There was a +highest bidder; but when he came for his slave, she was not to be +found. + +Well, the story is trite and brief--the old sad story. Among her +suitors was a young man named Granger, and to him Edith gave her +heart. But the mother rejected him with anger and scorn. He was not +rich, though belonging to a family of high character, and so fell +far below her requirements. Under a pressure that almost drove the +girl to despair, she gave her consent to a marriage that looked more +terrible than death. A month before the time fixed for, its +consummation, she barred the contract by a secret union with +Granger. + +Edith knew her mother's character too well to hope for any +reconciliation, so far as Mr. Granger was concerned. Coming in as he +had done between her and the consummation of her highest ambition, +she could never feel toward him anything but the most bitter hatred; +and so, after remaining at home for about a week after her secret +marriage, she wrote this brief letter to her mother and went away: + +"My DEAR MOTHER: I do not love Spencer Wray, and would rather die +than marry him, and so I have made the marriage to which my heart +has never consented, an impossibility. You have left me no other +alternative but this. I am the wife of George Granger, and go to +cast my lot with his. + +"Your loving daughter, + +"EDITH." + +To her father she wrote: + +"My DEAR, DEAR FATHER: If I bring sorrow to your good and loving +heart by what I have done, I know that it will be tempered with joy +at my escape from a union with one from whom my soul has ever turned +with irrepressible dislike. Oh, my father, you can understand, if +mother cannot, into what a desperate strait I have been brought. I +am a deer hunted to the edge of a dizzy chasm, and I leap for life +over the dark abyss, praying for strength to reach the farther edge. +If I fail in the wild effort, I can only meet destruction; and I +would rather be bruised to death on the jagged rocks than trust +myself to the hounds and hunters. I write passionately--you will +hardly recognize your quiet child; but the repressed instincts of my +nature are strong, and peril and despair have broken their bonds. I +did not consult you about the step I have taken, because I dared not +trust you with my secret. You would have tried to hold me back from +the perilous leap, fondly hoping for some other way of escape. I had +resolved on putting an impassable gulf between me and danger, if I +died in the attempt. I have taken the leap, and may God care for me! + +"I have laid up in my heart of hearts, dearest of fathers, the +precious life-truths that so often fell from your lips. Not a word +that you ever said about the sacredness of marriage has been +forgotten. I believe with you that it is a little less than crime to +marry when no love exists--that she who does so, sells her heart's +birthright for some mess of pottage, sinks down from the pure level +of noble womanhood, and traffics away her person, is henceforth +meaner in quality if not really vile. + +"And so, my father, to save myself from such a depth of degradation +and misery, I take my destiny into my own hands. I have grown very +strong in my convictions and purposes in the last four weeks. My +sight has become suddenly clear. I am older by many years. + +"As for George Granger, all I can now say is that I love him, and +believe him to be worthy of my love. I am willing to trust him, and +am ready to share his lot, however humble. + +"Still hold me in your heart, my precious father, as I hold you in +mine. + +"EDITH." + +Mr. Dinneford read this letter twice. It took him some time, his +eyes were so full of tears. In view of her approaching marriage with +Spencer Wray, his heart had felt very heavy. It was something +lighter now. Young Granger was not the man he would have chosen for +Edith, but he liked him far better than he did the other, and felt +that his child was safe now. + +He went to his wife's room, and found her with Edith's letter +crushed in her hand. She was sitting motionless, her face pale and +rigid, her eyes fixed and stony and her lips tight against her +teeth. She did not seem to notice his presence until he put his hand +upon her, which he did without speaking. At this she started up and +looked at him with a kind of fierce intentness. + +"Are you a party to this frightful things?" she demanded. + +Mr. Dinneford weakly handed her the letter he had received from +Edith. She read it through in half the time it had taken his +tear-dimmed eyes to make out the touching sentences. After she had +done so, she stood for a few moments as if surprised or baffled. +Then she sat down, dropping her head, and remained for a long time +without speaking. + +"The bitter fruit, Mr. Dinneford," she said, at last, in a voice so +strange and hard that it seemed to his ears as if another had +spoken. All passion had died out of it. + +He waited, but she added nothing more. After a long silence she +waved her hand slightly, and without looking at her husband, said, + +"I would rather be alone." + +Mr. Dinneford took Edith's letter from the floor, where it had +dropped from his wife's hand, and withdrew from her presence. She +arose quickly as he did so, crossed the room and silently turned the +key, locking herself in. Then her manner changed; she moved about +the room in a half-aimless, half-conscious way, as though some +purpose was beginning to take shape in her mind. Her motions had an +easy, cat-like grace, in contrast with their immobility a little +while before. Gradually her step became quicker, while ripples of +feeling began to pass over her face, which was fast losing its +pallor. Gleams of light began shooting from her eyes, that were so +dull and stony when her husband found her with Edith's letter +crushed in her grasp. Her hands opened and shut upon themselves +nervously. This went on, the excitement of her forming purpose, +whatever it was, steadily increasing, until she swept about the room +like a fury, talking to herself and gesticulating as one half insane +from the impelling force of an evil passion. + +"Baffled, but not defeated." The excitement had died out. She spoke +these words aloud, and with a bitter satisfaction in her voice, then +sat down, resting her face in her hands, and remaining for a long +time in deep thought. + +When she met her husband, an hour afterward, there was a veil over +her face, and he tried in vain to look beneath it. She was greatly +changed; her countenance had a new expression--something he had +never seen there before. For years she had been growing away from +him; now she seemed like one removed to a great distance--to have +become almost stranger. He felt half afraid of her. She did not +speak of Edith, but remained cold, silent and absorbed. + +Mrs. Dinneford gave no sign of what was in her heart for many weeks. +The feeling of distance and strangeness perceived by her husband +went on increasing, until a vague feeling of mystery and fear began +to oppress him. Several times he had spoken of Edith, but his wife +made no response, nor could he read in her veiled face the secret +purposes she was hiding from him. + +No wonder that Mr. Dinneford was greatly surprised and overjoyed, on +coming home one day, to meet his daughter, to feel her arms about +his neck, and to hold her tearful face on his bosom. + +"And I'm not going away again, father dear," she said as she kissed +him fondly. "Mother has sent for me, and George is to come. Oh, we +shall be so happy, so happy!" + +And father and daughter cried together, like two happy children, in +very excess of gladness. They had met alone, but Mrs. Dinneford came +in, her presence falling on them like a cold shadow. + +"Two great babies," she said, a covert sneer in her chilling voice. + +The joy went slowly out of their faces, though not out of their +hearts. There it nestled, and warmed the renewing blood. But a +vague, questioning fear began to creep in, a sense of insecurity, a +dread of hidden danger. The daughter did not fully trust her mother, +nor the husband his wife. + + + + + + +CHAPTER II. + + + + + +_THE_ reception of young Granger was as cordial as Mrs. Dinneford +chose to make it. She wanted to get near enough to study his +character thoroughly, to discover its weaknesses and defects, not +its better qualities, so that she might do for him the evil work +that was in her heart. She hated him with a bitter hatred, and there +is nothing so subtle and tireless and unrelenting as the hatred of a +bad woman. + +She found him weak and unwary. His kindly nature, his high sense of +honor, his upright purpose, his loving devotion to Edith, were +nothing in her eyes. She spurned them in her thoughts, she trampled +them under her feet with scorn. But she studied his defects, and +soon knew every weak point in his character. She drew him out to +speak of himself, of his aims and prospects, of his friends and +associates, until she understood him altogether. Then she laid her +plans for his destruction. + +Granger was holding a clerkship at the time of his marriage, but was +anxious to get a start for himself. He had some acquaintance with a +man named Lloyd Freeling, and often spoke of him in connection with +business. Freeling had a store on one of the best streets, and, as +represented by himself, a fine run of trade, but wanted more +capital. One day he said to Granger, + +"If I could find the right man with ten thousand dollars, I would +take him in. We could double this business in a year." + +Granger repeated the remark at home, Mrs. Dinneford listened, laid +it up in her thought, and on the next day called at the store of Mr. +Freeling to see what manner of man he was. + +Her first impression was favorable--she liked him. On a second visit +she likes him better. She was not aware that Freeling knew her; in +this he had something of the advantage. A third time she dropped in, +asking to see certain goods and buying a small bill, as before. This +time she drew Mr. Freeling into conversation about business, and put +some questions the meaning of which he understood quite as well as +she did. + +A woman like Mrs. Dinneford can read character almost as easily as +she can read a printed page, particularly a weak or bad character. +She knew perfectly, before the close of this brief interview, that +Freeling was a man without principle, false and unscrupulous, and +that if Granger were associated with him in business, he could, if +he chose, not only involve him in transactions of a dishonest +nature, but throw upon him the odium and the consequences. + +"Do you think," she said to Granger, not long afterward, "that your +friend, Mr. Freeling, would like to have you for a partner in +business?" + +The question surprised and excited him. + +"I know it," he returned; "he has said so more than once." + +"How much capital would he require?" + +"Ten thousand dollars." + +"A large sum to risk." + +"Yes; but I do not think there will be any risk. The business is +well established." + +"What do you know about Mr. Freeling?" + +"Not a great deal; but if I am any judge of character, he is fair +and honorable." + +Mrs. Dinneford turned her head that Granger might not see the +expression of her face. + +"You had better talk with Mr. Dinneford," she said. + +But Mr. Dinneford did not favor it. He had seen too many young men +go into business and fail. + +So the matter was dropped for a little while. But Mrs. Dinneford had +set her heart on the young man's destruction, and no better way of +accomplishing the work presented itself than this. He must be +involved in some way to hurt his good name, to blast his reputation +and drive him to ruin. Weak, trusting and pliable, a specious +villain in whom he had confidence might easily get him involved in +transactions that were criminal under the law. She would be willing +to sacrifice twice ten thousand dollars to accomplish this result. + +Neither Mr. Dinneford nor Edith favored the business connection with +Freeling, and said all they could against it. In weak natures we +often find great pertinacity. Granger had this quality. He had set +his mind on the copartnership, and saw in it a high road to fortune, +and no argument of Mr. Dinneford, nor opposition of Edith, had power +to change his views, or to hold him back from the arrangement +favored by Mrs. Dinneford, and made possible by the capital she +almost compelled her husband to supply. + +In due time the change from clerk to merchant was made, and the new +connection announced, under the title of "FREELING & GRANGER." + +Clear seeing as evil may be in its schemes for hurting others, it is +always blind to the consequent exactions upon itself; it strikes +fiercely and desperately, not calculating the force of a rebound. So +eager was Mrs. Dinneford to compass the ruin of Granger that she +stepped beyond the limit of common prudence, and sought private +interviews with Freeling, both before and after the completion of +the partnership arrangement. These took place in the parlor of a +fashionable hotel, where the gentleman and lady seemed to meet +accidentally, and without attracting attention. + +Mrs. Dinneford was very confidential in these interviews not +concealing her aversion to Granger. He had come into the family, she +said, as an unwelcome intruder; but now that he was there, they had +to make the best of him. Not in spoken words did Mrs. Dinneford +convey to Freeling the bitter hatred that was in her heart, nor in +spoken words let him know that she desired the young man's utter +ruin, but he understood it all before the close of their first +private interview. Freeling was exceedingly deferential in the +beginning and guarded in his speech. He knew by the quick intuitions +of his nature that Mrs. Dinneford cherished an evil purpose, and had +chosen him as the agent for its accomplishment. She was rich, and +occupied a high social position, and his ready conclusion was that, +be the service what it might, he could make it pay. To get such a +woman in his power was worth an effort. + +One morning--it was a few months after the date of the +copartnership--Mrs. Dinneford received a note from Freeling. It +said, briefly, + +"At the usual place, 12 M. to-day. Important." There was no +signature. + +The sharp knitting of her brows and the nervous crumpling of the +note in her hand showed that she was not pleased at the summons. She +had come already to know her partner in evil too well. At 12 M. she +was in the hotel parlor. Freeling was already there. They met in +external cordiality, but it was very evident from the manner of Mrs. +Dinneford, that she felt herself in the man's power, and had learned +to be afraid of him. + +"It will be impossible to get through to-morrow," he said, in a kind +of imperative voice, that was half a threat, "unless we have two +thousand dollars." + +"I cannot ask Mr. Dinneford for anything more," Mrs. Dinneford +replied; "we have already furnished ten thousand dollars beyond the +original investment." + +"But it is all safe enough--that is, if we do not break down just +here for lack of so small a sum." + +Mrs. Dinneford gave a start. + +"Break down!" She repeated the words in a husky, voice, with a +paling face. "What do you mean?" + +"Only that in consequence of having in store a large stock of +unsalable goods bought by your indiscreet son-in-law, who knows no +more about business than a child, we are in a temporary strait." + +"Why did you trust him to buy?" asked Mrs. Dinneford. + +"I didn't trust him. He bought without consulting me," was replied, +almost rudely. + +"Will two thousand be the end of this thing?" + +"I think so." + +"You only think so?" + +"I am sure of it." + +"Very well; I will see what can be done. But all this must have an +end, Mr. Freeling. We cannot supply any more money. You must look +elsewhere if you have further need. Mr. Dinneford is getting very +much annoyed and worried. You surely have other resources." + +"I have drawn to the utmost on all my resources," said the man, +coldly. + +Mrs. Dinneford remained silent for a good while, her eyes upon the +floor. Freeling watched her face intently, trying to read what was +in her thoughts. At last she said, in a suggestive tone, + +"There are many ways of getting money known to business-men--a +little risky some of them, perhaps, but desperate cases require +desperate expedients. You understand me?" + +Freeling took a little time to consider before replying. + +"Yes," he said, at length, speaking slowly, as one careful of his +words. "But all expedients are 'risky,' as you say--some of them +very risky. It takes a long, cool head to manage them safely." + +"I don't know a longer or cooler head than yours," returned Mrs. +Dinneford, a faint smile playing about her lips. + +"Thank you for the compliment," said Freeling, his lips reflecting +the smile on hers. + +"You must think of some expedient." Mrs. Dinneford's manner grew +impressive. She spoke with emphasis and deliberation. "Beyond the +sum of two thousand dollars, which I will get for you by to-morrow, +I shall not advance a single penny. You may set that down as sure. +If you are not sharp enough and strong enough, with the advantage +you possess, to hold your own, then you must go under; as for me, I +have done all that I can or will." + +Freeling saw that she was wholly in earnest, and understood what she +meant by "desperate expedients." Granger was to be ruined, and she +was growing impatient of delay. He had no desire to hurt the young +man--he rather liked him. Up to this time he had been content with +what he could draw out of Mrs. Dinneford. There was no risk in this +sort of business. Moreover, he enjoyed his interviews and +confidences with the elegant lady, and of late the power he seemed +to be gaining over her; this power he regarded as capital laid up +for another use, and at another time. + +But it was plain that he had reached the end of his present +financial policy, and must decide whether to adopt the new one +suggested by Mrs. Dinneford or make a failure, and so get rid of his +partner. The question he had to settle with himself was whether he +could make more by a failure than by using Granger a while longer, +and then throwing him overboard, disgraced and ruined. Selfish and +unscrupulous as he was, Freeling hesitated to do this. And besides, +the "desperate expedients" he would have to adopt in the new line of +policy were fraught with peril to all who took part in them. He +might fall into the snare set for another--might involve himself so +deeply as not to find a way of escape. + +"To-morrow we will talk this matter over," he said in reply to Mrs. +Dinneford's last remark; "in the mean time I will examine the ground +thoroughly and see how it looks." + +"Don't hesitate to make any use you can of Granger," suggested the +lady. "He has done his part toward getting things tangled, and must +help to untangle them." + +"All right, ma'am." + +And they separated, Mrs. Dinneford reaching the street by one door +of the hotel, and Freeling by another. + +On the following day they met again, Mrs. Dinneford bringing the two +thousand dollars. + +"And now what next?" she asked, after handing over the money and +taking the receipt of "Freeling & Granger." Her eyes had a hard +glitter, and her face was almost stern in its expression. "How are +you going to raise money and keep afloat?" + +"Only some desperate expedient is left me now," answered Freeling, +though not in the tone of a man who felt himself at bay. It was said +with a wicked kind of levity. + +Mrs. Dinneford looked at him keenly. She was beginning to mistrust +the man. They gazed into each other's faces in silence for some +moments, each trying to read what was in the other's thought. At +length Freeling said, + +"There is one thing more that you will have to do, Mrs. Dinneford." + +"What?" she asked. + +"Get your husband to draw two or three notes in Mr. Granger's favor. +They should not be for less than five hundred or a thousand dollars +each. The dates must be short--not over thirty or sixty days." + +"It can't be done," was the emphatic answer. + +"It must be done," replied Freeling; "they need not be for the +business. You can manage the matter if you will; your daughter wants +an India shawl, or a set of diamonds, or a new carriage--anything +you choose. Mr. Dinneford hasn't the ready cash, but we can throw +his notes into bank and get the money; don't you see?" + +But Mrs. Dinneford didn't see. + +"I don't mean," said Freeling, "that we are to use the money. Let +the shawl, or the diamond, or the what-not, be bought and paid for. +We get the discounts for your use, not ours." + +"All very well," answered Mrs. Dinneford; "but how is that going to +help you?" + +"Leave that to me. You get the notes," said Freeling. + +"Never walk blindfold, Mr. Freeling," replied the lady, drawing +herself up, with a dignified air. "We ought to understand each other +by this time. I must see beyond the mere use of these notes." + +Freeling shut his mouth tightly and knit his heavy brows. Mrs. +Dinneford watched him, closely. + +"It's a desperate expedient," he said, at length. + +"All well as far as that is concerned; but if I am to have a hand in +it, I must know all about it," she replied, firmly. "As I said just +now, I never walk blindfold." + +Freeling leaned close to Mrs. Dinneford, and uttered a few sentences +in a low tone, speaking rapidly. The color went and came in her +face, but she sat motionless, and so continued for some time after +he had ceased speaking. + +"You will get the notes?" Freeling put the question as one who has +little doubt of the answer. + +"I will get them," replied Mrs. Dinneford. + +"When?" + +"It will take time." + +"We cannot wait long. If the thing is done at all, it must be done +quickly. 'Strike while the iron is hot' is the best of all maxims." + +"There shall be no needless delay on my part. You may trust me for +that," was answered. + +Within a week Mrs. Dinneford brought two notes, drawn by her husband +in favor of George Granger--one for five hundred and the other for +one thousand dollars. The time was short--thirty and sixty days. On +this occasion she came to the store and asked for her son-in-law. +The meeting between her and Freeling was reserved and formal. She +expressed regret for the trouble she was giving the firm in +procuring a discount for her use, and said that if she could +reciprocate the favor in any way she would be happy to do so. + +"The notes are drawn to your order," remarked Freeling as soon as +the lady had retired. Granger endorsed them, and was about handing +them to his partner, when the latter said: + +"Put our name on them while you are about it." And the young man +wrote also the endorsement of the firm. + +After this, Mr. Freeling put the bank business into Granger's hands. +Nearly all checks were drawn and all business paper endorsed by the +younger partner, who became the financier of the concern, and had +the management of all negotiations for money in and out of bank. + +One morning, shortly after the first of Mr. Dinneford's notes was +paid, Granger saw his mother-in-law come into the store. Freeling +was at the counter. They talked together for some time, and then +Mrs. Dinneford went out. + +On the next day Granger saw Mrs. Dinneford in the store again. After +she had gone away, Freeling came back, and laying a note-of-hand on +his partner's desk, said, in a pleased, confidential way. + +"Look at that, my friend." + +Granger read the face of the note with a start of surprise. It was +drawn to his order, for three thousand dollars, and bore the +signature of Howard Dinneford. + +"A thing that is worth having is worth asking for," said Freeling. +"We obliged your mother-in-law, and now she has returned the favor. +It didn't come very easily, she said, and your father-in-law isn't +feeling rather comfortable about it; so she doesn't care about your +speaking of it at home." + +Granger was confounded. + +"I can't understand it," he said. + +"You can understand that we have the note, and that it has come in +the nick of time," returned Freeling. + +"Yes, I can see all that." + +"Well, don't look a gift-horse in the mouth, but spring into the +saddle and take a ride. Your mother-in-law is a trump. If she will, +she will, you may depend on't." + +Freeling was unusually excited. Granger looked the note over and +over in a way that seemed to annoy his partner, who said, presently, +with a shade of ill-nature in his voice, + +"What's the matter? Isn't the signature all right?" + +"That's right enough," returned the young man, "after looking at it +closely. "But I can't understand it." + +"You will when you see the proceeds passed to our accounted in +bank--ha! ha!" + +Granger looked up at his partner quickly, the laugh had so strange a +sound, but saw nothing new in his face. + +In about a month Freeling had in his possession another note, signed +by Mr. Dinneford and drawn to the order of George Granger. This one +was for five thousand dollars. He handed it to his partner soon +after the latter had observed Mrs. Dinneford in the store. + +A little over six weeks from this time Mrs. Dinneford was in the +store again. After she had gone away, Freeling handed Granger three +more notes drawn by Mr. Dinneford to his order, amounting in all to +fifteen thousand dollars. They were at short dates. + +Granger took these notes without any remark, and was about putting +them in his desk, when Freeling said, + +"I think you had better offer one in the People's Bank and another +in the Fourth National. They discount to-morrow." + +"Our line is full in both of these banks," replied Granger. + +"That may or may not be. Paper like this is not often thrown out. +Call on the president of the Fourth National and the cashier of the +People's Bank. Say that we particularly want the money, and would +like them to see that the notes go through. Star & Giltedge can +easily place the other." + +Granger's manner did not altogether please his partner. The notes +lay before him on his desk, and he looked at them in a kind of dazed +way. + +"What's the matter?" asked Freeling, rather sharply. + +"Nothing," was the quiet answer. + +"You saw Mrs. Dinneford in the store just now. I told her last week +that I should claim another favor at her hands. She tried to beg +off, but I pushed the matter hard. It must end here, she says. Mr. +Dinneford won't go any farther." + +"I should think not," replied Granger. "I wouldn't if I were he. The +wonder to me is that he has gone so far. What about the renewal of +these notes?" + +"Oh, that is all arranged," returned Freeling, a little hurriedly. +Granger looked at him for some moments. He was not satisfied. + +"See that they go in bank," said Freeling, in a positive way. + +Granger took up his pen in an abstracted manner and endorsed the +notes, after which he laid them in his bank-book. An important +customer coming in at the moment, Freeling went forward to see him. +After Granger was left alone, he took the notes from his bank-book +and examined them with great care. Suspicion was aroused. He felt +sure that something was wrong. A good many things in Freeling's +conduct of late had seemed strange. After thinking for a while, he +determined to take the notes at once to Mr. Dinneford and ask him if +all was right. As soon as his mind had reached this conclusion he +hurried through the work he had on hand, and then putting his +bank-book in his pocket, left the store. + +On that very morning Mr. Dinneford received notice that he had a +note for three thousand dollars falling due at one of the banks. He +went immediately and asked to see the note. When it was shown to +him, he was observed to become very pale, but he left the desk of +the note-clerk without any remark, and returned home. He met his +wife at the door, just coming in. + +"What's the matter?" she asked, seeing how pale he was. "Not sick, I +hope?" + +"Worse than sick," he replied as they passed into the house +together. "George has been forging my name." + +"Impossible!" exclaimed Mrs. Dinneford. + +"I wish it were," replied Mr. Dinneford, sadly; "but, alas! it is +too true. I have just returned from the Fourth National Bank. They +have a note for three thousand dollars, bearing my signature. It is +drawn to the order of George Granger, and endorsed by him. The note +is a forgery." + +Mrs. Dinneford became almost wild with excitement. Her fair face +grew purple. Her eyes shone with a fierce light. + +"Have you had him arrested?" she asked. + +"Oh no, no, no!" Mr. Dinneford answered. "For poor Edith's sake, if +for nothing else, this dreadful business must be kept secret. I will +take up the note when due, and the public need be none the wiser." + +"If," said Mrs. Dinneford, "he has forged your name once, he has, in +all probability, done it again and again. No, no; the thing can't be +hushed up, and it must not be. Is he less a thief and a robber +because he is our son-in-law? My daughter the wife of a forger! +Great heavens! has it come to this Mr. Dinneford?" she added, after +a pause, and with intense bitterness and rejection in her voice. +"The die is cast! Never again, if I can prevent it, shall that +scoundrel cross our threshold. Let the law have its course. It is a +crime to conceal crime." + +"It will kill our poor child!" answered Mr. Dinneford in a broken +voice. + +"Death is better than the degradation of living with a criminal," +replied his wife. "I say it solemnly, and I mean it; the die is +cast! Come what will, George Granger stands now and for ever on the +outside! Go at once and give information to the bank officers. If +you do not, I will." + +With a heavy heart Mr. Dinneford returned to the bank and informed +the president that the note in question was a forgery. He had been +gone from home a little over half an hour, when Granger, who had +come to ask him about the three notes given him that morning by +Freeling, put his key in the door, and found, a little to his +surprise, that the latch was down. He rang the bell, and in a few +moments the servant appeared. Granger was about passing in, when the +man said, respectfully but firmly, as he held the door partly +closed, + +"My orders are not to let you come in." + +"Who gave you those orders?" demanded Granger, turning white. + +"Mrs. Dinneford." + +"I wish to see Mr. Dinneford, and I must see him immediately." + +"Mr. Dinneford is not at home," answered the servant. + +"Shut that door instantly!" + +It was the voice of Mrs. Dinneford, speaking from within. Granger +heard it; in the next moment the door was shut in his face. + +The young man hardly knew how he got back to the store. On his +arrival he found himself under arrest, charged with forgery, and +with fresh evidence of the crime on his person in the three notes +received that morning from his partner, who denied all knowledge of +their existence, and appeared as a witness against him at the +hearing before a magistrate. Granger was held to bail to answer the +charge at the next term of court. + +It would have been impossible to keep all this from Edith, even if +there had been a purpose to do so. Mrs. Dinneford chose to break the +dreadful news at her own time and in her own way. The shock was +fearful. On the night that followed her baby was born. + + + + + + +CHAPTER III. + + + + + +"_IT_ is a splendid boy," said the nurse as she came in with the +new-born baby in her arms, "and perfect as a bit of sculpture. Just +look at that hand." + +"Faugh!" ejaculated Mrs. Dinneford, to whom this was addressed. Her +countenance expressed disgust. She turned her head away. "Hide the +thing from my sight!" she added, angrily. "Cover it up! smother it +if you will!" + +"You are still determined?" said the nurse. + +"Determined, Mrs. Bray; I am not the woman to look back when I have +once resolved. You know me." Mrs. Dinneford said this passionately. + +The two women were silent for a little while. Mrs. Bray, the nurse, +kept her face partly turned from Mrs. Dinneford. She was a short, +dry, wiry little woman, with French features, a sallow complexion +and very black eyes. + +The doctor looked in. Mrs. Dinneford went quickly to the door, and +putting her hand on his arm, pressed him back, going out into the +entry with him and closing the door behind them. They talked for a +short time very earnestly. + +"The whole thing is wrong," said the doctor as he turned to go, "and +I will not be answerable for the consequences." + +"No one will require them at your hand, Doctor Radcliffe," replied +Mrs. Dinneford. "Do the best you can for Edith. As for the rest, +know nothing, say nothing. You understand." + +Doctor Burt Radcliffe had a large practice among rich and +fashionable people. He had learned to be very considerate of their +weaknesses, peculiarities and moral obliquities. His business was to +doctor them when sick, to humor them when they only thought +themselves sick, and to get the largest possible fees for his, +services. A great deal came under his observation that he did not +care to see, and of which he saw as little as possible. From policy +he had learned to be reticent. He held family secrets enough to +make, in the hands of a skillful writer, more than a dozen romances +of the saddest and most exciting character. + +Mrs. Dinneford knew him thoroughly, and just how far to trust him. +"Know nothing, say nothing" was a good maxim in the case, and so she +divulged only the fact that the baby was to be cast adrift. His weak +remonstrance might as well not have been spoken, and he knew it. + +While this brief interview was in progress, Nurse Bray sat with the +baby on her lap. She had taken the soft little hands into her own; +and evil and cruel though she was, an impulse of tenderness flowed +into her heart from the angels who were present with the innocent +child. It grew lovely in her eyes. Its helplessness stirred in her a +latent instinct of protection. "No no, it must not be," she was +saying to herself, when the door opened and Mrs. Dinneford came +back. + +Mrs. Bray did not lift her head, but sat looking down at the baby +and toying with its hands. + +"Pshaw!" ejaculated Mrs. Dinneford, in angry disgust, as she noticed +this manifestation of interest. "Bundle the thing up and throw into +that basket. Is the woman down stairs?" + +"Yes," replied Mrs. Bray as she slowly drew a light blanket over the +baby. + +"Very well. Put it in the basket, and let her take it away." + +"She is not a good woman," said the nurse, whose heart was failing +her at the last moment. + +"She may be the devil for all I care," returned Mrs. Dinneford. + +Mrs. Bray did as she was ordered, but with an evident reluctance +that irritated Mrs. Dinneford. + +"Go now and bring up the woman," she said, sharply. + +The woman was brought. She was past the prime of life, and had an +evil face. You read in it the record of bad passions indulged and +the signs of a cruel nature. She was poorly clad, and her garments +unclean. + +"You will take this child?" said Mrs. Dinneford abruptly, as the +woman came into her presence. + +"I have agreed to do so," she replied, looking toward Mrs. Bray. + +"She is to have fifty dollars," said the nurse. + +"And that is to be the last of it!" Mrs. Dinneford's face was pale, +and she spoke in a hard, husky voice. + +Opening her purse, she took from it a small roll of bills, and as +she held out the money said, slowly and with a hard emphasis, + +"You understand the terms. I do not know you--not even your name. I +don't wish to know you. For this consideration you take the child +away. That is the end of it between you and me. The child is your +own as much as if he were born to you, and you can do with him as +you please. And now go." Mrs. Dinneford waved her hand. + +"His name?" queried the woman. + +"He has no name!" Mrs. Dinneford stamped her foot in angry +impatience. + +The woman stooped down, and taking up the basket, tucked the +covering that had been laid over the baby close about its head, so +that no one could see what she carried, and went off without +uttering another word. + +It was some moments before either Mrs. Dinneford or the nurse spoke. +Mrs. Bray was first to break silence. + +"All this means a great deal more than you have counted on," she +said, in a voice that betrayed some little feeling. "To throw a +tender baby out like that is a hard thing. I am afraid--" + +"There, there! no more of that," returned Mrs. Dinneford, +impatiently. "It's ugly work, I own, but it had to be done--like +cutting off a diseased limb. He will die, of course, and the sooner +it is over, the better for him and every one else." + +"He will have a hard struggle for life, poor little thing!" said the +nurse. "I would rather see him dead." + +Mrs. Dinneford, now that this wicked and cruel deed was done, felt +ill at ease. She pushed the subject away, and tried to bury it out +of sight as we bury the dead, but did not find the task an easy one. + +What followed the birth and removal of Edith's baby up to the time +of her return to reason after long struggle for life, has already +been told. Her demand to have her baby--"Oh, mother, bring me my +baby! I shall die if you do not!" and the answer, "Your baby is in +heaven!"--sent the feeble life-currents back again upon her heart. +There was another long period of oblivion, out of which she came +very slowly, her mind almost as much a blank as the mind of a child. + +She had to learn again the names of things, and to be taught their +use. It was touching to see the untiring devotion of her father, and +the pleasure he took in every new evidence of mental growth. He went +over the alphabet with her, letter by letter, many times each day, +encouraging her and holding her thought down to the unintelligible +signs with a patient tenderness sad yet beautiful to see; and when +she began to combine letters into words, and at last to put words +together, his delight was unbounded. + +Very slowly went on the new process of mental growth, and it was +months before thought began to reach out beyond the little world +that lay just around her. + +Meanwhile, Edith's husband had been brought to trial for forgery, +convicted and sentenced to the State's prison for a term of years. +His partner came forward as the chief witness, swearing that he had +believed the notes genuine, the firm having several times had the +use of Mr. Dinneford's paper, drawn to the order of Granger. + +Ere the day of trial came the poor young man was nearly +broken-hearted. Public disgrace like this, added to the terrible +private wrongs he was suffering, was more than he had the moral +strength to bear. Utterly repudiated by his wife's family, and not +even permitted to see Edith, he only knew that she was very ill. Of +the birth of his baby he had but a vague intimation. A rumor was +abroad that it had died, but he could learn nothing certain. In his +distress and uncertainty he called on Dr. Radcliffe, who replied to +his questions with a cold evasion. "It was put out to nurse," said +the doctor, "and that is all I know about it." Beyond this he would +say nothing. + +Granger was not taken to the State's prison after his sentence, but +to an insane asylum. Reason gave way under the terrible ordeal +through which he had been made to pass. + +"Mother," said Edith, one day, in a tone that caused Mrs. +Dinneford's heart to leap. She was reading a child's simple +story-book, and looked up as she spoke. Her eyes were wide open and +full of questions. + +"What, my dear?" asked Mrs. Dinneford, repressing her feelings and +trying to keep her voice calm. + +"There's something I can't understand, mother." She looked down at +herself, then about the room. Her manner was becoming nervous. + +"What can't you understand?" + +Edith shut her hands over her eyes and remained very still. When she +removed them, and her mother looked into her face the childlike +sweetness and content were all gone, and a conscious woman was +before her. The transformation was as sudden as it was marvelous. + +Both remained silent for the space of nearly a minute. Mrs. +Dinneford knew not what to say, and waited for some sign from her +daughter. + +"Where is my baby, mother?" Edith said this in a low, tremulous +whisper, leaning forward as she spoke, repressed and eager. + +"Have you forgotten?" asked Mrs. Dinneford, with regained composure. + +"Forgotten what?" + +"You were very ill after your baby was born; no one thought you +could live; you were ill for a long time. And the baby--" + +"What of the baby, mother?" asked Edith, beginning to tremble +violently. Her mother, perceiving her agitation, held back the word +that was on her lips. + +"What of the baby, mother?" Edith repeated the question. + +"It died," said Mrs. Dinneford, turning partly away. She could not +look at her child and utter this cruel falsehood. + +"Dead! Oh, mother, don't say that! The baby can't be dead!" + +A swift flash of suspicion came into her eyes. + +"I have said it, my child," was the almost stern response of Mrs. +Dinneford. "The baby is dead." + +A weight seemed to fall on Edith. She bent forward, crouching down +until her elbows rested on her knees and her hands supported her +head. Thus she sat, rocking her body with a slight motion. Mrs. +Dinneford watched her without speaking. + +"And what of George?" asked Edith, checking her nervous movement at +last. + +Her mother did not reply. Edith waited a moment, and then lifted +herself erect. + +"What of George?" she demanded. + +"My poor child!" exclaimed Mrs. Dinneford, with a gush of genuine +pity, putting her arms about Edith and drawing her head against her +bosom. "It is more than you have strength to bear." + +"You must tell me," the daughter said, disengaging herself. "I have +asked for my husband." + +"Hush! You must not utter that word again;" and Mrs. Dinneford put +her fingers on Edith's lips. "The wretched man you once called by +that name is a disgraced criminal. It is better that you know the +worst." + +When Mr. Dinneford came home, instead of the quiet, happy child he +had left in the morning, he found a sad, almost broken-hearted +woman, refusing to be comforted. The wonder was that under the shock +of this terrible awakening, reason had not been again and hopelessly +dethroned. + +After a period of intense suffering, pain seemed to deaden +sensibility. She grew calm and passive. And now Mrs. Dinneford set +herself to the completion of the work she had begun. She had +compassed the ruin of Granger in order to make a divorce possible; +she had cast the baby adrift that no sign of the social disgrace +might remain as an impediment to her first ambition. She would yet +see her daughter in the position to which she had from the beginning +resolved to lift her, cost what it might. But the task was not to be +an easy one. + +After a period of intense suffering, as we have said, Edith grew +calm and passive. But she was never at ease with her mother, and +seemed to be afraid of her. To her father she was tender and +confiding. Mrs. Dinneford soon saw that if Edith's consent to a +divorce from her husband was to be obtained, it must come through +her father's influence; for if she but hinted at the subject, it was +met with a flash of almost indignant rejection. So her first work +was to bring her husband over to her side. This was not difficult, +for Mr. Dinneford felt the disgrace of having for a son-in-law a +condemned criminal, who was only saved from the State's prison by +insanity. An insane criminal was not worthy to hold the relation of +husband to his pure and lovely child. + +After a feeble opposition to her father's arguments and persuasions, +Edith yielded her consent. An application for a divorce was made, +and speedily granted. + + + + + + +CHAPTER IV. + + + + + +_OUT_ of this furnace Edith came with a new and purer spirit. She +had been thrust in a shrinking and frightened girl; she came out a +woman in mental stature, in feeling and self-consciousness. + +The river of her life, which had cut for itself a deeper channel, +lay now so far down that it was out of the sight of common +observation. Even her mother failed to apprehend its drift and +strength. Her father knew her better. To her mother she was reserved +and distant; to her father, warm and confiding. With the former she +would sit for hours without speaking unless addressed; with the +latter she was pleased and social, and grew to be interested in what +interested him. As mentioned, Mr. Dinneford was a man of wealth and +leisure, and active in many public charities. He had come to be much +concerned for the neglected and cast-off children of poor and +vicious parents, thousands upon thousands of whom were going to +hopeless ruin, unthought of and uncared for by Church or State, and +their condition often formed the subject of his conversation as well +at home as elsewhere. + +Mrs. Dinneford had no sympathy with her husband in this direction. A +dirty, vicious child was an offence to her, not an object of pity, +and she felt more like, spurning it with her foot than touching it +with her hand. But it was not so with Edith; she listened to her +father, and became deeply interested in the poor, suffering, +neglected little ones whose sad condition he could so vividly +portray, for the public duties of charity to which he was giving a +large part of his time made him familiar with much that was sad and +terrible in human suffering and degradation. + +One day Edith said to her father, + +"I saw a sight this morning that made me sick. It has haunted me +ever since. Oh, it was dreadful!" + +"What was it?" asked Mr. Dinneford. + +"A sick baby in the arms of a half-drunken woman. It made me shiver +to look at its poor little face, wasted by hunger and sickness and +purple with cold. The woman sat at the street corner begging, and +the people went by, no one seeming to care for the helpless, +starving baby in her arms. I saw a police-officer almost touch the +woman as he passed. Why did he not arrest her?" + +"That was not his business," replied Mr. Dinneford. "So long as she +did not disturb the peace, the officer had nothing to do with her." + +"Who, then, has?" + +"Nobody." + +"Why, father!" exclaimed Edith. "Nobody?" + +"The woman was engaged in business. She was a beggar, and the sick, +half-starved baby was her capital in trade," replied Mr. Dinneford. +"That policeman had no more authority to arrest her than he had to +arrest the organ-man or the peanut-vender." + +"But somebody should see after a poor baby like that. Is there no +law to meet such cases?" + +"The poor baby has no vote," replied Mr. Dinneford, "and law-makers +don't concern themselves much about that sort of constituency; and +even if they did, the executors of law would be found indifferent. +They are much more careful to protect those whose business it is to +make drunken beggars like the one you saw, who, if men, can vote and +give them place and power. The poor baby is far beneath their +consideration." + +"But not of Him," said Edith, with eyes full of tears, "who took +little children in his arms and blessed them, and said, Suffer them +to come unto me and forbid them not, for of such is the kingdom of +heaven." + +"Our law-makers are not, I fear, of his kingdom," answered Mr. +Dinneford, gravely, "but of the kingdom of this world." + +A little while after, Edith, who had remained silent and thoughtful, +said, with a tremor in her voice, + +"Father, did you see my baby?" + +Mr. Dinneford started at so unexpected a question, surprised and +disturbed. He did not reply, and Edith put the question again. + +"No, my dear," he answered, with a hesitation of manner that was +almost painful. + +After looking into his face steadily for some moments, Edith dropped +her eyes to the floor, and there was a constrained silence between +them for a good while. + +"You never saw it?" she queried, again lifting her eyes to her +father's face. Her own was much paler than when she first put the +question. + +"Never." + +"Why?" asked Edith. + +She waited for a little while, and then said, + +"Why don't you answer me, father?" + +"It was never brought to me." + +"Oh, father!" + +"You were very ill, and a nurse was procured immediately." + +"I was not too sick to see my baby," said Edith, with white, +quivering lips. "If they had laid it in my bosom as soon as it was +born, I would never have been so ill, and the baby would not have +died. If--if--" + +She held back what she was about saying, shutting her lips tightly. +Her face remained very pale and strangely agitated. Nothing more was +then said. + +A day or two afterward, Edith asked her mother, with an abruptness +that sent the color to her face, "Where was my baby buried?" + +"In our lot at Fairview," was replied, after a moment's pause. + +Edith said no more, but on that very day, regardless of a heavy rain +that was falling, went out to the cemetery alone and searched in the +family lot for the little mound that covered her baby--searched, but +did not find it. She came back so changed in appearance that when +her mother saw her she exclaimed, + +"Why, Edith! Are you sick?" + +"I have been looking for my baby's grave and cannot find it," she +answered. "There is something wrong, mother. What was done with my +baby? I must know." And she caught her mother's wrists with both of +her hands in a tight grip, and sent searching glances down through +her eyes. + +"Your baby is dead," returned Mrs. Dinneford, speaking slowly and +with a hard deliberation. "As for its grave--well, if you will drag +up the miserable past, know that in my anger at your wretched +_mesalliance_ I rejected even the dead body of your miserable +husband's child, and would not even suffer it to lie in our family +ground. You know how bitterly I was disappointed, and I am not one +of the kind that forgets or forgives easily. I may have been wrong, +but it is too late now, and the past may as well be covered out of +sight." + +"Where, then, was my baby buried?" asked Edith, with a calm +resolution of manner that was not to be denied. + +"I do not know. I did not care at the time, and never asked." + +"Who can tell me?" + +"I don't know." + +"Who took my baby to nurse?" + +"I have forgotten the woman's name. All I know is that she is dead. +When the child died, I sent her money, and told her to bury it +decently." + +"Where did she live?" + +"I never knew precisely. Somewhere down town." + +"Who brought her here? who recommended her?" said Edith, pushing her +inquiries rapidly. + +"I have forgotten that also," replied Mrs. Dinneford, maintaining +her coldness of manner. + +"My nurse, I presume," said Edith. "I have a faint recollection of +her--a dark little woman with black eyes whom I had never seen +before. What was her name?" + +"Bodine," answered Mrs. Dinneford, without a moment's hesitation. + +"Where does she live?" + +"She went to Havana with a Cuban lady several months ago." + +"Do you know the lady's name?" + +"It was Casteline, I think." + +Edith questioned no further. The mother and daughter were still +sitting together, both deeply absorbed in thought, when a servant +opened the door and said to Mrs. Dinneford, + +"A lady wishes to see you." + +"Didn't she give you her card?" + +"No ma'am." + +"Nor send up her name?" + +"No, ma'am." + +"Go down and ask her name." + +The servant left the room. On returning, she said, + +"Her name is Mrs. Bray." + +Mrs. Dinneford turned her face quickly, but not in time to prevent +Edith from seeing by its expression that she knew her visitor, and +that her call was felt to be an unwelcome one. She went from the +room without speaking. On entering the parlor, Mrs. Dinneford said, +in a low, hurried voice, + +"I don't want you to come here, Mrs. Bray. If you wish to see me +send me word, and I will call on you, but you must on no account +come here." + +"Why? Is anything wrong?" + +"Yes." + +"What?" + +"Edith isn't satisfied about the baby, has been out to Fairview +looking for its grave, wants to know who her nurse was." + +"What did you tell her?" + +"I said that your name was Mrs. Bodine, and that you had gone to +Cuba." + +"Do you think she would know me?" + +"Can't tell; wouldn't like to run the risk of her seeing you here. +Pull down your veil. There! close. She said, a little while ago, +that she had a faint recollection of you as a dark little woman with +black eyes whom she had never seen before." + +"Indeed!" and Mrs. Bray gathered her veil close about her face. + +"The baby isn't living?" Mrs. Dinneford asked the question in a +whisper. + +"Yes." + +"Oh, it can't be! Are you sure?" + +"Yes; I saw it day before yesterday." + +"You did! Where?" + +"On the street, in the arms of a beggar-woman." + +"You are deceiving me!" Mrs. Dinneford spoke with a throb of anger +in her voice. + +"As I live, no! Poor little thing! half starved and half frozen. It +'most made me sick." + +"It's impossible! You could not know that it was Edith's baby." + +"I do know," replied Mrs. Bray, in a voice that left no doubt on +Mrs. Dinneford's mind. + +"Was the woman the same to whom we gave the baby?" + +"No; she got rid of it in less than a month." + +"What did she do with it?" + +"Sold it for five dollars, after she had spent all the money she +received from you in drink and lottery-policies." + +"Sold it for five dollars!" + +"Yes, to two beggar-women, who use it every day, one in the morning +and the other in the afternoon, and get drunk on the money they +receive, lying all night in some miserable den." + +Mrs. Dinneford gave a little shiver. + +"What becomes of the baby when they are not using it?" she asked. + +"They pay a woman a dollar a week to take care of it at night." + +"Do you know where this woman lives?" + +"Yes." + +"Were you ever there?" + +"Yes." + +"What kind of a place is it?" + +"Worse than a dog-kennel." + +"What does all this mean?" demanded Mrs. Dinneford, with repressed +excitement. "Why have you so kept on the track of this baby, when +you knew I wished it lost sight of?" + +"I had my own reasons," replied Mrs. Bray. "One doesn't know what +may come of an affair like this, and it's safe to keep well up with +it." + +Mrs. Dinneford bit her lips till the blood almost came through. A +faint rustle of garments in the hall caused her to start. An +expression of alarm crossed her face. + +"Go now," she said, hurriedly, to her visitor; "I will call and see +you this afternoon." + +Mrs. Bray quietly arose, saying, as she did so, "I shall expect +you," and went away. + +There was a menace in her tone as she said, "I shall expect you," +that did not escape the ears of Mrs. Dinneford. + +Edith was in the hall, at some distance from the parlor door. Mrs. +Bray had to pass her as she went out. Edith looked at her intently. + +"Who is that woman?" she asked, confronting her mother, after the +visitor was gone. + +"If you ask the question in a proper manner, I shall have no +objection to answer," said Mrs. Dinneford, with a dignified and +slightly offended air; "but my daughter is assuming rather, too +much." + +"Mrs. Bray, the servant said." + +"No, Mrs. Gray." + +"I understood her to say Mrs. Bray." + +"I can't help what you understood." The mother spoke with some +asperity of manner. "She calls herself Gray, but you can have it +anything you please; it won't change her identity." + +"What did she want?" + +"To see me." + +"I know." Edith was turning away with an expression on her face that +Mrs. Dinneford did not like, so she said, + +"She is in trouble, and wants me to help her, if you must know. She +used to be a dressmaker, and worked for me before you were born; she +got married, and then her troubles began. Now she is a widow with a +house full of little children, and not half bread enough to feed +them. I've helped her a number of times already, but I'm getting +tired of it; she must look somewhere else, and I told her so." + +Edith turned from her mother with an unsatisfied manner, and went up +stairs. Mrs. Dinneford was surprised, not long afterward, to meet +her at her chamber door, dressed to go out. This was something +unusual. + +"Where are you going?" she asked, not concealing her surprise. + +"I have a little errand out," Edith replied. + +This was not satisfactory to her mother. She asked other questions, +but Edith gave only evasive answers. + +On leaving the house, Edith walked quickly, like one in earnest +about something; her veil was closely drawn. Only a few blocks from +where she lived was the office of Dr. Radcliffe. Hither she directed +her steps. + +"Why, Edith, child!" exclaimed the doctor, not concealing the +surprise he felt at seeing her. "Nobody sick, I hope?" + +"No one," she answered. + +There was a momentary pause; then Edith said, abruptly, + +"Doctor, what became of my baby?" + +"It died," answered Doctor Radcliffe, but not without betraying some +confusion. The question had fallen upon him too suddenly. + +"Did you see it after it was dead?" She spoke in a firm voice, +looking him steadily in the face. + +"No," he replied, after a slight hesitation. + +"Then how do you know that it died?" Edith asked. + +"I had your mother's word for it," said the doctor. + +"What was done with my baby after it was born?" + +"It was given out to nurse." + +"With your consent?" + +"I did not advise it. Your mother had her own views in the case. It +was something over which I had no control." + +"And you never saw it after it was taken away?" + +"Never." + +"And do not really know whether it be dead or living?" + +"Oh, it's dead, of course, my child. There is no doubt of that," +said the doctor, with sudden earnestness of manner. + +"Have you any evidence of the fact?" + +"My dear, dear child," answered the doctor, with much feeling, "it +is all wrong. Why go back over this unhappy ground? why torture +yourself for nothing? Your baby died long ago, and is in heaven." + +"Would God I could believe it!" she exclaimed, in strong agitation. +"If it were so, why is not the evidence set before me? I question my +mother; I ask for the nurse who was with me when my baby was born, +and for the nurse to whom it was given afterward, and am told that +they are dead or out of the country. I ask for my baby's grave, but +it cannot be found. I have searched for it where my mother told me +it was, but the grave is not there. Why all this hiding and mystery? +Doctor, you said that my baby was in heaven, and I answered, 'Would +God it were so!' for I saw a baby in hell not long ago!" + +The doctor was scared. He feared that Edith was losing her mind, she +looked and spoke so wildly. + +"A puny, half-starved, half-frozen little thing, in the arms of a +drunken beggar," she added. "And, doctor, an awful thought has +haunted me ever since." + +"Hush, hush!" said the doctor, who saw what was in her mind. "You +must not indulge such morbid fancies." + +"It is that I may not indulge them that I have come to you. I want +certainty, Dr. Radcliffe. Somebody knows all about my baby. Who was +my nurse?" + +"I never saw her before the night of your baby's birth, and have +never seen her since. Your mother procured her." + +"Did you hear her name?" + +"No." + +"And so you cannot help me at all?" said Edith, in a disappointed +voice. + +"I cannot, my poor child," answered the doctor. + +All the flush and excitement died out of Edith's face. When she +arose to go, she was pale and haggard, like one exhausted by pain, +and her steps uneven, like the steps of an invalid walking for the +first time. Dr. Radcliffe went with her in silence to the door. + +"Oh, doctor," said Edith, in a choking voice, as she lingered a +moment on the steps, "can't you bring out of this frightful mystery +something for my heart to rest upon? I want the truth. Oh, doctor, +in pity help me to find the truth!" + +"I am powerless to help you," the doctor replied. "Your only hope +lies in your mother. She knows all about it; I do not." + +And he turned and left her standing at the door. Slowly she +descended the steps, drawing her veil as she did so about her face, +and walked away more like one in a dream than conscious of the tide +of life setting so strongly all about her. + + + + + + +CHAPTER V. + + + + + +_MEANTIME_, obeying the unwelcome summons, Mrs. Dinneford had gone +to see Mrs. Bray. She found her in a small third-story room in the +lower part of the city, over a mile away from her own residence. The +meeting between the two women was not over-gracious, but in keeping +with their relations to each other. Mrs. Dinneford was half angry +and impatient; Mrs. Bray cool and self-possessed. + +"And now what is it you have to say?" asked the former, almost as +soon as she had entered. + +"The woman to whom you gave that baby was here yesterday." + +A frightened expression came into Mrs. Dinneford's face. Mrs. Bray +watched her keenly as, with lips slightly apart, she waited for what +more was to come. + +"Unfortunately, she met me just as I was at my own door, and so +found out my residence," continued Mrs. Bray. "I was in hopes I +should never see her again. We shall have trouble, I'm afraid." + +"In what way?" + +"A bad woman who has you in her power can trouble you in many ways," +answered Mrs. Bray. + +"She did not know my name--you assured me of that. It was one of the +stipulations." + +"She does know, and your daughter's name also. And she knows where +the baby is. She's deeper than I supposed. It's never safe to trust +such people; they have no honor." + +Fear sent all the color out of Mrs. Dinneford's face. + +"What does she want?" + +"Money." + +"She was paid liberally." + +"That has nothing to do with it. These people have no honor, as I +said; they will get all they can." + +"How much does she want?" + +"A hundred dollars; and it won't end there, I'm thinking. If she is +refused, she will go to your house; she gave me that +alternative--would have gone yesterday, if good luck had not thrown +her in my way. I promised to call on you and see what could be +done." + +Mrs. Dinneford actually groaned in her fear and distress. + +"Would you like to see her yourself?" coolly asked Mrs. Bray. + +"Oh dear! no, no!" and the lady put up her hands in dismay. + +"It might be best," said her wily companion. + +"No, no, no! I will have nothing to do with her! You must keep her +away from me," replied Mrs. Dinneford, with increasing agitation. + +"I cannot keep her away without satisfying her demands. If you were +to see her yourself, you would know just what her demands were. If +you do not see her, you will only have my word for it, and I am left +open to misapprehension, if not worse. I don't like to be placed in +such a position." + +And Mrs. Bray put on a dignified, half-injured manner. + +"It's a wretched business in every way," she added, "and I'm sorry +that I ever had anything to do with it. It's something dreadful, as +I told you at the time, to cast a helpless baby adrift in such a +way. Poor little soul! I shall never feel right about it." + +"That's neither here nor there;" and Mrs. Dinneford waved her hand +impatiently. "The thing now in hand is to deal with this woman." + +"Yes, that's it--and as I said just now, I would rather have you +deal with her yourself; you may be able to do it better than I can." + +"It's no use to talk, Mrs. Bray. I will not see the woman." + +"Very well; you must be your own judge in the case." + +"Can't you bind her up to something, or get her out of the city? I'd +pay almost anything to have her a thousand miles away. See if you +can't induce her to go to New Orleans. I'll pay her passage, and +give her a hundred dollars besides, if she'll go." + +Mrs. Bray smiled a faint, sinister smile: + +"If you could get her off there, it would be the end of her. She'd +never stand the fever." + +"Then get her off, cost what it may," said Mrs. Dinneford. + +"She will be here in less than half an hour." Mrs. Bray looked at +the face of a small cheap clock that stood on the mantel. + +"She will?" Mrs. Dinneford became uneasy, and arose from her chair. + +"Yes; what shall I say to her?" + +"Manage her the best you can. Here are thirty dollars--all the money +I have with me. Give her that, and promise more if necessary. I will +see you again." + +"When?" asked Mrs. Bray. + +"At any time you desire." + +"Then you had better come to-morrow morning. I shall not go out." + +"I will be here at eleven o'clock. Induce her if possible to leave +the city--to go South, so that she may never come back." + +"The best I can shall be done," replied Mrs. Bray as she folded the +bank-bills she had received from Mrs. Dinneford in a fond, tender +sort of way and put them into her pocket. + +Mrs. Dinneford retired, saying as she did so, + +"I will be here in the morning." + +An instant change came over the shallow face of the wiry little +woman as the form of Mrs. Dinneford vanished through the door. A +veil seemed to fall away from it. All its virtuous sobriety was +gone, and a smile of evil satisfaction curved about her lips and +danced in her keen black eyes. She stood still, listening to the +retiring steps of her visitor, until she heard the street door shut. +Then, with a quick, cat-like step, she crossed to the opposite side +of the room, and pushed open a door that led to an adjoining +chamber. A woman came forward to meet her. This woman was taller and +stouter than Mrs. Bray, and had a soft, sensual face, but a resolute +mouth, the under jaw slightly protruding. Her eyes were small and +close together, and had that peculiar wily and alert expression you +sometimes see, making you think of a serpent's eyes. She was dressed +in common finery and adorned by cheap jewelry. + +"What do you think of that, Pinky Swett?" exclaimed Mrs. Bray, in a +voice of exultation. "Got her all right, haven't I?" + +"Well, you have!" answered the woman, shaking all over with +unrestrained laughter. "The fattest pigeon I've happened to see for +a month of Sundays. Is she very rich?" + +"Her husband is, and that's all the same. And now, Pinky"--Mrs. Bray +assumed a mock gravity of tone and manner--"you know your fate--New +Orleans and the yellow fever. You must pack right off. Passage free +and a hundred dollars for funeral expenses. Nice wet graves down +there--keep off the fire;" and she gave a low chuckle. + +"Oh yes; all settled. When does the next steamer sail?" and Pinky +almost screamed with merriment. She had been drinking. + +"H-u-s-h! h-u-s-h! None of that here, Pinky. The people down stairs +are good Methodists, and think me a saint." + +"You a saint? Oh dear!" and she shook with repressed enjoyment. + +After this the two women grew serious, and put their heads together +for business. + +"Who is this woman, Fan? What's her name, and where does she live?" +asked Pinky Swett. + +"That's my secret, Pinky," replied Mrs. Bray, "and I can't let it +go; it wouldn't be safe. You get a little off the handle sometimes, +and don't know what you say--might let the cat out of the bag. Sally +Long took the baby away, and she died two months ago; so I'm the +only one now in the secret. All I want of you is to keep track of +the baby. Here is a five-dollar bill; I can't trust you with more at +a time. I know your weakness, Pinky;" and she touched her under the +chin in a familiar, patronizing way. + +Pinky wasn't satisfied with this, and growled a little, just showing +her teeth like an unquiet dog. + +"Give me ten," she said; "the woman gave you thirty. I heard her say +so. And she's going to bring you seventy to-morrow." + +"You'll only waste it, Pinky," remonstrated Mrs. Bray. "It will all +be gone before morning." + +"Fan," said the woman, leaning toward Mrs. Bray and speaking in a +low, confidential tone, "I dreamed of a cow last night, and that's +good luck, you know. Tom Oaks made a splendid hit last +Saturday--drew twenty dollars--and Sue Minty got ten. They're all +buzzing about it down in our street, and going to Sam McFaddon's +office in a stream." + +"Do they have good luck at Sam McFaddon's?" asked Mrs. Bray, with +considerable interest in her manner. + +"It's the luckiest place that I know. Never dreamed of a cow or a +hen that I didn't make a hit, and I dreamed of a cow last night. She +was giving such a splendid pail of milk, full to the brim, just as +old Spot and Brindle used to give. You remember our Spot and +Brindle, Fan?" + +"Oh yes." There was a falling inflection in Mrs. Bray's voice, as if +the reference had sent her thoughts away back to other and more +innocent days. + +The two women sat silent for some moments after that; and when Pinky +spoke, which she did first, it was in lower and softer tones: + +"I don't like to think much about them old times, Fan; do you? I +might have done better. But it's no use grizzling about it now. +What's done's done, and can't be helped. Water doesn't run up hill +again after it's once run down. I've got going, and can't stop, you +see. There's nothing to catch at that won't break as soon as you +touch it. So I mean to be jolly as I move along." + +"Laughing is better than crying at any time," returned Mrs. Bray; +"here are five more;" and she handed Pinky Swett another bank-bill. +"I'm going to try my luck. Put half a dollar on ten different rows, +and we'll go shares on what is drawn. I dreamed the other night that +I saw a flock of sheep, and that's good luck, isn't it?" + +Pinky thrust her hand into her pocket and drew out a worn and soiled +dream-book. + +"A flock of sheep; let me see;" and she commenced turning over the +leaves. "Sheep; here it is: 'To see them is a sign of sorrow--11, +20, 40, 48. To be surrounded by many sheep denotes good luck--2, 11, +55.' That's your row; put down 2, 11, 55. We'll try that. Next put +down 41 11, 44--that's the lucky row when you dream of a cow." + +As Pinky leaned toward her friend she dropped her parasol. + +"That's for luck, maybe," she said, with a brightening face. "Let's +see what it says about a parasol;" and she turned over her +dream-book. + +"For a maiden to dream she loses her parasol shows that her +sweetheart is false and will never marry her--5, 51, 56." + +"But you didn't dream about a parasol, Pinky." + +"That's no matter; it's just as good as a dream. 5, 51, 56 is the +row. Put that down for the second, Fan." + +As Mrs. Bray was writing out these numbers the clock on the mantel +struck five. + +"8, 12, 60," said Pinky, turning to the clock; "that's the clock +row." + +And Mrs. Bray put down these figures also. + +"That's three rows," said Pinky, "and we want ten." She arose, as +she spoke, and going to the front window, looked down upon the +street. + +"There's an organ-grinder; it's the first thing I saw;" and she came +back fingering the leaves of her dream-book. "Put down 40, 50, 26." + +Mrs. Bray wrote the numbers on her slip of paper. + +"It's November; let's find the November row." Pinky consulted her +book again. "Signifies you will have trouble through life--7, 9, 63. +That's true as preaching; I was born in November, and I've had it +all trouble. How many rows does that make?" + +"Five." + +"Then we will cut cards for the rest;" and Pinky drew a soiled pack +from her pocket, shuffled the cards and let her friends cut them. + +"Ten of diamonds;" she referred to the dream-book. "10, 13, 31; put +that down." + +The cards were shuffled and cut again. + +"Six of clubs--6, 35, 39." + +Again they were cut and shuffled. This time the knave of clubs was +turned up. + +"That's 17, 19, 28," said Pinky, reading from her book. + +The next cut gave the ace of clubs, and the policy numbers were 18, +63, 75. + +"Once more, and the ten rows will be full;" and the cards were cut +again. + +"Five of hearts--5, 12, 60;" and the ten rows were complete. + +"There's luck there, Fan; sure to make a hit," said Pinky, with +almost childish confidence, as she gazed at the ten rows of figures. +'One of 'em can't help coming out right, and that would be fifty +dollars--twenty-five for me and twenty-five for you; two rows would +give a hundred dollars, and the whole ten a thousand. Think of that, +Fan! five hundred dollars apiece." + +"It would break Sam McFaddon, I'm afraid," remarked Mrs. Bray. + +"Sam's got nothing to do with it," returned Pinky. + +"He hasn't?" + +"No." + +"Who has, then?" + +"His backer." + +"What's that?" + +"Oh, I found it all out--I know how it's done. Sam's got a backer--a +man that puts up the money. Sam only sells for his backer. When +there's a hit, the backer pays." + +"Who's Sam's backer, as you call him?" + +"Couldn't get him to tell; tried him hard, but he was close as an +oyster. Drives in the Park and wears a two thousand dollar diamond +pin; he let that out. So he's good for the hits. Sam always puts the +money down, fair and square." + +"Very well; you get the policy, and do it right off, Pinky, or the +money'll slip through your fingers." + +"All right," answered Pinky as she folded the slip of paper +containing the lucky rows. "Never you fear. I'll be at Sam +McFaddon's in ten minutes after I leave here." + +"And be sure," said Mrs. Bray, "to look after the baby to-night, and +see that it doesn't perish with cold; the air's getting sharp." + +"It ought to have something warmer than cotton rags on its poor +little body," returned Pinky. "Can't you get it some flannel? It +will die if you don't." + +"I sent it a warm petticoat last week," said Mrs. Bray. + +"You did?" + +"Yes; I bought one at a Jew shop, and had it sent to the woman." + +"Was it a nice warm one?" + +"Yes." + +Pinky drew a sigh. "I saw the poor baby last night; hadn't anything +on but dirty cotton rags. It was lying asleep in a cold cellar on a +little heap of straw. The woman had given it something, I guess, by +the way it slept. The petticoat had gone, most likely, to Sam +McFaddon's. She spends everything she can lay her hands on in +policies and whisky." + +"She's paid a dollar a week for taking care of the baby at night and +on Sundays," said Mrs. Bray. + +"It wouldn't help the baby any if she got ten dollars," returned +Pinky. "It ought to be taken away from her." + +"But who's to do that? Sally Long sold it to the two beggar women, +and they board it out. I have no right to interfere; they own the +baby, and can do as they please with it." + +"It could be got to the almshouse," said Pinky; "it would be a +thousand times better off." + +"It mustn't go to the almshouse," replied Mrs. Bray; "I might lose +track of it, and that would never do." + +"You'll lose track of it for good and all before long, if you don't +get it out of them women's bands. No baby can hold out being begged +with long; it's too hard on the little things. For you know how it +is, Fan; they must keep 'em half starved and as sick as they will +bear without dying right off, so as to make 'em look pitiful. You +can't do much at begging with a fat, hearty-looking baby." + +"What's to be done about it?" asked Mrs. Bray. "I don't want that +baby to die." + +"Would its mother know it if she saw it?" asked Pinky. + +"No; for she never set eyes on it." + +"Then, if it dies, get another baby, and keep track of that. You can +steal one from a drunken mother any night in the week. I'll do it +for you. One baby is as good as another." + +"It will be safer to have the real one," replied Mrs. Bray. "And +now, Pinky that you have put this thing into my head, I guess I'll +commission you to get the baby away from that woman." + +"All right!" + +"But what are we to do with it? I can't have it here." + +"Of course you can't. But that's easily managed, if your're willing +to pay for it." + +"Pay for it?" + +"Yes; if it isn't begged with, and made to pay its way and earn +something into the bargain, it's got to be a dead weight on +somebody. So you see how it is, Fan. Now, if you'll take a fool's +advice, you'll let 'it go to the almshouse, or let it alone to die +and get out of its misery as soon as possible. You can find another +baby that will do just as well, if you should ever need one." + +"How much would it cost, do you think, to have it boarded with some +one who wouldn't abuse it? She might beg with it herself, or hire it +out two or three times a week. I guess it would stand that." + +"Beggars don't belong to the merciful kind," answered Pinky; +"there's no trusting any of them. A baby in their hands is never +safe. I've seen 'em brought in at night more dead than alive, and +tossed on a dirty rag-heap to die before morning. I'm always glad +when they're out of their misery, poor things! The fact is, Fan, if +you expect that baby to live, you've got to take it clean out of the +hands of beggars." + +"What could I get it boarded for outright?" asked Mrs. Bray. + +"For 'most anything, 'cording to how it's done. But why not, while +you're about it, bleed the old lady, its grandmother, a little +deeper, and take a few drops for the baby?" + +"Guess you're kind o' right about that, Fan; anyhow, we'll make a +start on it. You find another place for the brat." + +"'Greed; when shall I do it?" + +"The sooner, the better. It might die of cold any night in that +horrible den. Ugh!" + +"I've been in worse places. Bedlow street is full of them, and so is +Briar street and Dirty alley. You don't know anything about it." + +"Maybe not, and maybe I don't care to know. At present I want to +settle about this baby. You'll find another place for it?" + +"Yes." + +"And then steal it from the woman who has it now?" + +"Yes; no trouble in the world. She's drunk every night," answered +Pinky Swett, rising to go. + +"You'll see me to-morrow?" said Mrs. Bray. + +"Oh yes." + +"And you won't forget about the policies?" + +"Not I. We shall make a grand hit, or I'm a fool. Day-day!" Pinky +waved her hand gayly, and then retired. + + + + + + +CHAPTER VI. + + + + + +_A COLD_ wet drizzling rain was beginning to fall when Pinky Swett +emerged from the house. Twilight was gathering drearily. She drew +her thin shawl closely, and shivered as the east wind struck her +with a chill. + +At hurried walk of five or ten minutes brought her to a part of the +town as little known to its citizens generally as if it were in the +centre of Africa--a part of the town where vice, crime, drunkenness +and beggary herd together in the closest and most shameless contact; +where men and women, living in all foulness, and more like wild +beasts than human beings, prey greedily upon each other, hurting, +depraving and marring God's image in all over whom they can get +power or influenced--_a very hell upon the earth!_--at part of the +town where theft and robbery and murder are plotted, and from which +prisons and almshouses draw their chief population. + +That such a herding together, almost in the centre of a great +Christian city, of the utterly vicious and degraded, should be +permitted, when every day's police and criminal records give warning +of its cost and danger, is a marvel and a reproach. Almost every +other house, in portions of this locality, is a dram-shop, where the +vilest liquors are sold. Policy-offices, doing business in direct +violation of law, are in every street and block, their work of +plunder and demoralization going on with open doors and under the +very eyes of the police. Every one of them is known to these +officers. But arrest is useless. A hidden and malign influence, more +potent than justice, has power to protect the traffic and hold the +guilty offenders harmless. Conviction is rarely, if ever, reached. + +The poor wretches, depraved and plundered through drink and +policy-gambling, are driven into crime. They rob and steal and +debase themselves for money with which to buy rum and policies, and +sooner or later the prison or death removes the greater number of +them from their vile companions. But drifting toward this fatal +locality under the attraction of affinity, or lured thither by +harpies in search of new supplies of human victims to repair the +frightful waste perpetually made, the region keeps up its dense +population, and the work of destroying human souls goes on. It is an +awful thing to contemplate. Thousands of men and women, boys and +girls, once innocent as the babes upon whom Christ laid his hand in +blessing, are drawn into this whirlpool of evil every year, and few +come out except by the way of prison or death. + +It was toward this locality that Pinky Swett directed her feet, +after parting with Mrs. Bray. Darkness was beginning to settle down +as she turned off from one of the most populous streets, crowded at +the time by citizens on their way to quiet and comfortable homes, +few if any of whom had ever turned aside to look upon and get +knowledge of the world or crime and wretchedness so near at hand, +but girdled in and concealed from common observation. + +Down a narrow street she turned from the great thoroughfare, walking +with quick steps, and shivering a little as the penetrating east +wind sent a chill of dampness through the thin shawl she drew closer +and closer about her shoulders. Nothing could be in stronger +contrast than the rows of handsome dwellings and stores that lined +the streets through which she had just passed, and the forlorn, +rickety, unsightly and tumble-down houses amid which she now found +herself. + +Pinky had gone only a little way when the sharp cries of a child cut +the air suddenly, the shrill, angry voice of a woman and the rapid +fall of lashes mingled with the cries. The child begged for mercy in +tones of agony, but the loud voice, uttering curses and +imprecations, and the cruel blows, ceased not. Pinky stopped and +shivered. She felt the pain of these blows, in her quickly-aroused +sympathy, almost as much as if they had been falling on her own +person. Opposite to where she had paused was a one-story frame +house, or enclosed shed, as unsightly without as a pig-pen, and +almost as filthy within. It contained two small rooms with very low +ceilings. The only things in these rooms that could be called +furniture were an old bench, two chairs from which the backs had +been broken, a tin cup black with smoke and dirt, two or three tin +pans in the same condition, some broken crockery and an iron +skillet. Pinky stood still for a moment, shivering, as we have said. +She knew what the blows and the curses and the cries of pain meant; +she had heard them before. A depraved and drunken woman and a child +ten years old, who might or might not be her daughter, lived there. +The child was sent out every day to beg or steal, and if she failed +to bring home a certain sum of money, was cruelly beaten by the +woman. Almost every day the poor child was cut with lashes, often on +the bare flesh; almost every day her shrieks rang out from the +miserable hovel. But there was no one to interfere, no one to save +her from the smarting blows, no one to care what she suffered. + +Pinky Swett could stand it no longer. She had often noticed the +ragged child, with her pale, starved face and large, wistful eyes, +passing in and out of this miserable woman's den, sometimes going to +the liquor-shops and sometimes to the nearest policy-office to spend +for her mother, if such the woman really was, the money she had +gained by begging. + +With a sudden impulse, as a deep wail and a more piteous cry for +mercy smote upon her ears, Pinky sprang across the street and into +the hovel. The sight that met her eyes left no hesitation in her +mind. Holding up with one strong arm the naked body of the poor +child--she had drawn the clothes over her head--the infuriated woman +was raining down blows from a short piece of rattan upon the +quivering flesh, already covered with welts and bruises. + +"Devil!" cried Pinky as she rushed upon this fiend in human shape +and snatched the little girl from her arm. "Do you want to kill the +child?" + +She might almost as well have assaulted a tigress. + +The woman was larger, stronger, more desperate and more thoroughly +given over to evil passions than she. To thwart her in anything was +to rouse her into a fury. A moment she stood in surprise and +bewilderment; in the next, and ere Pinky had time to put herself on +guard, she had sprung upon her with a passionate cry that sounded +more like that of a wild beast than anything human. Clutching her by +the throat with one hand, and with the other tearing the child from +her grasp, she threw the frightened little thing across the room. + +"Devil, ha!" screamed the woman; "devil!" and she tightened her +grasp on Pinky's throat, at the same time striking her in the face +with her clenched fist. + +Like a war-horse that snuffs the battle afar off and rushes to the +conflict, so rushed the inhabitants of that foul neighborhood to the +spot from whence had come to their ears the familiar and not +unwelcome sound of strife. Even before Pinky had time to shake off +her assailant, the door of the hovel was darkened by a screen of +eager faces. And such faces! How little of God's image remained in +them to tell of their divine origination!--bloated and scarred, +ashen pale and wasted, hollow-eyed and red-eyed, disease looking out +from all, yet all lighted up with the keenest interest and +expectancy. + +Outside, the crowd swelled with a marvelous rapidity. Every cellar +and room and garret, every little alley and hidden rookery, "hawk's +nest" and "wren's nest," poured out its unseemly denizens, white and +black, old and young, male and female, the child of three years old, +keen, alert and self-protective, running to see the "row" side by +side with the toothless crone of seventy; or most likely passing her +on the way. Thieves, beggars, pick-pockets, vile women, rag-pickers +and the like, with the harpies who prey upon them, all were there to +enjoy the show. + +Within, a desperate fight was going on between Pinky Swett and the +woman from whose hands she had attempted to rescue the child--a +fight in which Pinky was getting the worst of it. One garment after +another was torn from her person, until little more than a single +one remained. + +"Here's the police! look out!" was cried at this juncture. + +"Who cares for the police? Let 'em come," boldly retorted the woman. +"I haven't done nothing; it's her that's come in drunk and got up a +row." + +Pushing the crowd aside, a policeman entered the hovel. + +"Here she is!" cried the woman, pointing toward Pinky, from whom she +had sprung back the moment she heard the word police. "She came in +here drunk and got up a row. I'm a decent woman, as don't meddle +with nobody. But she's awful when she gets drunk. Just look at +her--been tearing her clothes off!" + +At this there was a shout of merriment from the crowd who had +witnessed the fight. + +"Good for old Sal! she's one of 'em! Can't get ahead of old Sal, +drunk or sober!" and like expressions were shouted by one and +another. + +Poor Pinky, nearly stripped of her clothing, and with a great bruise +swelling under one of her eyes, bewildered and frightened at the +aspect of things around her, could make no acceptable defence. + +"She ran over and pitched into Sal, so she did! I saw her! She made +the fight, she did!" testified one of the crowd; and acting on this +testimony and his own judgment of the case, the policeman said +roughly, as he laid his hand on Pinky. + +"Pick up your duds and come along." + +Pinky lifted her torn garments from the dirty floor and gathered +them about her person as best she could, the crowd jeering all the +time. A pin here and there, furnished by some of the women, enabled +her to get them into a sort of shape and adjustment. Then she tried +to explain the affair to the policeman, but he would not listen. + +"Come!" he said, sternly. + +"What are you going to do with me?" she asked, not moving from where +she stood. + +"Lock you up," replied the policeman. "So come along." + +"What's the matter here?" demanded a tall, strongly-built woman, +pressing forward. She spoke with a foreign accent, and in a tone of +command. The motley crowd, above whom she towered, gave way for her +as she approached. Everything about the woman showed her to be +superior in mind and moral force to the unsightly wretches about +her. She had the fair skin, blue eyes and light hair of her nation. +Her features were strong, but not masculine. You saw in them no +trace of coarse sensuality or vicious indulgence. + +"Here's Norah! here's the queen!" shouted a voice from the crowd. + +"What's the matter here?" asked the woman as she gained an entrance +to the hovel. + +"Going to lock up Pinky Swett," said a ragged little girl who had +forced her way in. + +"What for?" demanded the woman, speaking with the air of one in +authority. + +"'Cause she wouldn't let old Sal beat Kit half to death," answered +the child. + +"Ho! Sal's a devil and Pinky's a fool to meddle with her." Then +turning to the policeman, who still had his hand on the girl, she +said, + +"What're you goin' to do, John?" + +"Goin' to lock her up. She's drunk an' bin a-fightin'." + +"You're not goin' to do any such thing." + +"I'm not drunk, and it's a lie if anybody says so," broke in Pinky. +"I tried to keep this devil from beating the life out of poor little +Kit, and she pitched into me and tore my clothes off. That's what's +the matter." + +The policeman quietly removed his hand from Pinky's shoulder, and +glanced toward the woman named Sal, and stood as if waiting orders. + +"Better lock _her_ up," said the "queen," as she had been called. +Sal snarled like a fretted wild beast. + +"It's awful, the way she beats poor Kit," chimed in the little girl +who had before spoken against her. "If I was Kit, I'd run away, so I +would." + +"I'll wring your neck off," growled Sal, in a fierce undertone, +making a dash toward the girl, and swearing frightfully. But the +child shrank to the side of the policeman. + +"If you lay a finger on Kit to-night," said the queen, "I'll have +her taken away, and you locked up into the the bargain." + +Sal responded with another snarl. + +"Come." The queen moved toward the door. Pinky followed, the +policeman offering no resistance. A few minutes later, and the +miserable crowd of depraved human beings had been absorbed again +into cellar and garret, hovel and rookery, to take up the thread of +their evil and sensual lives, and to plot wickedness, and to prey +upon and deprave each other--to dwell as to their inner and real +lives among infernals, to be in hell as to their spirits, while +their bodies yet remained upon the earth. + +Pinky and her rescuer passed down the street for a short distance +until they came to another that was still narrower. On each side dim +lights shone from the houses, and made some revelation of what was +going on within. Here liquor was sold, and there policies. Here was +a junk-shop, and there an eating-saloon where for six cents you +could make a meal out of the cullings from beggars' baskets. Not +very tempting to an ordinary appetite was the display inside, nor +agreeable to the nostrils the odors that filled the atmosphere. But +hunger like the swines', that was not over-nice, satisfied itself +amid these disgusting conglomerations, and kept off starvation. + +Along this wretched street, with scarcely an apology for a sidewalk, +moved Pinky and the queen, until they reached a small two-story +frame house that presented a different aspect from the wretched +tenements amid which it stood. It was clean upon the outside, and +had, as contrasted with its neighbors, an air of superiority. This +was the queen's residence. Inside, all was plain and homely, but +clean and in order. + +The excitement into which Pinky had been thrown was nearly over by +this time. + +"You've done me a good turn, Norah," she said as the door closed +upon them, "and I'll not soon forget you." + +"Ugh!" ejaculated Norah as she looked into Pinky's bruised face; +"Sal's hit you square in the eye; it'll be black as y'r boot by +morning. I'll get some cold water." + +A basin of cold water was brought, and Pinky held a wet cloth to the +swollen spot for a long time, hoping thereby not only to reduce the +swelling, but to prevent discoloration. + +"Y'r a fool to meddle with Sal," said Norah as she set the basin of +water before Pinky. + +"Why don't you meddle with her? Why do you let her beat poor little +Kit the way she does?" demanded Pinky. + +Norah shrugged her shoulders, and answered with no more feeling in +her voice than if she had been speaking of inanimate things: + +"She's got to keep Kit up to her work." + +"Up to her work!" + +"Yes; that's just it. Kit's lazy and cheats--buys cakes and candies; +and Sal has to come down on her; it's the way, you know. If Sal +didn't come down sharp on her all the while, Kit wouldn't bring her +ten cents a day. They all have to do it--so much a day or a lickin'; +and a little lickin' isn't any use--got to 'most kill some of 'em. +We're used to it in here. Hark!" + +The screams of a child in pain rang out wildly, the sounds coming +from across the narrow street. Quick, hard strokes of a lash were +heard at the same time. Pinky turned a little pale. + +"Only Mother Quig," said Norah, with an indifferent air; "she has to +do it 'most every night--no getting along any other way with Tom. It +beats all how much he can stand." + +"Oh, Norah, won't she never stop?" cried Pinky, starting up. "I +can't bear it a minute longer." + +"Shut y'r ears. You've got to," answered the woman, with some +impatience in her voice. "Tom has to be kept to his work as well as +the rest of 'em. Half the fuss he's making is put on, anyhow; he +doesn't mind a beating any more than a horse. I know his hollers. +There's Flanagan's Nell getting it now," added Norah as the cries +and entreaties of another child were heard. She drew herself up and +listened, a slight shade of concern drifting across her face. + +A long, agonizing wail shivered through the air. + +"Nell's Sick, and can't do her work." The woman rose as she spoke. +"I saw her goin' off to-day, and told Flanagan she'd better keep her +at home." + +Saying this, Norah went out quickly, Pinky following. With head +erect and mouth set firmly, the queen strode across the street and a +little way down the pavement, to the entrance of a cellar, from +which the cries and sounds of whipping came. Down the five or six +rotten and broken steps she plunged, Pinky close after her. + +"Stop!" shouted Norah, in a tone of command. + +Instantly the blows ceased, and the cries were hushed. + +"You'll be hanged for murder if you don't take care," said Norah. +"What's Nell been doin'?" + +"Doin', the slut!" ejaculated the woman, a short, bloated, revolting +creature, with scarcely anything human in her face. "Doin', did ye +say? It's nothin' she's been doin', the lazy, trapsing huzzy! Who's +that intrudin' herself in here?" she added fiercely, as she saw +Pinky, making at the same time a movement toward the girl. "Get out +o' here, or I'll spile y'r pictur'!" + +"Keep quiet, will you?" said Norah, putting her hand on the woman +and pushing her back as easily as if she had been a child. "Now come +here, Nell, and let me look at you." + +Out of the far corner of the cellar into which Flanagan had thrown +her when she heard Norah's voice, and into the small circle of light +made by a single tallow candle, there crept slowly the figure of a +child literally clothed in rags. Norah reached out her hand to her +as she came up--there was a scared look on her pinched face--and +drew her close to the light. + +"Gracious! your hand's like an ice-ball!" exclaimed Norah. + +Pinky looked at the child, and grew faint at heart. She had large +hazel eyes, that gleamed with a singular lustre out of the +suffering, grimed and wasted little face, so pale and sad and +pitiful that the sight of it was enough to draw tears from any but +the brutal and hardened. + +"Are you sick?" asked Norah. + +"No, she's not sick; she's only shamming," growled Flanagan. + +"You shut up!" retorted Norah. "I wasn't speaking to you." Then she +repeated her question: + +"Are you sick, Nell?" + +"Yes." + +"Where?" + +"I don't know." + +Norah laid her hand on the child's head: + +"Does it hurt here?" + +"Oh yes! It hurts so I can't see good," answered Nell. + +"It's all a lie! I know her; she's shamming." + +"Oh no, Norah!" cried the child, a sudden hope blending with the +fear in her voice. "I ain't shamming at all. I fell down ever so +many times in the street, and 'most got run over. Oh dear! oh dear!" +and she clung to the woman with a gesture of despair piteous to see. + +"I don't believe you are, Nell," said Norah, kindly. Then, to the +woman, "Now mind, Flanagan, Nell's sick; d'ye hear?" + +The woman only uttered a defiant growl. + +"She's not to be licked again to-night." Norah spoke as one having +authority. + +"I wish ye'd be mindin' y'r own business, and not come interfarin' +wid me. She's my gal, and I've a right to lick her if I plaze." + +"Maybe she is and maybe she isn't," retorted Norah. + +"Who says she isn't my gal?" screamed the woman, firing up at this +and reaching out for Nell, who shrunk closer to Norah. + +"Maybe she is and maybe she isn't," said the queen, quietly +repeating her last sentence; "and I think maybe she isn't. So take +care and mind what I say. Nell isn't to be licked any more +to-night." + +"Oh, Norah," sobbed the child, in a husky, choking voice, "take me, +won't you? She'll pinch me, and she'll hit my head on the wall, and +she'll choke me and knock me. Oh, Norah, Norah!" + +Pinky could stand this no longer. Catching up the bundle of rags in +her arms, she sprang out of the cellar and ran across the street to +the queen's house, Norah and Flanagan coming quickly after her. At +the door, through which Pinky had passed, Norah paused, and turning +to the infuriated Irish woman, said, sternly, + +"Go back! I won't have you in here; and if you make a row, I'll tell +John to lock you up." + +"I want my Nell," said the woman, her manner changing. There was a +shade of alarm in her voice. + +"You can't have her to-night; so that's settled. And if there's any +row, you'll be locked up." Saying which, Norah went in and shut the +door, leaving Flanagan on the outside. + +The bundle of dirty rags with the wasted body of a child inside, the +body scarcely heavier than the rags, was laid by Pinky in the corner +of a settee, and the unsightly mass shrunk together like something +inanimate. + +"I thought you'd had enough with old Sal," said Norah, in a tone of +reproof, as she came in. + +"Couldn't help it," replied Pinky. "I'm bad enough, but I can't +stand to see a child abused like that--no, not if I die for it." + +Norah crossed to the settee and spoke to Nell. But there was no +answer, nor did the bundle of rags stir. + +"Nell! Nell!" She called to deaf ears. Then she put her hand on the +child and raised one of the arms. It dropped away limp as a withered +stalk, showing the ashen white face across which it had lain. + +The two women manifested no excitement. The child had fainted or was +dead--which, they did not know. Norah straightened out the wasted +little form and turned up the face. The eyes were shut, the mouth +closed, the pinched features rigid, as if still giving expression to +pain, but there was no mistaking the sign that life had gone out of +them. It might be for a brief season, it might be for ever. + +A little water was thrown into the child's face. Its only effect was +to streak the grimy skin. + +"Poor little thing!" said Pinky. "I hope she's dead." + +"They're tough. They don't die easy," returned Norah. + +"She isn't one of the tough kind." + +"Maybe not. They say Flanagan stole her when she was a little thing, +just toddling." + +"Don't let's do anything to try to bring her to," said Pinky. + +Norah stood for some moment's with an irresolute air, then bent over +the child and examined her more carefully. She could feel no pulse +beat, nor any motion of the heart, + +"I don't want the coroner here," she said, in a tone of annoyance. +"Take her back to Flanagan; it's her work, and she must stand by +it." + +"Is she really dead?" asked Pinky. + +"Looks like it, and serves Flanagan right. I've told her over and +over that Nell wouldn't stand it long if she didn't ease up a +little. Flesh isn't iron." + +Again she examined the child carefully, but without the slightest +sign of feeling. + +"It's all the same now who has her," she said, turning off from the +settee. "Take her back to Flanagan." + +But Pinky would not touch the child, nor could threat or persuasion +lead her to do so. While they were contending, Flanagan, who had +fired herself up with half a pint of whisky, came storming through +the door in a blind rage and screaming out, + +"Where's my Nell? I want my Nell!" + +Catching sight of the child's inanimate form lying on the settee, +she pounced down upon it like some foul bird and bore it off, +cursing and striking the senseless clay in her insane fury. + +Pinky, horrified at the dreadful sight, and not sure that the child +was really dead, and so insensible to pain, made a movement to +follow, but Norah caught her arm with a tight grip and held her +back. + +"Are you a fool?" said the queen, sternly. "Let Flanagan alone. +Nell's out of her reach, and I'm glad of it." + +"If I was only sure!" exclaimed Pinky. + +"You may be. I know death--I've seen it often enough. They'll have +the coroner over there in the morning. It's Flanagan's concern, not +yours or mine, so keep out of it if you know when you're well off." + +"I'll appear against her at the inquest," said Pinky. + +"You'll do no such thing. Keep your tongue behind your teeth. It's +time enough to show it when it's pulled out. Take my advice, and +mind your own business. You'll have enough to do caring for your own +head, without looking after other people's." + +"I'm not one of that kind," answered Pinky, a little tartly; "and if +there's any way to keep Flanagan from murdering another child, I'm +going to find it out." + +"You'll find out something else first," said Norah, with a slight +curl of her lip. + +"What?" + +"The way to prison." + +"Pshaw! I'm not afraid." + +"You'd better be. If you appear against Flanagan, she'll have you +caged before to-morrow night." + +"How can she do it?" + +"Swear against you before an alderman, and he'll send you down if +it's only to get his fee. She knows her man." + +"Suppose murder is proved against her?" + +"Suppose!" Norah gave a little derisive laugh. + +"They don't look after things in here as they do outside. +Everybody's got the screws on, and things must break sometimes, but +it isn't called murder. The coroner understands it all. He's used to +seeing things break." + + + + + + +CHAPTER VII. + + + + + +_FOR_ a short time the sounds of cruel exultation came over from +Flanagan's; then all was still. + +"Sal's put her mark on you," said Norah, looking steadily into +Pinky's face, and laughing in a cold, half-amused way. + +Pinky raised her hand to her swollen cheek. "Does it look very bad?" +she asked. + +"Spoils your beauty some." + +"Will it get black?" + +"Shouldn't wonder. But what can't be helped, can't. You'll mind your +own business next time, and keep out of Sal's way. She's dangerous. +What's the matter?" + +"Got a sort of chill," replied the girl, who from nervous reaction +was beginning to shiver. + +"Oh, want something to warm you up." Norah brought out a bottle of +spirits. Pinky poured a glass nearly half full, added some water, +and then drank off the fiery mixture. + +"None of your common stuff," said Norah, with a smile, as Pinky +smacked her lips. The girl drew her handkerchief from her pocket, +and as she did so a piece of paper dropped on the floor. + +"Oh, there it is!" she exclaimed, light flashing into her face. +"Going to make a splendid hit. Just look at them rows." + +Norah threw an indifferent glance on the paper. + +"They're lucky, every one of them," said Pinky. "Going to put half a +dollar on each row--sure to make a hit." + +The queen gave one of her peculiar shrugs. + +"Going to break Sam McFaddon," continued Pinky, her spirits rising +under the influence of Norah's treat. + +"Soft heads don't often break hard rocks," returned the woman, with +a covert sneer. + +"That's an insult!" cried Pinky, on whom the liquor she had just +taken was beginning to have a marked effect, "and I won't stand an +insult from you or anybody else." + +"Well, I wouldn't if I was you," returned Norah, coolly. A hard +expression began settling about her mouth. + +"And I don't mean to. I'm as good as you are, any day!" + +"You may be a great deal better, for all I care," answered Norah. +"Only take my advice, and keep a civil tongue in your head." There +was a threatening undertone in the woman's voice. She drew her tall +person more erect, and shook herself like a wild beast aroused from +inaction. + +Pinky was too blind to see the change that had come so suddenly. A +stinging retort fell from her lips. But the words had scarcely died +on the air ere she found herself in the grip of vice-like hands. +Resistance was of no more avail than if she had been a child. In +what seemed but a moment of time she was pushed back through the +door and dropped upon the pavement. Then the door shut, and she was +alone on the outside--no, not alone, for scores of the denizens who +huddle together in that foul region were abroad, and gathered around +her as quickly as flies about a heap of offal, curious, insolent and +aggressive. As she arose to her feet she found herself hemmed in by +a jeering crowd. + +"Ho! it's Pinky Swett!" cried a girl, pressing toward her. "Hi, +Pinky! what's the matter? What's up?" + +"Norah pitched her out! I saw it!" screamed a boy, one of the young +thieves that harbored in the quarter. + +"It's a lie!" Pinky answered back as she confronted the crowd. + +At this moment another boy, who had come up behind Pinky, gave her +dress so violent a jerk that she fell over backward on the pavement, +striking her head on a stone and cutting it badly. She lay there, +unable to rise, the crowd laughing with as much enjoyment as if +witnessing a dog-fight. + +"Give her a dose of mud!" shouted one of the boys; and almost as +soon as the words were out of his mouth her face was covered with a +paste of filthy dirt from the gutter. This, instead of exciting +pity, only gave a keener zest to the show. The street rang with +shouts and peals of merriment, bringing a new and larger crowd to +see the fun. With them came one or two policemen. + +Seeing that it was only a drunken woman, they pushed back the crowd +and raised her to her feet. As they did so the blood streamed from +the back of her head and stained her dress to the waist. She was +taken to the nearest station-house. + +At eleven o'clock on the next morning, punctual to the minute, came +Mrs. Dinneford to the little third-story room in which she had met +Mrs. Bray. She repeated her rap at the door before it was opened, +and noticed that a key was turned in the lock. + +"You have seen the woman?" she said as she took an offered seat, +coming at once to the object of her visit. + +"Yes." + +"Well?" + +"I gave her the money." + +"Well?" + +Mrs. Bray shook her head: + +"Afraid I can't do much with her." + +"Why?" an anxious expression coming into Mrs. Dinneford's face. + +"These people suspect everybody; there is no honor nor truth in +them, and they judge every one by themselves. She half accused me of +getting a larger amount of money from you, and putting her off with +the paltry sum of thirty dollars." + +Mrs. Bray looked exceedingly hurt and annoyed. + +"Threatened," she went on, "to go to you herself--didn't want any +go-betweens nor brokers. I expected to hear you say that she'd been +at your house this morning." + +"Good Gracious! no!" Mrs. Dinneford's face was almost distorted with +alarm. + +"It's the way with all these people," coolly remarked Mrs. Bray. +"You're never safe with them." + +"Did you hint at her leaving the city?--going to New Orleans, for +instance?" + +"Oh dear, no! She isn't to be managed in that way--is deeper and +more set than I thought. The fact is, Mrs. Dinneford"--and Mrs. Bray +lowered her voice and looked shocked and mysterious--"I'm beginning +to suspect her as being connected with a gang." + +"With a gang? What kind of a gang?" Mrs. Dinneford turned slightly +pale. + +"A gang of thieves. She isn't the right thing; I found that out long +ago. You remember what I said when you gave her the child. I told +you that she was not a good woman, and that it was a cruel thing to +put a helpless, new-born baby into her hands." + +"Never mind about that." Mrs. Dinneford waved her hand impatiently. +"The baby's out of her hands, so far as that is concerned. A gang of +thieves!" + +"Yes, I'm 'most sure of it. Goes to people's houses on one excuse +and another, and finds out where the silver is kept and how to get +in. You don't know half the wickedness that's going on. So you see +it's no use trying to get her away." + +Mrs. Bray was watching the face of her visitor with covert scrutiny, +gauging, as she did so, by its weak alarms, the measure of her power +over her. + +"Dreadful! dreadful!" ejaculated Mrs. Dinneford, with dismay. + +"It's bad enough," said Mrs. Bray, "and I don't see the end of it. +She's got you in her power, and no mistake, and she isn't one of the +kind to give up so splendid an advantage. I'm only surprised that +she's kept away so long." + +"What's to be done about it?" asked Mrs. Dinneford, her alarm and +distress increasing. + +"Ah! that's more than I can tell," coolly returned Mrs. Bray. "One +thing is certain--I don't want to have anything more to do with her. +It isn't safe to let her come here. You'll have to manage her +yourself." + +"No, no, no, Mrs. Bray! You mustn't desert me!" answered Mrs. +Dinneford, her face growing pallid with fear. "Money is of no +account. I'll pay 'most anything, reasonable or unreasonable, to +have her kept away." + +And she drew out her pocket-book while speaking. At this moment +there came two distinct raps on the door. It had been locked after +Mrs. Dinneford's entrance. Mrs. Bray started and changed +countenance, turning her face quickly from observation. But she was +self-possessed in an instant. Rising, she said in a whisper, + +"Go silently into the next room, and remain perfectly still. I +believe that's the woman now. I'll manage her as best I can." + +Almost as quick as thought, Mrs. Dinneford vanished through a door +that led into an adjoining room, and closing it noiselessly, turned +a key that stood in the lock, then sat down, trembling with nervous +alarm. The room in which she found herself was small, and overlooked +the street; it was scantily furnished as a bed-room. In one corner, +partly hid by a curtain that hung from a hoop fastened to the wall, +was an old wooden chest, such as are used by sailors. Under the bed, +and pushed as far back as possible, was another of the same kind. +The air of the room was close, and she noticed the stale smell of a +cigar. + +A murmur of voices from the room she had left so hastily soon +reached her ears; but though she listened intently, standing close +to the door, she was not able to distinguish a word. Once or twice +she was sure that she heard the sound of a man's voice. It was +nearly a quarter of an hour by her watch--it seemed two +hours--before Mrs. Bray's visitor or visitors retired; then there +came a light rap on the door. She opened it, and stood face to face +again with the dark-eyed little woman. + +"You kept me here a long time," said Mrs. Dinneford, with +ill-concealed impatience. + +"No longer than I could help," replied Mrs. Bray. "Affairs of this +kind are not settled in a minute." + +"Then it was that miserable woman?" + +"Yes." + +"Well, what did you make out of her?" + +"Not much; she's too greedy. The taste of blood has sharpened her +appetite." + +"What does she want?" + +"She wants two hundred dollars paid into her hand to-day, and says +that if the money isn't here by sundown, you'll have a visit from +her in less than an hour afterward." + +"Will that be the end of it?" + +A sinister smile curved Mrs. Bray's lips slightly. + +"More than I can say," she answered. + +"Two hundred dollars?" + +"Yes. She put the amount higher, but I told her she'd better not go +for too big a slice or she might get nothing--that there was such a +thing as setting the police after her. She laughed at this in such a +wicked, sneering way that I felt my flesh creep, and said she knew +the police, and some of their masters, too, and wasn't afraid of +them. She's a dreadful woman;" and Mrs. Bray shivered in a very +natural manner. + +"If I thought this would be the last of it!" said Mrs. Dinneford as +she moved about the room in a disturbed way, and with an anxious +look on her face. + +"Perhaps," suggested her companion, "it would be best for you to +grapple with this thing at the outset--to take our vampire by the +throat and strangle her at once. The knife is the only remedy for +some forms of disease. If left to grow and prey upon the body, they +gradually suck away its life and destroy it in the end." + +"If I only knew how to do it," replied Mrs. Dinneford. "If I could +only get her in my power, I'd make short works of her." Her eyes +flashed with a cruel light. + +"It might be done." + +"How?" + +"Mr. Dinneford knows the chief of police." + +The light went out of Mrs. Dinneford's eyes: + +"It can't be done in that way, and you know it as well as I do." + +Mrs. Dinneford turned upon Mrs. Bray sharply, and with a gleam of +suspicion in her face. + +"I don't know any other way, unless you go to the chief yourself," +replied Mrs. Bray, coolly. "There is no protection in cases like +this except through the law. Without police interference, you are +wholly in this woman's power." + +Mrs. Dinneford grew very pale. + +"It is always dangerous," went on Mrs. Bray, "to have anything to do +with people of this class. A woman who for hire will take a new-born +baby and sell it to a beggar-woman will not stop at anything. It is +very unfortunate that you are mixed up with her." + +"I'm indebted to you for the trouble," replied. Mrs. Dinneford, with +considerable asperity of manner. "You ought to have known something +about the woman before employing her in a delicate affair of this +kind." + +"Saints don't hire themselves to put away new-born babies," retorted +Mrs. Bray, with an ugly gurgle in her throat. "I told you at the +time that she was a bad woman, and have not forgotten your answer." + +"What did I answer?" + +"That she might be the devil for all you cared!" + +"You are mistaken." + +"No; I repeat your very words. They surprised and shocked me at the +time, and I have not forgotten them. People who deal with the devil +usually have the devil to pay; and your case, it seems, is not to be +an exception." + +Mrs. Bray had assumed an air of entire equality with her visitor. + +A long silence followed, during which Mrs. Dinneford walked the +floor with the quick, restless motions of a caged animal. + +"How long do you think two hundred dollars will satisfy her?" she +asked, at length, pausing and turning to her companion. + +"It is impossible for me to say," was answered; "not long, unless +you can manage to frighten her off; you must threaten hard." + +Another silence followed. + +"I did not expect to be called on for so large a sum," Mrs. +Dinneford said at length, in a husky voice, taking out her +pocket-book as she spoke. "I have only a hundred dollars with me. +Give her that, and put her off until to-morrow." + +"I will do the best I can with her," replied Mrs. Bray, reaching out +her hand for the money, "but I think it will be safer for you to let +me have the balance to-day. She will, most likely, take it into her +head that I have received the whole sum from you, and think I am +trying to cheat her. In that case she will be as good as her word, +and come down on you." + +"Mrs. Bray!" exclaimed Mrs. Dinneford, suspicion blazing from her +eyes. "Mrs. Bray!"--and she turned upon her and caught her by the +arms with a fierce grip--"as I live, you are deceiving me. There is +no woman but yourself. You are the vampire!" + +She held the unresisting little woman in her vigorous grasp for some +moments, gazing at her in stern and angry accusation. + +Mrs. Bray stood very quit and with scarcely a change of countenance +until this outburst of passion had subsided. She was still holding +the money she had taken from Mrs. Dinneford. As the latter released +her she extended her hand, saying, in a low resolute voice, in which +not the faintest thrill of anger could be detected, + +"Take your money." She waited for a moment, and then let the little +roll of bank-bills fall at Mrs. Dinneford's feet and turned away. + +Mrs. Dinneford had made a mistake, and she saw it--saw that she was +now more than ever in the power of this woman, whether she was true +or false. If false, more fatally in her power. + +At this dead-lock in the interview between these women there came a +diversion. The sound of feet was heard on the stairs, then a +hurrying along the narrow passage; a hand was on the door, but the +key had been prudently turned on the inside. + +With a quick motion, Mrs. Bray waved her hand toward the adjoining +chamber. Mrs. Dinneford did not hesitate, but glided in noiselessly, +shutting and locking the door behind her. + +"Pinky Swett!" exclaimed Mrs. Bray, in a low voice, putting her +finger to her lips, as she admitted her visitor, at the same time +giving a warning glance toward the other room. Eyeing her from head +to foot, she added, "Well, you are an object!" + +Pinky had drawn aside a close veil, exhibiting a bruised and swollen +face. A dark band lay under one of her eyes, and there was a cut +with red, angry margins on the cheek. + +"You are an object," repeated Mrs. Bray as Pinky moved forward into +the room. + +"Well, I am, and no mistake," answered Pinky, with a light laugh. +She had been drinking enough to overcome the depression and +discomfort of her feelings consequent on the hard usage she had +received and a night in one of the city station-houses. "Who's in +there?" + +Mrs. Bray's finger went again to her lips. "No matter," was replied. +"You must go away until the coast is clear. Come back in half an +hour." + +And she hurried Pinky out of the door, locking it as the girl +retired. When Mrs. Dinneford came out of the room into which he had +gone so hastily, the roll of bank-notes still lay upon the floor. +Mrs. Bray had prudently slipped them into her pocket before +admitting Pinky, but as soon as she was alone had thrown them down +again. + +The face of Mrs. Dinneford was pale, and exhibited no ordinary signs +of discomfiture and anxiety. + +"Who was that?" she asked. + +"A friend," replied Mrs. Bray, in a cold, self-possessed manner. + +A few moments of embarrassed silence followed. Mrs. Bray crossed the +room, touching with her foot the bank-bills, as if they were of no +account to her. + +"I am half beside myself," said Mrs. Dinneford. + +Mrs. Bray made no response, did not even turn toward her visitor. + +"I spoke hastily." + +"A vampire!" Mrs. Bray swept round upon her fiercely. "A +blood-sucker!" and she ground her teeth in well-feigned passion. + +Mrs. Dinneford sat down trembling. + +"Take your money and go," said Mrs. Bray, and she lifted the bills +from the floor and tossed them into her visitor's lap. "I am served +right. It was evil work, and good never comes of evil." + +But Mrs. Dinneford did not stir. To go away at enmity with this +woman was, so far as she could see, to meet exposure and unutterable +disgrace. Anything but that. + +"I shall leave this money, trusting still to your good offices," she +said, at length, rising. Her manner was much subdued. "I spoke +hastily, in a sort of blind desperation. We should not weigh too +carefully the words that are extorted by pain or fear. In less than +an hour I will send you a hundred dollars more." + +Mrs. Dinneford laid the bank-bills on a table, and then moved to the +door, but she dared not leave in this uncertainty. Looking back, she +said, with an appealing humility of voice and manner foreign to her +character, + +"Let us be friends still, Mrs. Bray; we shall gain nothing by being +enemies. I can serve you, and you can serve me. My suspicions were +ill founded. I felt wild and desperate, and hardly knew what I was +saying." + +She stood anxiously regarding the little dark-eyed woman, who did +not respond by word or movement. + +Taking her hand from the door she was about opening, Mrs. Dinneford +came back into the room, and stood close to Mrs. Bray: + +"Shall I send you the money?" + +"You can do as you please," was replied, with chilling indifference. + +"Are you implacable?" + +"I am not used to suspicion, much less denunciation and assault. A +vampire! Do you know what that means?" + +"It meant, as used by me, only madness. I did not know what I was +saying. It was a cry of pain--nothing more. Consider how I stand, +how much I have at stake, in what a wretched affair I have become +involved. It is all new to me, and I am bewildered and at fault. Do +not desert me in this crisis. I must have some one to stand between +me and this woman; and if you step aside, to whom can I go?" + +Mrs. Bray relented just a little. Mrs. Dinneford pleaded and +humiliated herself, and drifted farther into the toils of her +confederate. + +"You are not rich, Mrs. Bray," she said, at parting, "independent in +spirit as you are. I shall add a hundred dollars for your own use; +and if ever you stand in need, you will know where to find an +unfailing friend." + +Mrs. Bray put up her hands, and replied, "No, no, no; don't think of +such a thing. I am not mercenary. I never serve a friend for money." + +But Mrs. Dinneford heard the "yes" which flushed into the voice that +said "no." She was not deceived. + +A rapid change passed over Mrs. Bray on the instant her visitor left +the room. Her first act was to lock the door; her next, to take the +roll of bank-bills from the table and put it into her pocket. Over +her face a gleam of evil satisfaction had swept. + +"Got you all right now, my lady!" fell with a chuckle from her lips. +"A vampire, ha!" The chuckle was changed for a kind of hiss. "Well, +have it so. There is rich blood in your veins, and it will be no +fault of mine if I do not fatten upon it. As for pity, you shall +have as much of it as you gave to that helpless baby. Saints don't +work in this kind of business, and I'm not a saint." + +And she chuckled and hissed and muttered to herself, with many signs +of evil satisfaction. + + + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. + + + + + +_FOR_ an hour Mrs. Bray waited the reappearance of Pinky Swett, but +the girl did not come back. At the end of this time a package which +had been left at the door was brought to her room. It came from Mrs. +Dinneford, and contained two hundred dollars. A note that +accompanied the package read as follows: + +"Forgive my little fault of temper. It is your interest to be my +friend. The woman must not, on any account, be suffered to come near +me." + +Of course there was no signature. Mrs. Bray's countenance was +radiant as she fingered the money. + +"Good luck for me, but bad for the baby," she said, in a low, +pleased murmur, talking to herself. "Poor baby! I must see better to +its comfort. It deserves to be looked after. I wonder why Pinky +doesn't come?" + +Mrs. Bray listened, but no sound of feet from the stairs or entries, +no opening or shutting of doors, broke the silence that reigned +through the house. + +"Pinky's getting too low down--drinks too much; can't count on her +any more." Mrs. Bray went on talking to herself. "No rest; no quiet; +never satisfied; for ever knocking round, and for ever getting the +worst of it. She was a real nice girl once, and I always liked her. +But she doesn't take any care of herself." + +As Pinky went out, an hour before, she met a fresh-looking girl, not +over seventeen, and evidently from the country. She was standing on +the pavement, not far from the house in which Mrs. Bray lived, and +had a traveling-bag in her hand. Her perplexed face and uncertain +manner attracted Pinky's attention. + +"Are you looking for anybody?" she asked. + +"I'm trying to find a Mrs. Bray," the girl answered. "I'm a stranger +from the country." + +"Oh, you are?" said Pinky, drawing her veil more tightly so that her +disfigured face could not be seen. + +"Yes I'm from L----." + +"Indeed? I used to know some people there." + +"Then you've been in L----?" said the girl, with a pleased, trustful +manner, as of one who had met a friend at the right time. + +"Yes, I've visited there." + +"Indeed? Who did you know in L----?" + +"Are you acquainted with the Cartwrights?" + +"I know of them. They are among our first people," returned the +girl. + +"I spent a week in their family a few years ago, and had a very +pleasant time," said Pinky. + +"Oh, I'm glad to know that," remarked the girl. "I'm a stranger +here; and if I can't find Mrs. Bray, I don't see what I am to do. A +lady from here who was staying at the hotel gave me at letter to +Mrs. Bray. I was living at the hotel, but I didn't like it; it was +too public. I told the lady that I wanted to learn a trade or get +into a store, and she said the city was just the place for me, and +that she would give me a letter to a particular friend, who would, +on her recommendation, interest he self for me. It's somewhere along +here that she lived, I'm sure;" and she took a letter from her +pocket and examined the direction. + +The girl was fresh and young and pretty, and had an artless, +confiding manner. It was plain she knew little of the world, and +nothing of its evils and dangers. + +"Let me see;" and Pinky reached out her hand for the letter. She put +it under her veil, and read, + +"MRS. FANNY BRAY, "No. 631----street, "---- + +"By the hand of Miss Flora Bond." + +"Flora Bond," said Pinky, in a kind, familiar tone. + +"Yes, that is my name," replied the girl; "isn't this----street?" + +"Yes; and there, is the number you are looking for." + +"Oh, thank you! I'm so glad to find the place. I was beginning to +feel scared." + +"I will ring the bell for you," said Pinky, going to the door of No. +631. A servant answered the summons. + +"Is Mrs. Bray at home?" inquired Pinky. + +"I don't know," replied the servant, looking annoyed. "Her rooms are +in the third story;" and she held the door wide open for them to +enter. As they passed into the hall Pinky said to her companion, + +"Just wait here a moment, and I will run up stairs and see if she is +in." + +The girl stood in the hall until Pinky came back. + +"Not at home, I'm sorry to say." + +"Oh dear! that's bad; what shall I do?" and the girl looked +distressed. + +"She'll be back soon, no doubt," said Pinky, in a light, assuring +voice. "I'll go around with you a little and see things." + +The girl looked down at her traveling-bag. + +"Oh, that's nothing; I'll help you to carry it;" and Pinky took it +from her hand. + +"Couldn't we leave it here?" asked Flora. + +"It might not be safe; servants are not always to be trusted, and +Mrs. Bray's rooms are locked; we can easily carry it between us. I'm +strong--got good country blood in my veins. You see I'm from the +country as well as you; right glad we met. Don't know what you would +have done." + +And she drew the girl out, talking familiarly, as they went. + +"Haven't had your dinner yet?" + +"No; just arrived in the cars, and came right here." + +"You must have something to eat, then. I know a nice place; often +get dinner there when I'm out." + +The girl did not feel wholly at ease. She had not yet been able to +get sight of Pinky's closely-veiled features, and there was +something in her voice that made her feel uncomfortable. + +"I don't care for any dinner," she said; "I'm not hungry." + +"Well, I am, then, so come. Do you like oysters?" + +"Yes." + +"Cook them splendidly. Best place in the city. And you'd like to get +into a store or learn a trade?" + +"Yes." + +"What trade did you think of?" + +"None in particular." + +"How would you like to get into a book-bindery? I know two or three +girls in binderies, and they can make from five to ten dollars a +week. It's the nicest, cleanest work I know of." + +"Oh, do you?" returned Flora, with newly-awakening interest. + +"Yes; we'll talk it all over while we're eating dinner. This way." + +And Pinky turned the corner of a small street that led away from the +more crowded thoroughfare along which they had been passing. + +"It's a quiet and retired place, where only the nicest kind of +people go," she added. "Many working-girls and girls in stores get +their dinners there. We'll meet some of them, no doubt; and if any +that I know should happen in, we might hear of a good place. Just +the thing, isn't it? I'm right glad I met you." + +They had gone halfway down the square, when Pinky stopped before the +shop of a confectioner. In the window was a display of cakes, pies +and candies, and a sign with the words, "LADIES' RESTAURANT." + +"This is the place," she said, and opening the door, passed in, the +young stranger following. + +A sign of caution, unseen by Flora, was made to a girl who stood +behind the counter. Then Pinky turned, saying, + +"How will you have your oysters? stewed, fried, broiled or roasted?" + +"I'm not particular--any way," replied Flora. + +"I like them fried. Will you have them the same way?" + +Flora nodded assent. + +"Let them be fried, then. Come, we'll go up stairs. Anybody there?" + +"Two or three only." + +"Any girls from the bindery?" + +"Yes; I think so." + +"Oh. I'm glad of that! Want to see some of them. Come, Miss Bond." + +And Pinky, after a whispered word to the attendant, led the way to a +room up stairs in which were a number of small tables. At one of +these were two girls eating, at another a girl sitting by herself, +and at another a young man and a girl. As Pinky and her companion +entered, the inmates of the room stared at them familiarly, and then +winked and leered at each other. Flora did not observe this, but she +felt a sudden oppression and fear. They sat down at a table not far +from one of the windows. Flora looked for the veil to be removed, so +that she might see the face of her new friend. But Pinky kept it +closely down. + +In about ten minutes the oysters were served. Accompanying them were +two glasses of some kind of liquor. Floating on one of these was a +small bit of cork. Pinky took this and handed the other to her +companion, saying, + +"Only a weak sangaree. It will refresh you after your fatigue; and I +always like something with oysters, it helps to make them lay +lighter on the stomach." + +Meantime, one of the girls had crossed over and spoken to Pinky. +After word or two, the latter said, + +"Don't you work in a bindery, Miss Peter?" + +"Yes," was answered, without hesitation. + +"I thought so. Let me introduce you to my friend, Miss Flora Bond. +She's from the country, and wants to get into some good +establishment. She talked about a store, but I think a bindery is +better." + +"A great deal better," was replied by Miss Peter. "I've tried them +both, and wouldn't go back to a store again on any account. If I can +serve your friend, I shall be most happy." + +"Thank you!" returned Flora; "you are very kind." + +"Not at all; I'm always glad when I can be of service to any one. +You think you'd like to go into a bindery?" + +"Yes. I've come to the city to get employment, and haven't much +choice." + +"There's no place like the city," remarked the other. "I'd die in +the country--nothing going on. But you won't stagnate here. When did +you arrive?" + +"To-day." + +"Have you friends here?" + +"No. I brought a letter of introduction to a lady who resides in the +city." + +"What's her name?" + +"Mrs. Bray." + +Miss Peter turned her head so that Flora could not see her face. It +was plain from its expression that she knew Mrs. Bray. + +"Have you seen her yet?" she asked. + +"No. She was out when I called. I'm going back in a little while." + +The girl sat down, and went on talking while the others were eating. +Pinky had emptied her glass of sangaree before she was half through +with her oysters, and kept urging Flora to drink. + +"Don't be afraid of it, dear," she said, in a kind, persuasive way; +"there's hardly a thimbleful of wine in the whole glass. It will +soothe your nerves, and make you feel ever so much better." + +There was something in the taste of the sangaree that Flora did not +like--a flavor that was not of wine. But urged repeatedly by her +companion, whose empty glass gave her encouragement and confidence, +she sipped and drank until she had taken the whole of it. By this +time she was beginning to have a sense of fullness and confusion in +the head, and to feel oppressed and uncomfortable. Her appetite +suddenly left her, and she laid down her knife and fork and leaned +her head upon her hand. + +"What's the matter?" asked Pinky. + +"Nothing," answered the girl; "only my head feels a little +strangely. It will pass off in a moment." + +"Riding in the cars, maybe," said Pinky. "I always feel bad after +being in the cars; it kind of stirs me up." + +Flora sat very quietly at the table, still resting her head upon her +hands. Pinky and the girl who had joined them exchanged looks of +intelligence. The former had drawn her veil partly aside, yet +concealing as much as possible the bruises on her face. + +"My! but you're battered!" exclaimed Miss Peter, in a whisper that +was unheard by Flora. + +Pinky only answered by a grimace. Then she said to Flora, with +well-affected concern, + +"I'm afraid you are ill, dear? How do you feel?" + +"I don't know," answered the poor girl, in a voice that betrayed +great anxiety, if not alarm. "It came over me all at once. I'm +afraid that wine was too strong; I am not used to taking anything." + +"Oh dear, no! it wasn't that. I drank a glass, and don't feel it any +more than if it had been water." + +"Let's go," said Flora, starting up. "Mrs. Bray must be home by this +time." + +"All right, if you feel well enough," returned Pinky, rising at the +same time. + +"Oh dear! how my head swims!" exclaimed Flora, putting both hands to +her temples. She stood for a few moments in an uncertain attitude, +then reached out in a blind, eager way. + +Pinky drew quickly to her side, and put one arm about her waist. + +"Come," she said, "the air is too close for you here;" and with the +assistance of the girl who had joined them, she steadied Flora down +stairs. + +"Doctored a little too high," whispered Miss Peter, with her mouth +close to Pinky's ear. + +"All right," Pinky whispered back; "they know how to do it." + +At the foot of the stairs Pinky said, + +"You take her out through the yard, while I pay for the oysters. +I'll be with you in a moment." + +Poor Flora, was already too much confused by the drugged liquor she +had taken to know what they were doing with her. + +Hastily paying for the oysters and liquor, Pinky was on hand in a +few moments. From the back door of the house they entered a small +yard, and passed from this through a gate into a narrow private +alley shut in on each side by a high fence. This alley ran for a +considerable distance, and had many gates opening into it from +yards, hovels and rear buildings, all of the most forlorn and +wretched character. It terminated in a small street. + +Along this alley Pinky and the girl she had met at the restaurant +supported Flora, who was fast losing strength and consciousness. +When halfway down, they held a brief consultation. + +"It won't do," said Pinky, "to take her through to----street. She's +too far gone, and the police will be down on us and carry her off." + +"Norah's got some place in there," said the other, pointing to an +old wooden building close by. + +"I'm out with Norah," replied Pinky, "and don't mean to have +anything more to do with her." + +"Where's your room?" + +"That isn't the go. Don't want her there. Pat Maley's cellar is just +over yonder. We can get in from the alley." + +"Pat's too greedy a devil. There wouldn't be anything left of her +when he got through. No, no, Pinky; I'll have nothing to do with it +if she's to go into Pat Maley's cellar." + +"Not much to choose between 'em," answered Pinky. "But it won't do +to parley here. We must get her in somewhere." + +And she pushed open a gate as she spoke. It swung back on one hinge +and struck the fence with a bang, disclosing a yard that beggared +description in its disorder and filth. In the back part of this yard +was a one-and-a-half-story frame building, without windows, looking +more like an old chicken-house or pig-stye than a place for human +beings to live in. The loft over the first story was reached by +ladder on the outside. Above and below the hovel was laid off in +kind of stalls or bunks furnished with straw. There were about +twenty of these. It was a ten-cent lodging-house, filled nightly. If +this wretched hut or stye--call it what you will--had been torn +down, it would not have brought ten dollars as kindling-wood. Yet +its owner, a gentleman (?) living handsomely up town, received for +it the annual rent of two hundred and fifty dollars. Subletted at an +average of two dollars a night, it gave an income of nearly seven +hundred dollars a year. It was known as the "Hawk's Nest," and no +bird of prey ever had a fouler nest than this. + +As the gate banged on the fence a coarse, evil-looking man, wearing +a dirty Scotch cap and a red shirt, pushed his head up from the +cellar of the house that fronted on the street. + +"What's wanted?" he asked, in a kind of growl, his upper lip +twitching and drawing up at one side in a nervous way, letting his +teeth appear. + +"We want to get this girl in for a little while," said Pinky. "We'll +take her away when she comes round. Is anybody in there?" and she +pointed to the hovel. + +The man shook his head. + +"How much?" asked Pinky. + +"Ten cents apiece;" and he held out his hand. + +Pinky gave him thirty cents. He took a key from his pocket, and +opened the door that led into the lower room. The stench that came +out as the door swung back was dreadful. But poor Flora Bond was by +this time so relaxed in every muscle, and so dead to outward things, +that it was impossible to get her any farther. So they bore her into +this horrible den, and laid her down in one of the stalls on a bed +of loose straw. Inside, there was nothing but these stalls and +straw--not a table or chair, or any article of furniture. They +filled up nearly the entire room, leaving only a narrow passage +between them. The only means of ventilation was by the door. + +As soon as Pinky and her companion in this terrible wickedness were +alone with their victim, they searched her pocket for the key of her +traveling-bag. On finding it, Pinky was going to open it, when the +other said, + +"Never mind about that; we can examine her baggage in safer place. +Let's go for the movables." + +And saying this, she fell quickly to work on the person of Flora, +slipping out the ear-rings first, then removing her breast-pin and +finger-rings, while Pinky unbuttoned the new gaiter boots, and drew +off both boots and stockings, leaving upon the damp straw the small, +bare feet, pink and soft almost as a baby's. + +It did not take these harpies five minutes to possess themselves of +everything but the poor girl's dress and undergarments. Cloth +oversack, pocket-book, collar, linen cuffs, hat, shoes and +stockings--all these were taken. + +"Hallo!" cried the keeper of this foul den as the two girls hurried +out with the traveling-bag and a large bundle sooner than he had +expected; and he came quickly forth from the cellar in which he +lived like a cruel spider and tried to intercept them, but they +glided through the gate and were out of his reach before he could +get near. He could follow them only with obscene invectives and +horrible oaths. Well he knew what had been done--that there had been +a robbery in the "Hawk's Nest," and he not in to share the booty. + +Growling like a savage dog, this wretch, in whom every instinct of +humanity had long since died--this human beast, who looked on +innocence and helplessness as a wolf looks upon a lamb--strode +across the yard and entered the den. Lying in one of the stalls upon +the foul, damp straw he found Flora Bond. Cruel beast that he was, +even he felt himself held back as by an invisible hand, as he looked +at the pure face of the insensible girl. Rarely had his eyes rested +on a countenance so full of innocence. But the wolf has no pity for +the lamb, nor the hawk for the dove. The instinct of his nature +quickly asserted itself. + +Avarice first. From the face his eyes turned to see what had been +left by the two girls. An angry imprecation fell from his lips when +he saw how little remained for him. But when he lifted Flora's head +and unbound her hair, a gleam of pleasure came info his foul face. +It was a full suit of rich chestnut brown, nearly three feet long, +and fell in thick masses over her breast and shoulders. He caught it +up eagerly, drew it through his great ugly hands, and gloated over +it with something of a miser's pleasure as he counts his gold. Then +taking a pair of scissors from his pocket, he ran them over the +girl's head with the quickness and skill of a barber, cutting close +down, that he might not lose even the sixteenth part of an inch of +her rich tresses. An Indian scalping his victim could not have shown +more eagerness. An Indian's wild pleasure was in his face as he +lifted the heavy mass of brown hair and held it above his head. It +was not a trophy--not a sign of conquest and triumph over an +enemy--but simply plunder, and had a market value of fifteen or +twenty dollars. + +The dress was next examined; it was new, but not of a costly +material. Removing this, the man went out with his portion of the +spoils, and locked the door, leaving the half-clothed, unconscious +girl lying on the damp, filthy straw, that swarmed with vermin. It +was cold as well as damp, and the chill of a bleak November day +began creeping into her warm blood. But the stupefying draught had +been well compounded, and held her senses locked. + +Of what followed we cannot write, and we shiver as we draw a veil +over scenes that should make the heart of all Christendom +ache--scenes that are repeated in thousands of instances year by +year in our large cities, and no hand is stretched forth to succor +and no arm to save. Under the very eyes of the courts and the +churches things worse than we have described--worse than the reader +can imagine--are done every day. The foul dens into which crime goes +freely, and into which innocence is betrayed, are known to the +police, and the evil work that is done is ever before them. From one +victim to another their keepers pass unquestioned, and plunder, +debauch, ruin and murder with an impunity frightful to contemplate. +As was said by a distinguished author, speaking of a kindred social +enormity, "There is not a country throughout the earth on which a +state of things like this would not bring a curse. There is no +religion upon earth that it would not deny; there is no people on +earth that it would not put to shame." + +And we are Christians! + +No. Of what followed we cannot write. Those who were near the +"Hawk's Nest" heard that evening, soon after nightfall, the single +wild, prolonged cry of a woman. It was so full of terror and despair +that even the hardened ears that heard it felt a sudden pain. But +they were used to such things in that region, and no one took the +trouble to learn what it meant. Even the policeman moving on his +beat stood listening for only a moment, and then passed on. + +Next day, in the local columns of a city paper, appeared the +following: + +"FOUL PLAY.--About eleven o'clock last night the body of a beautiful +young girl, who could not have been over seventeen years of age, was +discovered lying on the pavement in----street. No one knew how she +came there. She was quite dead when found. There was nothing by +which she could be identified. All her clothes but a single +undergarment had been removed, and her hair cut off close to her +head. There were marks of brutal violence on her person. The body +was placed in charge of the coroner, who will investigate the +matter." + +On the day after, this paragraph appeared: + +"SUSPICION OF FOUL PLAY.--The coroner's inquest elicited nothing in +regard to the young girl mentioned yesterday as having been found +dead and stripped of her clothing in----street. No one was able to +identify her. A foul deed at which the heart shudders has been done; +but the wretches by whom it was committed have been able to cover +their tracks." + +And that was the last of it. The whole nation gives a shudder of +fear at the announcement of an Indian massacre and outrage. But in +all our large cities are savages more cruel and brutal in their +instincts than the Comanches, and they torture and outrage and +murder a hundred poor victims for every one that is exposed to +Indian brutality, and there comes no succor. Is it from ignorance of +the fact? No, no, no! There is not a Judge on the bench, not a +lawyer at the bar, not a legislator at the State capital, not a +mayor or police-officer, not a minister who preaches the gospel of +Christ, who came to seek and to save, not an intelligent citizen, +but knows of all this. + +What then? Who is responsible? The whole nation arouses itself at +news of an Indian assault upon some defenseless frontier settlement, +and the general government sends troops to succor and to punish. But +who takes note of the worse than Indian massacres going on daily and +nightly in the heart of our great cities? Who hunts down and +punishes the human wolves in our midst whose mouths are red with the +blood of innocence? Their deeds of cruelty outnumber every year a +hundred--nay, a thousand--fold the deeds of our red savages. Their +haunts are known, and their work is known. They lie in wait for the +unwary, they gather in the price of human souls, none hindering, at +our very church doors. Is no one responsible for all this? Is there +no help? Is evil stronger than good, hell stronger than heaven? Have +the churches nothing to do in this matter? Christ came to seek and +to save that which was lost--came to the lowliest, the poorest and +the vilest, to those over whom devils had gained power, and cast out +the devils. Are those who call themselves by his name diligent in +the work to which he put his blessed hands? Millions of dollars go +yearly into magnificent churches, but how little to the work of +saving and succoring the weak, the helpless, the betrayed, the +outcast and the dying, who lie uncared for at the mercy of human +fiends, and often so near to the temples of God that their agonized +appeals for help are drowned by the organ and choir! + + + + + + +CHAPTER IX. + + + + + +_THE_ two girls, on leaving the "Hawk's Nest" with their plunder, +did not pass from the narrow private alley into the small street at +its termination, but hurried along the way they had come, and +re-entered the restaurant by means of the gate opening into the +yard. Through the back door they gained a small, dark room, from +which a narrow stairway led to the second and third stories of the +rear building. They seemed to be entirely familiar with the place. + +On reaching the third story, Pinky gave two quick raps and then a +single rap on a closed door. No movement being heard within, she +rapped again, reversing the order--that is, giving one distinct rap, +and then two in quick succession. At this the door came slowly open, +and the two girls passed in with their bundle of clothing and the +traveling-bag. + +The occupant of this room was a small, thin, well-dressed man, with +cold, restless gray eyes and the air of one who was alert and +suspicious. His hair was streaked with gray, as were also his full +beard and moustache. A diamond pin of considerable value was in his +shirt bosom. The room contained but few articles. There was a worn +and faded carpet on the floor, a writing-table and two or three +chairs, and a small bookcase with a few books, but no evidence +whatever of business--not a box or bundle or article of merchandise +was to be seen. + +As the two girls entered he, shut the door noiselessly, and turned +the key inside. Then his manner changed; his eyes lighted, and there +was an expression of interest in his face. He looked toward the bag +and bundle. + +Pinky sat down upon the floor and hurriedly unlocked the +traveling-bag. Thrusting in her hand, she drew out first a muslin +nightgown and threw it down, then a light shawl, a new barege dress, +a pair of slippers, collars, cuffs, ribbons and a variety of +underclothing, and last of all a small Bible and a prayer-book. +These latter she tossed from her with a low derisive laugh, which +was echoed by her companion, Miss Peter. + +The bundle was next opened, and the cloth sacque, the hat, the boots +and stockings and the collar and cuffs thrown upon the floor with +the contents of the bag. + +"How much?" asked Pinky, glancing up at the man. + +They were the first words that had been spoken. At this the man knit +his brows in an earnest way, and looked business. He lifted each +article from the floor, examined it carefully and seemed to be +making a close estimate of its value. The traveling-bag was new, and +had cost probably five dollars. The cloth sacque could not have been +made for less than twelve dollars. A fair valuation of the whole +would have been near forty dollars. + +"How much?" repeated Pinky, an impatient quiver in her voice. + +"Six dollars," replied the man. + +"Six devils!" exclaimed Pinky, in a loud, angry voice. + +"Six devils! you old swindler!" chimed in Miss Peter. + +"You can take them away. Just as you like," returned the man, with +cool indifference. "Perhaps the police will give you more. It's the +best I can do." + +"But see here, Jerkin," said Pinky: "that sacque is worth twice the +money." + +"Not to me. I haven't a store up town. I can't offer it for sale in +the open market. Don't you understand?" + +"Say ten dollars." + +"Six." + +"Here's a breast-pin and a pair of ear-rings," said Miss Peter; +"we'll throw them in;" and she handed Jerkin, as he was called, the +bits of jewelry she had taken from the person of Flora Bond. He +looked at them almost contemptuously as he replied, + +"Wouldn't give you a dollar for the set." + +"Say eight dollars for the whole," urged Pinky. + +"Six fifty, and not a cent more," answered Jerkin. + +"Hand over, then, you old cormorant!" returned the girl, fretfully. +"It's a shame to swindle us in this way." + +The man took out his pocket-book and paid the money, giving half to +each of the girls. + +"It's just a swindle!" repeated Pinky. "You're an old hard-fisted +money-grubber, and no better than a robber. Three dollars and a +quarter for all that work! It doesn't pay for the trouble. We ought +to have had ten apiece." + +"You can make it ten or twenty, or maybe a hundred, if you will," +said Jerkin, with a knowing twinkle in his eyes. He gave his thumb a +little movement over his shoulder as he spoke. + +"That's so!" exclaimed Pinky, her manner undergoing a change, and +her face growing bright--at least as much of it as could brighten. +"Look here, Nell," speaking to Miss Peter, and drawing a piece of +paper from her pocket, "I've got ten rows here. Fanny Bray gave me +five dollars to go a half on each row. Meant to have gone to Sam +McFaddon's last night, but got into a muss with old Sal and Norah, +and was locked up." + +"They make ten hits up there to one at Sam McFaddon's," said Jerkin, +again twitching his thumb over his shoulder. "It's the luckiest +office I ever heard of. Two or three hits every day for a week +past--got a lucky streak, somehow. If you go in anywhere, take my +advice and go in there," lifting his hand and twitching his thumb +upward and over his shoulder again. + +The two girls passed from the room, and the door was shut and locked +inside. No sooner had they done so than Jerkin made a new +examination of the articles, and after satisfying himself as to +their value proceeded to put them out of sight. Lifting aside a +screen that covered the fireplace, he removed from the chimney back, +just above the line of sight, a few loose bricks, and through the +hole thus made thrust the articles he had bought, letting them drop +into a fireplace on the other side. + +On leaving the room of this professional receiver of stolen goods, +Pinky and her friend descended to the second story, and by a door +which had been cut through into the adjoining property passed to the +rear building of the house next door. They found themselves on a +landing, or little square hall, with a stairway passing down to the +lower story and another leading to the room above. A number of +persons were going up and coming down--a forlorn set, for the most +part, of all sexes, ages and colors. Those who were going up +appeared eager and hopeful, while those who were coming down looked +disappointed, sorrowful, angry or desperate. There was a "policy +shop" in one of the rooms above, and these were some of its +miserable customers. It was the hour when the morning drawings of +the lotteries were received at the office, or "shop," and the poor +infatuated dupes who had bet on their favorite "rows" were crowding +in to learn the result. + +Poor old men and women in scant or wretched clothing, young girls +with faces marred by evil, blotched and bloated creatures of both +sexes, with little that was human in their countenances, except the +bare features, boys and girls not yet in their teens, but old in +vice and crime, and drunkards with shaking nerves,--all these were +going up in hope and coming down in disappointment. Here and there +was one of a different quality, a scantily-dressed woman with a +thin, wasted face and hollow eyes, who had been fighting the wolf +and keeping fast hold of her integrity, or a tender, +innocent-looking girl, the messenger of a weak and shiftless mother, +or a pale, bright-eyed boy whose much-worn but clean and well-kept +garments gave sad evidence of a home out of which prop and stay had +been removed. The strong and the weak, the pure and the defiled, +were there. A poor washerwoman who in a moment of weakness has +pawned the garments entrusted to her care, that she might venture +upon a "row" of which she had dreamed, comes shrinking down with a +pale, frightened face, and the bitterness of despair in her heart. +She has lost. What then? She has no friend from whom she can borrow +enough money to redeem the clothing, and if it is not taken home she +may be arrested as a thief and sent to prison. She goes away, and +temptation lies close at her feet. It is her extremity and the evil +one's opportunity. So far she has kept herself pure, but the +disgrace of a public prosecution and a sentence to prison are +terrible things to contemplate. She is in peril of her soul. God +help her! + +Who is this dressed in rusty black garments and closely veiled, who +comes up from the restaurant, one of the convenient and unsuspected +entrances to this robber's den?--for a "policy-shop" is simply a +robbery shop, and is so regarded by the law, which sets a penalty +upon the "writer" and the "backer" as upon other criminals. But who +is this veiled woman in faded mourning garments who comes gliding as +noiselessly as a ghost out from one of the rooms of the restaurant, +and along the narrow entry leading to the stairway, now so thronged +with visitors? Every day she comes and goes, no one seeing her face, +and every day, with rare exceptions, her step is slower and her form +visibly more shrunken when she goes out than when she comes in. She +is a broken-down gentlewoman, the widow of an officer, who left her +at his death a moderate fortune, and quite sufficient for the +comfortable maintenance of herself and two nearly grown-up +daughters. But she had lived at the South, and there acquired a +taste for lottery gambling. During her husband's lifetime she wasted +considerable money in lottery tickets, once or twice drawing small +prizes, but like all lottery dupes spending a hundred dollars for +one gained. The thing had become a sort of mania with her. She +thought so much of prizes and drawn numbers through the day that she +dreamed of them all night. She had a memorandum-book in which were +all the combinations she had ever heard of as taking prizes. It +contained page after page of lucky numbers and fancy "rows," and was +oftener in her hand than any other book. + +There being no public sale of lottery tickets in Northern cities, +this weak and infatuated woman found out where some of the +"policy-shops" were kept, and instead of buying tickets, as before, +risked her money on numbers that might or might not come out of the +wheel in lotteries said to be drawn in certain Southern States, but +chiefly in Kentucky. The numbers rarely if ever came out. The +chances were too remote. After her husband's death she began +fretting over the smallness of her income. It was not sufficient to +give her daughters the advantages she desired them to have, and she +knew of but one way to increase it. That way was through the +policy-shops. So she gave her whole mind to this business, with as +much earnestness and self-absorption as a merchant gives himself to +trade. She had a dream-book, gotten up especially for policy buyers, +and consulted it as regularly as a merchant does his price-current +or a broker the sales of stock. Every day she bet on some "row" or +series of "rows," rarely venturing less than five dollars, and +sometimes, when she felt more than usually confident, laying down a +twenty-dollar bill, for the "hit" when made gave from fifty to two +hundred dollars for each dollar put down, varying according to the +nature of the combinations. So the more faith a policy buyer had in +his "row," the larger the venture he would feel inclined to make. + +Usually it went all one way with the infatuated lady. Day after day +she ventured, and day after day she lost, until from hundreds the +sums she was spending had aggregated themselves into thousands. She +changed from one policy-shop to another, hoping for better luck. It +was her business to find them out, and this she was able to do by +questioning some of those whom she met at the shops. One of these +was in a building on a principal street, the second story of which +was occupied by a milliner. It was visited mostly by ladies, who +could pass in from the street, no one suspecting their errand. +Another was in the attic of a house in which were many offices and +places of business, with people going in and coming out all the +while, none but the initiated being in the secret; while another was +to be found in the rear of a photograph gallery. Every day and often +twice a day, as punctually as any man of business, did this lady +make her calls at one and another of these policy-offices to get the +drawings or make new ventures. At remote intervals she would make a +"hit;" once she drew twenty dollars, and once fifty. But for these +small gains she had paid thousands of dollars. + +After a "hit" the betting on numbers would be bolder. Once she +selected what was known as a "lucky row," and determined to double +on it until it came out a prize. She began by putting down fifty +cents. On the next day she put down a dollar upon the same +combination, losing, of course, Two dollars were ventured on the +next day; and so she went on doubling, until, in her desperate +infatuation, she doubled for the ninth time, putting down two +hundred and fifty-six dollars. + +If successful now, she would draw over twenty-five thousand dollars. +There was no sleep for the poor lady during the night that followed. +She walked the floor of her chamber in a state of intense nervous +excitement, sometimes in a condition of high hope and confidence and +sometimes haunted by demons of despair. She sold five shares of +stock on which she had been receiving an annual dividend of ten per +cent., in order to get funds for this desperate gambling venture, in +which over five hundred dollars had now been absorbed. + +Pale and nervous, she made her appearance at the breakfast-table on +the next morning, unable to take a mouthful of food. It was in vain +that her anxious daughters urged her to eat. + +A little after twelve o'clock she was at the policy-office. The +drawn numbers for the morning were already in. Her combination was +4, 10, 40. With an eagerness that could not be repressed, she caught +up the slip of paper containing the thirteen numbers out of +seventy-five, which purported to have been drawn that morning +somewhere in "Kentucky," and reported by telegraph--caught it up +with hands that shook so violently that she could not read the +figures. She had to lay the piece of paper down upon the little +counter before which she stood, in order that it might be still, so +that she could read her fate. + +The first drawn number was 4. What a wild leap her heart gave! The +next was 24; the next 8; the next 70; the next 41, and the next 39. +Her heart grew almost still; the pressure as of a great hand was on +her bosom. 10 came next. Two numbers of her row were out. A quiver +of excitement ran through her frame. She caught up the paper, but it +shook as before, so that she could not see the figures. Dashing it +back upon the counter, and holding it down almost violently, she +bent over, with eyes starting from their sockets, and read the line +of figures to the end, then sank over upon the counter with a groan, +and lay there half fainting and too weak to lift herself up. If the +40 had been there, she would have made a hit of twenty-five thousand +dollars. But the 40 was not there, and this made all the difference. + +"Once more," said the policy-dealer, in a tone of encouragement, as +he bent over the miserable woman. Yesterday, 4 came out; to-day, 4, +10; tomorrow will be the lucky chance; 4, 10, 40 will surely be +drawn. I never knew this order to fail. If it had been 10 first, and +then 4, 10, or 10, 4, I would not advise you to go on. But 4, 10, 40 +will be drawn to-morrow as sure as fate." + +"What numbers did you say? 4, 10, 40?" asked an old man, ragged and +bloated, who came shuffling in as the last remarks was made. + +"Yes," answered the dealer. "This lady has been doubling, and as the +chances go, her row is certain to make a hit to-morrow." + +"Ha! What's the row? 4, 10, 40?" + +"Yes." + +The old man fumbled in his pocket, and brought out ten cents. + +"I'll go that on the row. Give me a piece." + +The dealer took a narrow slip of paper and wrote on it the date, the +sum risked and the combination of figures, and handed it to the old +man, saying, + +"Come here to-morrow; and if the bottom of the world doesn't drop +out, you'll find ten dollars waiting for you." + +Two or three others were in by this time, eager to look over the +list of drawn numbers and to make new bets. + +"Glory!" cried one of them, a vile-looking young woman, and she +commenced dancing about the room. + +All was excitement now. "A hit! a hit!" was cried. "How much? how +much?" and they gathered to the little counter and desk of the +policy-dealer. + +"1, 2, 3," cried the girl, dancing about and waving her little slip +of paper over her head. "I knew it would come--dreamed of them +numbers three nights hand running! Hand over the money, old chap! +Fifteen dollars for fifteen cents! That's the go!" + +The policy-dealer took the girl's "piece," and after comparing it +with the record of drawn numbers, said, in a pleased voice, + +"All right! A hit, sure enough. You're in luck to-day." + +The girl took the money, that was promptly paid down, and as she +counted it over the dealer remarked, + +"There's a doubling game going on, and it's to be up to-morrow, +sure." + +"What's the row?" inquired the girl. + +"4, 10, 40," said the dealer. + +"Then count me in;" and she laid down five dollars on the counter. + +"Take my advice and go ten," urged the policy-dealer. + +"No, thank you! shouldn't know what to do with more than five +hundred dollars. I'll only go five dollars this time." + +The "writer," as a policy-seller is called, took the money and gave +the usual written slip of paper containing the selected numbers; +loudly proclaiming her good luck, the girl then went away. She was +an accomplice to whom a "piece" had been secretly given after the +drawn numbers were in. + +Of course this hit was the sensation of the day among the +policy-buyers at that office, and brought in large gains. + +The wretched woman who had just seen five hundred dollars vanish +into nothing instead of becoming, as under the wand of an enchanter, +a great heap of gold, listened in a kind of maze to what passed +around her--listened and let the tempter get to her ear again. She +went away, stooping in her gait as one bearing a heavy burden. +Before an hour had passed hope had lifted her again into confidence. +She had to make but one venture more to double on the risk of the +day previous, and secure a fortune that would make both herself and +daughters independent for life. + +Another sale of good stocks, another gambling venture and another +loss, swelling the aggregate in this wild and hopeless "doubling" +experiment to over a thousand dollars. + +But she was not cured. As regularly as a drunkard goes to the bar +went she to the policy-shops, every day her fortune growing less. +Poverty began to pinch. The house in which she lived with her +daughters was sold, and the unhappy family shrunk into a single room +in a third-rate boarding-house. But their income soon became +insufficient to meet the weekly demand for board. Long before this +the daughters had sought for something to do by which to earn a +little money. Pride struggled hard with them, but necessity was +stronger than pride. + +We finish the story in a few words. In a moment of weakness, with +want and hard work staring her in the face, one of the daughters +married a man who broke her heart and buried her in less than two +years. The other, a weak and sickly girl, got a situation as day +governess in the family of an old friend of her father's, where she +was kindly treated, but she lived only a short time after her +sister's death. + +And still there was no abatement of the mother's infatuation. She +was more than half insane on the subject of policy gambling, and +confident of yet retrieving her fortunes. + +At the time Pinky Swett and her friend in evil saw her come gliding +up from the restaurant in faded mourning garments and closely +veiled, she was living alone in a small, meagrely furnished room, +and cooking her own food. + +Everything left to her at her husband's death was gone. She earned a +dollar or two each week by making shirts and drawers for the +slop-shops, spending every cent of this in policies. A few old +friends who pitied her, but did not know of the vice in which she +indulged, paid her rent and made occasional contributions for her +support. All of these contributions, beyond the amount required for +a very limited supply of food, went to the policy-shops. It was a +mystery to her friends how she had managed to waste the handsome +property left by her husband, but no one suspected the truth. + + + + + + +CHAPTER X. + + + + + +"_WHO'S_ that, I wonder?" asked Nell Peter as the dark, close-veiled +figure glided past them on the stairs. + +"Oh, she's a policy-drunkard," answered Pinky, loud enough to be +heard by the woman, who, as if surprised or alarmed, stopped and +turned her head, her veil falling partly away, and disclosing +features so pale and wasted that she looked more like a ghost than +living flesh and blood. There was a strange gleam in her eyes. She +paused only for an instant, but her steps were slower as she went on +climbing the steep and narrow stairs that led to the policy-office. + +"Good Gracious, Pinky! did you ever see such a face?" exclaimed Nell +Peter. "It's a walking ghost, I should say, and no woman at all." + +"Oh, I've seen lots of 'em," answered Pinky. "She's a +policy-drunkard. Bad as drinking when it once gets hold of 'em. They +tipple all the time, sell anything, beg, borrow, steal or starve +themselves to get money to buy policies. She's one of 'em that's +starving." + +By this time they had reached the policy-office. It was in a small +room on the third floor of the back building, yet as well known to +the police of the district as if it had been on the front street. +One of these public guardians soon after his appointment through +political influence, and while some wholesome sense of duty and +moral responsibility yet remained, caused the "writer" in this +particular office to be arrested. He thought that he had done a good +thing, and looked for approval and encouragement. But to his +surprise and chagrin he found that he had blundered. The case got no +farther than the alderman's. Just how it was managed he did not +know, but it was managed, and the business of the office went on as +before. + +A little light came to him soon after, on meeting a prominent +politician to whom he was chiefly indebted for his appointment. Said +this individual, with a look of warning and a threat in his voice, + +"See here, my good fellow; I'm told that you've been going out of +your way and meddling with the policy-dealers. Take my advice, and +mind your own business. If you don't. it will be all day with you. +There isn't a man in town strong enough to fight this thing, so +you'd better let it alone." + +And he did let it alone. He had a wife and three little children, +and couldn't afford to lose his place. So he minded his own +business, and let it alone. + +Pinky and her friend entered this small third-story back room. +Behind a narrow, unpainted counter, having a desk at one end, stood +a middle-aged man, with dark, restless eyes that rarely looked you +in the face. He wore a thick but rather closely-cut beard and +moustache. The police knew him very well; so did the criminal +lawyers, when he happened to come in their way; so did the officials +of two or three State prisons in which he had served out partial +sentences. He was too valuable to political "rings" and associations +antagonistic to moral and social well-being to be left idle in the +cell of a penitentiary for the whole term of a commitment. +Politicians have great influence, and governors are human. + +On the walls of the room were pasted a few pictures cut from the +illustrated papers, some of them portraits of leading politicians, +and some of them portraits of noted pugilists and sporting-men. The +picture of a certain judge, who had made himself obnoxious to the +fraternity of criminals by his severe sentences, was turned upside +down. There was neither table nor chair in the room. + +The woman in black had passed in just before the girls, and was +waiting her turn to examine the drawn numbers. She had not tasted +food since the day before, having ventured her only dime on a +policy, and was feeling strangely faint and bewildered. She did not +have to wait long. It was the old story. Her combination had not +come out, and she was starving. As she moved back toward the door +she staggered a little. Pinky, who had become curious about her, +noticed this, and watched her as she went out. + +"It's about up with the old lady, I guess," she said to her +companion, with an unfeeling laugh. + +And she was right. On the next morning the poor old woman was found +dead in her room, and those who prepared her for burial said that +she was wasted to a skeleton. She had, in fact, starved herself in +her infatuation, spending day after day in policies what she should +have spent for food. Pinky's strange remark was but too true. She +had become a policy-drunkard--a vice almost as disastrous in its +effects as its kindred, vice, intemperance, though less brutalizing +and less openly indulged. + +"Where now?" was the question of Pinky's friend as they came down, +after spending in policies all the money they had received from the +sale of Flora Bond's clothing. "Any other game?" + +"Yes." + +"What?" + +"Come along to my room, and I'll tell you." + +"Round in Ewing street?" + +"Yes. Great game up, if I can only get on the track." + +"What is it?" + +"There's a cast-off baby in Dirty Alley, and Fan Bray knows its +mother, and she's rich." + +"What?" + +"Fan's getting lots of hush-money." + +"Goody! but that is game!" + +"Isn't it? The baby's owned by two beggar-women who board it in +Dirty Alley. It's 'most starved and frozen to death, and Fan's awful +'fraid it may die. She wants me to steal it for her, so that she may +have it better taken care of, and I was going to do it last night, +when I got into a muss." + +"Who's the woman that boards it?" + +"She lives in a cellar, and is drunk every night. Can steal the brat +easily enough; but if I can't find out who it belongs to, you see it +will be trouble for nothing." + +"No, I don't see any such thing," answered Nell Peter. "If you can't +get hush-money out of its mother, you can bleed Fanny Bray." + +"That's so, and I'm going to bleed her. The mother, you see, thinks +the baby's dead. The proud old grandmother gave it away, as soon as +was born, to a woman that Fan Bray found for her. Its mother was out +of her head, and didn't know nothing. That woman sold the baby to +the women who keep it to beg with. She's gone up the spout now, and +nobody knows who the mother and grandmother are but Fan, and nobody +knows where the baby is but me and Fan. She's bleeding the old lady, +and promises to share with me if I keep track of the baby and see +that it isn't killed or starved to death. But I don't trust her. She +puts me off with fives and tens, when I'm sure she gets hundreds. +Now, if we have the baby all to ourselves, and find out the mother +and grandmother, won't we have a splendid chance? I'll bet you on +that." + +"Won't we? Why, Pinky, this is a gold-mine!" + +"Didn't I tell you there was great game up? I was just wanting some +one to help me. Met you in the nick of time." + +The two girls had now reached Pinky's room in Ewing street, where +they continued in conference for a long time before settling their +plans. + +"Does Fan know where you live?" queried Nell Peter. + +"Yes." + +"Then you will have to change your quarters." + +"Easily done. Doesn't take half a dozen furniture-cars to move me." + +"I know a room." + +"Where?" + +"It's a little too much out of the way, you'll think, maybe, but +it's just the dandy for hiding in. You cart keep the brat there, and +nobody--" + +"Me keep the brat?" interrupted Pinky, with a derisive laugh. +"That's a good one! I see myself turned baby-tender! Ha! ha! that's +funny!" + +"What do you expect to do with the child after you steal it?" asked +Pinky's friend. + +"I don't intend to nurse it or have it about me." + +"What then?" + +"Board if with some one who doesn't get drunk or buy policies." + +"You'll hunt for a long time." + +"Maybe, but I'll try. Anyhow, it can't be worse off than it is now. +What I'm afraid of is that it will be out of its misery before we +can get hold of it. The woman who is paid for keeping it at night +doesn't give it any milk--just feeds it on bread soaked in water, +and that is slow starvation. It's the way them that don't want to +keep their babies get rid of them about here." + +"The game's up if the baby dies," said Nell Peter, growing excited +under this view of the case. "If it only gets bread soaked in water, +it can't live. I've seen that done over and over again. They're +starving a baby on bread and water now just over from my room, and +it cries and frets and moans all the time it's awake, poor little +wretch! I've been in hopes for a week that they'd give it an +overdose of paregoric or something else." + +"We must fix it to-night in some way," answered Pinky. "Where's the +room you spoke of?" + +"In Grubb's court. You know Grubb's court?--a kind of elbow going +off from Rider's court. There's a room up there that you can get +where even the police would hardly find you out." + +"Thieves live there," said Pinky. + +"No matter. They'll not trouble you or the baby." + +"Is the room furnished?" + +"Yes. There's a bed and a table and two chairs." + +After farther consultation it was decided that Pinky should move at +once from her present lodgings to the room in Grubb's court, and +get, if possible, possession of the baby that very night. The moving +was easily accomplished after the room was secured. Two small +bundles of clothing constituted Pinky's entire effects; and taking +these, the two girls went quietly out, leaving a week's rent unpaid. + +The night that closed this early winter day was raw and cold, the +easterly wind still prevailing, with occasional dashes of rain. In a +cellar without fire, except a few bits of smouldering wood in an old +clay furnace, that gave no warmth to the damp atmosphere, and with +scarcely an article of furniture, a woman half stupid from drink sat +on a heap of straw, her bed, with her hands clasped about her knees. +She was rocking her body backward and forward, and crooning to +herself in a maudlin way. A lighted tallow candle stood on the floor +of the cellar, and near it a cup of water, in which was a spoon and +some bread soaking. + +"Mother Hewitt!" called a voice from the cellar door that opened on +the street. "Here, take the baby!" + +Mother Hewitt, as she was called, started up and made her way with +an unsteady gait to the front part of the cellar, where a woman in +not much better condition than herself stood holding out a bundle of +rags in which a fretting baby was wrapped. + +"Quick, quick!" called the woman. "And see here," she continued as +Mother Hewitt reached her arms for the baby; "I don't believe you're +doing the right thing. Did he have plenty of milk last night and +this morning?" + +"Just as much as he would take." + +"I don't believe it. He's been frettin' and chawin' at the strings +of his hood all the afternoon, when he ought to have been asleep, +and he's looking punier every day. I believe you're giving him only +bread and water." + +But Mother Hewitt protested that she gave him the best of new milk, +and as much as he would take. + +"Well, here's a quarter," said the woman, handing Mother Hewitt some +money; "and see that he is well fed to-night and to-morrow morning. +He's getting 'most too deathly in his face. The people won't stand +it if they think a baby's going to die--the women 'specially, and +most of all the young things that have lost babies. One of these--I +know 'em by the way they look out of their eyes--came twice to-day +and stood over him sad and sorrowful like; she didn't give me +anything. I've seen her before. Maybe she's his mother. As like as +nor, for nobody knows where he came from. Wasn't Sally Long's baby; +always thought she'd stole him from somebody. Now, mind, he's to +have good milk every day, or I'll change his boarding-house. D'ye +hear!" + +And laughing at this sally, the woman turned away to spend in a +night's debauch the money she had gained in half a day's begging. + +Left to herself, Mother Hewitt went staggering back with the baby in +her arms, and seated herself on the ground beside the cup of bread +and water, which was mixed to the consistence of cream. As she did +so the light of her poor candle fell on the baby's face. It was +pinched and hungry and ashen pale, the thin lips wrought by want and +suffering into such sad expressions of pain that none but the most +stupid and hardened could look at them and keep back a gush of +tears. + +But Mother Hewitt saw nothing of this--felt nothing of this. Pity +and tenderness had long since died out of her heart. As she laid the +baby back on one arm she took a spoonful of the mixture prepared for +its supper, and pushed it roughly into its mouth. The baby swallowed +it with a kind of starving eagerness, but with no sign of +satisfaction on its sorrowful little face. But Mother Hewitt was too +impatient to get through with her work of feeding the child, and +thrust in spoonful after spoonful until it choked, when she shook it +angrily, calling it vile names. + +The baby cried feebly at this. when she shook it again and slapped +it with her heavy hand. Then it grew still. She put the spoon again +to its lips, but it shut them tightly and turned its head away. + +"Very well," said Mother Hewitt. "If you won't, you won't;" and she +tossed the helpless thing as she would have tossed a senseless +bundle over upon the heap of straw that served as a bed, adding, as +she did so, "I never coaxed my own brats." + +The baby did not cry. Mother Hewitt then blew out the candle, and +groping her way to the door of the cellar that opened on the street, +went out, shutting down the heavy door behind her, and leaving the +child alone in that dark and noisome den--alone in its foul and wet +garments, but, thanks to kindly drugs, only partially conscious of +its misery. + +Mother Hewitt's first visit was to the nearest dram-shop. Here she +spent for liquor five cents of the money she had received. From the +dram-shop she went to Sam McFaddon's policy-office. This was not +hidden away, like most of the offices, in an upper room or a back +building or in some remote cellar, concealed from public +observation, but stood with open door on the very street, its +customers going in and out as freely and unquestioned as the +customers of its next-door neighbor, the dram-shop. Policemen passed +Sam's door a hundred times in every twenty-four hours, saw his +customers going in and out, knew their errand, talked with Sam about +his business, some of them trying their luck occasionally after +there had been an exciting "hit," but none reporting him or in any +way interfering with his unlicensed plunder of the miserable and +besotted wretches that crowded his neighborhood. + +From the whisky-shop to the policy-shop went Mother Hewitt. Here she +put down five cents more; she never bet higher than this on a "row." +From the policy-shop she went back to the whisky-shop, and took +another drink. By this time she was beginning to grow noisy. It so +happened that the woman who had left the baby with her a little +while before came in just then, and being herself much the worse for +drink, picked a quarrel with Mother Hewitt, accusing her of getting +drunk on the money she received for keeping the baby, and starving +it to death. A fight was the consequence, in which they were +permitted to tear and scratch and bruise each other in a shocking +way, to the great enjoyment of the little crowd of debased and +brutal men and women who filled the dram-shop. But fearing a visit +from the police, the owner of the den, a strong, coarse Irishman, +interfered, and dragging the women apart, pushed Mother Hewitt out, +giving her so violent an impetus that she fell forward into the +middle of the narrow street, where she lay unable to rise, not from +any hurt, but from sheer intoxication. + +"What's up now?" cried one and another as this little ripple of +disturbance broke upon that vile and troubled sea of humanity. + +"Only Mother Hewitt drunk again!" lightly spoke a young girl not out +of her teens, but with a countenance that seemed marred by centuries +of debasing evil. Her laugh would have made an angel shiver. + +A policeman came along, and stood for a little while looking at the +prostrate woman. + +"It's Mother Hewitt," said one of the bystanders. + +"Here, Dick," and the policeman spoke to a man near him. "Take hold +of her feet." + +The man did as told, and the policeman lifting the woman's head and +shoulders, they carried her a short distance, to where a gate opened +into a large yard used for putting in carts and wagons at night, and +deposited her on the ground just inside. + +"She can sleep it off there," said the policeman as he dropped his +unseemly load. "She'll have a-plenty to keep her company before +morning." + +And so they left her without covering or shelter in the wet and +chilly air of a late November night, drunk and asleep. + +As the little crowd gathered by this ripple of excitement melted +away, a single figure remained lurking in a corner of the yard and +out of sight in its dark shadow. It was that of a man. The moment he +was alone with the unconscious woman he glided toward her with the +alert movements of an animal, and with a quickness that made his +work seem instant, rifled her pockets. His gains were ten cents and +the policy-slip she had just received at Sam McFaddon's. He next +examined her shoes, but they were of no value, lifted her dirty +dress and felt its texture for a moment, then dropped it with a +motion of disgust and a growl of disappointment. + +As he came out from the yard with his poor booty, the light from a +street-lamp fell on as miserable a looking wretch as ever hid +himself from the eyes of day--dirty, ragged, bloated, forlorn, with +scarcely a trace of manhood in his swollen and disfigured face. His +steps, quick from excitement a few moments before, were now +shambling and made with difficulty. He had not far to walk for what +he was seeking. The ministers to his appetite were all about him, a +dozen in every block of that terrible district that seemed as if +forsaken by God and man. Into the first that came in his way he went +with nervous haste, for he had not tasted of the fiery stimulant he +was craving with a fierce and unrelenting thirst for many hours. He +did not leave the bar until he had drank as much of the burning +poison its keeper dispensed as his booty would purchase. In less +than half an hour he was thrown dead drunk into the street and then +carried by policemen to the old wagon-yard, to take his night's +unconscious rest on the ground in company with Mother Hewitt and a +score besides of drunken wretches who were pitilessly turned out +from the various dram-shops after their money was spent, and who +were not considered by the police worth the trouble of taking to the +station-house. + +When Mother Hewitt crept back into her cellar at daylight, the baby +was gone. + + + + + + +CHAPTER XI. + + + + + +_FOR_ more than a week after Edith's call on Dr. Radcliffe she +seemed to take but little interest in anything, and remained alone +in her room for a greater part of the time, except when her father +was in the house. Since her questions about her baby a slight +reserve had risen up between them. During this time she went out at +least once every day, and when questioned by her mother as to where +she had been, evaded any direct answer. If questioned more closely, +she would show a rising spirit and a decision of manner that had the +effect to silence and at the same time to trouble Mrs. Dinneford, +whose mind was continually on the rack. + +One day the mother and daughter met in a part of the city where +neither of them dreamed of seeing the other. It was not far from +where Mrs. Bray lived. Mrs. Dinneford had been there on a +purgational visit, and had come away lighter in purse and with a +heavier burden of fear and anxiety on her heart. + +"What are you doing here?" she demanded. + +"I've been to St. John's mission sewing-school," replied Edith. "I +have a class there." + +"You have! Why didn't you tell me this before? I don't like such +doings. This is no place for you." + +"My place is where I can do good," returned Edith, speaking slowly, +but with great firmness. + +"Good! You can do good if you want to without demeaning yourself to +work like this. I don't want you mixed up with these low, vile +people, and I won't have it!" Mrs. Dinneford spoke in a sharp, +positive voice. + +Edith made no answer, and they walked on together. + +"I shall speak to your father about this," said Mrs. Dinneford. "It +isn't reputable. I wouldn't have you seen here for the world." + +"I shall walk unhurt; you need not fear," returned Edith. + +There was silence between them for some time, Edith not caring to +speak, and her mother in doubt as to what it were best to say. + +"How long have you been going to St. John's mission school?" at +length queried Mrs. Dinneford. + +"I've been only a few times," replied Edith. + +"And have a class of diseased and filthy little wretches, I +suppose--gutter children?" + +"They are God's children," said Edith, in a tone of rebuke. + +"Oh, don't preach to me!" was angrily replied. + +"I only said what was true," remarked Edith. + +There was silence again. + +"Are you going directly home?" asked Mrs. Dinneford, after they had +walked the distance of several blocks. Edith replied that she was. + +"Then you'd better take that car. I shall not be home for an hour +yet." + +They separated, Edith taking the car. As soon as she was alone Mrs. +Dinneford quickened her steps, like a person who had been held back +from some engagement. A walk of ten minutes brought her to one of +the principal hotels of the city. Passing in, she went up to a +reception-parlor, where she was met by a man who rose from a seat +near the windows and advanced to the middle of the room. He was of +low stature, with quick, rather nervous movements, had dark, +restless eyes, and wore a heavy black moustache that was liberally +sprinkled with gray. The lower part of his face was shaved clean. He +showed some embarrassment as he came forward to meet Mrs. Dinneford. + +"Mr. Feeling," she said, coldly. + +The man bowed with a mixture of obsequiousness and familiarity, and +tried to look steadily into Mrs. Dinneford's face, but was not able +to do so. There was a steadiness and power in her eyes that his +could not bear. + +"What do you want with me, sir?" she demanded, a little sharply. + +"Take a chair, and I will tell you," replied Freeling, and he +turned, moving toward a corner of the room, she following. They sat +down, taking chairs near each other. + +"There's trouble brewing," said the man, his face growing dark and +anxious. + +"What kind of trouble?" + +"I had a letter from George Granger yesterday." + +"What!" The color went out of the lady's face. + +"A letter from George Granger. He wished to see me." + +"Did you go?" + +"Yes." + +"What did he want?" + +Freeling took a deep breath, and sighed. His manner was troubled. + +"What did he want?" Mrs. Dinneford repeated the question. + +"He's as sane as you or I," said Freeling. + +"Is he? Oh, very well! Then let him go to the State's prison." Mrs. +Dinneford said this with some bravado in her manner. But the color +did not come back to her face. + +"He has no idea of that," was replied. + +"What then?" The lady leaned toward Freeling. Her hands moved +nervously. + +"He means to have the case in court again, but on a new issue." + +"He does!" + +"Yes; says that he's innocent, and that you and I know it--that he's +the victim of a conspiracy, and that we are the conspirators!" + +"Talk!--amounts to nothing," returned Mrs. Dinneford, with a faint +little laugh. + +"I don't know about that. It's ugly talk, and especially so, seeing +that it's true." + +"No one will give credence to the ravings of an insane criminal." + +"People are quick to credit an evil report. They will pity and +believe him, now that the worst is reached. A reaction in public +feeling has already taken place. He has one or two friends left who +do not hesitate to affirm that there has been foul play. One of +these has been tampering with a clerk of mine, and I came upon them +with their heads together on the street a few days ago, and had my +suspicions aroused by their startled look when they saw me." + +"'What did that man want with you?' I inquired, when the clerk came +in. + +"He hesitated a moment, and then replied, 'He was asking me +something about Mr. Granger.' + +"'What about him?' I queried. 'He asked me if I knew anything in +regard to the forgery,' he returned. + +"I pressed him with questions, and found that suspicion was on the +right track. This friend of Granger's asked particularly about your +visits to the store, and whether he had ever noticed anything +peculiar in our intercourse--anything that showed a familiarity +beyond what would naturally arise between a customer and salesman." + +"There's nothing in that," said Mrs. Dinneford. "If you and I keep +our own counsel, we are safe. The testimony of a condemned criminal +goes for nothing. People may surmise and talk as much as they +please, but no one knows anything about those notes but you and I +and George." + +"A pardon from the governor may put a new aspect on the case." + +"A pardon!" There was a tremor of alarm in Mrs. Dinneford's voice. + +"Yes; that, no doubt, will be the first move." + +"The first move! Why, Mr. Freeling, you don't think anything like +this is in contemplation?" + +"I'm afraid so. George, as I have said, is no more crazy than you or +I. But he cannot come out of the asylum, as the case now stands, +without going to the penitentiary. So the first move of his friends +will be to get a pardon. Then he is our equal in the eyes of the +law. It would be an ugly thing for you and me to be sued for a +conspiracy to ruin this young man, and have the charge of forgery +added to the count." + +Mrs. Dinneford gave a low cry, and shivered. + +"But it may come to that." + +"Impossible!" + +"The prudent man foreseeth the evil and hideth himself, but the +simple pass on and are punished," said Freeling. "It is for this +that I have sent for you. It's an ugly business, and I was a weak +fool ever to have engaged in it." + +"You were a free agent." + +"I was a weak fool." + +"As you please," returned Mrs. Dinneford, coldly, and drawing +herself away from him. + +It was some moments before either of them spoke again. Then Freeling +said, + +"I was awake all night, thinking over this matter, and it looks +uglier the more I think of it. It isn't likely that enough evidence +could be found to convict either of us, but to be tried on such an +accusation would be horrible." + +"Horrible! horrible!" ejaculated Mrs. Dinneford. "What is to be +done?" She gave signs of weakness and terror. Freeling observed her +closely, then felt his way onward. + +"We are in great peril," he said. "There is no knowing what turn +affairs will take. I only wish I were a thousand miles from here. It +would be safer for us both." Then, after a pause, he added, "If I +were foot-free, I would be off to-morrow." + +He watched Mrs. Dinneford closely, and saw a change creep over her +face. + +"If I were to disappear suddenly," he resumed, "suspicion, if it +took a definite shape, would fall on me. You would not be thought of +in the matter." + +He paused again, observing his companion keenly but stealthily. He +was not able to look her fully in the face. + +"Speak out plainly," said Mrs. Dinneford, with visible impatience. + +"Plainly, then, madam," returned Freeling, changing his whole +bearing toward her, and speaking as one who felt that he was master +of the situation, "it has come to this: I shall have to break up and +leave the city, or there will be a new trial in which you and I will +be the accused. Now, self-preservation is the first law of nature. I +don't mean to go to the State's prison if I can help it. What I am +now debating are the chances in my favor if Granger gets a pardon, +and then makes an effort to drive us to the wall, which he most +surely will. I have settled it so far--" + +Mrs. Dinneford leaned toward him with an anxious expression on her +countenance, waiting for the next sentence. But Freeling did not go +on. + +"How have you settled it?" she demanded, trembling as she spoke with +the excitement of suspense. + +"That I am not going to the wall if I can help it." + +"How will you help it?" + +"I have an accomplice;" and this time he was able to look at Mrs. +Dinneford with such a fixed and threatening gaze that her eyes fell. + +"You have?" she questioned, in a husky voice. + +"Yes." + +"Who?" + +"Mrs. Helen Dinneford. And do you think for a moment that to save +myself I would hesitate to sacrifice her?" + +The lady's face grew white. She tried to speak, but could not. + +"I am talking plainly, as you desired, madam," continued Freeling. +"You led me into this thing. It was no scheme of mine; and if more +evil consequences are to come, I shall do my best to save my own +head. Let the hurt go to where it rightfully belongs." + +"What do you mean?" Mrs. Dinneford tried to rally herself. + +"Just this," was answered: "if I am dragged into court, I mean to go +in as a witness, and not as a criminal. At the first movement toward +an indictment, I shall see the district attorney, whom I know very +well, and give him such information in the case as will lead to +fixing the crime on you alone, while I will come in as the principal +witness. This will make your conviction certain." + +"Devil!" exclaimed Mrs. Dinneford, her white face convulsed and her +eyes starting from their sockets with rage and fear. "Devil!" she +repeated, not able to control her passion. + +"Then you know me," was answered, with cool self-possession, "and +what you have to expect." + +Neither spoke for a considerable time. Up to this period they had +been alone in the parlor. Guests of the house now came in and took +seats near them. They arose and walked the floor for a little while, +still in silence, then passed into an adjoining parlor that happened +to be empty, and resumed the conference. + +"This is a last resort," remarked Freeling, softening his voice as +they sat down--"a card that I do not wish to play, and shall not if +I can help it. But it is best that you should know that it is in my +hand. If there is any better way of escape, I shall take it." + +"You spoke of going away," said Mrs. Dinneford. + +"Yes. But that involves a great deal." + +"What?" + +"The breaking up of my business, and loss of money and opportunities +that I can hardly hope ever to regain." + +"Why loss of money?" + +"I shall have to wind up hurriedly, and it will be impossible to +collect more than a small part of my outstanding claims. I shall +have to go away under a cloud, and it will not be prudent to return. +Most of these claims will therefore become losses. The amount of +capital I shall be able to take will not be sufficient to do more +than provide for a small beginning in some distant place and under +an assumed name. On the other hand, if I remain and fight the thing +through, as I have no doubt I can, I shall keep my business and my +place in society here--hurt, it may be, in my good name, but still +with the main chance all right. But it will be hard for you. If I +pass the ordeal safely, you will not. And the question to consider +is whether you can make it to my interest to go away, to drop out of +sight, injured in fortune and good name, while you go unscathed. You +now have it all in a nutshell. I will not press you to a decision +to-day. Your mind is too much disturbed. To-morrow, at noon, I would +like to see you again." + +Freeling made a motion to rise, but Mrs. Dinneford did not stir. + +"Perhaps," he said, "you decide at once to let things take their +course. Understand me, I am ready for either alternative. The +election is with yourself." + +Mrs. Dinneford was too much stunned by all this to be able to come +to any conclusion. She seemed in the maze of a terrible dream, full +of appalling reality. To wait for twenty-four hours in this state of +uncertainty was more than her thoughts could endure. And yet she +must have time to think, and to get command of her mental resources. + +"Will you be disengaged at five o'clock?" she asked. + +"Yes." + +"I will be here at five." + +"Very well." + +Mrs. Dinneford arose with a weary air. + +"I shall want to hear from you very explicitly," she said. "If your +demand is anywhere in the range of reason and possibility, I may +meet it. If outside of that range, I shall of course reject it. It +is possible that you may not hold all the winning cards--in fact, I +know that you do not." + +"I will be here at five," said Freeling. + +"Very well. I shall be on time." + +And they turned from each other, passing from the parlor by separate +doors. + + + + + + +CHAPTER XII. + + + + + +_ONE_ morning, about two weeks later, Mr. Freeling did not make his +appearance at his place of business as usual. At ten o'clock a clerk +went to the hotel where he boarded to learn the cause of his +absence. He had not been there since the night before. His trunks +and clothing were all in their places, and nothing in the room +indicated anything more than an ordinary absence. + +Twelve o'clock, and still Mr. Freeling had not come to the store. +Two or three notes were to be paid that day, and the managing-clerk +began to feel uneasy. The bank and check books were in a private +drawer in the fireproof of which Mr. Freeling had the key. So there +was no means of ascertaining the balances in bank. + +At one o'clock it was thought best to break open the private drawer +and see how matters stood. Freeling kept three bank-accounts, and it +was found that on the day before he had so nearly checked out all +the balances that the aggregate on deposit was not over twenty +dollars. In looking back over these bank-accounts, it was seen that +within a week he had made deposits of over fifty thousand dollars, +and that most of the checks drawn against these deposits were in +sums of five thousand dollars each. + +At three o'clock he was still absent. His notes went to protest, and +on the next day his city creditors took possession of his effects. +One fact soon became apparent--he had been paying the rogue's game +on a pretty liberal scale, having borrowed on his checks, from +business friends and brokers, not less than sixty or seventy +thousand dollars. It was estimated, on a thorough examination of his +business, that he had gone off with at least a hundred thousand +dollars. To this amount Mrs. Dinneford had contributed from her +private fortune the sum of twenty thousand dollars. Not until she +had furnished him with that large amount would he consent to leave +the city. He magnified her danger, and so overcame her with terrors +that she yielded to his exorbitant demand. + +On the day a public newspaper announcement of Freeling's rascality +was made, Mrs. Dinneford went to bed sick of a nervous fever, and +was for a short period out of her mind. + +Neither Mr. Dinneford nor Edith had failed to notice a change in +Mrs. Dinneford. She was not able to hide her troubled feelings. +Edith was watching her far more closely than she imagined; and now +that she was temporarily out of her mind, she did not let a word or +look escape her. The first aspect of her temporary aberration was +that of fear and deprecation. She was pursued by some one who filled +her with terror, and she would lift her hands to keep him off, or +hide her head in abject alarm. Then she would beg him to keep away. +Once she said, + +"It's no use; I can't do anything more. You're a vampire!" + +"Who is a vampire?" asked Edith, hoping that her mother would repeat +some name. + +But the question seemed to put her on her guard. The expression of +fear went out of her face, and she looked at her daughter curiously. + +Edith did not repeat the question. In a little while the mother's +wandering thoughts began to find words again, and she went on +talking in broken sentences out of which little could be gleaned. At +length she said, turning to Edith and speaking with the directness +of one in her right mind, + +"I told you her name was Gray, didn't I? Gray, not Bray." + +It was only by a quick and strong effort that Edith could steady her +voice as she replied: + +"Yes; you said it was Gray." + +"Gray, not Bray. You thought it was Bray." + +"But it's Gray," said Edith, falling in with her mother's humor. +Then she added, still trying to keep her voice even, + +"She was my nurse when baby was born." + +"Yes; she was the nurse, but she didn't--" + +Checking herself, Mrs. Dinneford rose on one arm and looked at Edith +in a frightened way, then said, hurriedly, + +"Oh, it's dead, it's dead! You know that; and the woman's dead, +too." + +Edith sat motionless and silent as a statue, waiting for what more +might come. But her mother shut her lips tightly, and turned her +head away. + +A long time elapsed before she was able to read in her mother's +confused utterances anything to which she could attach a meaning. At +last Mrs. Dinneford spoke out again, and with an abruptness that +startled her: + +"Not another dollar, sir! Remember, you don't hold _all_ the winning +cards!" + +Edith held her breath, and sat motionless. Her mother muttered and +mumbled incoherently for a while, and then said, sharply, + +"I said I would ruin him, and I've done it!" + +"Ruin who?" asked Edith, in a repressed voice. + +This question, instead of eliciting an answer, as Edith had hoped, +brought her mother back to semi-consciousness. She rose again in +bed, and looked at her daughter in the same frightened way she had +done a little while before, then laid herself over on the pillows +again. Her lips were tightly shut. + +Edith was almost wild with suspense. The clue to that sad and +painful mystery which was absorbing her life seemed almost in her +grasp. A word from those closely-shut lips, and she would have +certainty for uncertainty. But she waited and waited until she grew +faint, and still the lips kept silent. + +But after a while Mrs. Dinneford grew uneasy, and began talking. She +moved her head from side to side, threw her arms about restlessly +and appeared greatly disturbed. + +"Not dead, Mrs. Bray?" she cried out, at last, in a clear, strong +voice. + +Edith became fixed as a statue once more. + +A few moments, and Mrs. Dinneford added, + +"No, no! I won't have her coming after me. More money! You're a +vampire!" + +Then she muttered, and writhed and distorted her face like one in +some desperate struggle. Edith shuddered as she stood over her. + +After this wild paroxysm Mrs. Dinneford grew more quiet, and seemed +to sleep. Edith remained sitting by the bedside, her thoughts intent +on the strange sentences that had fallen from her Mother's lips. +What mystery lay behind them? Of what secret were they an obscure +revelation? "Not dead!" Who not dead? And again, "It's dead! You +know that; and the woman's dead, too." Then it was plain that she +had heard aright the name of the person who had called on her +mother, and about whom her mother had made a mystery. It was Bray; +if not, why the anxiety to make her believe it Gray? And this woman +had been her nurse. It was plain, also, that money was being paid +for keeping secret. What secret? Then a life had been ruined. "I +said I would ruin him, and I've done it!" Who? who could her mother +mean but the unhappy man she had once called husband, now a criminal +in the eyes of the law, and only saved by insanity from a criminal's +cell? + +Putting all together, Edith's mind quickly wrought out a theory, and +this soon settled into a conviction--a conviction so close to fact +that all the chief elements were true. + +During her mother's temporary aberration, Edith never left her room +except for a few minutes at a time. Not a word or sentence escaped +her notice. But she waited and listened in vain for anything more. +The talking paroxysm was over. A stupor of mind and body followed. +Out of this a slow recovery came, but it did not progress to a full +convalescence. Mrs. Dinneford went forth from her sick-chamber weak +and nervous, starting at sudden noises, and betraying a perpetual +uneasiness and suspense. Edith was continually on the alert, +watching every look and word and act with untiring scrutiny. Mrs. +Dinneford soon became aware of this. Guilt made her wary, and danger +inspired prudence. Edith's whole manner had changed. Why? was her +natural query. Had she been wandering in her mind? Had she given any +clue to the dark secrets she was hiding? Keen observation became +mutual. Mother and daughter watched each other with a suspicion that +never slept. + +It was over a month from the time Freeling disappeared before Mrs. +Dinneford was strong enough to go out, except in her carriage. In +every case where she had ridden out, Edith had gone with her. + +"If you don't care about riding, it's no matter," the mother would +say, when she saw Edith getting ready. "I can go alone. I feel quite +well and strong." + +But Edith always had some reason for going against which her mother +could urge no objections. So she kept her as closely under +observation as possible. One day, on returning from a ride, as the +carriage passed into the block where they lived, she saw a woman +standing on the step in front of their residence. She had pulled the +bell, and was waiting for a servant to answer it. + +"There is some one at our door," said Edith. + +Mrs. Dinneford leaned across her daughter, and then drew back +quickly, saying, + +"It's Mrs. Barker. Tell Henry to drive past. I don't want to see +visitors, and particularly not Mrs. Barker." + +She spoke hurriedly, and with ill-concealed agitation. Edith kept +her eyes on the woman, and saw her go in, but did not tell the +driver to keep on past the house. It was not Mrs. Barker. She knew +that very well. In the next moment their carriage drew up at the +door. + +"Go on, Henry!" cried Mrs. Dinneford, leaning past her daughter, and +speaking through the window that was open on that side. "Drive down +to Loring's." + +"Not till I get out, Henry," said Edith, pushing open the door and +stepping to the pavement. Then with a quick movement she shut the +door and ran across the pavement, calling back to the driver as she +did so, + +"Take mother to Loring's." + +"Stop, Henry!" cried Mrs. Dinneford, and with an alertness that was +surprising sprung from the carriage, and was on the steps of their +house before Edith's violent ring had brought a servant to the door. +They passed in, Edith holding her place just in advance. + +"I will see Mrs. Barker," said Mrs. Dinneford, trying to keep out of +her voice the fear and agitation from which she was suffering. "You +can go up to your room." + +"It isn't Mrs. Barker. You are mistaken." There was as much of +betrayal in the voice of Edith as in that of her mother. Each was +trying to hide herself from the other, but the veil in both cases +was far too thin for deception. + +Mother and daughter entered the parlor together. As they did so a +woman of small stature, and wearing a rusty black dress, arose from +a seat near the window. The moment she saw Edith she drew a heavy +dark veil over her face with a quickness of movement that had in it +as much of discomfiture as surprise. + +Mrs. Dinneford was equal to the occasion. The imminent peril in +which she stood calmed the wild tumult within, as the strong wind +calms this turbulent ocean, and gave her thoughts clearness and her +mind decision. Edith saw before the veil fell a startled face, and +recognized the sallow countenance and black, evil eyes, the woman +who had once before called to see her mother. + +"Didn't I tell you not to come here, Mrs. Gray?" cried out Mrs. +Dinneford, with an anger that was more real than feigned, advancing +quickly upon the woman as she spoke. "Go!" and she pointed to the +door, "and don't you dare to come here again. I told you when you +were here last time that I wouldn't be bothered with you any longer. +I've done all I ever intend doing. So take yourself away." + +And she pointed again to the door. Mrs. Bray--for it was that +personage--comprehended the situation fully. She was as good an +actor as Mrs. Dinneford, and quite as equal to the occasion. Lifting +her hand in a weak, deprecating way, and then shrinking like one +borne down by the shock of a great disappointment, she moved back +from the excited woman and made her way to the hall, Mrs. Dinneford +following and assailing her in passionate language. + +Edith was thrown completely off her guard by this unexpected scene. +She did not stir from the spot where she stood on entering the +parlor until the visitor was at the street door, whither her mother +had followed the retreating figure. She did not hear the woman say +in the tone of one who spoke more in command than entreaty, + +"To-morrow at one o'clock, or take the consequences." + +"It will be impossible to-morrow," Mrs. Dinneford whispered back, +hurriedly; "I have been very ill, and have only just begun to ride +out. It may be a week, but I'll surely come. I'm watched. Go now! +go! go!" + +And she pushed Mrs. Bray out into the vestibule and shut the door +after her. Mrs. Dinneford did not return to the parlor, but went +hastily up to her own room, locking herself in. + +She did not come out until dinner-time, when she made an effort to +seem composed, but Edith saw her hand tremble every time it was +lifted. She drank three glasses of wine during the meal. After +dinner she went to her own apartment immediately, and did not come +down again that day. + +On the next morning Mrs. Dinneford tried to appear cheerful and +indifferent. But her almost colorless face, pinched about the lips +and nostrils, and the troubled expression that would not go out of +her eyes, betrayed to Edith the intense anxiety and dread that lay +beneath the surface. + +Days went by, but Edith had no more signs. Now that her mother was +steadily getting back both bodily strength and mental self-poise, +the veil behind which she was hiding herself, and which had been +broken into rifts here and there during her sickness, grew thicker +and thicker. Mrs. Dinneford had too much at stake not to play her +cards with exceeding care. She knew that Edith was watching her with +an intentness that let nothing escape. Her first care, as soon as +she grew strong enough to have the mastery over herself, was so to +control voice, manner and expression of countenance as not to appear +aware of this surveillance. Her next was to re-establish the old +distance between herself and daughter, which her illness had +temporarily bridged over, and her next was to provide against any +more visits from Mrs. Bray. + + + + + + +CHAPTER XIII. + + + + + +_AS_ for Edith, all doubts and questionings as to her baby's fate +were merged into a settled conviction that it was alive, and that +her mother knew where it was to be found. From her mother's pity and +humanity she had nothing to hope for the child. It had been cruelly +cast adrift, pushed out to die; by what means was cared not, so that +it died and left no trace. + +The face of Mrs. Bray had, in the single glance Edith obtained of +it, become photographed in her mind. If she had been an artist, she +could have drawn it from memory so accurately that no one who knew +the woman could have failed to recognize her likeness. Always when +in the street her eyes searched for this face; she never passed a +woman of small stature and poor dark clothing without turning to +look at her. Every day she went out, walking the streets sometimes +for hours looking for this face, but not finding it. Every day she +passed certain corners and localities where she had seen women +begging, and whenever she found one with a baby in her arms would +stop to look at the poor starved thing, and question her about it. + +Gradually all her thoughts became absorbed in the condition of poor, +neglected and suffering children. Her attendance at the St. John's +mission sewing-school, which was located in the neighborhood of one +of the worst places in the city, brought her in contact with little +children in such a wretched state of ignorance, destitution and vice +that her heart was moved to deepest pity, intensified by the thought +that ever and anon flashed across her mind: "And my baby may become +like one of these!" + +Sometimes this thought would drive her almost to madness. Often she +would become so wild in her suspense as to be on the verge of openly +accusing her mother with having knowledge of her baby's existence +and demanding of her its restoration. But she was held back by the +fear that such an accusation would only shut the door of hope for +ever. She had come to believe her mother capable of almost any +wickedness. Pressed to the wall she would never be if there was any +way of escape, and to prevent such at thing there was nothing so +desperate that she would not do it; and so Edith hesitated and +feared to take the doubtful issue. + +Week after week and month after month now went on without a single, +occurrence that gave to Edith any new light. Mrs. Dinneford wrought +with her accomplice so effectually that she kept her wholly out of +the way. Often, in going and returning from the mission-school, +Edith would linger about the neighborhood where she had once met her +mother, hoping to see her come out of some one of the houses there, +for she had got it into her mind that the woman called Mrs. Gray +lived somewhere in this locality. + +One day, in questioning a child who had come to the sewing-school as +to her home and how she lived, the little girl said something about +a baby that her mother said she knew must have been stolen. + +"How old is the baby?" asked Edith, hardly able to keep the tremor +out of her voice. + +"It's a little thing," answered the child. "I don't know how old it +is; maybe it's six months old, or maybe it's a year. It can sit upon +the floor." + +"Why does your mother think it has been stolen?" + +"Because two bad girls have got it, and they pay a woman to take +care of it. It doesn't belong to them, she knows. Mother says it +would be a good thing if it died." + +"Why does she say that?" + +"Oh she always talks that way about babies--says she's glad when +they die." + +"Is it a boy or a girl?" + +"It's a boy baby," answered the child. + +"Does the woman take good care of it?" + +"Oh dear, no! She lets it sit on the floor 'most all the time, and +it cries so that I often go up and nurse it. The woman lives in the +room over ours." + +"Where do you live?" + +"In Grubb's court." + +"Will you show me the way there after school is over?" + +The child looked up into Edith's face with an expression of surprise +and doubt. Edith repeated her question. + +"I guess you'd better not go," was answered, in a voice that meant +all the words expressed. + +"Why not?" + +"It isn't a good place." + +"But you live there?" + +"Yes, but nobody's going to trouble me." + +"Nor me," said Edith. + +"Oh, but you don't know what kind of a place it is, nor what +dreadful people live there." + +"I could get a policeman to go with me, couldn't I?" + +"Yes, maybe you could, or Mr. Paulding, the missionary. He goes +about everywhere." + +"Where can I find Mr. Paulding?" + +"At the mission in Briar street." + +"You'll show me the way there after school?" + +"Oh yes; it isn't a nice place for you to go, but I guess nobody'll +trouble you." + +After the school closed, Edith, guided by the child, made her way to +the Briar st. mission-house. As she entered the narrow street in +which it was situated, the aspect of things was so strange and +shocking to her eyes that she felt a chill creep to her heart. She +had never imagined anything so forlorn and squalid, so wretched and +comfortless. Miserable little hovels, many of them no better than +pig-styes, and hardly cleaner within, were crowded together in all +stages of dilapidation. Windows with scarcely a pane of glass, the +chilly air kept out by old hats, bits of carpet or wads of +newspaper, could be seen on all sides, with here and there, showing +some remains of an orderly habit, a broken pane closed with a smooth +piece of paper pasted to the sash. Instinctively she paused, +oppressed by a sense of fear. + +"It's only halfway down," said the child. "We'll 'go quick. I guess +nobody'll speak to you. They're afraid of Mr. Paulding about here. +He's down on 'em if they meddle with anybody that's coming to the +mission." + +Edith, thus urged, moved on. She had gone but a few steps when two +men came in sight, advancing toward her. They were of the class to +be seen at all times in that region--debased to the lowest degree, +drunken, ragged, bloated, evil-eyed, capable of any wicked thing. +They were singing when they came in sight, but checked their drunken +mirth as soon as they saw Edith, whose heart sunk again. She +stopped, trembling. + +"They're only drunk," said the child. "I don't believe they'll hurt +you." + +Edith rallied herself and walked on, the men coming closer and +closer. She saw them look at each other with leering eyes, and then +at her in a way that made her shiver. When only a few paces distant, +they paused, and with the evident intention of barring her farther +progress. + +"Good-afternoon, miss," said one of them, with a low bow. "Can we do +anything for you?" + +The pale, frightened face of Edith was noticed by the other, and it +touched some remnant of manhood not yet wholly extinguished. + +"Let her alone, you miserable cuss!" he cried, and giving his +drunken companion a shove, sent him staggering across the street. +This made the way clear, and Edith sprang forward, but she had gone +only a few feet when she came face to face with another obstruction +even more frightful, if possible, than the first. A woman with a +red, swollen visage, black eye, soiled, tattered, drunk, with arms +wildly extended, came rushing up to her. The child gave a scream. +The wretched creature caught at a shawl worn by Edith, and was +dragging it from her shoulders, when the door of one of the houses +flew open, and a woman came out hastily. Grasping the assailant, she +hurled her across the street with the strength of a giant. + +"We're going to the mission," said the child. + +"It's just down there. Go 'long. I'll stand here and see that no one +meddles with you again." + +Edith faltered her thanks, and went on. + +"That's the queen," said her companion. + +"The queen!" Edith's hasty tones betrayed her surprise. + +"Yes; it's Norah. They're all afraid of her. I'm glad she saw us. +She's as strong as a man." + +In a few minutes they reached the mission, but in those few minutes +Edith saw more to sadden the heart, more to make it ache for +humanity, than could be described in pages. + +The missionary was at home. Edith told him the purpose of her call +and the locality she desired to visit. + +"I wanted to go alone," she remarked, "but this little girl, who is +in my class at the sewing-school, said it wouldn't be safe, and that +you would go with me." + +"I should be sorry to have you go alone into Grubb's court," said +the missionary, kindly, and with concern in his voice, "for a worse +place can hardly be found in the city--I was going to say in the +world. You will be safe with me, however. But why do you wish to +visit Grubb's court? Perhaps I can do all that is needed." + +"This little girl who lives in there, has been telling me about a +poor neglected baby that her mother says has no doubt been stolen, +and--and--" Edith voice faltered, but she quickly gained steadiness +under a strong effort of will: "I thought perhaps I might be able to +do something for it--to get it into one of the homes, maybe. It is +dreadful, sir, to think of little babies being neglected." + +Mr. Paulding questioned the child who had brought Edith to the +mission-house, and learned from her that the baby was merely boarded +by the woman who had it in charge, and that she sometimes took it +out and sat on the street, begging. The child repeated what she had +said to Edith--that the baby was the property, so to speak, of two +abandoned women, who paid its board. + +"I think," said the missionary, after some reflection, "that if +getting the child out of their hands is your purpose, you had better +not go there at present. Your visit would arouse suspicion; and if +the two women have anything to gain by keeping the child in their +possession, it will be at once taken to a new place. I am moving +about in these localities all the while, and can look in upon the +baby without anything being thought of it." + +This seemed so reasonable that Edith, who could not get over the +nervous tremors occasioned by what she had already seen and +encountered, readily consented to leave the matter for the present +in Mr. Paulding's hands. + +"If you will come here to-morrow," said the missionary, "I will tell +you all I can about the baby." + +Out of a region where disease, want and crime shrunk from common +observation, and sin and death held high carnival, Edith hurried +with trembling feet, and heart beating so heavily that she could +hear it throb, the considerate missionary going with her until she +had crossed the boundary of this morally infected district. + +Mr. Dinneford met Edith at the door on her arrival home. + +"My child," he exclaimed as he looked into her face, back to which +the color had not returned since her fright in Briar street, "are +you sick?" + +"I don't feel very well;" and she tried to pass him hastily in the +hall as they entered the house together. But he laid his hand on her +arm and held her back gently, then drew her into the parlor. She sat +down, trembling, weak and faint. Mr. Dinneford waited for some +moments, looking at her with a tender concern, before speaking. + +"Where have you been, my dear?" he asked, at length. + +After a little hesitation, Edith told her father about her visit to +Briar street and the shock she had received. + +"You were wrong," he answered, gravely. "It is most fortunate for +you that you took the child's advice and called at the mission. If +you had gone to Grubb's court alone, you might not have come out +alive." + +"Oh no, father! It can't be so bad as that." + +"It is just as bad as that," he replied, with a troubled face and +manner. "Grubb's court is one of the traps into which unwary victims +are drawn that they may be plundered. It is as much out of common +observation almost as the lair of a wild beast in some deep +wilderness. I have heard it described by those who have been there +under protection of the police, and shudder to think of the narrow +escape you have made. I don't want you to go into that vile district +again. It is no place for such as you." + +"There's a poor little baby there," said Edith, her voice trembling +and tears filling her eyes. Then, after a brief struggle with her +feelings, she threw herself upon her father, sobbing out, "And oh, +father, it may be my baby!" + +"My poor child," said Mr. Dinneford, not able to keep his voice +firm--"my poor, poor child! It is all a wild dream, the suggestion +of evil spirits who delight in torment." + +"What became of my baby, father? Can you tell me?" + +"It died, Edith dear. We know that," returned her father, trying to +speak very confidently. But the doubt in his own mind betrayed +itself. + +"Do you know it?" she asked, rising and confronting her father. + +"I didn't actually see it die. But--but--" + +"You know no more about it than I do," said Edith; "if you did, you +might set my heart at rest with a word. But you cannot. And so I am +left to my wild fears, that grow stronger every day. Oh, father, +help me, if you can. I must have certainty, or I shall lose my +reason." + +"If you don't give up this wild fancy, you surely will," answered +Mr. Dinneford, in a distressed voice. + +"If I were to shut myself up and do nothing," said Edith, with +greater calmness, "I would be in a madhouse before a week went by. +My safety lies in getting down to the truth of this wild fancy, as +you call it. It has taken such possession of me that nothing but +certainty can give me rest. Will you help me?" + +"How can I help you? I have no clue to this sad mystery." + +"Mystery! Then you are as much in the dark as I am--know no more of +what became of my baby than I do! Oh, father, how could you let such +a thing be done, and ask no questions--such a cruel and terrible +thing--and I lying helpless and dumb? Oh, father, my innocent baby +cast out like a dog to perish--nay, worse, like a lamb among wolves +to be torn by their cruel teeth--and no one to put forth a hand to +save! If I only knew that he was dead! If I could find his little +grave and comfort my heart over it!" + +Weak, naturally good men, like Mr. Dinneford, often permit great +wrongs to be done in shrinking from conflict and evading the sterner +duties of life. They are often the faithless guardians of immortal +trusts. + +There was a tone of accusation and rebuke in Edith's voice that +smote painfully on her father's heart. He answered feebly: + +"What could I do? How should I know that anything wrong was being +done? You were very ill, and the baby was sent away to be nursed, +and then I was told that it was dead." + +"Oh, father! Sent away without your seeing it! My baby! Your little +grandson! Oh, father!" + +"But you know, dear, in what a temper of mind your mother was--how +impossible it is for me to do anything with her when she once sets +herself to do a thing." + +"Even if it be murder!" said Edith, in a hoarse whisper. + +"Hush, hush, my child! You must not speak so," returned the agitated +father. + +A silence fell between them. A wall of separation began to grow up. +Edith arose, and was moving from the room. + +"My daughter!" There was a sob in the father's voice. + +Edith stopped. + +"My daughter, we must not part yet. Come back; sit down with me, and +let us talk more calmly. What is past cannot be changed. It is with +the now of this unhappy business that we have to do." + +Edith came back and sat down again, her father taking a seat beside +her. + +"That is just it," she answered, with a steadiness of tone and +manner that showed how great was the self-control she was able to +exert. "It is with the now of this unhappy affair that we have to +do. If I spoke strongly of the past, it was that a higher and +intenser life might be given to present duty." + +"Let there be no distance between us. Let no wall of separation grow +up," said Mr. Dinneford, tenderly. "I cannot bear to think of this. +Confide in me, consult with me. I will help you in all possible ways +to solve this mystery. But do not again venture alone into that +dreadful place. I will go with you if you think any good will come +of it." + +"I must see Mr. Paulding in the morning," said Edith, with calm +decision. + +"Then I will go with you," returned Mr. Dinneford. + +"Thank you, father;" and she kissed him. "Until then nothing more +can be done." She kissed him again, and then went to her own room. +After locking the door she sank on her knees, leaning forward, with +her face buried in the cushion of a chair, and did not rise for a +long time. + + + + + + +CHAPTER XIV. + + + + + +_ON_ the next morning, after some persuasion, Edith consented to +postpone her visit to Grubb's court until after her father had seen +Mr. Paulding, the missionary. + +"Let me go first and gain what information I can," he urged. "It may +save you a fruitless errand." + +It was not without a feeling of almost unconquerable repugnance that +Mr. Dinneford took his way to the mission-house, in Briar street. +His tastes, his habits and his naturally kind and sensitive feelings +all made him shrink from personal contact with suffering and +degradation. He gave much time and care to the good work of helping +the poor and the wretched, but did his work in boards and on +committees, rather than in the presence of the needy and suffering. +He was not one of those who would pass over to the other side and +leave a wounded traveler to perish, but he would avoid the road to +Jericho, if he thought it likely any such painful incident would +meet him in the way and shock his fine sensibilities. He was willing +to work for the downcast, the wronged, the suffering and the vile, +but preferred doing so at a distance, and not in immediate contact. +Thus it happened that, although one of the managers of the Briar +street mission and familiar with its work in a general way, he had +never been at the mission-house--had never, in fact, set his foot +within the morally plague-stricken district in which it stood. He +had often been urged to go, but could not overcome his reluctance to +meet humanity face to face in its sadder and more degraded aspects. + +Now a necessity was upon him, and he had to go. It was about ten +o'clock in the morning when, at almost a single step, he passed from +what seemed paradise to purgatory, the sudden contrast was so great. +There were but few persons in the little street; where the mission +was situated at that early hour, and most of these were +children--poor, half-clothed, dirty, wan-faced, keen-eyed and alert +bits of humanity, older by far than their natural years, few of them +possessing any higher sense of right and wrong than young savages. +The night's late orgies or crimes had left most of their elders in a +heavy morning sleep, from which they did not usually awaken before +midday. Here and there one and another came creeping out, impelled +by a thirst no water could quench. Now it was a bloated, wild-eyed +man, dirty and forlorn beyond description, shambling into sight, but +disappearing in a moment or two in one of the dram-shops, whose name +was legion, and now it was a woman with the angel all gone out of +her face, barefooted, blotched, coarse, red-eyed, bruised and +awfully disfigured by her vicious, drunken life. Her steps too made +haste to the dram-shop. + +Such houses for men and women to live in as now stretched before his +eyes in long dreary rows Mr. Dinneford had never seen, except in +isolated cases of vice and squalor. To say that he was shocked would +but faintly express his feelings. Hurrying along, he soon came in +sight of the mission. At this moment a jar broke the quiet of the +scene. Just beyond the mission-house two women suddenly made their +appearance, one of them pushing the other out upon the street. Their +angry cries rent the air, filling it with profane and obscene oaths. +They struggled together for a little while, and then one of them, a +woman with gray hair and not less than sixty years of age, fell +across the curb with her head on the cobble-stones. + +As if a sorcerer had stamped his foot, a hundred wretched creatures, +mostly women and children, seemed to spring up from the ground. It +was like a phantasy. They gathered about the prostrate woman, +laughing and jeering. A policeman who was standing at the corner a +little way off came up leisurely, and pushing the motley crew aside, +looked down at the prostrate woman. + +"Oh, it's you again!" he said, in a tone of annoyance, taking hold +of one arm and raising her so that she sat on the curb-stone. Mr. +Dinneford now saw her face distinctly; it was that of an old woman, +but red, swollen and terribly marred. Her thin gray hair had fallen +over her shoulders, and gave her a wild and crazy look. + +"Come," said the policeman, drawing on the woman's arm and trying to +raise her from the ground. But she would not move. + +"Come," he said, more imperatively. + +"Nature you going to do with me?" she demanded. + +"I'm going to lock you up. So come along. Have had enough of you +about here. Always drunk and in a row with somebody." + +Her resistance was making the policeman angry. + +"It'll take two like you to do that," returned the woman, in a +spiteful voice, swearing foully at the same time. + +At this a cheer arose from the crowd. A negro with a push-cart came +along at the moment. + +"Here! I want you," called the policeman. + +The negro pretended not to hear, and the policeman had to threaten +him before he would stop. + +Seeing the cart, the drunken woman threw herself back upon the +pavement and set every muscle to a rigid strain. And now came one of +those shocking scenes--too familiar, alas! in portions of our large +Christian cities--at which everything pure and merciful and holy in +our nature revolts: a gray-haired old woman, so debased by drink and +an evil life that all sense of shame and degradation had been +extinguished, fighting with a policeman, and for a time showing +superior strength, swearing vilely, her face distorted with passion, +and a crowd made up chiefly of women as vile and degraded as +herself, and of all ages, and colors, laughing, shouting and +enjoying the scene intensely. + +At last, by aid of the negro, the woman was lifted into the cart and +thrown down upon the floor, her head striking one of the sides with +a sickening _thud_. She still swore and struggled, and had to be +held down by the policeman, who stood over her, while the cart was +pushed off to the nearest station-house, the excited crowd following +with shouts and merry huzzas. + +Mr. Dinneford was standing in a maze, shocked and distressed by this +little episode, when a man at his side said in a grave, quiet voice, + +"I doubt if you could see a sight just like that anywhere else in +all Christendom." Then added, as he extended his hand, + +"I am glad to see you here, Mr. Dinneford." + +"Oh, Mr. Paulding!" and Mr. Dinneford put out his hand and grasped +that of the missionary with a nervous grip. "This is awful! I am +sixty years old, but anything so shocking my eyes have not before +looked upon." + +"We see things worse than this every day," said the missionary. "It +is only one of the angry boils on the surface, and tells of the +corrupt and vicious blood within. But I am right glad to find you +here, Mr. Dinneford. Unless you see these things with your own eyes, +it is impossible for you to comprehend the condition of affairs in +this by-way to hell." + +"Hell, itself, better say," returned Mr. Dinneford. "It is hell +pushing itself into visible manifestation--hell establishing itself +on the earth, and organizing its forces for the destruction of human +souls, while the churches are too busy enlarging their phylacteries +and making broader and more attractive the hems of their garments to +take note of this fatal vantage-ground acquired by the enemy." + +Mr. Dinneford stood and looked around him in a dazed sort of way. + +"Is Grubb's court near this?" he asked, recollecting the errand upon +which he had come. + +"Yes." + +"A young lady called to see you yesterday afternoon to ask about a +child in that court?" + +"Oh yes! You know the lady?" + +"She is my daughter. One of the poor children in her sewing-class +told her of a neglected baby in Grubb's court, and so drew upon her +sympathies that she started to go there, but was warned by the child +that it would be dangerous for a young lady like her to be seen in +that den of thieves and harlots, and so she came to you. And now I +am here in her stead to get your report about the baby. I would not +consent to her visiting this place again." + +Mr. Paulding took his visitor into the mission-house, near which +they were standing. After they were seated, he said, + +"I have seen the baby about which your daughter wished me to make +inquiry. The woman who has the care of it is a vile creature, well +known in this region--drunken and vicious. She said at first that it +was her own baby, but afterward admitted that she didn't know who +its mother was, and that she was paid for taking care of it. I found +out, after a good deal of talking round, and an interview with the +mother of the child who is in your daughter's sewing-class, that a +girl of notoriously bad character, named Pinky Swett, pays the +baby's board. There's a mystery about the child, and I am of the +opinion that it has been stolen, or is known to be the offcast of +some respectable family. The woman who has the care of it was +suspicious, and seemed annoyed at my questions." + +"Is it a boy?" asked Mr. Dinneford. + +"Yes, and has a finely-formed head and a pair of large, clear, hazel +eyes. Evidently it is of good parentage. The vicious, the sensual +and the depraved mark their offspring with the unmistakable signs of +their moral depravity. You cannot mistake them. But this baby has in +its poor, wasted, suffering little face, in its well-balanced head +and deep, almost spiritual eyes, the signs of a better origin." + +"It ought at once to be taken away from the woman," said Mr. +Dinneford, in a very decided manner. + +"Who is to take it?" asked the missionary. + +Mr. Dinneford was silent. + +"Neither you nor I have any authority to do so. If I were to see it +cast out upon the street, I might have it sent to the almshouse; but +until I find it abandoned or shamefully abused, I have no right to +interfere." + +"I would like to see the baby," said Mr. Dinneford, on whose mind +painful suggestions akin to those that were so disturbing his +daughter were beginning to intrude themselves. + +"It would hardly be prudent to go there to-day," said Mr. Paulding. + +"Why not?" + +"It would arouse suspicion; and if there is anything wrong, the baby +would drop out of sight. You would not find it if you went again. +These people are like birds with their wings half lifted, and fly +away at the first warning of danger. As it is, I fear my visit and +inquiries will be quite sufficient to the cause the child's removal +to another place." + +Mr. Dinneford mused for a while: + +"There ought to be some way to reach a case like this, and there is, +I am sure. From what you say, it is more than probable that this +poor little waif may have drifted out of some pleasant home, where +love would bless it with the tenderest care, into this hell of +neglect and cruelty. It should be rescued on the instant. It is my +duty--it is yours--to see that it is done, and that without delay. I +will go at once to the mayor and state the case. He will send an +officer with me, I know, and we will take the child by force. If its +real mother then comes forward and shows herself at all worthy to +have the care of it, well; if not, I will see that it is taken care +of. I know where to place it." + +To this proposition Mr. Paulding had no objection to offer. + +"If you take that course, and act promptly, you can no doubt get +possession of the poor thing. Indeed, sir"--and the missionary spoke +with much earnestness--"if men of influence like yourself would come +here and look the evil of suffering and neglected children in the +face, and then do what they could to destroy that evil, there would +soon be joy in heaven over the good work accomplished by their +hands. I could give you a list of ten or twenty influential citizens +whose will would be next to law in a matter like this who could in a +month, if they put heart and hand to it, do such a work for humanity +here as would make the angels glad. But they are too busy with their +great enterprises to give thought and effort to a work like this." + +A shadow fell across the missionary's face. There was a tone of +discouragement in his voice. + +"The great question is _what_ to do," said Mr. Dinneford. "There are +no problems so hard to solve as these problems of social evil. If +men and women choose to debase themselves, who is to hinder? The +vicious heart seeks a vicious life. While the heart is depraved the +life will be evil. So long as the fountain is corrupt the water will +be foul." + +"There is a side to all this that most people do not consider," +answered Mr. Paulding. "Self-hurt is one thing, hurt of the neighbor +quite another. It may be questioned whether society has a right to +touch the individual freedom of a member in anything that affects +himself alone. But the moment he begins to hurt his neighbor, +whether from ill-will or for gain, then it is the duty of society to +restrain him. The common weal demands this, to say nothing of +Christian obligation. If a man were to set up an exhibition in our +city dangerous to life and limb, but so fascinating as to attract +large numbers to witness and participate therein, and if hundreds +were maimed or killed every year, do you think any one would +question the right of our authorities to repress it? And yet to-day +there are in our city more than twenty thousand persons who live by +doing things a thousand times more hurtful to the people than any +such exhibition could possibly be. And what is marvelous to think +of, the larger part of these persons are actually licensed by the +State to get gain by hurting, depraving and destroying the people. +Think of it, Mr. Dinneford! The whole question lies in a nutshell. +There is no difficulty about the problem. Restrain men from doing +harm to each other, and the work is more than half done." + +"Is not the law all the while doing this?" + +"The law," was answered. "is weakly dealing with effect--how weakly +let prison and police statistics show. Forty thousand arrests in our +city for a single year, and the cause of these arrests clearly +traced to the liquor licenses granted to five or six thousand +persons to make money by debasing and degrading the people. If all +of these were engaged in useful employments, serving, as every true +citizen is bound to do, the common good, do you think we should have +so sad and sickening a record? No, sir! We must go back to the +causes of things. Nothing but radical work will do." + +"You think, then," said Mr. Dinneford, "that the true remedy for all +these dreadful social evils lies in restrictive legislation?" + +"Restrictive only on the principles of eternal right," answered the +missionary. "Man's freedom over himself must not be touched. Only +his freedom to hurt his neighbor must be abridged. Here society has +a right to put bonds on its members--to say to each individual, You +are free to do anything by which your neighbor is served, but +nothing to harm him. Here is where the discrimination must be made; +and when the mass of the people come to see this, we shall have the +beginning of a new day. There will then be hope for such poor +wretches as crowd this region; or if most of them are so far lost as +to be without hope, their places, when they die, will not be filled +with new recruits for the army of perdition." + +"If the laws we now have were only executed," said Mr. Dinneford, +"there might be hope in our legislative restrictions. But the people +are defrauded of justice through defects in its machinery. There are +combinations to defeat good laws. There are men holding high office +notoriously in league with scoundrels who prey upon the people. +Through these, justice perpetually fails." + +"The people are alone to blame," replied the missionary. "Each is +busy with his farm and his merchandise with his own affairs, +regardless of his neighbor. The common good is nothing, so that his +own good is served. Each weakly folds his hands and is sorry when +these troublesome questions are brought to his notice, but doesn't +see that he can do anything. Nor can the people, unless some strong +and influential leaders rally them, and, like great generals, lead +them to the battle. As I said a little while ago, there are ten or +twenty men in this city who, if they could be made to feel their +high responsibility--who, if they could be induced to look away for +a brief period from their great enterprises and concentrate thought +and effort upon these questions of social evil, abuse of justice and +violations of law--would in a single month inaugurate reforms and +set agencies to work that would soon produce marvelous changes. They +need not touch the rottenness of this half-dead carcass with knife +or poultice. Only let them cut off the sources of pollution and +disease, and the purified air will do the work of restoration where +moral vitality remains, or hasten the end in those who are debased +beyond hope." + +"What could these men do? Where would their work begin?" asked Mr. +Dinneford. + +"Their own intelligence would soon discover the way to do this work +if their hearts were in it. Men who can organize and successfully +conduct great financial and industrial enterprises, who know how to +control the wealth and power of the country and lead the people +almost at will, would hardly be at fault in the adjustment of a +matter like this. What would be the money influence of 'whisky +rings' and gambling associations, set against the social and money +influence of these men? Nothing, sir, nothing! Do you think we +should long have over six thousand bars and nearly four hundred +lottery-policy shops in our city if the men to whom I refer were to +take the matter in hand?" + +"Are there so many policy-shops?" asked Mr. Dinneford, in surprise. + +"There may be more. You will find them by scores in every locality +where poor and ignorant people are crowded together, sucking out +their substance, and in the neighborhood of all the market-houses +and manufactories, gathering in spoil. The harm they are doing is +beyond computation. The men who control this unlawful business are +rich and closely organized. They gather in their dishonest gains at +the rate of hundreds of thousands of dollars every year, and know +how and where to use this money for the protection of their agents +in the work of defrauding the people, and the people are helpless +because our men of wealth and influence have no time to give to +public justice or the suppression of great social wrongs. With them, +as things now are, rests the chief responsibility. They have the +intelligence, the wealth and the public confidence, and are fully +equal to the task if they will put their hands to the work. Let them +but lift the standard and sound the trumpet of reform, and the +people will rally instantly at the call. It must not be a mere +spasmodic effort--a public meeting with wordy resolutions and strong +speeches only--but organized work based on true principles of social +order and the just rights of the people." + +"You are very much in earnest about this matter," said Mr. +Dinneford, seeing how excited the missionary had grown. + +"And so would you and every other good citizen become if, standing +face to face, as I do daily, with this awful debasement and crime +and suffering, you were able to comprehend something of its real +character. If I could get the influential citizens to whom I have +referred to come here and see for themselves, to look upon this +pandemonium in their midst and take in an adequate idea of its +character, significance and aggressive force, there would be some +hope of making them see their duty, of arousing them to action. But +they stand aloof, busy with personal and material interest, while +thousands of men, women and children are yearly destroyed, soul and +body, through their indifference to duty and ignorance of their +fellows' suffering." + +"It is easy to say such things," answered Mr. Dinneford, who felt +the remarks of Mr. Paulding as almost personal. + +"Yes, it is easy to say them," returned the missionary, his voice +dropping to a lower key, "and it may be of little use to say them. I +am sometimes almost in despair, standing so nearly alone as I do +with my feet on the very brink of this devastating flood of evil, +and getting back only faint echoes to my calls for help. But when +year after year I see some sheaves coming in as the reward of my +efforts and of the few noble hearts that work with me, I thank God +and take courage, and I lift my voice and call more loudly for help, +trusting that I may be heard by some who, if they would only come up +to the help of the Lord against the mighty, would scatter his foes +like chaff on the threshing-floor. But I am holding you back from +your purpose to visit the mayor; I think you had better act promptly +if you would get possession of the child. I shall be interested in +the result, and will take it as a favor if you will call at the +mission again." + + + + + + +CHAPTER XV. + + + + + +_WHEN_ Mr. Dinneford and the policeman sent by the mayor at his +solicitation visited Grubb's court, the baby was not to be found. +The room in which it had been seen by Mr. Paulding was vacant. Such +a room as it was!--low and narrow, with bare, blackened walls, the +single window having scarcely two whole panes of glass, the air +loaded with the foulness that exhaled from the filth-covered floor, +the only furniture a rough box and a dirty old straw bed lying in a +corner. + +As Mr. Dinneford stood at the door of this room and inhaled its +fetid air, he grew sick, almost faint. Stepping back, with a shocked +and disgusted look on his face, he said to the policeman, + +"There must be a mistake. This cannot be the room." + +Two or three children and a coarse, half-clothed woman, seeing a +gentleman going into the house accompanied by a policeman, had +followed them closely up stairs. + +"Who lives in this room?" asked the policeman, addressing the woman. + +"Don't know as anybody lives there now," she replied, with evident +evasion. + +"Who did live here?" demanded the policeman. + +"Oh, lots!" returned the woman, curtly. + +"I want to know who lived here last," said the policeman, a little +sternly. + +"Can't say--never keep the run of 'em," answered the woman, with +more indifference than she felt. "Goin' and comin' all the while. +Maybe it was Poll Davis." + +"Had she a baby?" + +The woman gave a vulgar laugh as she replied: "I rather think not." + +"It was Moll Fling," said one of the children, "and she had a baby." + +"When was she here last?" inquired the policeman. + +The woman, unseen by the latter, raised her fist and threatened the +child, who did not seem to be in the least afraid of her, for she +answered promptly: + +"She went away about an hour ago." + +"And took the baby?" + +"Yes. You see Mr. Paulding was here asking about the baby, and she +got scared." + +"Why should that scare her?" + +"I don't know, only it isn't her baby." + +"How do you know that?" + +"'Cause it isn't--I know it isn't. She's paid to take care of it." + +"Who by?" + +"Pinky Swett." + +"Who's Pinky Swett?" + +"Don't you know Pinky Swett?" and the child seemed half surprised. + +"Where does Pinky Swett live?" asked the policeman. + +"She did live next door for a while, but I don't know where she's +gone." + +Nothing beyond this could be ascertained. But having learned the +names of the women who had possession of the child, the policeman +said there would be no difficulty about discovering them. It might +take a little time, but they could not escape the vigilance of the +police. + +With this assurance, Mr. Dinneford hastened from the polluted air of +Grubb's court, and made his way to the mission in Briar street, in +order to have some further conference with Mr. Paulding. + +"As I feared," said the missionary, on learning that the baby could +not be found. "These creatures are as keen of scent as Indians, and +know the smallest sign of danger. It is very plain that there is +something wrong--that these women have no natural right to the +child, and that they are not using it to beg with." + +"Do you know a woman called Pinky Swett?" asked the policeman. + +"I've heard of her, but do not know her by sight. She bears a hard +reputation even here, and adds to her many evil accomplishments the +special one of adroit robbery. A victim lured to her den rarely +escapes without loss of watch or pocket-book. And not one in a +hundred dares to give information, for this would expose him to the +public, and so her crimes are covered. Pinky Swett is not the one to +bother herself about a baby unless its parentage be known, and not +then unless the knowledge can be turned to advantage." + +"The first thing to be done, then, is to find this woman," said the +policeman. + +"That will not be very hard work. But finding the baby, if she +thinks you are after it, would not be so easy," returned Mr. +Paulding. "She's as cunning as a fox." + +"We shall see. If the chief of police undertakes to find the baby, +it won't be out of sight long. You'd better confer with the mayor +again," added the policeman, addressing Mr. Dinneford. + +"I will do so without delay," returned that gentleman. + +"I hope to see you here again soon," said the missionary as Mr. +Dinneford was about going. "If I can help you in any way, I shall do +so gladly." + +"I have no doubt but that you can render good service." Then, in +half apology, and to conceal the real concern at his heart, Mr. +Dinneford added, "Somehow, and strangely enough when I come to think +of it, I have allowed myself to get drawn into this thing, and once +in, the natural persistence of my character leads me to go on to the +end. I am one of those who cannot bear to give up or acknowledge a +defeat; and so, having set my hand to this work, I am going to see +it through." + +When the little girl who had taken Edith to the mission-house in +Briar street got home and told her story, there was a ripple of +excitement in that part of Grubb's court where she lived, and a new +interest was felt in the poor neglected baby. Mr. Paulding's visit +and inquiries added to this interest. It had been several days since +Pinky Swett's last visit to the child to see that it was safe. On +the morning after Edith's call at the mission she came in about ten +o'clock, and heard the news. In less than twenty minutes the child +and the woman who had charge of it both disappeared from Grubb's +court. Pinky sent them to her own room, not many squares distant, +and then drew from the little girl who was in Edith's sewing-class +all she knew about that young lady. It was not much that the child +could tell. She was very sweet and good and handsome, and wore such +beautiful clothes, was so kind and patient with the girls, but she +did not remember her name, thought it was Edith. + +"Now, see here," said Pinky, and she put some money into the child's +hand; "I want you to find out for me what her name is and where she +lives. Mind, you must be very careful to remember." + +"What do you want to know for?" asked the little girl. + +"That's none of your business. Do what I tell you," returned Pinky, +with impatience; "and if you do it right, I'll give you a quarter +more. When do you go again?" + +"Next week, on Thursday." + +"Not till next Thursday!" exclaimed Pinky, in a tone of +disappointment. + +"The school's only once a week." + +Pinky chafed a good deal, but it was of no use; she must wait. + +"You'll be sure and go next Thursday?" she said. + +"If Mother lets me," replied the child. + +"Oh, I'll see to that; I'll make her let you. What time does the +school go in?" + +"At three o'clock." + +"Very well. You wait for me. I'll come round here at half-past two, +and go with you. I want to see the young lady. They'll let me come +into the school and learn to sew, won't they?" + +"I don't know; you're too big, and you don't want to learn." + +"How do you know I don't?" + +"Because I do." + +Pinky laughed, and then said, + +"You'll wait for me?" + +"Yes, if mother says so." + +"All right;" and Pinky hurried away to take measures for hiding the +baby from a search that she felt almost sure was about being made. +The first thing she did was to soundly abuse the woman in whose care +she had placed the hapless child for her neglect and ill treatment, +both of which were too manifest, and then to send her away under the +new aspect of affairs she did not mean to trust this woman, nor +indeed to trust anybody who knew anything of the inquiries which had +been made about the child. A new nurse must be found, and she must +live as far away from the old locality as possible. Pinky was not +one inclined to put things off. Thought and act were always close +together. Scarcely had the woman been gone ten minutes, before, +bundling the baby in a shawl, she started off to find a safer +hiding-place. This time she was more careful about the character and +habits of the person selected for a nurse, and the baby's condition +was greatly improved. The woman in whose charge she placed it was +poor, but neither drunken nor depraved. Pinky arranged with her to +take the care of it for two dollars a week, and supplied it with +clean and comfortable clothing. Even she, wicked and vile as she +was, could not help being touched by the change that appeared in the +baby's shrunken face, and in its sad but beautiful eyes, after its +wasted little body had been cleansed and clothed in clean, warm +garments and it had taken its fill of nourishing food. + +"It's a shame, the way it has been abused," said Pinky, speaking +from an impulse of kindness, such as rarely swelled in her evil +heart. + +"A crying shame," answered the woman as she drew the baby close +against her bosom and gazed down upon its pitiful face, and into the +large brown eyes that were lifted to hers in mute appeal. + +The real motherly tenderness that was in this woman's heart was +quickly perceived by the child, who did not move its eyes from hers, +but lay perfectly still, gazing up at her in a kind of easeful rest +such as it had never before known. She spoke to it in loving tones, +touched its thin cheeks with her finger in playful caresses, kissed +it on its lips and forehead, hugged it to her bosom; and still the +eyes were fixed on hers in a strange baby-wonder, though not the +faintest glinting of a smile played on its lips or over its serious +face. Had it never learned to smile? + +At last the poor thin lips curved a little, crushing out the lines +of suffering, and into the eyes there came a loving glance in place +of the fixed, wondering look that was almost a stare. A slight +lifting of the hands, a motion of the head, a thrill through the +whole body came next, and then a tender cooing sound. + +"Did you ever see such beautiful eyes?" said the woman. "It will be +a splendid baby when it has picked up a little." + +"Let it pick up as fast as it can," returned Pinky; "but mind what I +say: you are to be mum. Here's your pay for the first week, and you +shall have it fair and square always. Call it your own baby, if you +will, or your grandson. Yes, that's better. He's the child of your +dead daughter, just sent to you from somewhere out of town. So take +good care of him, and keep your mouth shut. I'll be round again in a +little while." + +And with this injunction Pinky went away. On the next Thursday she +visited the St. John's mission sewing-school in company with the +little girl from Grubb's court, but greatly to her disappointment, +Edith did not make her appearance. There were four or five ladies in +attendance on the school, which, under the superintendence of one of +them, a woman past middle life, with a pale, serious face and a +voice clear and sweet, was conducted with an order and decorum not +often maintained among a class of children such as were there +gathered together. + +It was a long time since Pinky had found herself so repressed and +ill at ease. There was a spiritual atmosphere in the place that did +not vitalize her blood. She felt a sense of constriction and +suffocation. She had taken her seat in the class taught usually by +Edith, with the intention of studying that young lady and finding +out all she could about her, not doubting her ability to act the +part in hand with perfect self-possession. But she had not been in +the room a minute before confidence began to die, and very soon she +found herself ill at ease and conscious of being out of her place. +The bold, bad woman felt weak and abashed. An unseen sphere of +purity and Christian love surrounded and touched her soul with as +palpable an impression as outward things give to the body. She had +something of the inward distress and pain a devil would feel if +lifted into the pure air of heaven, and the same desire to escape +and plunge back into the dense and impure atmosphere in which evil +finds its life and enjoyment. If she had come with any good purpose, +it would have been different, but evil, and only evil, was in her +heart; and when this felt the sphere of love and purity, her breast +was constricted and life seemed going out of her. + +It was little less than torture to Pinky for the short time she +remained. As soon as she was satisfied that Edith would not be +there, she threw down the garment on which she had been pretending +to sew, and almost ran from the room. + +"Who is that girl?" asked the lady who was teaching the class, +looking in some surprise after the hurrying figure. + +"It's Pinky Swett," answered the child from Grubb's court. "She +wanted to see our teacher." + +"Who is your regular teacher?" was inquired. + +"Don't remember her name." + +"It's Edith," spoke up one of the girls. "Mrs. Martin called her +that." + +"What did this Pinky Swett want to see her about?" + +"Don't know," answered the child as she remembered the money Pinky +had given her and the promise of more. + +The teacher questioned no further, but went on with her work in the +class. + + + + + + +CHAPTER XVI. + + + + + +_IT_ was past midday when Mr. Dinneford returned home after his +fruitless search. Edith, who had been waiting for hours in restless +suspense, heard his step in the hall, and ran down to meet him. + +"Did you see the baby?"' she asked, trying to keep her agitation +down. + +Mr. Dinneford only shook his head, + +"Why, not, father?" Her voice choked. + +"It could not be found." + +"You saw Mr. Paulding?" + +"Yes." + +"Didn't he find the baby?" + +"Oh yes. But when I went to Grubb's court this morning, it was not +there, and no one could or would give any information about it. As +the missionary feared, those having possession of the baby had taken +alarm and removed it to another place. But I have seen the mayor and +some of the police, and got them interested. It will not be possible +to hide the child for any length of time." + +"You said that Mr. Paulding saw it?" + +"Yes." + +"What did he say?" Edith's voice trembled as she asked the question. + +"He thinks there is something wrong." + +"Did he tell you how the baby looked?" + +"He said that it had large, beautiful brown eyes." + +Edith clasped her hands, and drew them tightly against her bosom. + +"Oh, father! if it should be my baby!" + +"My dear, dear child," said Mr. Dinneford, putting his arms about +Edith and holding her tightly, "you torture yourself with a wild +dream. The thing is impossible." + +"It is somebody's baby," sobbed Edith, her face on her father's +breast, "and it may be mine. Who knows?" + +"We will do our best to find it," returned Mr. Dinneford, "and then +do what Christian charity demands. I am in earnest so far, and will +leave nothing undone, you may rest assured. The police have the +mayor's instructions to find the baby and give it into my care, and +I do not think we shall have long to wait." + +An ear they thought not of, heard all this. Mrs. Dinneford's +suspicions had been aroused by many things in Edith's manner and +conduct of late, and she had watched her every look and word and +movement with a keenness of observation that let nothing escape. +Careful as her husband and daughter were in their interviews, it was +impossible to conceal anything from eyes that never failed in +watchfulness. An unguarded word here, a look of mutual intelligence +there, a sudden silence when she appeared, an unusual soberness of +demeanor and evident absorbed interest in something they were +careful to conceal, had the effect to quicken all Mrs. Dinneford's +alarms and suspicions. + +She had seen from the top of the stairs a brief but excited +interview pass between Edith and her father as the latter stood in +the vestibule that morning, and she had noticed the almost wild look +on her daughter's face as she hastened back along the hall and ran +up to her room. Here she stayed alone for over an hour, and then +came down to the parlor, where she remained restless, moving about +or standing by the window for a greater part of the morning. + +There was something more than usual on hand. Guilt in its guesses +came near the truth. What could all this mean, if it had not +something to do with the cast-off baby? Certainty at last came. She +was in the dining-room when Edith ran down to meet her father in the +hall, and slipped noiselessly and unobserved into one of the +parlors, where, concealed by a curtain, she heard everything that +passed between her husband and daughter. + +Still as death she stood, holding down the strong pulses of her +heart. From the hall Edith and her father turned into one of the +parlors--the same in which Mrs. Dinneford was concealed behind the +curtain--and sat down. + +"It had large brown eyes?" said Edith, a yearning tenderness in her +voice. + +"Yes, and a finely-formed bead, showing good parentage," returned +the father. + +"Didn't you find out who the women were--the two bad women the +little girl told me about? If we had their names, the police could +find them. The little girl's mother must know who they are." + +"We have the name of one of them," said Mr. Dinneford. "She is +called Pinky Swett, and it can't be long before the police are on +her track. She is said to be a desperate character. Nothing more can +be done now; we must wait until the police work up the affair. I +will call at the mayor's office in the morning and find out what has +been done." + +Mrs. Dinneford heard no more. The bell rang, and her husband and +daughter left the parlor and went up stairs. The moment they were +beyond observation she glided noiselessly through the hall, and +reached her chamber without being noticed. Soon afterward she came +down dressed for visiting, and went out hastily, her veil closely +drawn. Her manner was hurried. Descending the steps, she stood for a +single moment, as if hesitating which way to go, and then moved off +rapidly. Soon she had passed out of the fashionable neighborhood in +which she lived. After this she walked more slowly, and with the air +of one whose mind was in doubt or hesitation. Once she stopped, and +turning about, slowly retraced her steps for the distance of a +square. Then she wheeled around, as if from some new and strong +resolve, and went on again. At last she paused before a +respectable-looking house of moderate size in a neighborhood remote +from the busier and more thronged parts of the city. The shutters +were all bowed down to the parlor, and the house had a quiet, +unobtrusive look. Mrs. Dinneford gave a quick, anxious glance up and +down the street, and then hurriedly ascended the steps and rang the +bell. + +"Is Mrs. Hoyt in?" she asked of a stupid-looking girl who came to +the door. + +"Yes, ma'am," was answered. + +"Tell her a lady wants to see her;" and she passed into the +plainly-furnished parlor. There were no pictures on the walls nor +ornaments on the mantel-piece, nor any evidence of taste--nothing +home-like--in the shadowed room, the atmosphere of which was close +and heavy. She waited here for a few moments, when there was a +rustle of garments and the sound of light, quick feet on the stairs. +A small, dark-eyed, sallow-faced woman entered the parlor. + +"Mrs. Bray--no, Mrs. Hoyt." + +"Mrs. Dinneford;" and the two women stood face to face for a few +moments, each regarding the other keenly. + +"Mrs. Hoyt--don't forget," said the former, with a warning emphasis +in her voice. "Mrs. Bray is dead." + +In her heart Mrs. Dinneford wished that it were indeed so. + +"Anything wrong?" asked the black-eyed little woman. + +"Do you know a Pinky Swett?" asked Mrs. Dinneford, abruptly. + +Mrs. Hoyt--so we must now call her--betrayed surprise at this +question, and was about answering "No," but checked herself and gave +a half-hesitating "Yes," adding the question, "What about her?" + +Before Mrs. Dinneford could reply, however, Mrs. Hoyt took hold of +her arm and said, "Come up to my room. Walls have ears sometimes, +and I will not answer for these." + +Mrs. Dinneford went with her up stairs to a chamber in the rear part +of the building. + +"We shall be out of earshot here," said Mrs. Hoyt as she closed the +door, locking it at the same time. "And now tell me what's up, and +what about Pinky Swett." + +"You know her?" + +"Yes, slightly." + +"More than slightly, I guess." + +Mrs. Hoyt's eyes flashed impatiently. Mrs. Dinneford saw it, and +took warning. + +"She's got that cursed baby." + +"How do you know?" + +"No matter how I know. It's enough that I know. Who is she?" + +"That question may be hard to answer. About all I know of her is +that she came from the country a few years ago, and has been +drifting about here ever since." + +"What is she doing with that baby? and how did she get hold of it?" + +"Questions more easily asked than answered." + +"Pshaw! I don't want any beating about the bush, Mrs. Bray." + +"Mrs. Hoyt," said the person addressed. + +"Oh, well, Mrs. Hoyt, then. We ought to understand each other by +this time." + +"I guess we do;" and the little woman arched her brows. + +"I don't want any beating about the bush," resumed Mrs. Dinneford. +"I am here on business." + +"Very well; let's to business, then;" and Mrs. Hoyt leaned back in +her chair. + +"Edith knows that this woman has the baby," said Mrs. Dinneford. + +"What!" and Mrs. Hoyt started to her feet. + +"The mayor has been seen, and the police are after her." + +"How do you know?" + +"Enough that I know. And now, Mrs. Hoyt, this thing must come to an +end, and there is not an instant to be lost. Has Pinky Swett, as she +is called, been told where the baby came from?" + +"Not by me." + +"By anybody?" + +"That is more than I can say." + +"What has become of the woman I gave it to?" + +"She's about somewhere." + +"When did you see her?" + +Mrs. Hoyt pretended to think for some moments, and then replied: + +"Not for a month or two." + +"Had she the baby then?" + +"No; she was rid of it long before that." + +"Did she know this Pinky Swett?" + +"Yes." + +"Curse the brat! If I'd thought all this trouble was to come, I'd +have smothered it before it was half an hour old." + +"Risky business," remarked Mrs. Hoyt. + +"Safer than to have let it live," said Mrs. Dinneford, a hard, evil +expression settling around her mouth. "And now I want the thing +done. You understand. Find this Pinky Swett. The police are after +her, and may be ahead of you. I am desperate, you see. Anything but +the discovery and possession of this child by Edith. It must be got +out of the way. If it will not starve, it must drown." + +Mrs. Dinneford's face was distorted by the strength of her evil +passions. Her eyes were full of fire, flashing now, and now glaring +like those of a wild animal. + +"It might fall out of a window," said Mrs. Hoyt, in a low, even +voice, and with a faint smile on her lips. "Children fall out of +windows sometimes." + +"But don't always get killed," answered Mrs. Dinneford, coldly. + +"Or, it might drop from somebody's arms into the river--off the deck +of a ferryboat, I mean," added Mrs. Hoyt. + +"That's better. But I don't care how it's done, so it's done." + +"Accidents are safer," said Mrs. Hoyt. + +"I guess you're right about that. Let it be an accident, then." + +It was half an hour from the time Mrs. Dinneford entered this house +before she came away. As she passed from the door, closely veiled, a +gentleman whom she knew very well was going by on the opposite side +of the street. From something in his manner she felt sure that he +had recognized her, and that the recognition had caused him no +little surprise. Looking back two or three times as she hurried +homeward, she saw, to her consternation, that he was following her, +evidently with the purpose of making sure of her identity. + +To throw this man off of her track was Mrs. Dinneford's next +concern. This she did by taking a street-car that was going in a +direction opposite to the part of the town in which she lived, and +riding for a distance of over a mile. An hour afterward she came +back to her own neighborhood, but not without a feeling of +uneasiness. Just as she was passing up to the door of her residence +a gentleman came hurriedly around the nearest corner. She recognized +him at a glance. It seemed as if the servant would never answer her +ring. On he came, until the sound of his steps was in her ears. He +was scarcely ten paces distant when the door opened and she passed +in. When she gained her room, she sat down faint and trembling. Here +was a new element in the danger and disgrace that were digging her +steps so closely. + +As we have seen, Edith did not make her appearance at the mission +sewing-school on the following Thursday, nor did she go there for +many weeks afterward. The wild hope that had taken her to Briar +street, the nervous strain and agitation attendant on that visit, +and the reaction occasioned by her father's failure to get +possession of the baby, were too much for her strength, and an utter +prostration of mind and body was the consequence. There was no fever +nor sign of any active disease--only weakness, Nature's enforced +quietude, that life and reason might be saved. + + + + + + +CHAPTER XVII. + + + + + +_THE_ police were at fault. They found Pinky Swett, but were not +able to find the baby. Careful as they were in their surveillance, +she managed to keep them on the wrong track and to baffle every +effort to discover what had been done with the child. + +In this uncertainty months went by. Edith came up slowly from her +prostrate condition, paler, sadder and quieter, living in a kind of +waking dream. Her father tried to hold her back from her mission +work among the poor, but she said, "I must go, father; I will die if +I do not." + +And so her life lost itself in charities. Now and then her mother +made an effort to draw her into society. She had not yet given up +her ambition, nor her hope of one day seeing her daughter take +social rank among the highest, or what she esteemed the highest. But +her power over Edith was entirely gone. She might as well have set +herself to turn the wind from its course as to influence her in +anything. It was all in vain. Edith had dropped out of society, and +did not mean to go back. She had no heart for anything outside of +her home, except the Christian work to which she had laid her hands. + +The restless, watchful, suspicious manner exhibited for a long time +by Mrs. Dinneford, and particularly noticed by Edith, gradually wore +off. She grew externally more like her old self, but with something +new in the expression of her face when in repose, that gave a chill +to the heart of Edith whenever she saw its mysterious record, that +seemed in her eyes only an imperfect effort to conceal some guilty +secret. + +Thus the mother and daughter, though in daily personal contact, +stood far apart--were internally as distant from each other as the +antipodes. + +As for Mr. Dinneford, what he had seen and heard on his first visit +to Briar street had aroused him to a new and deeper sense of his +duty as a citizen. Against all the reluctance and protests of his +natural feelings, he had compelled himself to stand face to face +with the appalling degradation and crime that festered and rioted in +that almost Heaven-deserted region. He had heard and read much about +its evil condition; but when, under the protection of a policeman, +he went from house to house, from den to den, through cellar and +garret and hovel, comfortless and filthy as dog-kennels and +pig-styes, and saw the sick and suffering, the utterly vile and +debauched, starving babes and children with faces marred by crime, +and the legion of harpies who were among them as birds of prey, he +went back to his home sick at heart, and with a feeling of +helplessness and hopelessness out of which he found it almost +impossible to rise. + +We cannot stain our pages with a description of what he saw. It is +so vile and terrible, alas, so horrible, that few would credit it. +The few imperfect glimpses of life in that region which we have +already given are sad enough and painful enough, but they only hint +at the real truth. + +"What can be done?" asked Mr. Dinneford of the missionary, at their +next meeting, in a voice that revealed his utter despair of a +remedy. "To me it seems as if nothing but fire could purify this +region." + +"The causes that have produced this would soon create another as +bad," was answered. + +"What are the causes?" + +"The primary cause," said Mr. Paulding, "is the effort of hell to +establish itself on the earth for the destruction of human souls; +the secondary cause lies in the indifference and supineness of the +people. 'While the husband-men slept the enemy sowed tares.' Thus it +was of old, and thus it is to-day. The people are sleeping or +indifferent, the churches are sleeping or indifferent, while the +enemy goes on sowing tares for the harvest of death." + +"Well may you say the harvest of death," returned Mr. Dinneford, +gloomily. + +"And hell," added the missionary, with a stern emphasis. "Yes, sir, +it is the harvest of death and hell that is gathered here, and such +a full harvest! There is little joy in heaven over the sheaves that +are garnered in this accursed region. What hope is there in fire, or +any other purifying process, if the enemy be permitted to go on +sowing his evil seed at will?" + +"How will you prevent it?" asked Mr. Dinneford. + +"Not by standing afar off and leaving the enemy in undisputed +possession--not by sleeping while he sows and reaps and binds into +bundles for the fires, his harvests of human souls! We must be as +alert and wise and ready of hand as he; and God being our helper, we +can drive him from the field!" + +"You have thought over this sad problem a great deal," said Mr. +Dinneford. "You have stood face to face with the enemy for years, +and know his strength and his resources. Have you any well-grounded +hope of ever dislodging him from this stronghold?" + +"I have just said it, Mr. Dinneford. But until the churches and the +people come up to the help of the Lord against the mighty, he cannot +be dislodged. I am standing here, sustained in my work by a small +band of earnest Christian men and women, like an almost barren rock +in the midst of a down-rushing river on whose turbulent surface +thousands are being swept to destruction. The few we are able to +rescue are as a drop in the bucket to the number who are lost. In +weakness and sorrow, almost in despair sometimes, we stand on our +rock, with the cry of lost souls mingling with the cry of fiends in +our ears, and wonder at the churches and the people, that they stand +aloof--nay, worse, turn from us coldly often--when we press the +claims of this worse than heathen people who are perishing at their +very doors. + +"Sir," continued the missionary, warming on his theme, "I was in a +church last Sunday that cost its congregation over two hundred +thousand dollars. It was an anniversary occasion, and the +collections for the day were to be given to some foreign mission. +How eloquently the preacher pleaded for the heathen! What vivid +pictures of their moral and spiritual destitution he drew! How full +of pathos he was, even to tears! And the congregation responded in a +contribution of over three thousand dollars, to be sent somewhere, +and to be disbursed by somebody of whom not one in a hundred of the +contributors knew anything or took the trouble to inform themselves. +I felt sick and oppressed at such a waste of money and Christian +sympathy, when heathen more destitute and degraded than could be +found in any foreign land were dying at home in thousands every +year, unthought of and uncared for. I gave no amens to his +prayers--I could not. They would have stuck in my throat. I said to +myself, in bitterness and anger, 'How dare a watchman on the walls +of Zion point to an enemy afar off, of whose movements and power and +organization he knows but little, while the very gates of the city +are being stormed and its walls broken down?' But you must excuse +me, Mr. Dinneford. I lose my calmness sometimes when these things +crowd my thoughts too strongly. I am human like the rest, and weak, +and cannot stand in the midst of this terrible wickedness and +suffering year after year without being stirred by it to the very +inmost of my being. In my intense absorption I can see nothing else +sometimes." + +He paused for a little while, and then said, in a quiet, business +way, + +"In seeking a remedy for the condition of society found here, we +must let common sense and a knowledge of human nature go hand in +hand with Christian charity. To ignore any of these is to make +failure certain. If the whisky-and policy-shops were all closed, the +task would be easy. In a single month the transformation would be +marvelous. But we cannot hope for this, at least not for a long time +to come--not until politics and whisky are divorced, and not until +associations of bad men cease to be strong enough in our courts to +set law and justice at defiance. Our work, then, must be in the face +of these baleful influences." + +"Is the evil of lottery-policies so great that you class it with the +curse of rum?" asked Mr. Dinneford. + +"It is more concealed, but as all-pervading and almost as disastrous +in its effects. The policy-shops draw from the people, especially +the poor and ignorant, hundreds of thousands of dollars every year. +There is no more chance of thrift for one who indulges in this sort +of gambling than there is for one who indulges in drink. The vice in +either case drags its subject down to want, and in most cases to +crime. I could point you to women virtuous a year ago, but who now +live abandoned lives; and they would tell you, if you would question +them, that their way downward was through the policy-shops. To get +the means of securing a hoped-for prize--of getting a hundred or two +hundred dollars for every single one risked, and so rising above +want or meeting some desperate exigency--virtue was sacrificed in an +evil moment." + +"The whisky-shops brutalize, benumb and debase or madden with cruel +and murderous passions; the policy-shops, more seductive and +fascinating in their allurements, lead on to as deep a gulf of moral +ruin and hopeless depravity. I have seen the poor garments of a +dying child sold at a pawn-shop for a mere trifle by its infatuated +mother, and the money thrown away in this kind of gambling. Women +sell or pawn their clothing, often sending their little children to +dispose of these articles, while they remain half clad at home to +await the daily drawings and receive the prize they fondly hope to +obtain, but which rarely, if ever, comes. + +"Children learn early to indulge this vice, and lie and steal in +order to obtain money to gratify it. You would be amazed to see the +scores of little boys and girls, white and black, who daily visit +the policy-shops in this neighborhood to put down the pennies they +have begged or received for stolen articles on some favorite +numbers--quick-witted, sharp, eager little wretches, who talk the +lottery slang as glibly as older customers. What hope is there in +the future for these children? Will their education in the shop of a +policy-dealer fit them to become honest, industrious citizens?" + +All this was so new and dreadful to Mr. Dinneford that be was +stunned and disheartened; and when, after an interview with the +missionary that lasted over an hour, he went away, it was with a +feeling of utter discouragement. He saw little hope of making head +against the flood of evil that was devastating this accursed region. + + + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII. + + + + + +_MRS. HOYT_, _alias_ Bray, found Pinky Swett, but she did not find +the poor cast-off baby. Pinky had resolved to make it her own +capital in trade. She parleyed and trifled with Mrs. Hoyt week after +week, and each did her best to get down to the other's secret, but +in vain. Mutually baffled, they parted at last in bitter anger. + +One day, about two months after the interview between Mrs. Dinneford +and Mrs. Hoyt described in another chapter, the former received in +an envelope a paragraph cut from a newspaper. It read as follows: + +"A CHILD DROWNED.--A sad accident occurred yesterday on board the +steamer Fawn as she was going down the river. A woman was standing +with a child in her arms near the railing on the lower deck forward. +Suddenly the child gave a spring, and was out of her arms in a +moment. She caught after it frantically, but in vain. Every effort +was made to recover the child, but all proved fruitless. It did not +rise to the surface of the water." + +Mrs. Dinneford read the paragraph twice, and then tore it into +little bits. Her mouth set itself sternly. A long sigh of relief +came up from her chest. After awhile the hard lines began slowly to +disappear, giving place to a look of satisfaction and comfort. + +"Out of my way at last," she staid, rising and beginning to move +about the room. But the expression of relief and confidence which +had come into her face soon died out. The evil counselors that lead +the soul into sin become its tormentors after the sin is committed, +and torture it with fears. So tortured they this guilty and wretched +woman at every opportunity. They led her on step by step to do evil, +and then crowded her mind with suggestions of perils and +consequences the bare thought of which filled her with terror. + +It was only a few weeks after this that Mrs. Dinneford, while +looking over a morning paper, saw in the court record the name of +Pinky Swett. This girl had been tried for robbing a man of his +pocket-book, containing five hundred dollars, found guilty, and +sentenced to prison for a term of two years. + +"Good again!" exclaimed Mrs. Dinneford, with satisfaction. "The +wheel turns." + +After that she gradually rose above the doubts and dread of exposure +that haunted her continually, and set herself to work to draw her +daughter back again into society. But she found her influence over +Edith entirely gone. Indeed, Edith stood so far away from her that +she seemed more like a stranger than a child. + +Two or three times had Pinky Swett gone to the mission sewing-school +in order to get a sight of Edith. Her purpose was to follow her +home, and so find out her name and were she lived. With this +knowledge in her possession, she meant to visit Mrs. Bray, and by +a sudden or casual mention by name of Edith as the child's mother +throw her off her guard, and lead her to betray the fact if it were +really so. But Edith was sick at home, and did not go to the school. +After a few weeks the little girl who was to identify Edith as the +person who had shown so much interest in the baby was taken away +from Grubb's court by her mother, and nobody could tell where to +find her. So, Pinky had to abandon her efforts in this direction, +and Edith, when she was strong enough to go back to the +sewing-school, missed the child, from whom she was hoping to hear +something that might give a clue to where the poor waif had been +taken. + +Up to the time of her arrest and imprisonment, Pinky had faithfully +paid the child's board, and looked in now and then upon the woman +who had it in charge, to see that it was properly cared for. How +marvelously the baby had improved in these two or three months! The +shrunken limb's were rounded into beautiful symmetry, and the +pinched face looked full and rosy. The large brown eyes, in which +you once saw only fear or a mystery of suffering, were full of a +happy light, and the voice rang out often in merry child-laughter. +The baby had learned to walk, and was daily growing more and more +lovable. + +But after Pinky's imprisonment there was a change. The woman--Mrs. +Burke by name--in whose care the child had been placed could not +afford to keep him for nothing. The two dollars week received for +his board added just enough to her income to enable her to remain at +home. But failing to receive this, she must go out for day's work in +families at least twice in every week. + +What, then, was to be done with little Andy, as the baby was called? +At first Mrs. Burke thought of getting him into one of the homes for +friendless children, but the pleasant child had crept into her +affections, and she could not bear the thought of giving him up. His +presence stirred in her heart old and tender things long buried out +of sight, and set the past, with its better and purer memories, side +by side with the present. She had been many times a mother, but her +children were all dead but one, and she--Alas! the thought of her, +whenever it came, made her heart heavy and sad. + +"I will keep him a while and see, how it comes out," she said, on +getting the promise of a neighbor to let Andy play with her children +and keep an eye on him whenever she was out. He had grown strong, +and could toddle about and take care of himself wonderfully well for +a child of his age. + +And now began a new life for the baby--a life in which he must look +out for himself and hold his own in a hand-to-hand struggle. He had +no rights that the herd of children among whom he was thrown felt +bound to respect; and if he were not able to maintain his rights, he +must go down helplessly, and he did go down daily, often hourly. But +he had will and vital force, and these brought him always to his +feet again, and with strength increased rather than lost. On the +days that Mrs. Burke went out he lived for most of the time in the +little street, playing with the children that swarmed its pavements, +often dragged from before wheels or horses' hoofs by a friendly +hand, or lifted from some gutter in which he had fallen, dripping +with mud. + +When Mrs. Burke came home on the evening of her first day out, the +baby was a sight to see. His clothes were stiff with dirt, his shoes +and stockings wet, and his face more like that of a chimney-sweep +than anything else. But this was not all; there was a great lump as +large as a pigeon's egg on the back of his head, a black-and-blue +spot on his forehead and a bad cut on his upper lip. His joy at +seeing her and the tearful cry he gave as he threw his arm's about +her neck quite overcame Mrs. Burke, and caused her eyes to grow dim. +She was angry at the plight in which she found him, and said some +hard things to the woman who had promised to look after the child, +at which the latter grew angry in turn, and told her to stay at home +and take care of the brat herself, or put him in one of the homes. + +The fresh care and anxiety felt by Mrs. Burke drew little Andy +nearer and made her reject more decidedly the thought of giving him +up. She remained at home on the day following, but did not find it +so easy as before to keep the baby quiet. He had got a taste of the +free, wild life of the street, of its companionship and excitement, +and fretted to go out. Toward evening she put by her work and went +on the pavement with Andy. It was swarming with children. At the +sight of them he began to scream with pleasure. Pulling his hand +free from that of Mrs. Burke, he ran in among them, and in a moment +after was tumbled over on the pavement. His head got a hard knock, +but he didn't seem to mind it, for he scrambled to his feet and +commenced tossing his hands about, laughing and crying out as wildly +as the rest. In a little while, over he was knocked again, and as he +fell one of the children stepped on his hand and hurt him so that he +screamed with pain. Mrs. Burke caught him in her arms; but when he +found that she was going to take him in the house he stopped crying +and struggled to get down. He was willing to take the knocks and +falls. The pleasure of this free life among children was more to him +than any of the suffering it brought. + +On the next day Mrs. Burke had to go out again. Another neighbor +promised to look after Andy. When she returned at night, she found +things worse, if anything, than before. The child was dirtier, if +that were possible, and there were two great lumps on his head, +instead of one. He had been knocked down by a horse in the street, +escaping death by one of the narrowest of chances, and had been +discovered and removed from a ladder up which he had climbed a +distance of twenty feet. + +What help was there? None that Mrs. Burke knew, except to give up +the child, and she was not unselfish enough for this. The thought of +sending him away was always attended with pain. It would take the +light out of her poor lonely life, into which he had brought a few +stray sunbeams. + +She could not, she would not, give him up. He must take his chances. +Ah, but they were hard chances! Children mature fast under the +stimulus of street-training. Andy had a large brain and an active, +nervous organization. Life in the open air gave vigor and hardness +to his body. As the months went by he learned self-reliance, +caution, self-protection, and took a good many lessons in the art of +aggression. A rapidly-growing child needs a large amount of +nutritious food to supply waste and furnish material for the +daily-increasing bodily structure. Andy did not get this. At two +years of age he had lost all the roundness of babyhood. His limbs +were slender, his body thin and his face colorless and +hungry-looking. + +About this time--that is, when Andy was two years old--Mrs. Burke +took sick and died. She had been failing for several months, and +unable to earn sufficient even to pay her rent. But for the help of +neighbors and an occasional supply of food or fuel from some public +charity, she would have starved. At her death Andy had no home and +no one to care for him. One pitying neighbor after another would +take him in at night, or let him share a meal with her children, but +beyond this he was utterly cast out and friendless. It was +summer-time when Mrs. Burke died, and the poor waif was spared for a +time the suffering of cold. + +Now and then a mother's heart would be touched, and after a +half-reluctantly given supper and a place where he might sleep for +the night would mend and wash his soiled clothes and dry them by the +fire, ready for morning. The pleased look that she saw in his large, +sad eyes--for they had grown wistful and sad since the only one he +had known as a mother died--was always her reward, and something not +to be put out of her memory. Many of the children took kindly to +Andy, and often supplied him with food. + +"Andy is so hungry, mamma; can't I take him something to eat?" +rarely failed to bring the needed bread for the poor little +cast-adrift. And if he was discovered now and then sound asleep in +bed with some pitying child who had taken him in stealthily after +dark, few were hard-hearted enough to push him into the street, or +make him go down and sleep on the kitchen floor. Yet this was not +unfrequently done. Poverty is sometimes very cruel, yet often tender +and compassionate. + +One day, a few months after Mrs. Burke's death, Andy, who was +beginning to drift farther and farther away from the little street, +yet always managing to get back into it as darkness came on, that he +might lay his tired body in some friendly place, got lost in strange +localities. He had wandered about for many hours, sitting now on +some step or cellar-door or horse-block, watching the children at +play and sometimes joining in their sports, when they would let him, +with the spontaneous abandon of a puppy or a kitten, and now +enjoying some street-show or attractive shop-window. There was +nothing of the air of a lost child about him. For all that his +manner betrayed, his home might have been in the nearest court or +alley. So, he wandered along from street to street without +attracting the special notice of any--a bare-headed, bare-footed, +dirty, half-clad atom of humanity not three years old. + +Hungry, tired and cold, for the summer was gone and mid-autumn had +brought its chilly nights, Andy found himself, as darkness fell, in +a vile, narrow court, among some children as forlorn and dirty as +himself. It was Grubb's court--his old home--though in his memory +there was of course no record of the place. + +Too tired and hungry for play, Andy was sitting on the step of a +wretched hovel, when the door opened and a woman called sharply the +names of her two children. They answered a little way off. "Come in +this minute, and get your suppers," she called again, and turning +back without noticing Andy, left the door open for her children. The +poor cast-adrift looked in and saw light and food and comfort--a +home that made him heartsick with longing, mean and disordered and +miserable as it would have appeared to your eyes and mine, reader. +The two children, coming at their mother's call, found him standing +just on the threshold gazing in wistfully; and as they entered, he, +drawn by their attraction, went in also. Then, turning toward her +children, the mother saw Andy. + +"Out of this!" she cried, in quick anger, raising her hand and +moving hastily toward the child. "Off home with you!" + +Andy might well be frightened at the terrible face and threatening +words of this woman, and he was frightened. But he did not turn and +fly, as she meant that he should. He had learned, young as he was, +that if he were driven off by every rebuff, he would starve. It was +only through importunity and perseverance that he lived. So he held +his ground, his large, clear eyes fixed steadily on the woman's face +as she advanced upon him. Something in those eyes and in the +firmly-set mouth checked the woman's purpose if she had meant +violence, but she thrust him out into the damp street, nevertheless, +though not roughly, and shut the door against him. + +Andy did not cry; poor little baby that he was, he had long since +learned that for him crying did no good. It brought him nothing. +Just across the street a door stood open. As a stray kitten creeps +in through an open door, so crept he through this one, hoping for +shelter and a place of rest. + +"Who're you?" growled the rough but not unkindly voice of a man, +coming from the darkness. At the same moment a light gleamed out +from a match, and then the steadier flame of a candle lit up the +small room, not more than eight or nine feet square, and containing +little that could be called furniture. The floor was bare. In one +corner were some old bits of carpet and a blanket. A small table, a +couple of chairs with the backs broken off and a few pans and dishes +made up the inventory of household goods. + +As the light made all things clear in this poor room, Andy saw the +bloodshot eyes, and grizzly face of a man, not far past middle life. + +"Who are you, little one?" he growled again as the light gave him a +view of Andy's face. This growl had in it a tone of kindness and +welcome to the ears of Andy who came forward, saying, + +"I'm Andy." + +"Indeed! You're Andy, are you?" and he reached out one of his hands. + +"Yes; I'm Andy," returned the child, fixing his eyes with a look so +deep and searching on the man's face that they held him as by a kind +of fascination. + +"Well, Andy, where did you come from?" asked the man. + +"Don't know," was answered. + +"Don't know!" + +Andy shook his head. + +"Where do you live?" + +"Don't live nowhere," returned the child; "and I'm hungry." + +"Hungry?" The man let the hand he was still holding drop, and +getting up quickly, took some bread from a closet and set it on the +old table. + +Andy did not wait for an invitation, but seized upon the bread and +commenced eating almost ravenously. As he did so the man fumbled in +his pockets. There were a few pennies there. He felt them over, +counting them with his fingers, and evidently in some debate with +himself. At last, as he closed the debate, he said, with a kind of +compelled utterance, + +"I say, young one, wouldn't you like some milk with your bread?" + +"Milk! oh my I oh goody! yes," answered the child, a gleam of +pleasure coming into his face. + +"Then you shall have some;" and catching up a broken mug, the man +went out. In a minute or two he returned with a pint of milk, into +which he broke a piece of bread, and then sat watching Andy as he +filled himself with the most delicious food he had tasted for weeks, +his marred face beaming with a higher satisfaction than he had known +for a long time. + +"Is it good?" asked the man. + +"I bet you!" was the cheery answer. + +"Well, you're a little brick," laughed the man as he stroked Andy's +head. "And you don't live anywhere?" + +"No." + +"Is your mother dead?" + +"Yes." + +"And your father?" + +"Hain't got no father." + +"Would you like to live here?" + +Andy looked toward the empty bowl from which he had made such a +satisfying meal, and said, + +"Yes." + +"It will hold us both. You're not very big;" and as he said this the +man drew his arm about the boy in a fond sort of way. + +"I guess you're tired," he added, for Andy, now that an arm was +drawn around him, leaned against it heavily. + +"Yes, I'm tired," said the child. + +"And sleepy too, poor little fellow! It isn't much of a bed I can +give you, but it's better than a door-step or a rubbish corner." + +Then he doubled the only blanket he had, and made as soft a bed as +possible. On this he laid Andy, who was fast asleep almost as soon +as down. + +"Poor little chap!" said the man, in a tender, half-broken voice, as +he stood over the sleeping child, candle in hand. "Poor little +chap!" + +The sight troubled him. He turned with a quick, disturbed movement +and put the candle down. The light streaming upward into his face +showed the countenance of a man so degraded by intemperance that +everything attractive had died out of it. His clothes were scanty, +worn almost to tatters, and soiled with the slime and dirt of many +an ash-heap or gutter where he had slept off his almost daily fits +of drunkenness. There was an air of irresolution about him, and a +strong play of feeling in his marred, repulsive face, as he stood by +the table on which he had set the candle. One hand was in his +pocket, fumbling over the few pennies yet remaining there. + +As if drawn by an attraction he could not resist, his eyes kept +turning to the spot where Andy lay sleeping. Once, as they came +back, they rested on the mug from which the child had taken his +supper of bread and milk. + +"Poor little fellow!" came from his lips, in a tone of pity. + +Then he sat down by the table and leaned his head on his hand. His +face was toward the corner of the room where the child lay. He still +fumbled the small coins in his pocket, but after a while his fingers +ceased to play with them, then his hand was slowly withdrawn from +the pocket, a deep sigh accompanying the act. + +After the lapse of several minutes he took up the candle, and going +over to the bed, crouched down and let the light fall on Andy's +face. The large forehead, soiled as it was, looked white to the +man's eyes, and the brown matted hair, as he drew it through his +fingers, was soft and beautiful. Memory had taken him back for +years, and he was looking at the fair forehead and touching the soft +brown hair of another baby. His eyes grew dim. He set the candle +upon the floor, and putting his hands over his face, sobbed two or +three times. + +When this paroxysm of feeling went off, he got up with a steadier +air, and set the light back upon the table. The conflict going on in +his mind was not quite over, but another look at Andy settled the +question. Stooping with a hurried movement, he blew out the candle, +then groped his way over to the bed, and lying down, took the child +in his arms and drew him close to his breast. So the morning found +them both asleep. + + + + + + +CHAPTER XIX. + + + + + +_MR. DINNEFORD_ had become deeply interested in the work that was +going on in Briar street, and made frequent visits to the mission +house. Sometimes he took heart in the work, but oftener he suffered +great discouragement of feeling. In one of his many conversations +with Mr. Paulding he said, + +"Looking as I do from the standpoint gained since I came here, I am +inclined to say there is no hope. The enemy is too strong for us." + +"He is very strong," returned the missionary, "but God is stronger, +and our cause is his cause. We have planted his standard here in the +very midst of the enemy's territory, and have not only held our +ground for years, but gained some victories. If we had the people, +the churches and the law-officers on our side, we could drive him +out in a year. But we have no hope of this--at least not for a long +time to come; and so, as wisely as we can, as earnestly as we can, +and with the limited means at our control, we are fighting the foe +and helping the weak, and gaining a little every year." + +"And you really think there is gain?" + +"I know it," answered the missionary, with a ringing confidence in +his voice. "It is by comparisons that we are able to get at true +results. Come with me into our school-room, next door." + +They passed from the office of the mission into the street. + +"These buildings," said Mr. Paulding, "erected by that true +Christian charity which hopeth all things, stand upon the very site +of one of the worst dens once to be found in this region. In them we +have a chapel for worship, two large and well ventilated +school-rooms, where from two to three hundred children that would +not be admitted into any public school are taught daily, a hospital +and dispensary and bathrooms. Let me show you the school. Then I +will give you a measure of comparison." + +Mr. Dinneford went up to the school-rooms. He found them crowded +with children, under the care of female teachers, who seemed to have +but little trouble in keeping them in order. Such a congregation of +boys and girls Mr. Dinneford had never seen before. It made his +heart ache as he looked into some of their marred and pinched, +faces, most of which bore signs of pain, suffering, want and evil. +It moved him to tears when he heard them sing, led by one of the +teachers, a tender hymn expressive of the Lord's love for poor +neglected children. + +"The Lord Jesus came to seek and to save that which was lost," said +the missionary as they came down from the school-room, "and we are +trying to do the same work. And that our labor is not all in vain +will be evident when I show you what this work was in the beginning. +You have seen a little of what it is now." + +They went back to the office of the missionary. + +"It is nearly twenty years," said Mr. Paulding, "since the +organization of our mission. The question of what to do for the +children became at once the absorbing one. The only building in +which to open a Sunday-school that could be obtained was an old +dilapidated frame house used as a receptacle for bones, rags, etc.; +but so forbidding was its aspect, and so noisome the stench arising +from the putrefying bones and rotting rags, that it was feared for +the health of those who might occupy it. However it was agreed to +try the effect of scraping, scrubbing, white-washing and a liberal +use of chloride of lime. This was attended with such good effects +that, notwithstanding the place was still offensive to the +olfactories, the managers concluded to open in it our first +Sabbath-school. + +"No difficulty was experienced in gathering in a sufficient number +of children to compose a school; for, excited by such a novel +spectacle as a Sabbath-school in that region, they came in crowds. +But such a Sabbath-school as that first one was beyond all doubt the +rarest thing of the kind that any of those interested in its +formation had ever witnessed. The jostling, tumbling, scratching, +pinching, pulling of hair, little ones crying and larger ones +punching each other's heads and swearing most profanely, altogether +formed a scene of confusion and riot that disheartened the teachers +in the start, and made them begin to think they had undertaken a +hopeless task. + +"As to the appearance of these young Ishmaelites, it was plain that +they had rarely made the acquaintance of soap and water. Hands, feet +and face exhibited a uniform crust of mud and filth. As it was +necessary to obtain order, the superintendent, remembering that +'music hath charms to soothe the savage breast,' decided to try its +effects on the untamed group before him; and giving out a line of a +hymn adapted to the tune of 'Lily Dale,' he commenced to sing. The +effect was instantaneous. It was like oil on troubled waters. The +delighted youngsters listened to the first line, and then joined in +with such hearty good-will that the old shanty rang again. + +"The attempt to engage and lead them in prayer was, however, a +matter of great difficulty. They seemed to regard the attitude of +kneeling as very amusing, and were reluctant to commit themselves so +far to the ridicule of their companions as to be caught in such a +posture. After reading to them a portion of the Holy Scriptures and +telling them of Jesus, they were dismissed, greatly pleased with +their first visit to a Sabbath-school. + +"As for ourselves, we had also received a lesson. We found--what +indeed we had expected--that the poor children were very ignorant, +but we also found what we did not expect--namely, such an acute +intelligence and aptitude to receive instruction as admonished us of +the danger of leaving them to grow up under evil influences to +become master-spirits in crime and pests to society. Many of the +faces that we had just seen were very expressive--indeed, painfully +so. Some of them seemed to exhibit an unnatural and premature +development of those passions whose absence makes childhood so +attractive. + +"Hunger! ay, its traces were also plainly written there. It is +painful to see the marks of hunger on the human face, but to see the +cheeks of childhood blanched by famine, to behold the attenuated +limbs and bright wolfish eyes, ah! that is a sight. + +"The organization of a day-school came next. There were hundreds of +children in the district close about the mission who were wholly +without instruction. They were too dirty, vicious and disorderly to +be admitted into any of the public schools; and unless some special +means of education were provided, they must grow up in ignorance. It +was therefore resolved to open a day-school, but to find a teacher +with her heart in such a work was a difficulty hard to be met; +moreover, it was thought by many unsafe for a lady to remain in this +locality alone, even though a suitable one should offer. But one +brave and self-devoted was found, and one Sunday it was announced to +the children in the Sabbath-school that a day school would be opened +in the same building at nine o'clock on Monday morning. + +"About thirty neglected little ones from the lanes and alleys around +the mission were found at the schoolroom door at the appointed hour. +But when admitted, very few of them had any idea of the purpose for +which they were collected. The efforts of the teacher to seat them +proved a failure. The idea among them seemed to be that each should +take some part in amusing the company. One would jump from the back +of a bench upon which he had been seated, while others were creeping +about the floor; another, who deemed himself a proficient in turning +somersaults, would be trying his skill in this way, while his +neighbor, equally ambitious, would show the teacher how he could +stand on his head. Occasionally they would pause and listen to the +singing of a hymn or the reading of a little story; then all would +be confusion again; and thus the morning wore away. The first +session having closed, the teacher retired to her home, feeling that +a repetition of the scenes through which she had passed could +scarcely be endured. + +"Two o'clock found her again at the door, and the children soon +gathered around her. Upon entering the schoolroom, most of them were +induced to be seated, and a hymn was sung which they had learned in +the Sabbath-school. When it was finished, the question was asked, +'Shall we pray?' With one accord they answered, 'Yes.' 'And will you +be quiet?' They replied in the affirmative. All were then requested +to be silent and cover their faces. In this posture they remained +until the prayer was closed; and after resuming their seats, for +some minutes order was preserved. This was the only encouraging +circumstance of the day. + +"For many weeks a stranger would scarcely have recognized a school +in this disorderly gathering which day after day met in the old +gloomy building. Very many difficulties which we may not name were +met and conquered. Fights were of common occurrence. A description +of one may give the reader an idea of what came frequently under our +notice. + +"A rough boy about fourteen years of age, over whom some influence +had been gained, was chosen monitor one morning; and as he was a +leader in all the mischief, it was hoped that putting him upon his +honor would assist in keeping order. Talking aloud was forbidden. +For a few minutes matters went on charmingly, until some one, tired +of the restraint, broke silence. The monitor, feeling the importance +of his position, and knowing of but one mode of redress, instantly +struck him a violent blow upon the ear, causing him to scream with +pain. In a moment the school was a scene of confusion, the friends +of each boy taking sides, and before the cause of trouble could be +ascertained most of the boys were piled upon each other in the +middle of the room, creating sounds altogether indescribable. The +teacher, realizing that she was alone, and not well understanding +her influence, feared for a moment to interfere; but as matters were +growing worse, something must be done. She made an effort to gain +the ear of the monitor, and asked why he did so. He, confident of +being in the right, answered, + +"'Teacher, he didn't mind you; he spoke, and I licked him; and I'll +do it again if be don't mind you.' + +"His services were of course no longer required, although he had +done his duty according to his understanding of the case. + +"Thus it was at the beginning of this work nearly twenty years ago," +said the missionary. "Now we have an orderly school of over two +hundred children, who, but for the opportunity here given, would +grow up without even the rudiments of all education. Is not this a +gain upon the enemy? Think of a school like this doing its work +daily among these neglected little ones for nearly a score of years, +and you will no longer feel as if nothing had been done--as if no +headway had been gained. Think, too, of the Sabbath-school work in +that time, and of the thousands of children who have had their +memories filled with precious texts from the Bible, who have been +told of the loving Saviour who came into the world and suffered and +died for them, and of his tender love and perpetual care over his +children, no matter how poor and vile and afar off from him they may +be. It is impossible that the good seed of the word scattered here +for so long a time should not have taken root in many hearts. We +know that they have, and can point to scores of blessed +instances--can take you to men and women, now good and virtuous +people, who, but for our day-and Sabbath-schools, would, in all +human probability, be now among the outcast, the vicious and the +criminal. + +"So much for what has been done among the children. Our work with +men and women has not been so fruitful as might well be supposed, +and yet great good has been accomplished even among the hardened, +the desperate and the miserably vile and besotted. Bad as things are +to-day--awful to see and to contemplate, shocking and disgraceful to +a Christian community--they were nearly as bad again at the time +this mission set up the standard of God and made battle in his name. +Our work began as a simple religious movement, with street +preaching." + +"And with what effect?" asked Mr. Dinneford. + +"With good effect, in a limited number of cases, I trust. In a +degraded community like this there will always be some who had a +different childhood from that of the crowds of young heathen who +swarm its courts and alleys; some who in early life had religious +training, and in whose memories were stored up holy things from +Scripture; some who have tender and sweet recollection of a mother +and home and family prayer and service in God's temples. In the +hearts of such God's Spirit in moving could touch and quicken and +flush with reviving life these old memories, and through them bring +conviction of sin, and an intense desire to rise out of the horrible +pit into which they had fallen and the clay wherein their feet were +mired. Angels could come near to these by what of good and true was +to be found half hidden, but not erased from their book of life, and +so help in the work of their recovery and salvation. + +"But, sir, beyond this class there is small hope, I fear, in +preaching and praying. The great mass of these wretched beings have +had little or no early religious instruction. There, are but few, if +any, remains of things pure and good and holy stored away since +childhood in their memories to be touched and quickened by the +Spirit of God. And so we must approach them in another and more +external way. We must begin with their physical evils, and lessen +these as fast as possible; we must remove temptation from their +doors, or get them as far as possible out of the reach of +temptation, but in this work not neglecting the religious element as +an agency, of untold power. + +"Christ fed the hungry, and healed the sick, and clothed the naked, +and had no respect unto the persons of men. And we, if we would lift +up fallen humanity, must learn by his example. It is not by +preaching and prayer and revival meetings that the true Christian +philanthropist can hope to accomplish any great good among the +people here, but by doing all in his power to change their sad +external condition and raise them out of their suffering and +degradation. Without some degree of external order and obedience to +the laws of natural life, it is, I hold, next to impossible, to +plant in the mind any seeds of spiritual truth. There is no ground +there. The parable of the sower that went forth to sow illustrates +this law. Only the seed that fell on good ground brought forth +fruit. Our true work, then, among this heathen people, of whom the +churches take so little care, is first to get the ground in order +for the planting, of heavenly seed. Failing in this, our hope is +small." + +"This mission has changed its attitude since the beginning," said +Mr. Dinneford. + +"Yes. Good and earnest men wrought for years with the evil elements +around them, trusting in God's Spirit to change the hearts of the +vile and abandoned sinners among whom they preached and prayed. But +there was little preparation of the ground, and few seeds got +lodgment except in stony places, by the wayside and among thorns. +Our work now is to prepare the ground, and in this work, slowly as +it is progressing, we have great encouragement. Every year we can +mark the signs of advancement. Every year we make some head against +the enemy. Every year our hearts take courage and are refreshed by +the smell of grasses and the odor of flowers and the sight of +fruit-bearing plants in once barren and desolate places. The ground +is surely being made ready for the sower." + +"I am glad to hear you speak so encouragingly," returned Mr. +Dinneford. "To me the case looked desperate--wellnigh hopeless. +Anything worse than I have witnessed here seemed impossible." + +"It is only by comparisons, as I said before, that we can get at the +true measure of change and progress," answered the missionary. +"Since we have been at work in earnest to improve the external life +of this region, we have had much to encourage us. True, what we have +done has made only a small impression on the evil that exists here; +but the value of this impression lies in the fact that it shows what +can be done with larger agencies. Double our effective force, and we +can double the result. Increase it tenfold, and ten times as much +can be done." + +"What is your idea of this work?" said Mr. Dinneford. "In other +words, what do you think the best practical way to purify this +region?" + +"If you draw burning brands and embers close together, your fire +grows stronger; if you scatter them apart, it will go out," answered +the missionary. "Moral and physical laws correspond to each other. +Crowd bad men and women together, and they corrupt and deprave each +other. Separate them, and you limit their evil power and make more +possible for good the influence of better conditions. Let me give +you an instance: A man and his wife who had lived in a wretched way +in one of the poorest hovels in Briar street for two years, and who +had become idle and intemperate, disappeared from among us about six +months ago. None of their neighbors knew or cared much what had +become of them. They had two children. Last week, as I was passing +the corner of a street in the south-western part of the city in +which stood a row of small new houses, a neatly-dressed woman came +out of a store with a basket in her hand. I did not know her, but by +the brightening look in her face I saw that she knew me. + +"'Mr. Paulding,' she said, in a pleased way, holding out her hand; +'you don't know me,' she added, seeing the doubt in my face. 'I am +Mrs.--.' + +"'Impossible!' I could not help exclaiming. + +"'But it's true, Mr. Paulding,' she averred, a glow of pleasure on +her countenance. 'We've turned over a new leaf.' + +"'So I should think from your appearance,' I replied. 'Where do you +live?' + +"'In the third house from the corner,' pointing to the neat row of +small brick houses I have mentioned. 'Come and look at our new home. +I want to tell you about it!' + +"I was too much pleased to need a second invitation. + +"'I've got as clean steps as my neighbors,' she said, with pride in +her voice, 'and shades to my windows, and a bright door-knob. It +wasn't so in Briar street. One had no heart there. Isn't this nice?' + +"And she glanced around the little parlor we had entered. + +"It was nice, compared to the dirty and disorderly place they had +called their home in Briar street. The floor was covered with a new +ingrain carpet. There were a small table and six cane-seat chairs in +the room, shades at the windows, two or three small pictures on the +walls and some trifling ornaments on the mantel. Everything was +clean and the air of the room sweet. + +"'This is my little Emma,' she said as a cleanly-dressed child came +into the room; 'You remember she was in the school.' + +"I did remember her as a ragged, dirty-faced child, forlorn and +neglected, like most of the children about here. It was a wonderful +transformation. + +"'And now,' I said, 'tell me how all this has come about.' + +"'Well, you see, Mr. Paulding,' she answered, 'there was no use in +John and me trying to be anything down there. It was temptation on +every hand, and we were weak and easily tempted. There was nothing +to make us look up or to feel any pride. We lived like our +neighbors, and you know what kind of a way that was. + +"'One day John said to me, "Emma," says he, "it's awful, the way +we're living; we'd better be dead." His voice was shaky-like, and it +kind of made me feel bad. "I know it, John," said I, "but what can +we do?" "Go 'way from here," he said. "But where?" I asked. +"Anywhere. I'm not all played out yet;" and he held up his hand and +shut it tight. "There's good stuff in me yet, and if you're willing +to make a new start, I am." I put my hand in his, and said, "God +helping me, I will try, John." He went off that very day and got a +room in a decent neighborhood, and we moved in it before night. We +had only one cart-load, and a wretched load of stuff it was. But I +can't tell you how much better it looked when we got it into our new +room, the walls of which were nicely papered, and the paint clean +and white. I fixed up everything and made it as neat as possible. +John was so pleased. "It feels something like old times," he said. +He had been knocking about a good while, picking up odd jobs and not +half working, but he took heart now, quit drinking and went to work +in good earnest, and was soon making ten dollars a week, every cent +of which he brought home. He now gets sixteen dollars. We haven't +made a back step since. But it wouldn't have been any use trying if +we'd stayed in Briar street. Pride helped us a good deal in the +beginning, sir. I was ashamed not to have my children looking as +clean as my neighbors, and ashamed not to keep things neat and +tidy-like. I didn't care anything about it in Briar street.' + +"I give you this instance, true in nearly every particular," said +the missionary, "in order to show you how incurable is the evil +condition of the people here; unless we can get the burning brands +apart, they help to consume each other." + +"But how to get them apart? that is the difficult question," said +Mr. Dinneford. + +"There are two ways," was replied--"by forcing the human brands +apart, and by interposing incombustible things between them. As we +have no authority to apply force, and no means at hand for its +exercise if we had the authority, our work has been in the other +direction. We have been trying to get in among these burning brands +elements that would stand the fire, and, so lessen the ardor of +combustion." + +"How are you doing this?" + +"By getting better houses for the people to live in. Improve the +house, make it more sightly and convenient, and in most cases you +will improve the person who lives in it. He will not kindle so +easily, though he yet remain close to the burning brands." + +"And are you doing this?" + +"A little has been done. Two or three years ago a building +association was organized by a few gentlemen of means, with a view +to the purchase of property in this district and the erection of +small but good houses, to be rented at moderate cost to honest and +industrious people. A number of such houses have already been built, +and they are now occupied by tenants of a better class, whose +influence on their neighbors is becoming more and more apparent +every day. Brady street--once the worst place in all this +district--has changed wonderfully. There is scarcely a house in the +two blocks through which it runs that does not show some improvement +since the association pulled down half a dozen of its worst frame +tenements and put neat brick dwellings in their places. It is no +uncommon thing now to see pavement sweeping and washing in front of +some of the smallest and poorest of the houses in Brady street where +two years ago the dirt would stick to your feet in passing. A clean +muslin half curtain, a paper shade or a pot of growing plants will +meet your eyes at a window here and there as you pass along. The +thieves who once harbored in this street, and hid their plunder in +cellars and garrets until it could be sold or pawned, have abandoned +the locality. They could not live side by side with honest +industry." + +"And all this change may be traced to the work of our building +association, limited as are its means and half-hearted as are its +operations. The worst of our population--the common herd of thieves, +beggars and vile women who expose themselves shamelessly on the +street--are beginning to feel less at home and more in danger of +arrest and exposure. The burning brands are no longer in such close +contact, and so the fires of evil are raging less fiercely. Let in +the light, and the darkness flees. Establish the good, and evil +shrinks away, weak and abashed." + + + + + + +CHAPTER XX. + + + + + +_SO_ the morning found them fast asleep. The man awoke first and +felt the child against his bosom, soft and warm. It was some moments +ere he understood what it meant. It seemed as if the wretched life +he had been leading was all a horrible dream out of which he had +awakened, and that the child sleeping in his bosom was his own +tenderly-loved baby. But the sweet illusions faded away, and the +hard, sorrowful truth stood out sternly before him. + +Then Andy's eyes opened and looked into his face. There was nothing +scared in the look-hardly an expression of surprise. But the man saw +a mute appeal and a tender confidence that made his heart swell and +yearn toward the homeless little one. + +"Had a nice sleep?" he asked, in a tone of friendly encouragement. + +Andy nodded his head, and then gazed curiously about the room. + +"Want some breakfast?" + +The hungry face lit up with a flash of pleasure. + +"Of course you do, little one." + +The man was on his feet by this time, with his hand in his pocket, +from which he drew a number of pennies. These he counted over +carefully twice. The number was just ten. If there had been only +himself to provide for, it would not have taken long to settle the +question of expenditure. Five cents at an eating-shop where the +caterer supplied himself from the hodge-podge of beggars' baskets +would have given him a breakfast fit for a dog or pig, while the +remaining five cents would have gone for fiery liquor to quench a +burning thirst. + +But another mouth had too be fed. All at once this poor degraded man +had risen to a sense of responsibility, and was practicing the +virtue of self-denial. A little child was leading him. + +He had no toilette to make, no ablutions to practice. There was +neither pail nor wash-basin in his miserable kennel. So, without any +delay of preparation, he caught up the broken mug and went out, as +forlorn a looking wretch as was to be seen in all that region. +Almost every house that he passed was a grog-shop, and his nerves +were all unstrung and his mouth and throat dry from a night's +abstinence. But he was able to go by without a pause. In a few +minutes he returned with a loaf of bread, a pint of milk and a +single dried sausage. + +What a good breakfast the two made. Not for a long time had the man +so enjoyed a meal. The sight of little Andy, as he ate with the fine +relish of a hungry child, made his dry bread and sausage taste +sweeter than anything that had passed his lips for weeks. + +Something more than the food he had taken steadied the man's nerves +and allayed his thirst. Love was beating back into his heart--love +for this homeless wanderer, whose coming had supplied the lost links +in the chain which bound him to the past and called up memories that +had slept almost the sleep of death for years. Good resolutions +began forming in his mind. + +"It may be," he said to himself as new and better impressions than +he had known for a long time began to crowd upon him, "that God has +led this baby here." + +The thought sent a strange thrill to his soul. He trembled with +excess of feeling. He had once been a religious man; and with the +old instinct of dependence on God, he clasped his hands together +with a sudden, desperate energy, and looking up, cried, in a +half-despairing, half-trustful voice, + +"Lord, help me!" + +No earnest cry like that ever goes up without an instant answer in +the gift of divine strength. The man felt it in a stronger purpose +and a quickening hope. He was conscious of a new power in himself. + +"God being my helper," he said in the silence of his heart, "I will +be a man again." + +There was a long distance between him and a true manhood. The way +back was over very rough and difficult places, and through dangers +and temptations almost impossible to resist. Who would have faith in +him? Who would help him in his great extremity? How was he to live? +Not any longer by begging or petty theft. He must do honest work. +There was no hope in anything else. If God were to be his helper, he +must be honest, and work. To this conviction he had come. + +But what was to be done with Andy while he was away trying to earn +something? The child might get hurt in the street or wander off in +his absence and never find his way back. The care he felt for the +little one was pleasure compared to the thought of losing him. + +As for Andy, the comfort of a good breakfast and the feeling that he +had a home, mean as it was, and somebody to care for him, made his +heart light and set his lips to music. + +When before had the dreary walls of that poor hovel echoed to the +happy voice of a light-hearted child? But there was another echo to +the voice, and from walls as long a stranger to such sounds as +these--the walls in the chambers of that poor man's memory. A +wellnigh lost and ruined soul was listening to the far-off voices of +children. Sunny-haired little ones were thronging about him; he was +looking into their tender eyes; their soft arms were clinging to his +neck; he was holding them tightly clasped to his bosom. + +"Baby," he said. It was the word that came most naturally to his +lips. + +Andy, who was sitting where a few sunbeams came in through a rent in +the wall, with the warm light on his head, turned and looked into +the bleared but friendly eyes gazing at him so earnestly. + +"I'm going out, baby. Will you stay here till I come back?" + +"Yes," answered the child, "I'll stay." + +"I won't be gone very long, and I'll bring you an apple and +something good for dinner." + +Andy's face lit up and his eyes danced. + +"Don't go out until I come back. Somebody might carry you off, and +then I couldn't give you the nice red apple." + +"I'll stay right here," said Andy, in a positive tone. + +"And won't go into the street till I come back?" + +"No, I won't." Andy knit his brows and closed his lips firmly. + +"All right, little one," answered the man, in a cheery sort of voice +that was so strange to his own ears that it seemed like the voice of +somebody else. + +Still, he could not feel satisfied. He was living in the midst of +thieves to whom the most insignificant thing upon which they could +lay their hands was booty. Children who had learned to be hard and +cruel thronged the court, and he feared, if he left Andy alone in +the hovel, that it would not only be robbed of its meagre furniture, +but the child subjected to ill-treatment. He had always fastened the +door on going out, but hesitated now about locking Andy in. + +All things considered, it was safest, he felt, to lock the door. +There was nothing in the room that could bring harm to the child--no +fire or matches, no stairs to climb or windows out of which he could +fall. + +"I guess I'd better lock the door, hadn't I, so that nobody can +carry off my little boy?" he asked of Andy. + +Andy made no objections. He was ready for anything his kind friend +might propose. + +"And you mustn't cry or make a noise. The police might break in if +you did." + +"All right," said Andy, with the self-assertion of a boy of ten. + +The man stroked the child's head and ran his fingers through his +hair in a fond way; then, as one who tore himself from an object of +attraction, went hastily out and locked the door. + +And now was to begin a new life. Friendless, debased, repulsive in +appearance, everything about him denoting the abandoned drunkard, +this man started forth to get honest bread. Where should he go? What +could he do? Who would give employment to an object like him? The +odds were fearfully against him--no, not that, either. In outward +respects, fearful enough were the odds, but on the other side +agencies invisible to mortal sight were organizing for his safety. +In to his purpose to lead a new life and help a poor homeless child +God's strength was flowing. Angels were drawing near to a miserable +wreck of humanity with hands outstretched to save. All heaven was +coming to the rescue. + +He was shuffling along in the direction of a market-house, hoping to +earn a little by carrying home baskets, when he came face to face +with an old friend of his better days, a man with whom he had once +held close business relations. + +"Mr. Hall!" exclaimed this man in a tone of sorrowful surprise, +stopping and looking at him with an expression of deepest pity on +his countenance. "This is dreadful!" + +"You may well say that, Mr. Graham. It dreadful enough. No one knows +that better than I do," was answered, with a bitterness that his old +friend felt to be genuine. + +"Why, then, lead this terrible life a day longer?" asked the friend. + +"I shall not lead it a day longer if God will help me," was replied, +with a genuineness of purpose that was felt by Mr. Graham. + +"Give me your hand on that, Andrew Hall," he exclaimed. Two hands +closed in a tight grip. + +"Where are you going now?" inquired the friend. + +"I'm in search of something to do--something that will give me +honest bread. Look at my hand." + +He held it up. + +"It shakes, you see. I have not tasted liquor this morning. I could +have bought it, but I did not." + +"Why?" + +"I said, 'God being my helper, I will be a man again,' and I am +trying." + +"Andrew Hall," said his old friend, solemnly, as he laid his hand on +his shoulder, "if you are really in earnest--if you do mean, in the +help of God, to try--all will be well. But in his help alone is +there any hope. Have you seen Mr. Paulding?" + +"No." + +"Why not?" + +"He has no faith in me. I have deceived him too often." + +"What ground of faith is there now?" asked Mr. Graham. + +"This," was the firm but hastily spoken answer. "Last night as I sat +in the gloom of my dreary hovel, feeling so wretched that I wished I +could die, a little child came in--a poor, motherless, homeless +wanderer, almost a baby--and crept down to my heart, and he is lying +there still, Mr. Graham, soft, and warm and precious, a sweet burden +to bear. I bought him a supper and a breakfast of bread and milk +with the money, I had saved for drink, and now, both for his sake +and mine, I am out seeking for work. I have locked him in, so that +no one can harm or carry him away while I earn enough to buy him his +dinner, and maybe something better to wear, poor little homeless +thing!" + +There was a genuine earnestness and pathos about the man that could +not be mistaken. + +"I think," said Mr. Graham, his voice not quite steady, "that God +brought us together this morning. I know Mr. Paulding. Let us go +first to the mission, and have some talk with him. You must have a +bath and better, and cleaner clothes before you are in a condition +to get employment." + +The bath and a suit of partly-worn but good clean clothes were +supplied at the mission house. + +"Now come with me, and I will find you something to do," said the +old friend. + +But Andrew Hall stood hesitating. + +"The little child--I told him I'd come back soon. He's locked up all +alone, poor baby!" + +He spoke with a quiver in his voice. + +"Oh, true, true!" answered Mr. Graham; "the baby must be looked +after;" and he explained to the missionary. + +"I will go round with you and get the child," said Mr. Paulding. "My +wife will take care of him while you are away with Mr. Graham." + +They found little Andy sitting patiently on the floor. He did not +know the friend who had given him a home and food and loving words, +and looked at him half scared and doubting. But his voice made the +child spring to his feet with a bound, and flushed his thin-face +with the joy of a glad recognition. + +Mrs. Paulding received him with a true motherly kindness, and soon a +bath and clean clothing wrought as great a change in the child as +they had done in the man. + +"I want your help in saving him," said Mr. Graham, aside, to the +missionary. "He was once among our most respectable citizens, a good +church-member, a good husband and father, a man of ability and large +influence. Society lost much when it lost him. He is well worth +saving, and we must do it if possible. God sent him this little +child to touch his heart and flood it with old memories, and then he +led me to come down here that I might meet and help him just when +his good purposes made help needful and salvation possible. It is +all of his loving care and wise providence of his tender mercy, +which is over the poorest and weakest and most degraded of his +children. Will you give him your special care?" + +"It is the work I am here to do," answered the missionary. "The +Master came to seek and to save that which was lost, and I am his +humble follower." + +"The child will have to be provided for," said Mr. Graham. "It +cannot, of course, be left with him. It needs a woman's care." + +"It will not do to separate them," returned the missionary. "As you +remarked just now, God sent him this little child to touch his heart +and lead him back from the wilderness in which he has strayed. His +safety depends on the touch of that hand. So long as he feels its +clasp and its pull, he will walk in the new way wherein God is +setting his feet. No, no; the child must be left with him--at least +for the present. We will take care of it while he is at work during +the day, and at night it can sleep in his arms, a protecting angel." + +"What kind of a place does he live in?" asked Mr. Graham. + +"A dog might dwell there in comfort, but not a man," replied the +missionary. + +Mr. Graham gave him money: "Provide a decent room. If more is +required, let me know." + +He then went away, taking Mr. Hall with him. + +"You will find the little one here when you come back," said Mr. +Paulding as he saw the anxious, questioning look that was cast +toward Andy. + +Clothed and in his right mind, but in no condition for work, was +Andrew Hall. Mr. Graham soon noticed, as he walked by his side, that +he was in a very nervous condition. + +"What had you for breakfast this morning" he asked, the right +thought coming into his mind. + +"Not much. Some bread and a dried sausage." + +"Oh dear! that will never do! You must have something more +nutritious--a good beefsteak and a cup of coffee to steady your +nerves. Come." + +And in a few minutes they were in an eating-house. When they came +out, Hall was a different man. Mr. Graham then took him to his store +and set him to work to arrange and file a number of letters and +papers, which occupied him for several hours. He saw that he had a +good dinner and at five o'clock gave him a couple of dollars for his +day's work, aid after many kind words of advice and assurance told +him to come back in the morning, and he would find something else +for him to do. + +Swiftly as his feet would carry him, Andrew Hall made his way to the +Briar street mission. He did not at first know the clean, handsome +child that lifted his large brown eyes to his face as he came in, +nor did the child know him until he spoke. Then a cry of pleasure +broke from the baby's lips, and he ran to the arms reached out to +clasp him. + +"We'll go home now," he said, as if anxious to regain possession of +the child. + +"Not back to Grubb's court," was answered by Mr. Paulding. "If you +are going to be a new man, you must have a new and better home, and +I've found one for you just a little way from here. It's a nice +clean room, and I'll take you there. The rent is six dollars a +month, but you can easily pay that when you get fairly to work." + +The room was in the second story of a small house, better kept than +most of its neighbors, and contained a comfortable bed, with other +needed furniture, scanty, but clean and good. It was to Mr. Hall +like the chamber of a prince compared with what he had known for a +long time; and as he looked around him and comprehended something of +the blessed change that was coming over his life, tears filled his +eyes. + +"Bring Andy around in the morning," said the missionary as he turned +to go. "Mrs. Paulding will take good care of him." + +That night, after undressing the child and putting on him the clean +night-gown which good Mrs. Paulding had not forgotten, he said, + +"And now Andy will say his prayers." + +Andy looked at him with wide-open, questioning eyes. Mr. Hall saw +that he was not understood. + +"You know, 'Now I lay me'?" he said. + +"No, don't know it," replied Andy. + +"'Our Father,' then?" + +The child knit his brow. It was plain that he did not understand +what his good friend meant. + +"You've said your prayers?" + +Andy shook his head in a bewildered way. + +"Never said your prayers!" exclaimed Mr. Hall, in a voice so full of +surprise and pain that Andy grew half frightened. + +"Poor baby!" was said, pityingly, a moment after. Then the question, +"Wouldn't you like to say your prayers?" brought the quick answer, +"Yes." + +"Kneel down, then, right here." Andy knelt, looking up almost +wonderingly into the face that bent over him. + +"We have a good Father in heaven," said Mr. Hall, with tender +reverence in his tone, pointing upward as he spoke, "He loves us and +takes care of us. He brought you to me, and told me to love you and +take care of you for him, and I'm going to do it. Now, I want you to +say a little prayer to this good and kind Father before you go to +bed. Will you?" + +"Yes, I will," came the ready answer. + +"Say it over after me. 'Now I lay me down to sleep.'" + +Andy repeated the words, his little hands clasped together, and +followed through the verse which thousands of little children in +thousands of Christian homes were saying at the very same hour. + +There was a subdued expression on the child's face as he rose from +his knees; and when Mr. Hall lifted him from the floor to lay him in +bed, he drew his arms about his neck and hugged him tightly. + +How beautiful the child looked as he lay with shut eyes, the long +brown lashes fringing his flushed cheeks, that seemed already to +have gained a healthy roundness! The soft breath came through his +parted lips, about which still lingered the smile of peace that +rested there after his first prayer was said; his little hands lay +upon his breast. + +As Mr. Hall sat gazing at this picture there came a rap on his door. +Then the missionary entered. Neither of the men spoke for some +moments. Mr. Paulding comprehended the scene, and felt its sweet and +holy influence. + +"Blessed childhood!" he said, breaking the silence. "Innocent +childhood! The nearer we come to it, the nearer we get to heaven." +Then, after a pause, he added, "And heaven is our only hope, Mr. +Hall." + +"I have no hope but in God's strength," was answered, in a tone of +solemn earnestness. + +"God is our refuge, our rock of defence, our hiding-place, our sure +protector. If we trust in him, we shall dwell in safety," said the +mission. "I am glad to hear you speak of hoping in God. He will give +you strength if you lean upon him, and there is not power enough in +all hell to drag you down if you put forth this God-given strength. +But remember, my friend, that you must use it as if it were your +own. You must resist. God's strength outside of our will and effort +is of no use to any of us in temptation. But looking to our Lord and +Saviour in humble yet earnest prayer for help in the hour of trial +and need if we put forth our strength in resistance of evil, small +though it be, then into our weak efforts will come an influx of +divine power that shall surely give us the victory. Have you a +Bible?" + +Mr. Hall shook his head. + +"I have brought you one;" and the missionary drew a small Bible from +his pocket. "No man is safe without a Bible." + +"Oh, I am glad! I was just wishing for a Bible," said Hall as he +reached out his hand to receive the precious book. + +"If you read it every night and morning--if you treasure its holy +precepts in your memory, and call them up in times of trial, or when +evil enticements are in your way--God can come near to your soul to +succor and to save, for the words of the holy book are his words, +and he is present in them. If we take them into our thoughts, +reverently seeking to obey them, we make a dwelling-place for the +Lord, so that he can abide with us; and in his presence there is +safety." + +"And nowhere else," responded Hall, speaking from a deep sense of +personal helplessness. + +"Nowhere else," echoed the missionary. "And herein lies the hope or +the despair of men. It is pitiful, it is heart-aching, to see the +vain but wild and earnest efforts made by the slaves of intemperance +to get free from their cruel bondage. Thousands rend their fetters +every year after some desperate struggle, and escape. But, alas! how +many are captured and taken back into slavery! Appetite springs upon +them in some unguarded moment, and in their weakness there is none +to succor. They do not go to the Strong for strength, but trust in +themselves, and are cast down. Few are ever redeemed from the +slavery of intemperance but those who pray to God and humbly seek +his aid. And so long as they depend on him, they are safe. He will +be as a wall of fire about them." + +As the missionary talked, the face of Mr. Hall underwent a +remarkable change. It grew solemn and very thoughtful. His hands +drew together and the fingers clasped. At the last words of Mr. +Paulding a deep groan came from his heart; and lifting his gaze +upward, he cried out, + +"Lord, save me, or I perish!" + +"Let us pray," said the missionary, and the two men knelt together, +one with bowed head and crouching body, the other with face +uplifted, tenderly talking to Him who had come down to the lowliest +and the vilest that he might make them pure as the angels, about the +poor prodigal now coming back to his Father's house. + +After the prayer, Mr. paulding read a chapter from the Bible aloud, +and then, after words of hope and comfort, went away. + + + + + + +CHAPTER XXI. + + + + + +"_I TAKE_ reproof to myself," said Mr. Dinneford. "As one of your +board of managers, I ought to have regarded my position as more than +a nominal one. I understand better now what you said about the ten +or twenty of our rich and influential men who, if they could be +induced to look away for a brief period from their great +enterprises, and concentrate thought and effort upon the social +evils, abuse of justice, violations of law, poverty and suffering +that exist here and in other parts of our city, would inaugurate +reforms and set beneficent agencies at work that would soon produce +marvelous changes for good." + +"Ah, yes," sighed Mr. Paulding. "If we had for just a little while +the help of our strong men--the men of brains and will and money, +the men who are used to commanding success, whose business it is to +organize forces and set impediments at defiance, the men whose word +is a kind of law to the people--how quickly, and as if by magic, +would all this change! + +"But we cannot now hope to get this great diversion in our favor. +Until we do we must stand in the breach, small in numbers and weak +though we are--must go on doing our best and helping when we may. +Help is help and good is good, be it ever so small. If I am able to +rescue but a single life where many are drowning, I make just so +much head against death and destruction. Shall I stand off and +refuse to put forth my hand because I cannot save a score? + +"Take heart, Mr. Dinneford. Our work is not in vain. Its fruits may +be seen all around. Bad as you find everything, it is not so bad as +it was. When our day-school was opened, the stench from the filthy +children who were gathered in was so great that the teachers were +nauseated. They were dirty in person as well as dirty in their +clothing. This would not do. There was no hope of moral purity while +such physical impurity existed. So the mission set up baths, and +made every child go in and thoroughly wash his body. Then they got +children's clothing--new and old--from all possible sources, and put +clean garments on their little scholars. From the moment they were +washed and cleanly clad, a new and better spirit came upon them. +They were more orderly and obedient, and more teachable. There was, +or seemed to be, a tenderer quality in their voices as they sang +their hymns of praise." + +Just then there came a sudden outcry and a confusion of voices from +the street. Mr. Dinneford arose quickly and went to the window. A +man, apparently drunk and in a rage, was holding a boy tightly +gripped by the collar with one hand and cuffing him about the head +and face with the other. + +"It's that miserable Blind Jake!" said Mr. Paulding. + +In great excitement, Mr. Dinneford threw up the window and called +for the police. At this the man stopped beating the boy, but swore +at him terribly, his sightless eyes rolling and his face distorted +in a frightful way. A policeman who was not far off came now upon +the scene. + +"What's all this about?" he asked, sternly. + +"Jake's drunk again, that's the row," answered a voice. + +"Lock him up, lock him up!" cried two or three from the crowd. + +An expression of savage defiance came into the face of the blind +man, and he moved his arms and clenched his fist like one who was +bent on desperate resistance. He was large and muscular, and, now +that he was excited by drink and bad passions, had a look that was +dangerous. + +"Go home and behave yourself," said the policeman, not caring to +have a single-handed tussle with the human savage, whose strength +and desperate character he well knew. + +Blind Jake, as he was called, stood for a few moments half defiant, +growling and distorting his face until it looked more like a wild +animal's than a man's, then jerked out the words, + +"Where's that Pete?" with a sound like the crack of a whip. + +The boy he had been beating in his drunken fury, and who did not +seem to be much hurt, came forward from the crowd, and taking him by +the hand, led him away. + +"Who is this blind man? I have seen him before," said Mr. Dinneford. + +"You may see him any day standing at the street corners, begging, a +miserable-looking object, exciting the pity of the humane, and +gathering in money to spend in drunken debauchery at night. He has +been known to bring in some days as high as ten and some fifteen +dollars, all of which is wasted in riot before the next morning. He +lives just over the way, and night after night I can hear his howls +and curses and laughter mingled with those of the vile women with +whom he herds." + +"Surely this cannot be?" said Mr. Dinneford. + +"Surely it is," was replied. "I know of what I speak. There is +hardly a viler wretch in all our city than this man, who draws +hundreds--I might say, without exaggeration, thousands--of dollars +from weak and tender-hearted people every year to be spent as I have +said; and he is not the only one. Out of this district go hundreds +of thieves and beggars every day, spreading themselves over the city +and gathering in their harvests from our people. I see them at the +street corners, coming out of yards and alley-gates, skulking near +unguarded premises and studying shop-windows. They are all impostors +or thieves. Not one of them is deserving of charity. He who gives to +them wastes his money and encourages thieving and vagrancy. One half +of the successful burglaries committed on dwelling-houses are in +consequence of information gained by beggars. Servant-girls are +lured away by old women who come in the guise of alms-seekers, and +by well-feigned poverty and a seeming spirit of humble +thankfulness--often of pious trust in God--win upon their sympathy +and confidence. Many a poor weak girl has thus been led to visit one +of these poor women in the hope of doing her some good, and many a +one has thus been drawn into evil ways. If the people only +understood this matter as I understand it, they would shut hearts +and hands against all beggars. I add beggary as a vice to drinking +and policy-buying as the next most active agency in the work of +making paupers and criminals." + +"But there are deserving poor," said Dinneford. "We cannot shut our +hearts against all who seek for help." + +"The deserving poor," replied Mr. Paulding, "are never common +beggars--never those who solicit in the street or importune from +house to house. They try always to help themselves, and ask for aid +only when in great extremity. They rarely force themselves on your +attention; they suffer and die often in dumb despair. We find them +in these dreary and desolate cellars and garrets, sick and starving +and silent, often dying, and minister to them as best we can. If the +money given daily to idle and vicious beggars could be gathered into +a fund and dispensed with a wise Christian charity, it would do a +vast amount of good; now it does only evil." + +"You are doubtless right in this," returned Mr. Dinneford. "Some one +has said that to help the evil is to hurt the good, and I guess his +saying is near the truth." + +"If you help the vicious and the idle," was answered, "you simply +encourage vice and idleness, and these never exist without doing a +hurt to society. Withhold aid, and they will be forced to work, and +so not only do something for the common good, but be kept out of the +evil ways into which idleness always leads. + +"So you see, sir, how wrong it is to give alms to the vast crew of +beggars that infest our cities, and especially to the children who +are sent out daily to beg or steal as opportunity offers. + +"But there is another view of the case, continued Mr. Paulding, +"that few consider, and which would, I am sure, arouse the people to +immediate action if they understood it as I do. We compare the +nation to a great man. We call it a 'body politic.' We speak of its +head, its brain, its hands, its feet, its arteries and vital forces. +We know that no part of the nation can be hurt without all the other +parts feeling in some degree the shock and sharing the loss or +suffering. What is true of the great man of the nation is true of +our smaller communities, our States and cities and towns. Each is an +aggregate man, and the health and well-being of this man depend on +the individual men and the groups and societies of men by which it +is constituted. There cannot be an unhealthy organ in the human +system without a communication of disease to the whole body. A +diseased liver or heart or lung, a useless hand or foot, an ulcer or +local obstruction, cannot exist without injury and impediment to the +whole. In the case of a malignant ulcer, how soon the blood gets +poisoned! + +"Now, here is a malignant ulcer in the body politic of our city. Is +it possible, do you think, for it to exist, and in the virulent +condition we find it, and not poison the blood of our whole +community? Moral and spiritual laws are as unvarying in their +action, out of natural sight though they be, as physical laws. Evil +and good are as positive entities as fire, and destroy or consume as +surely. As certainly as an ulcer poisons with its malignant ichor +this blood that visits every part of the body, so surely is this +ulcer poisoning every part of our community. Any one who reflects +for a moment will see that it cannot be otherwise. From this moral +ulcer there flows out daily and nightly an ichor as destructive as +that from a cancer. Here theft and robbery and murder have birth, +nurture and growth until full formed and organized, and then go +forth to plunder and destroy. The life and property of no citizen is +safe so long as this community exists. It has its schools of +instruction for thieves and housebreakers, where even little +children are educated to the business of stealing and robbery. Out +from it go daily hundreds of men and women, boys and girls, on their +business of beggary, theft and the enticement of the weak and unwary +into crime. In it congregate human vultures and harpies who absorb +most of the plunder that is gained outside, and render more brutal +and desperate the wretches they rob in comparative safety. + +"Let me show you how this is done. A man or a woman thirsting for +liquor will steal anything to get money for whisky. The article +stolen may be a coat, a pair of boots or a dress--something worth +from five to twenty dollars. It is taken to one of these harpies, +and sold for fifty cents or a dollar--anything to get enough for a +drunken spree. I am speaking only of what I know. Then, again, a man +or a woman gets stupidly drunk in one of the whisky-shops. Before he +or she is thrown out upon the street, the thrifty liquor-seller +'goes through' the pockets of the insensible wretch, and confiscates +all he finds. Again, a vile woman has robbed one of her visitors, +and with the money in her pocket goes to a dram-shop. The sum may be +ten dollars or it may be two hundred. A glass or so unlooses her +tongue; she boasts of her exploit, and perhaps shows her booty. Not +once in a dozen times will she take this booty away. If there are +only a few women in the shop, the liquor-seller will most likely +pounce on her at once and get the money by force. There is no +redress. To inform the police is to give information against +herself. He may give her back a little to keep her quiet or he may +not, just as he feels about it. If he does not resort to direct +force, he will manage in some other way to get the money. I could +take you to the dram-shop of a man scarcely a stone's throw from +this place who came out of the State's prison less than four years +ago and set up his vile trap where it now stands. He is known to be +worth fifty thousand dollars to-day. How did he make this large sum? +By the profits of his bar? No one believes this. It has been by +robbing his drunken and criminal customers whenever he could get +them in his power." + +"I am oppressed by all this," said Mr. Dinneford. "I never dreamed +of such a state of things." + +"Nor does one in a hundred of our good citizens, who live in quiet +unconcern with this pest-house of crime and disease in their midst. +And speaking of disease, let me give you another fact that should be +widely known. Every obnoxious epidemic with which our city has been +visited in the last twenty years has originated here--ship fever, +relapsing fever and small-pox--and so, getting a lodgment in the +body politic, have poured their malignant poisons into the blood and +diseased the whole. Death has found his way into the homes of +hundreds of our best citizens through the door opened for him here." + +"Can this be so?" exclaimed Mr. Dinneford. + +"It is just as I have said," was replied. "And how could it be +otherwise? Whether men take heed or not, the evil they permit to lie +at their doors will surely do them harm. Ignorance of a statute, a +moral or a physical law gives no immunity from consequence if the +law be transgressed--a fact that thousands learn every year to their +sorrow. There are those who would call this spread of disease, +originating here, all over our city, a judgment from God, to punish +the people for that neglect and indifference which has left such a +hell as this in their midst. I do not so read it. God has no +pleasure in punishments and retributions. The evil comes not from +him. It enters through the door we have left open, just as a thief +enters our dwellings, invited through our neglect to make the +fastenings sure. It comes under the operations of a law as unvarying +as any law in physics. And so long as we have this epidemic-breeding +district in the very heart of our city, we must expect to reap our +periodical harvests of disease and death. What it is to be next +year, or the next, none can tell." + +"Does not your perpetual contact with all this give your mind an +unhealthy tone--a disposition to magnify its disastrous +consequences?" said Mr. Dinneford. + +The missionary dropped his eyes. The flush and animation went out of +his face. + +"I leave you to judge for yourself," he answered, after a brief +silence, and in a voice that betrayed a feeling of disappointment. +"You have the fact before you in the board of health, prison, +almshouse, police, house of refuge, mission and other reports that +are made every year to the people. If they hear not these, neither +will they believe, though one rose from the dead." + +"All is too dreadfully palpable for unbelief," returned Mr. +Dinneford. "I only expressed a passing thought." + +"My mind may take an unhealthy tone--does often, without doubt," +said Mr. Paulding. "I wonder, sometimes, that I can keep my head +clear and my purposes steady amid all this moral and physical +disorder and suffering. But exaggeration of either this evil or its +consequences is impossible. The half can never be told." + +Mr. Dinneford rose to go. As he did so, two little Italian children, +a boy and a girl, not over eight years of age, tired, hungry, +pinched and starved-looking little creatures, the boy with a harp +slung over his shoulder, and the girl carrying a violin, went past +on the other side. + +"Where in the world do all of these little wretches come from?" +asked Mr. Dinneford. "They are swarming our streets of late. +Yesterday I saw a child who could not be over two years of age +tinkling her triangle, while an older boy and girl were playing on a +harp and violin. She seemed so cold and tired that it made me sad to +look at her. There is something wrong about this." + +"Something very wrong," answered the missionary. "Doubtless you +think these children are brought here by their parents or near +relatives. No such thing. Most of them are slaves. I speak +advisedly. The slave-trade is not yet dead. Its abolition on the +coast of Africa did not abolish the cupidity that gave it birth. And +the 'coolie' trade, one of its new forms, is not confined to the +East." + +"I am at a loss for your meaning," said Mr. Dinneford. + +"I am not surprised. The new slave-trade, which has been carried on +with a secresy that is only now beginning to attract attention, has +its source of supply in Southern Italy, from which large numbers of +children are drawn every year and brought to this country. + +"The headquarters of this trade--cruel enough in some of its +features to bear comparison with the African slave-trade itself--are +in New York. From this city agents are sent out to Southern Italy +every year, where little intelligence and great poverty exist. These +agents tell grand stories of the brilliant prospects offered to the +young in America. Let me now read to you from the published +testimony of one who has made a thorough investigation of this +nefarious business, so that you may get a clear comprehension of its +extent and iniquity. + +"He says: 'One of these agents will approach the father of a family, +and after commenting upon the beauty of his children, will tell him +that his boys "should be sent at once to America, where they must in +time become rich." "There are no poor in America." "The children +should go when young, so that they may grow up with the people and +the better acquire the language." "None are too young or too old to +go to America." The father, of course, has not the means to go +himself or to send his children to this delightful country. The +agent then offers to take the children to America, and to pay forty +or fifty dollars to the father upon his signing an indenture +abandoning all claims upon them. He often, also, promises to pay a +hundred or more at the end of a year, but, of course, never does it. + +"'After the agent has collected a sufficient number of children, +they are all supplied with musical instruments, and the trip on foot +through Switzerland and France begins. They are generally shipped to +Genoa, and often to Marseilles, and accomplish the remainder of the +journey to Havre or Calais by easy stages from village to village. +Thus they become a paying investment from the beginning. This +journey occupies the greater portion of the summer months; and after +a long trip in the steerage of a sailing-vessel, the unfortunate +children land at Castle Garden. As the parents never hear from them +again, they do not know whether they are doing well or not. + +"'They are too young and ignorant to know how to get themselves +delivered from oppression; they do not speak our language, and find +little or no sympathy among the people whom they annoy. They are +thus left to the mercy of their masters, who treat them brutally, +and apparently without fear of the law or any of its officers. They +are crowded into small, ill-ventilated, uncarpeted rooms, eighteen +or twenty in each, and pass the night on the floor, with only a +blanket to protect them from the severity of the weather. In the +mornings they are fed by their temporary guardian with maccaroni, +served in the filthiest manner in a large open dish in the centre of +the room, after which they are turned out into the streets to beg or +steal until late at night. + +"'More than all this, when the miserable little outcasts return to +their cheerless quarters, they are required to deliver every cent +which they have gathered during the day; and if the same be deemed +insufficient, the children are carefully searched and soundly +beaten. + +"'The children are put through a kind of training in the arts of +producing discords on their instruments, and of begging, in the +whole of which the cruelty of the masters and the stolid submission +of the pupils are the predominant features. The worst part of all is +that the children become utterly unfitted for any occupation except +vagrancy and theft.' + +"You have the answer to your question, 'Where do all these little +wretches come from?'" said the missionary as he laid aside the paper +from which he had been reading. "Poor little slaves!" + + + + + + +CHAPTER XXII. + + + + + +_EDITH'S_ life, as we have seen, became lost, so to speak, in +charities. Her work lay chiefly with children, She was active in +mission-schools and in two or three homes for friendless little +ones, and did much to extend their sphere of usefulness. Her +garments were plain and sombre, her fair young face almost +colorless, and her aspect so nun-like as often to occasion remark. + +Her patience and tender ways with poor little children, especially +with the youngest, were noticed by all who were associated with her. +Sometimes she would show unusual interest in a child just brought to +one of the homes, particularly if it were a boy, and only two or +three years old. She would hover about it and ask it questions, and +betray an eager concern that caused a moment's surprise to those who +noticed her. Often, at such times, the pale face would grow warm +with the flush of blood sent out by her quicker heartbeats, and her +eyes would have a depth of expression and a brightness that made her +beauty seem the reflection of some divine beatitude. Now and then it +was observed that her manner with these little waifs and +cast-adrifts that were gathered in from the street had in it an +expression of pain, that her eyes looked at them sadly, sometimes +tearfully. Often she came with light feet and a manner almost +cheery, to go away with eyes cast down and lips set and curved and +steps that were slow and heavy. + +Time had not yet solved the mystery of her baby's life or death; and +until it was solved, time had no power to abate the yearning at her +heart, to dull the edge of anxious suspense or to reconcile her to a +Providence that seemed only cruel. In her daily prayers this thought +of cruelty in God often came in to hide his face from her, and she +rose from her knees more frequently in a passion of despairing tears +than comforted. How often she pleaded with God, weeping bitter +tears, that he would give her certainty in place of terrible doubts! +Again, she would implore his loving care over her poor baby, +wherever it might be. + +So the days wore on, until nearly three years had elapsed since +Edith's child was born. + +It was Christmas eve, but there were no busy hands at work, made +light by loving hearts, in the home of Mr. Dinneford. All its +chambers were silent. And yet the coming anniversary was not to go +uncelebrated. Edith's heart was full of interest for the children of +the poor, the lowly, the neglected and the suffering, whom Christ +came to save and to bless. Her anniversary was to be spent with +them, and she was looking forward to its advent with real pleasure. + +"We have made provision for four hundred children, said her father. +"The dinner is to be at twelve o'clock, and we must be there by nine +or ten. We shall be busy enough getting everything ready. There are +forty turkeys to cut up and four hundred plates to fill." + +"And many willing hands to do it," remarked Edith, with a quiet +smile; "ours among the rest." + +"You'd better keep away from there," spoke up Mrs. Dinneford, with a +jar in her voice. "I don't see what possesses you. You can find poor +little wretches anywhere, if you're so fond of them, without going +to Briar street. You'll bring home the small-pox or something +worse." + +Neither Edith nor her father made any reply, and there fell a +silence on the group that was burdensome to all. Mrs. Dinneford felt +it most heavily, and after the lapse of a few minutes withdrew from +the room. + +"A good dinner to four hundred hungry children, some of them half +starved," said Edith as her mother shut the door. "I shall enjoy the +sight as much as they will enjoy the feast." + +A little after ten o'clock on the next morning, Mr. Dinneford and +Edith took their way to the mission-school in Briar street. They +found from fifteen to twenty ladies and gentlemen already there, and +at work helping to arrange the tables, which were set in the two +long upper rooms. There were places for nearly four hundred +children, and in front of each was an apple, a cake and a biscuit, +and between every four a large mince pie. The forty turkeys were at +the baker's, to be ready at a little before twelve o'clock, the +dinner-hour, and in time for the carvers, who were to fill the four +hundred plates for the expected guests. + +At eleven o'clock Edith and her father went down to the chapel on +the first floor, where the children had assembled for the morning +exercises, that were to continue for an hour. + +Edith had a place near the reading-desk where she could see the +countenances of all those children who were sitting side by side in +row after row and filling every seat in the room, a restless, eager, +expectant crowd, half disciplined and only held quiet by the order +and authority they had learned to respect. Such faces as she looked +into! In scarcely a single one could she find anything of true +childhood, and they were so marred by suffering and evil! In vain +she turned from one to another, searching for a sweet, happy look or +a face unmarked by pain or vice or passion. It made her heart ache. +Some were so hard and brutal in their expression, and so mature in +their aspect, that they seemed like the faces of debased men on +which a score of years, passed in sensuality and crime, had cut +their deep deforming lines, while others were pale and wasted, with +half-scared yet defiant eyes, and thin, sharp, enduring lips, making +one tearful to look at them. Some were restless as caged animals, +not still for a single instant, hands moving nervously and bodies +swaying to and fro, while others sat stolid and almost as immovable +as stone, staring at the little group of men and women in front who +were to lead them in the exercises of the morning. + +At length one face of the many before her fixed the eyes of Edith. +It was the face of a little boy scarcely more than three years old. +He was only a few benches from her, and had been hidden from view by +a larger boy just in front of him. When Edith first noticed this +child, he was looking at her intently from a pair of large, clear +brown eyes that had in them a wistful, hungry expression. His hair, +thick and wavy, had been smoothly brushed by some careful hand, and +fell back from a large forehead, the whiteness and smoothness of +which was noticeable in contrast with those around him. His clothes +were clean and good. + +As Edith turned again and again to the face of this child, the +youngest perhaps in the room, her heart began to move toward him. +Always she found him with his great earnest eyes upon her. There +seemed at last to be a mutual fascination. His eyes seemed never to +move from her face; and when she tried to look away and get +interested in other faces, almost unconsciously to herself her eyes +would wander back, and she would find herself gazing at the child. + +At eleven o'clock Mr. Paulding announced that the exercises for the +morning would begin, when silence fell on the restless company of +undisciplined children. A hymn was read, and then, as the leader +struck the tune, out leaped the voices of these four hundred +children, each singing with a strange wild abandon, many of them +swaying their heads and bodies in time to the measure. As the first +lines of the hymn, + +"Jesus, gentle Shepherd, lead us, +Much we need thy tender care," + +swelled up from the lips of those poor neglected children, the eyes +of Edith grew blind with tears. + +After a prayer was offered up, familiar addresses, full of kindness +and encouragement, were made to the children, interspersed with +singing and other appropriate exercises. These were continued for an +hour. At their close the children were taken up stairs to the two +long school-rooms, in which their dinner was to be served. Here were +Christmas trees loaded with presents, wreaths of evergreen on the +walls and ceilings, and illuminated texts hung here and there, and +everything was provided to make the day's influence as beautiful and +pleasant as possible to the poor little ones gathered in from +cheerless and miserable homes. + +Meantime, the carvers had been very busy at work on the forty +turkeys--large, tender fellows, full of dressing and cooked as +nicely as if they had been intended for a dinner of +aldermen--cutting them up and filling the plates. There was no +stinting of the supply. Each plate was loaded with turkey, dressing, +potatoes that had been baked with the fowls, and a heaping spoonful +of cranberry sauce, and as fast as filled conveyed to the tables by +the lady attendants, who had come, many of them, from elegant homes, +to assist the good missionary's wife and the devoted teachers of the +mission-school in this labor of love. And so, when the four hundred +hungry children came streaming into the rooms, they found tables +spread with such bounty as the eyes of many of them had never looked +upon, and kind gentlemen and beautiful ladies already there to place +them at these tables and serve them while eating. + +It was curious and touching, and ludicrous sometimes, to see the +many ways in which the children accepted this bountiful supply of +food. A few pounced upon it like hungry dogs, devouring whole +platefuls in a few minutes, but most of them kept a decent restraint +upon themselves in the presence of the ladies and gentlemen, for +whom they could not but feel an instinctive respect. Very few of +them could use at fork except in the most awkward manner. Some tried +to cut their meat, but failing in the task, would seize it with +their hands and eagerly convey it to their hungry mouths. Here and +there would be seen a mite of a boy sitting in a kind of maze before +a heaped-up dinner-plate, his hands, strangers, no doubt, to knife +or fork, lying in his lap, and his face wearing a kind of helpless +look. But he did not have to wait long. Eyes that were on the alert +soon saw him; ready hands cut his food, and a cheery voice +encouraged him to eat. If these children had been the sons and +daughters of princes, they could not have been ministered to with a +more gracious devotion to their wants and comfort than was shown by +their volunteer attendants. + +Edith, entering into the spirit of the scene, gave herself to the +work in hand with an interest that made her heart glow with +pleasure. She had lost sight of the little boy in whom she had felt +so sudden and strong an interest, and had been searching about for +him ever since the children came up from the chapel. At last she saw +him, shut in and hidden between two larger boys, who were eating +with a hungry eagerness and forgetfulness of everything around them +almost painful to see. He was sitting in front of his heaped-up +plate, looking at the tempting food, with his knife and fork lying +untouched on the table. There was a dreamy, half-sad, +half-bewildered look about him. + +"Poor little fellow!" exclaimed Edith as soon as she saw him, and in +a moment she was behind his chair. + +"Shall I cut it up for you?" she asked as she lifted his knife and +fork from the table. + +The child turned almost with a start, and looked up at her with a +quick flash of feeling on his face. She saw that he remembered her. + +"Let me fix it all nicely," she said as she stooped over him and +commenced cutting up his piece of turkey. The child did not look at +his plate while she cut the food, but with his head turned kept his +large eyes on her countenance. + +"Now it's all right," said Edith, encouragingly, as she laid the +knife and fork on his plate, taking a deep breath at the same time, +for her heart beat so rapidly that her lungs was oppressed with the +inflowing of blood. She felt, at the same time, an almost +irresistible desire to catch him up into her arms and draw him +lovingly to her bosom. The child made no attempt to eat, and still +kept looking at her. + +"Now, my little man," she said, taking his fork and lifting a piece +of the turkey to his mouth. It touched his palate, and appetite +asserted its power over him; his eyes went down to his plate with a +hungry eagerness. Then Edith put the fork into his hand, but he did +not know how to use it, and made but awkward attempts to take up the +food. + +Mrs. Paulding, the missionary's wife, came by at the moment, and +seeing the child, put her hand on him, and said, kindly, + +"Oh, it's little Andy," and passed on. + +"So your name's Andy?" + +"Yes, ma'am." It was the first time Edith had heard his voice. It +fell sweet and tender on her ears, and stirred her heart strangely. + +"Where do you live?" + +He gave the name of a street she had never heard of before. + +"But you're not eating your dinner. Come, take your fork just so. +There! that's the way;" and Edith took his hand, in which he was +still holding the fork, and lifted two or three mouthfuls, which he +ate with increasing relish. After that he needed no help, and seemed +to forget in the relish of a good dinner the presence of Edith, who +soon found others who needed her service. + +The plentiful meal was at last over, and the children, made happy +for one day at least, were slowly dispersing to their dreary homes, +drifting away from the better influences good men and women had been +trying to gather about them even for a little while. The children +were beginning to leave the tables when Edith, who had been busy +among them, remembered the little boy who had so interested her, and +made her way to the place where he had been sitting. But he was not +there. She looked into the crowd of boys and girls who were pressing +toward the door, but could not see the child. A shadow of +disappointment came over her feelings, and a strange heaviness +weighed over her heart. + +"Oh, I'm so sorry," she said to herself. "I wanted to see him +again." + +She pressed through the crowd of children, and made her way down +among them to the landing below and out upon the street, looking +this way and that, but could not see the child. Then she returned to +the upper rooms, but her search was in vain. Remembering that Mrs. +Paulding had called him by name, she sought for the missionary's +wife and made inquiry about him. + +"Do you mean the little fellow I called Andy?" said Mrs. Paulding. + +"Yes, that's the one," returned Edith. + +"A beautiful boy, isn't he?" + +"Indeed he is. I never saw such eyes in a child. Who is he, Mrs. +Paulding, and what is he doing here? He cannot be the child of +depraved or vicious parents." + +"I do not think he is. But from whence he came no one knows. He +drifted in from some unknown land of sorrow to find shelter on our +inhospitable coast. I am sure that God, in his wise providence, sent +him here, for his coming was the means of saving a poor debased man +who is well worth the saving." + +Then she told in a few words the story of Andy's appearance at Mr. +Hall's wretched hovel and the wonderful changes that followed--how a +degraded drunkard, seemingly beyond the reach of hope and help, had +been led back to sobriety and a life of honest industry by the hand +of a little child cast somehow adrift in the world, yet guarded and +guided by Him who does not lose sight in his good providence of even +a single sparrow. + +"Who is this man, and where does he live?" asked Mr. Dinneford, who +had been listening to Mrs. Paulding's brief recital. + +"His name is Andrew Hall," was replied. + +"Andrew Hall!" exclaimed Mr. Dinneford, with a start and a look of +surprise. + +"Yes, sir. That is his name, and he is now living alone with the +child of whom we have been speaking, not very far from here, but in +a much better neighborhood. He brought Andy around this morning to +let him enjoy the day, and has come for him, no doubt, and taken him +home." + +"Give me the street and number, if you please, Mr. Paulding," said +Mr. Dinneford, with much repressed excitement. "We will go there at +once," he added, turning to his daughter. + +Edith's face had become pale, and her father felt her hand tremble +as she laid it on his arm. + +At this moment a man came up hurriedly to Mrs. Paulding, and said, +with manifest concern, + +"Have you seen Andy, ma'am? I've been looking all over, but can't +find him." + +"He was here a little while ago," answered the missionary's wife. +"We were just speaking of him. I thought you'd taken him home." + +"Mr. Hall!" said Edith's father, in a tone of glad recognition, +extending his hand at the same time. + +"Mr. Dinneford!" The two men stood looking at each other, with shut +lips and faces marked by intense feeling, each grasping tightly the +other's hand. + +"It is going to be well with you once more, my dear old friend!" +said Mr. Dinneford. + +"God being my helper, yes!" was the firm reply. "He has taken my +feet out of the miry clay and set them on firm ground, and I have +promised him that they shall not go down into the pit again. But +Andy! I must look for him." + +And he was turning away. + +"I saw Andy a little while ago," now spoke up a woman who had come +in from the street and heard the last remark. + +"Where?" asked Mr. Hall. + +"A girl had him, and she was going up Briar street on the run, +fairly dragging Andy after her. She looked like Pinky Swett, and I +do believe it was her. She's been in prison, you know but I guess +her time's up." + +Mr. Hall stopped to hear no more, but ran down stairs and up the +street, going in the direction said to have been taken by the woman. +Edith sat down, white and faint. + +"Pinky Swett!" exclaimed Mrs. Paulding. "Why, that's the girl who +had the child you were looking after a long time ago, Mr. +Dinneford." + +"Yes; I remember the name, and no doubt this is the very child she +had in her possession at that time. Are you sure she has been in +prison for the last two years?" and Mr. Dinneford turned to the +woman who had mentioned her name. + +"Oh yes, Sir; I remember all about it," answered the woman. "She +stole a man's pocket-book, and got two years for it." + +"You know her?" + +"Oh yes, indeed! And she's a bad one, I can tell you. She had +somebody's baby round in Grubb's court, and it was 'most starved to +death. I heard it said it belonged to some of the big people up +town, and that she was getting hush-money for it, but I don't know +as it was true. People will talk." + +"Do you know what became of that baby?" asked Edith, with +ill-repressed excitement. Her face was still very pale, and her +forehead contracted as by pain. + +"No, ma'am. The police came round asking questions, and the baby +wasn't seen in Grubb's court after that." + +"You think it was Pinky Swett whom you saw just now?" + +"I'm dead sure of it, sir," turning to Mr. Dinneford, who had asked +the question. + +"And you are certain it was the little boy named Andy that she had +with her?" + +"I'm as sure as death, sir." + +"Did he look frightened?" + +"Oh dear, yes, sir--scared as could be. He pulled back all his +might, but she whisked him along as if he'd been only a chicken. I +saw them go round the corner of Clayton street like the wind." + +Mr. Paulding now joined them, and became advised of what had +happened. He looked very grave. + +"We shall find the little boy," he said. "He cannot be concealed by +this wretched woman as the baby was; he is too old for that. The +police will ferret him out. But I am greatly concerned for Mr. Hall. +That child is the bond which holds him at safe anchorage. Break this +bond, and he may drift to sea again. I must go after him." + +And the missionary hurried away. + +For over an hour Edith and her father remained at the mission +waiting for some news of little Andy. At the end of this time Mr. +Paulding came back with word that nothing could be learned beyond +the fact that a woman with a child answering to the description of +Andy had been seen getting into an up-town car on Clayton street +about one o'clock. She came, it was said by two or three who +professed to have seen her, from the direction of Briar street. The +chief of police had been seen, and he had already telegraphed to all +the stations. Mr. Hall was at the central station awaiting the +result. + +After getting a promise from Mr. Paulding to send a messenger the +moment news of Andy was received, Mr. Dinneford and Edith returned +home. + + + + + + +CHAPTER XXIII. + + + + + +_AS_ Edith glanced up, on arriving before their residence, she saw +for a moment her mother's face at the window. It vanished like the +face of a ghost, but not quick enough to prevent Edith from seeing +that it was almost colorless and had a scared look. They did not +find Mrs. Dinneford in the parlor when they came in, nor did she +make her appearance until an hour afterward, when dinner was +announced. Then it was plain to both her husband and daughter that +something had occurred since morning to trouble her profoundly. The +paleness noticed by Edith at the window and the scared look +remained. Whenever she turned her eyes suddenly upon her mother, she +found her looking at her with a strange, searching intentness. It +was plain that Mrs. Dinneford saw in Edith's face as great a change +and mystery as Edith saw in hers, and the riddle of her husband's +countenance, so altered since morning, was harder even than Edith's +to solve. + +A drearier Christmas dinner, and one in which less food was taken by +those who ate it, could hardly have been found in the city. The +Briar-street feast was one of joy and gladness in comparison. The +courses came and went with unwonted quickness, plates bearing off +the almost untasted viands which they had received. Scarcely a word +was spoken during the meal. Mrs. Dinneford asked no question about +the dinner in Briar street, and no remark was made about it by +either Edith or her father. In half the usual time this meal was +ended. Mrs. Dinneford left the table first, and retired to her own +room. As she did so, in taking her handkerchief from her pocket, she +drew out a letter, which fell unnoticed by her upon the floor. Mr. +Dinneford was about calling her attention to it when Edith, who saw +his purpose and was near enough to touch his hand, gave a quick +signal to forbear. The instant her mother was out of the room she +sprang from her seat, and had just secured the letter when the +dining-room door was pushed open, and Mrs. Dinneford came in, white +and frightened. She saw the letter in Edith's hand, and with a cry +like some animal in pain leaped upon her and tried to wrest it from +her grasp. But Edith held it in her closed hand with a desperate +grip, defying all her mother's efforts to get possession of it. In +her wild fear and anger Mrs. Dinneford exclaimed, + +"I'll kill you if you don't give me that letter!" and actually, in +her blind rage, reached toward the table as if to get a knife. Mr. +Dinneford, who had been for a moment stupefied, now started forward, +and throwing his arms about his wife, held her tightly until Edith +could escape with the letter, not releasing her until the sound of +his daughter's retiring feet were no longer heard. By this time she +had ceased to struggle; and when he released her, she stood still in +a passive, dull sort of way, her arms falling heavily to her sides. +He looked into her face, and saw that the eyes were staring wildly +and the muscles in a convulsive quiver. Then starting and reaching +out helplessly, she fell forward. Catching her in his arms, Mr. +Dinneford drew her toward a sofa, but she was dead before he could +raise her from the floor. + +When Edith reached her room, she shut and locked the door. Then all +her excitement died away. She sat down, and opening the letter with +hands that gave no sign of inward agitation or suspense, read it +through. It was dated at Havana, and was as follows: + +"MRS. HELEN DINNEFORD: MADAM--My physician tells me that I cannot +live a week--may die at any moment; and I am afraid to die with one +unconfessed and unatoned sin upon my conscience--a sin into which I +was led by you, the sharer of my guilt. I need not go into +particulars. You know to what I refer--the ruin of an innocent, +confiding young man, your daughter's husband. I do not wonder that +he lost his reason! But I have information that his insanity has +taken on the mildest form, and that his friends are only keeping him +at the hospital until they can get a pardon from the governor. It is +in your power and mine to establish his innocence at once. I leave +you a single mouth in which to do this, and at the same time screen +yourself, if that be possible. If, at the end of a month, it is not +done, then a copy of this letter, with a circumstantial statement of +the whole iniquitous affair, will be placed in the hands of your +husband, and another in the hands of your daughter. I have so +provided for this that no failure can take place. So be warned and +make the innocence of George Granger as clear as noonday. + +"LLOYD FREELING." + +Twice Edith read this letter through before a sign of emotion was +visible. She looked about the room, down at herself, and again at +the letter. + +"Am I really awake?" she said, beginning to tremble. Then the glad +but terrible truth grappled with her convictions, and through the +wild struggle and antagonism, of feeling that shook her soul there +shone into her face a joy so great that the pale features grew +almost radiant. + +"Innocent! innocent!" fell from her lips, over which crept a smile +of ineffable love. But it faded out quickly, and left in its place a +shadow of ineffable pain. + +"Innocent! innocent!" she repeated, now clasping her hands and +lifting her eyes heavenward. "Dear Lord and Saviour! My heart is +full of thankfulness! Innocent! Oh, let it be made as clear as +noonday! And my baby, Lord--oh, my baby, my baby! Give him back to +me!" + +She fell forward upon her bed, kneeling, her face hidden among the +pillows, trembling and sobbing. + +"Edith! Edith!" came the agitated voice of her father from without. +She rose quickly, and opening the door, saw his pale, convulsed +countenance. + +"Quick! quick! Your mother!" and Mr. Dinneford turned and ran down +stairs, she following. On reaching the dining-room, Edith found her +mother lying on a sofa, with the servants about her in great +excitement. Better than any one did she comprehend what she saw. + +"Dead," fell almost coldly from her lips. + +"I have sent for Dr. Radcliffe. It may only be a fainting fit," +answered Mr. Dinneford. + +Edith stood a little way off from her mother, as if held from +personal contact by an invisible barrier, and looked upon her ashen +face without any sign of emotion. + +"Dead, and better so," she said, in an undertone heard only by her +father. + +"My child! don't, don't!" exclaimed Mr. Dinneford in a deprecating +whisper. + +"Dead, and better so," she repeated, firmly. + +While the servants chafed the hands and feet of Mrs. Dinneford, and +did what they could in their confused way to bring her back to life, +Edith stood a little way off, apparently undisturbed by what she +saw, and not once touching her mother's body or offering a +suggestion to the bewildered attendants. + +When Dr. Radcliffe came and looked at Mrs. Dinneford, all saw by his +countenance that he believed her dead. A careful examination proved +the truth of his first impression. She was done with life in this +world. + +As to the cause of her death, the doctor, gathering what he could +from her husband, pronounced it heart disease. The story told +outside was this--so the doctor gave it, and so it was understood: +Mrs. Dinneford was sitting at the table when her head was seen to +sink forward, and before any one could get to her she was dead. It +was not so stated to him by either Mr. Dinneford or Edith, but he +was a prudent man, and careful of the good fame of his patients. +Family affairs he held as sacred trusts. We'll he knew that there +had been a tragedy in this home--a tragedy for which he was in part, +he feared, responsible; and he did not care to look into it too +closely. But of all that was involved in this tragedy he really knew +little. Social gossip had its guesses at the truth, often not very +remote, and he was familiar with these, believing little or much as +it suited him. + +It is not surprising that Edith's father, on seeing the letter of +Lloyd Freeling, echoed his daughter's words, "Better so!" + +Not a tear was shed on the grave of Mrs. Dinneford. Husband and +daughter saw her body carried forth and buried out of sight with a +feeling of rejection and a sense of relief. Death had no power to +soften their hearts toward her. Charity had no mantle broad enough +to cover her wickedness; filial love was dead, and the good heart of +her husband turned away at remembrance with a shudder of horror. + +Yes, it was "better so!" They had no grief, but thankfulness, that +she was dead. + +On the morning after the funeral there came a letter from Havana +addressed to Mr. Dinneford. It was from the man Freeling. In it he +related circumstantially all the reader knows about the conspiracy +to destroy Granger. The letter enclosed an affidavit made by +Freeling, and duly attested by the American consul, in which he +stated explicitly that all the forgeries were made by himself, and +that George Granger was entirely ignorant of the character of the +paper he had endorsed with the name of the firm. + +Since the revelation made to Edith by Freeling's letter to her +mother, all the repressed love of years, never dead nor diminished, +but only chained, held down, covered over, shook itself free from +bonds and the wrecks and debris of crushed hopes. It filled her +heart with an agony of fullness. Her first passionate impulse was to +go to him and throw herself into his arms. But a chilling thought +came with the impulse, and sent all the outgoing heart-beats back. +She was no longer the wife of George Granger. In a weak hour she had +yielded to the importunities of her father, and consented to an +application for divorce. No, she was no longer the wife of George +Granger. She had no right to go to him. If it were true that reason +had been in part or wholly restored, would he not reject her with +scorn? The very thought made her heart stand still. It would be more +than she could bear. + + + + + + +CHAPTER XXIV. + + + + + +_NO_ other result than the one that followed could have been hoped +for. The strain upon Edith was too great. After the funeral of her +mother mind and body gave way, and she passed several weeks in a +half-unconscious state. + +Two women, leading actors in this tragedy of life, met for the first +time in over two years--Mrs. Hoyt, _alias_ Bray, and Pinky Swett. It +had not gone very well with either of them during that period. +Pinky, as the reader knows, had spent the time in prison, and Mrs. +Bray, who had also gone a step too far in her evil ways, was now +hiding from the police under a different name from any heretofore +assumed. They met, by what seemed an accident, on the street. + +"Pinky!" + +"Fan!" + +Dropped from their lips in mutual surprise and pleasure. A little +while they held each other's hands, and looked into each other's +faces with keenly-searching, sinister eyes, one thought coming +uppermost in the minds of both--the thought of that long-time-lost +capital in trade, the cast-adrift baby. + +From the street they went to Mrs. Bray's hiding-place a small +ill-furnished room in one of the suburbs of the city--and there took +counsel together. + +"What became of that baby?" was one of Mrs. Bray's first questions. + +"It's all right," answered Pinky. + +"Do you know where it is?" + +"Yes." + +"And can you put your hand on it?" + +"At any moment." + +"Not worth the trouble of looking after now," said Mrs. Bray, +assuming an indifferent manner. + +"Why?" Pinky turned on her quickly. + +"Oh, because the old lady is dead." + +"What old lady?" + +"The grandmother." + +"When did she die?" + +"Three or four weeks ago." + +"What was her name?" asked Pinky. + +Mrs. Bray closed her lips tightly and shook her head. + +"Can't betray thatt secret," she replied. + +"Oh, just as you like;" and Pinky gave her head an impatient toss. +"High sense of honor! Respect for the memory of a departed friend! +But it won't go down with me, Fan. We know each other too well. As +for the baby--a pretty big one now, by the way, and as handsome a +boy as you'll find in all this city--he's worth something to +somebody, and I'm on that somebody's track. There's mother as well +as a grandmother in the case, Fan." + +Mrs. Bray's eyes flashed, and her face grew red with an excitement +she could not hold back. Pinky watched her keenly. + +"There's somebody in this town to-day who would give thousands to +get him," she added, still keeping her eyes on her companion. "And +as I was saying, I'm on that somebody's track. You thought no one +but you and Sal Long knew anything, and that when she died you had +the secret all to yourself. But Sal didn't keep mum about it." + +"Did she tell you anything?" demanded Mrs. Bray, thrown off her +guard by Pinky's last assertion. + +"Enough for me to put this and that together and make it nearly all +out," answered Pinky, with great coolness. "I was close after the +game when I got caught myself. But I'm on the track once more, and +don't mean to be thrown off. A link or two in the chain of evidence +touching the parentage of this child, and I am all right. You have +these missing links, and can furnish them if you will. If not, I am +bound to find them. You know me, Fan. If I once set my heart on +doing a thing, heaven and earth can't stop me." + +"You're devil enough for anything, I know, and can lie as fast as +you can talk," returned Mrs. Bray, in considerable irritation. "If I +could believe a word you said! But I can't." + +"No necessity for it," retorted Pinky, with a careless toss of her +head. "If you don't wish to hunt in company, all right. I'll take +the game myself." + +"You forget," said Mrs. Bray, "I can spoil your game." + +"Indeed! how?" + +"By blowing the whole thing to Mr.--" + +"Mr. who?" asked Pinky, leaning forward eagerly as her companion +paused without uttering the name that was on her lips. + +"Wouldn't you like to know?" Mrs. Bray gave a low tantalizing laugh. + +"I'm not sure that I would, from you. I'm bound to know somehow, and +it will be cheapest to find out for myself," replied Pinky, hiding +her real desire, which was to get the clue she sought from Mrs. +Bray, and which she alone could give. "As for blowing on me, I +wouldn't like anything better. I wish you'd call on Mr. Somebody at +once, and tell him I've got the heir of his house and fortune, or on +Mrs. Somebody, and tell her I've got her lost baby. Do it, Fan; +that's a deary." + +"Suppose I were to do so?" asked Mrs. Bray, repressing the anger +that was in her heart, and speaking with some degree of calmness. + +"What then?" + +"The police would be down on you in less than an hour." + +"And what then?" + +"Your game would be up." + +Pinky laughed derisively: + +"The police are down on me now, and have been coming down on me for +nearly a month past. But I'm too much for them. I know how to cover +my tracks." + +"Down on you! For what?" + +"They're after the boy." + +"What do they know about him? Who set them after him?" + +"I grabbed him up last Christmas down in Briar street after being on +his track for a week, and them that had him are after him sharp." + +"Who had him?" + +"I'm a little puzzled at the rumpus it has kicked up," said Pinky, +in reply. "It's stirred things amazingly." + +"How?" + +"Oh, as I said, the police are after me sharp. They've had me before +the mayor twice, and got two or three to swear they saw me pick up +the child in Briar street and run off with him. But I denied it +all." + +"And I can swear that you confessed it all to me," said Mrs. Bray, +with ill-concealed triumph. + +"It won't do, Fan," laughed Pinky. "They'll not be able to find him +any more then than now. But I wish you would. I'd like to know this +Mr. Somebody of whom you spoke. I'll sell out to him. He'll bid +high, I'm thinking." + +Baffled by her sharper accomplice, and afraid to trust her with the +secret of the child's parentage lest she should rob her of the last +gain possible to receive out of this great iniquity, Mrs. Bray +became wrought up to a state of ungovernable passion, and in a blind +rage pushed Pinky from her room. The assault was sudden and +unexpected---so sudden that Pinky, who was the stronger, had no time +to recover herself and take the offensive before she was on the +outside and the door shut and locked against her. A few impotent +threats and curses were interchanged between the two infuriated +women, and then Pinky went away. + +On the day following, as Mr. Dinneford was preparing to go out, he +was informed that a lady had called and was waiting down stairs to +see him. She did not send her card nor give her name. On going into +the room where the visitor had been shown, he saw a little woman +with a dark, sallow complexion. She arose and came forward a step or +two in evident embarrassment. + +"Mr. Dinneford?" she said. + +"That is my name, madam," was replied. + +"You do not know me?" + +Mr. Dinneford looked at her closely, and then answered, + +"I have not that pleasure, madam." + +The woman stood for a moment or two, hesitating. + +"Be seated, madam," said Mr. Dinneford. + +She sat down, seeming very ill at ease. He took a chair in front of +her. + +"You wish to see me?" + +"Yes, sir, and on a matter that deeply concerns you. I was your +daughter's nurse when her baby was born." + +She paused at this. Mr. Dinneford had caught his breath. She saw the +almost wild interest that flushed his face. + +After waiting a moment for some response, she added, in a low, +steady voice, + +"That baby is still alive, and I am the only person who can clearly +identify him." + +Mr. Dinneford did not reply immediately. He saw by the woman's face +that she was not to be trusted, and that in coming to him she had +only sinister ends in view. Her story might be true or false. He +thought hurriedly, and tried to regain exterior calmness. As soon as +he felt that he could speak without betraying too much eagerness, he +said, with an appearance of having recognized her, + +"You are Mrs.----?" + +He paused, but she did not supply the name. + +"Mrs.----? Mrs.----? what is it?" + +"No matter, Mr. Dinneford," answered Mrs. Bray, with the coolness +and self-possession she had now regained. "What I have just told you +is true. If you wish to follow up the matter--wish to get possession +of your daughter's child--you have the opportunity; if not, our +interview ends, of course;" and she made a feint, as if going to +rise. + +"Is it the child a woman named Pinky Swett stole away from Briar +street on Christmas day?" asked Mr. Dinneford, speaking from a +thought that flashed into his mind, and so without premeditation. He +fixed his eyes intently on Mrs. Bray's face, and saw by its quick +changes and blank surprise that he had put the right question. +Before she could recover herself and reply, he added, + +"And you are, doubtless, this same Pinky Swett." + +The half smile, half sneer, that curved the woman's lips, told Mr. +Dinneford that he was mistaken. + +"No, sir," was returned, with regained coolness. "I am not 'this +same Pinky Swett.' You are out there." + +"But you know her?" + +"I don't know anything just now, sir," answered the woman, with a +chill in her tones. She closed her lips tightly, and shrunk back in +her chair. + +"What, then, are your here for?" asked Mr. Dinneford, showing +considerable sternness of manner. + +"I thought you understood," returned the woman. "I was explicit in +my statement." + +"Oh, I begin to see. There is a price on your information," said Mr. +Dinneford. + +"Yes, sir. You might have known that from the first. I will be frank +with you." + +"But why have you kept this secret for three years? Why did you not +come before?" asked Mr. Dinneford. + +"Because I was paid to keep the secret. Do you understand?" + +Too well did Mr. Dinneford understand, and it was with difficulty +he could suppress a groan as his head drooped forward and his eyes +fell to the floor. + +"It does not pay to keep it any longer," added the woman. + +Mr. Dinneford made no response. + +"Gain lies on the other side. The secret is yours, if you will have +it." + +"At what price?" asked Mr. Dinneford, without lifting his eyes. + +"One thousand dollars, cash in hand." + +"On production of the child and proof of its identity?" + +Mrs. Bray took time to answer. "I do not mean to have any slip in +this matter," she said. "It was a bad business at the start, as I +told Mrs. Dinneford, and has given me more trouble than I've been +paid for, ten times over. I shall not be sorry to wash my hands +clean of it; but whenever I do so, there must be compensation and +security. I haven't the child, and you may hunt me to cover with all +the police hounds in the city, and yet not find him." + +"If I agree to pay your demand," replied Mr. Dinneford, "it can only +be on production and identification of the child." + +"After which your humble servant will be quickly handed over to the +police," a low, derisive laugh gurgling in the woman's throat. + +"The guilty are ever in dread, and the false always in fear of +betrayal," said Mr. Dinneford. "I can make no terms with you for any +antecedent reward. The child must be in my possession and his +parentage clearly proved before I give you a dollar. As to what may +follow to yourself, your safety will lie in your own silence. You +hold, and will still hold, a family secret that we shall not care to +have betrayed. If you should ever betray it, or seek, because of its +possession, to annoy or prey upon us, I shall consider all honorable +contract we may have at an end, and act accordingly." + +"Will you put in writing, an obligation to pay me one thousand +dollars in case I bring the child and prove its identity?" + +"No; but I will give you my word of honor that this sum shall be +placed in your hands whenever you produce the child." + +Mrs. Bray remained silent for a considerable time, then, as if +satisfied, arose, saying, + +"You will hear from me by to-morrow or the day after, at farthest. +Good-morning." + +As she was moving toward the door Mr. Dinneford said, + +"Let me have your name and residence, madam." + +The woman quickened her steps, partly turning her head as she did +so, and said, with a sinister curl of the lip, + +"No, I thank you, sir." + +In the next moment she was gone. + + + + + + +CHAPTER XXV. + + + + + +_NOTHING_ of all this was communicated to Edith. After a few weeks +of prostration strength came slowly back to mind and body, and with +returning strength her interest in her old work revived. Her feet +went down again into lowly ways, and her hands took hold of +suffering. + +Immediately on receipt of Freeling's letter and affidavit, Mr. +Dinneford had taken steps to procure a pardon for George Granger. It +came within a few days after the application was made, and the young +man was taken from the asylum where he had been for three years. + +Mr. Dinneford went to him with Freeling's affidavit and the pardon, +and placing them in his hands, watched him closely to see the effect +they would produce. He found him greatly changed in appearance, +looking older by many years. His manner was quiet, as that of one +who had learned submission after long suffering. But his eyes were +clear and steady, and without sign of mental aberration. He read +Freeling's affidavit first, folded it in an absent kind of way, as +if he were dreaming, reopened and read it through again. Then Mr. +Dinneford saw a strong shiver pass over him; he became pale and +slightly convulsed. His face sunk in his hands, and he sat for a +while struggling with emotions that he found it almost impossible to +hold back. + +When he looked up, the wild struggle was over. + +"It is too late," he said. + +"No, George, it is never too late," replied Mr. Dinneford. "You have +suffered a cruel wrong, but in the future there are for you, I doubt +not, many compensations." + +He shook his head in a dreary way, murmuring, + +"I have lost too much." + +"Nothing that may not be restored. And in all you have not lost a +good conscience." + +"No, thank God!" answered the young man, with a sudden flush in his +face. "But for that anchor to my soul, I should have long ago +drifted out to sea a helpless wreck. No thank God! I have not lost a +good conscience." + +"You have not yet read the other paper," said Mr. Dinneford. "It is +your pardon." + +"Pardon!" An indignant flash came into Granger's eyes. "Oh, sir, +that hurts too deeply. Pardon! I am not a criminal." + +"Falsely so regarded in the eyes of the law, but now proved to be +innocent, and so expressed by the governor. It is not a pardon in +any sense of remission, but a declaration of innocence and sorrow +for the undeserved wrongs you have suffered." + +"It is well," he answered, gloomily--"the best that can be done; and +I should be thankful." + +"You cannot be more deeply thankful than I am, George." Mr. +Dinneford spoke with much feeling. "Let us bury this dreadful past +out of our sight, and trust in God for a better future. You are free +again, and your innocence shall, so far as I have power to do it, be +made as clear as noonday. You are at liberty to depart from here at +once. Will you go with me now?" + +Granger lifted a half-surprised look to Mr. Dinneford's face. + +"Thank you," he replied, after a few moments' thought. "I shall +never forget your kindness, but I prefer remaining here for a few +days, until I can confer with my friends and make some decision as +to the future." + +Granger's manner grew reserved, almost embarrassed. Mr. Dinneford +was not wrong in his impression of the cause. How could he help +thinking of Edith, who, turning against him with the rest, had +accepted the theory of guilt and pronounced her sentence upon him, +hardest of all to bear? So it appeared to him, for he had nothing +but the hard fact before him that she had applied for and obtained a +divorce. + +Yes, it was the thought of Edith that drew Granger back and covered +him with reserve. What more could Mr. Dinneford say? He had not +considered all the hearings of this unhappy case; but now that he +remembered the divorce, he began to see, how full of embarrassment +it was, and how delicate the relation he bore to this unhappy victim +of his wife's dreadful crime. + +What could he say for Edith? Nothing! He knew that her heart had +never turned itself away from this man, though she had, under a +pressure she was not strong enough to resist, turned her back upon +him and cast aside his dishonored name, thus testifying to the world +that she believed him base and criminal. If he should speak of her, +would not the young man answer with indignant scorn? + +"Give me the address of your friends, and I will call upon them +immediately," said Mr. Dinneford, replying, after a long silence, to +Granger's last remark. "I am here to repair, to any extent that in +me lies the frightful wrongs you have suffered. I shall make your +cause my own, and never rest until every false tarnish shall be +wiped from your name. In honor and conscience I am bound to this." + +Looking at the young man intently, he saw a grateful response in the +warmer color that broke into his face and in the moisture that +filled his eyes. + +"I would be base if I were not thankful, Mr. Dinneford," Granger +replied. "But you cannot put yourself in my place, cannot know what +I have suffered, cannot comprehend the sense of wrong and cruel +rejection that has filled my soul with the very gall of bitterness. +To be cast out utterly, suddenly and without warning from heaven +into hell, and for no evil thought or act! Ah, sir! you do not +understand." + +"It was a frightful ordeal, George," answered Mr. Dinneford, laying +his hand on Granger with the tenderness of a father. "But, thank +God! it is over. You have stood the terrible heat, and now, coming +out of the furnace, I shall see to it that not even the smell of +fire remain upon your garments." + +Still the young man could not be moved from his purpose to remain at +the asylum until he had seen and conferred with his friends, in +whose hands Mr. Dinneford placed the governor's pardon and the +affidavit of Lloyd Freeling setting forth his innocence. + +Mrs. Bray did not call on Mr. Dinneford, as she had promised. She +had quarreled with Pinky Swett, as the reader will remember, and in +a fit of blind anger thrust her from the room. But in the next +moment she remembered that she did not know where the girl lived, +and if she lost sight of her now, might not again come across her +for weeks or months. So putting on her hat and cloak hurriedly, she +waited until she heard Pinky going down stairs, and then came out +noiselessly, and followed her into the street. She had to be quick +in her movements, for Pinky, hot with anger, was dashing off at a +rapid speed. For three or four blocks Mrs. Bray kept her in view; +but there being only a few persons in the street, she had to remain +at a considerable distance behind, so as not to attract her +attention. Suddenly, she lost sight of Pinky. She had looked back on +hearing a noise in the street; turning again, she could see nothing +of the girl. Hurrying forward to the corner which Pinky had in all +probability turned, Mrs. Bray looked eagerly up and down, but to her +disappointment Pinky was not in sight. + +"Somewhere here. I thought it was farther off," said Mrs. Bray to +herself. "It's too bad that I should have lost sight of her." + +She stood irresolute for a little while, then walked down one of the +blocks and back on the other side. Halfway down, a small street or +alley divided the block. + +"It's in there, no doubt," said Mrs. Bray, speaking to herself +again. On the corner was a small shop in which notions and trimmings +were sold. Going into this, she asked for some trifling articles, +and while looking over them drew the woman who kept the shop into +conversation. + +"What kind of people live in this little street?" she inquired, in a +half-careless tone. + +The woman smiled as she answered, with a slight toss of the head, + +"Oh, all kinds." + +"Good, bad and indifferent?" + +"Yes, white sheep and black." + +"So I thought. The black sheep will get in. You can't keep 'em out." + +"No, and 'tisn't much use trying," answered the shop-keeper, with a +levity of manner not unmarked by Mrs. Bray, who said, + +"The black sheep have to live as well as the white ones." + +"Just so. You hit the nail there." + +"And I suppose you find their money as good as that of the whitest?" + +"Oh yes." + +"And quite as freely spent?" + +"As to that," answered the woman, who was inclined to be talkative +and gossipy, "we make more out of the black sheep than out of the +white ones. They don't higgle so about prices. Not that we have two +prices, but you see they don't try to beat us down, and never stop +to worry about the cost of a thing if they happen to fancy it. They +look and buy, and there's the end of it." + +"I understand," remarked Mrs. Bray, with a familiar nod. "It may be +wicked to say so; but if I kept a store like this, I'd rather have +the sinners for customers than the saints." + +She had taken a seat at the counter; and now, leaning forward upon +her arms and looking at the shop-woman in a pleasant, +half-confidential way, said, + +"You know everybody about here?" + +"Pretty much." + +"The black sheep as well as the white?" + +"As customers." + +"Of course; that's all I mean," was returned. "I'd be sorry if you +knew them in any other way--some of them, at least." Then, after a +pause, "Do you know a girl they call Pinky?" + +"I may know her, but not by that name. What kind of a looking person +is she?" + +"A tall, bold-faced, dashing, dare-devil sort of a girl, with a +snaky look in her eyes. She wears a pink hat with a white feather." + +"Yes, I think I have seen some one like that, but she's not been +around here long." + +"When did you see her last?" + +"If it's the same one you mean, I saw her go by here not ten minutes +ago. She lives somewhere down the alley." + +"Do you know the house?" + +"I do not; but it can be found, no doubt. You called her Pinky." + +"Yes. Her name is Pinky Swett." + +"O-h! o-h!" ejaculated the shop-woman, lifting her eyebrows in a +surprised way. "Why, that's the girl the police were after. They +said she'd run off with somebody's child." + +"Did they arrest her?" asked Mrs. Bray, repressing, as far as +possible, all excitement. + +"They took her off once or twice, I believe, but didn't make +anything out of her. At any rate, the child was not found. It +belonged, they said, to a rich up-town family that the girl was +trying to black-mail. But I don't see how that could be." + +"The child isn't about here?" + +"Oh dear, no! If it was, it would have been found long before this, +for the police are hunting around sharp. If it's all as they say, +she's got it hid somewhere else." + +While Mrs. Bray talked with the shop-woman, Pinky, who had made a +hurried call at her room, only a hundred yards away, was going as +fast as a street-car could take her to a distant part of the city. +On leaving the car at the corner of a narrow, half-deserted street, +in which the only sign of life was a child or two at play in the +snow and a couple of goats lying on a cellar-door, she walked for +half the distance of a block, and then turned into a court lined on +both sides with small, ill-conditioned houses, not half of them +tenanted. Snow and ice blocked the little road-way, except where a +narrow path had been cut along close to the houses. + +Without knocking, Pinky entered one of these poor tenements. As she +pushed open the door, a woman who was crouching down before a small +stove, on which something was cooking, started up with a look of +surprise that changed to one of anxiety and fear the moment she +recognized her visitor. + +"Is Andy all right?" cried Pinky, alarm in her face. + +The woman tried to stammer out something, but did not make herself +understood. At this, Pinky, into whose eyes flashed a fierce light, +caught her by the wrists in a grip that almost crushed the bones. + +"Out with it! where is Andy?" + +Still the frightened woman could not speak. + +"If that child isn't here, I'll murder you!" said Pinky, now white +with anger, tightening her grasp. + +At this, with a desperate effort, the woman flung her off, and +catching up a long wooden bench, raised it over her head. + +"If there's to be any murder going on," she said, recovering her +powers of speech, "I'll take the first hand! As for the troublesome +brat, he's gone. Got out of the window and climbed down the spout. +Wonder he wasn't killed. Did fall--I don't know how far--and must +have hurt himself, for I heard a noise as if something heavy had +dropped in the yard, but thought it was next door. Half an hour +afterward, in going up stairs and opening the door of the room where +I kept him locked in, I found it empty and the window open. That's +the whole story. I ran out and looked everywhere, but he was off. +And now, if the murder is to come, I'm going to be in first." + +And she still kept the long wooden bench poised above her head. + +Pinky saw a dangerous look in the woman's eyes. + +"Put that thing down," she cried, "and don't be a fool. Let me see;" +and she darted past the woman and ran up stairs. She found the +window of Andy's prison open and the print of his little fingers on +the snow-covered sill outside, where he had held on before dropping +to the ground, a distance of many feet. There was no doubt now in +her mind as to the truth of the woman's story. The child had made +his escape. + +"Have you been into all the neighbors' houses?" asked Pinky as she +came down hastily. + +"Into some, but not all," she replied. + +"How long is it since he got away?" + +"More than two hours." + +"And you've been sticking down here, instead of ransacking every +hole and corner in the neighborhood. I can hardly keep my hands off +of you." + +The woman was on the alert. Pinky saw this, and did not attempt to +put her threat into execution. After pouring out her wrath in a +flood of angry invectives, she went out and began a thorough search +of the neighborhood, going into every house for a distance of three +or four blocks in all directions. But she could neither find the +child nor get the smallest trace of him. He had dropped out of +sight, so far as she was concerned, as completely as if he had +fallen into the sea. + + + + + + +CHAPTER XXVI. + + + + + +_DAY_ after day Mr. Dinneford waited for the woman who was to +restore the child of Edith, but she did not come. Over a week +elapsed, but she neither called nor sent him a sign or a word. He +dared not speak about this to Edith. She was too weak in body and +mind for any further suspense or strain. + +Drew Hall had been nearly thrown down again by the events of that +Christmas day. The hand of a little child was holding him fast to a +better life; but when that hand was torn suddenly away from his +grasp, he felt the pull of evil habits, the downward drift of old +currents. His steps grew weak, his knees trembled. But God did not +mean that he should be left alone. He had reached down to him +through the hand of a little child, had lifted him up and led him +into a way of safety; and now that this small hand, the soft, touch +of which had gone to his heart and stirred him with old memories, +sad and sweet and holy, had dropped away from him, and he seemed to +be losing his hold of heaven, God sent him, in Mr. Dinneford, an +angel with a stronger hand. There were old associations that held +these men together. They had been early and attached friends, and +this meeting, after many years of separation, under such strange +circumstances, and with a common fear and anxiety at heart, could +not but have the effect of arousing in the mind of Mr. Dinneford the +deepest concern for the unhappy man. He saw the new peril into which +he was thrown by the loss of Andy, and made it his first business to +surround him with all possible good and strengthening influences. So +the old memories awakened by the coming of Andy did not fade out and +lose their power over the man. He had taken hold of the good past +again, and still held to it with the tight grasp of one conscious of +danger. + +"We shall find the child--no fear of that," Mr. Dinneford would say +to him over and over again, trying to comfort his own heart as well, +as the days went by and no little Andy could be found. "The police +have the girl under the sharpest surveillance, and she cannot baffle +them much longer." + +George Granger left the asylum with his friends, and dropped out of +sight. He did not show himself in the old places nor renew old +associations. He was too deeply hurt. The disaster had been too +great for any attempt on his part at repairing the old +dwelling-places of his life. His was not what we call a strong +nature, but he was susceptible of very deep impressions. He was fine +and sensitive, rather than strong. Rejected by his wife and family +without a single interview with her or even an opportunity to assert +his innocence, he felt the wrong so deeply that he could not get +over it. His love for his wife had been profound and tender, and +when it became known to him that she had accepted the appearances of +guilt as conclusive, and broken with her own hands the tie that +bound them, it was more than he had strength to bear, and a long +time passed before he rallied from this hardest blow of all. + +Edith knew that her father had seen Granger after securing his +pardon, and she had learned from him only, particulars of the +interview. Beyond this nothing came to her. She stilled her heart, +aching with the old love that crowded all its chambers, and tried to +be patient and submissive. It was very hard. But she was helpless. +Sometimes, in the anguish and wild agitation of soul that seized +her, she would resolve to put in a letter all she thought and felt, +and have it conveyed to Granger; but fear and womanly delicacy drove +her back from this. What hope had she that he would not reject her +with hatred and scorn? It was a venture she dared not make, for she +felt that such a rejection would kill her. But for her work among +the destitute and the neglected, Edith would have shut herself up at +home. Christian charity drew her forth daily, and in offices of +kindness and mercy she found a peace and rest to which she would +otherwise have been stranger. + +She was on her way home one afternoon from a visit to the +mission-school where she had first heard of the poor baby in Grubb's +court. All that day thoughts of little Andy kept crowding into her +mind. She could not push aside his image as she saw it on Christmas, +when he sat among the children, his large eyes resting in such a +wistful look upon her face. Her eyes often grew dim and her heart +full as she looked upon that tender face, pictured for her as +distinctly as if photographed to natural sight. + +"Oh my baby, my baby!" came almost audibly from her lips, in a burst +of irrepressible feeling, for ever since she had seen this child, +the thought of him linked itself with that of her lost baby. + +Up to this time her father had carefully concealed his interview +with Mrs. Bray. He was in so much doubt as to the effect that +woman's communication might produce while yet the child was missing +that he deemed it best to maintain the strictest silence until it +could be found. + +Walking along with heart and thought where they dwelt for so large a +part of her time, Edith, in turning a corner, came upon a woman who +stopped at sight of her as if suddenly fastened to the +ground--stopped only for an instant, like one surprised by an +unexpected and unwelcome encounter, and then made a motion to pass +on. But Edith, partly from memory and partly from intuition, +recognized her nurse, and catching fast hold of her, said in a low +imperative voice, while a look of wild excitement spread over her +face, + +"Where is my baby?" + +The woman tried to shake her off, but Edith held her with a grasp +that could not be broken. + +"For Heaven's sake," exclaimed the woman "let go of me! This is the +public street, and you'll have a crowd about us in a moment, and the +police with them." + +But Edith kept fast hold of her. + +"First tell me where I can find my baby," she answered. + +"Come along," said the woman, moving as she spoke in the direction +Edith was going when they met. "If you want a row with the police, I +don't." + +Edith was close to her side, with her hand yet upon her and her +voice in her ears. + +"My baby! Quick! Say! Where can I find my baby?" + +"What do I know of your baby? You are a fool, or mad!" answered the +woman, trying to throw her off. "I don't know you." + +"But I know you, Mrs. Bray," said Edith, speaking the name at a +venture as the one she remembered hearing the servant give to her +mother. + +At this the woman's whole manner changed, and Edith saw that she was +right--that this was, indeed, the accomplice of her mother. + +"And now," she added, in voice grown calm and resolute, "I do not +mean to let you escape until I get sure knowledge of my child. If +you fly from me, I will follow and call for the police. If you have +any of the instincts of a woman left, you will know that I am +desperately in earnest. What is a street excitement or a temporary +arrest by the police, or even a station-house exposure, to me, in +comparison with the recovery of my child? Where is he?" + +"I do not know," replied Mrs. Bray. "After seeing your father--" + +"My father! When did you see him?" exclaimed Edith, betraying in her +surprised voice the fact that Mr. Dinneford had kept so far, even +from her, the secret of that brief interview to which she now +referred. + +"Oh, he hasn't told you! But it's no matter--he will do that in good +time. After seeing your father, I made an effort to get possession +of your child and restore him as I promised to do. But the woman who +had him hidden somewhere managed to keep out of my way until this +morning. And now she says he got off from her, climbed out of a +second-story window and disappeared, no one knows where." + +"This woman's name is Pinky Swett?" said Edith. + +"Yes." + +Mrs. Bray felt the hand that was still upon her arm shake as if from +a violent chill. + +"Do you believe what she says?--that the child has really escaped +from her?" + +"Yes." + +"Where does she live?" + +Mrs. Bray gave the true directions, and without hesitation. + +"Is this child the one she stole from the Briar-street mission on +Christmas day?" asked Edith. + +"He is," answered Mrs. Bray. + +"How shall I know he is mine? What proof is there that little Andy, +as he is called, and my baby are the same?" + +"I know him to be your child, for I have never lost sight of him," +replied the woman, emphatically. "You may know him by his eyes and +mouth and chin, for they are yours. Nobody can mistake the likeness. +But there is another proof. When I nursed you, I saw on your arm, +just above the elbow, a small raised mark of a red color, and +noticed a similar one on the baby's arm. You will see it there +whenever you find the child that Pinky Swett stole from the +mission-house on Christmas day. Good-bye!" + +And the woman, seeing that her companion was off of her guard, +sprang away, and was out of sight in the crowd before Edith could +rally herself and make an attempt to follow. How she got home she +could hardly tell. + + + + + + +CHAPTER XXVII. + + + + + +_FOR_ weeks the search for Andy was kept up with unremitting +vigilance, but no word of him came to the anxious searchers. A few +days after the meeting with Mrs. Bray, the police report mentioned +the arrest of both Pinky Swett and Mrs. Bray, _alias_ Hoyt, _alias_ +Jewett, charged with stealing a diamond ring of considerable value +from a jewelry store. They were sent to prison, in default of bail, +to await trial. Mr. Dinneford immediately went to the prison and had +an interview with the two women, who could give him no information +about Andy beyond what Mrs. Bray had already communicated in her +hurried talk with Edith. Pinky could get no trace of him after he +had escaped. Mr. Dinneford did not leave the two women until he had +drawn from them a minute and circumstantial account of all they knew +of Edith's child from the time it was cast adrift. When he left +them, he had no doubt as to its identity with Andy. There was no +missing link in the chain of evidence. + +The new life that had opened to little Andy since the dreary night +on which, like a stray kitten, he had crept into Andrew Hall's +miserable hovel, had been very pleasant. To be loved and caressed +was a strange and sweet experience. Poor little heart! It fluttered +in wild terror, like a tiny bird in the talons of a hawk, when Pinky +Swett swooped down and struck her foul talons into the frightened +child and bore him off. + +"If you scream, I'll choke you to death!" she said, stooping to his +ear, as she hurried him from the mission-house. Scared into silence, +Andy did not cry out, and the arm that grasped and dragged him away +was so strong that he felt resistance to be hopeless. Passing from +Briar street, Pinky hurried on for a distance of a block, when she +signaled a street-car. As she lifted Andy upon the platform, she +gave him another whispered threat: + +"Mind! if you cry, I'll kill you!" + +There were but few persons in the car, and Pinky carried the child +to the upper end and sat him down with his face turned forward to +the window, so as to keep it as much out of observation as possible. +He sat motionless, stunned with surprise and fear. Pinky kept her +eyes upon him. His hands were laid across his breast and held +against it tightly. They had not gone far before Pinky saw great +tear-drops falling upon the little hands. + +"Stop crying!" she whispered, close to his ear; "I won't have it! +You're not going to be killed." + +Andy tried to keep back the tears, but in spite of all he could do +they kept blinding his eyes and falling over his hands. + +"What's the matter with your little boy?" asked a sympathetic, +motherly woman who had noticed the child's distress. + +"Cross, that's all." Pinky threw out the sentence in at snappish, +mind-your-own-business tone. + +The motherly woman, who had leaned forward, a look of kindly +interest on her face, drew back, chilled by this repulse, but kept +her eyes upon the child, greatly to Pinky's annoyance. After riding +for half a mile, Pinky got out and took another car. Andy was +passive. He had ceased crying, and was endeavoring to get back some +of the old spirit of brave endurance. He was beginning to feel like +one who had awakened from a beautiful dream in which dear ideals had +almost reached fruition, to the painful facts of a hard and +suffering life, and was gathering up his patience and strength to +meet them. He sat motionless by the side of Pinky, with his eyes +cast down, his chin on his breast and his lips shut closely +together. + +Another ride of nearly half a mile, when Pinky left the car and +struck away from the common thoroughfare into a narrow alley, down +which she walked for a short distance, and then disappeared in one +of the small houses. No one happened to observe her entrance. +Through a narrow passage and stairway she reached a second-story +room. Taking a key from her pocket, she unlocked the door and went +in. There was a fire in a small stove, and the room was comfortable. +Locking the door on the inside she said to Andy, in a voice changed +and kinder, + +"My! your hands are as red as beets. Go up to the stove and warm +yourself." + +Andy obeyed, spreading out his little hands, and catching the +grateful warmth, every now and then looking up into Pinky's face, +and trying with a shrewder insight than is usually given to a child +of his age to read the character and purposes it half concealed and +half made known. + +"Now, Andy," said Pinky, in a mild but very decided way--"your +name's Andy?" + +"Yes, ma'am," answered the child, fixing his large, intelligent eyes +on her face. + +"Well, Andy, if you'll be a good and quiet boy, you needn't be +afraid of anything--you won't get hurt. But if you make a fuss, I'll +throw you at once right out of the window." + +Pinky frowned and looked so wicked as she uttered the last sentence +that Andy was frightened. It seemed as if a devouring beast glared +at him out of her eyes. She saw the effect of her threat, and was +satisfied. + +The short afternoon soon passed away. The girl did not leave the +room, nor talk with the child except in very low tones, so as not to +attract the attention of any one in the house. As the day waned snow +began to fall, and by the time night set in it was coming down thick +and fast. As soon as it was fairly dark, Pinky wrapped a shawl about +Andy, pinning it closely, so as to protect him from the cold, and +quietly left the house. He made no resistance. A car was taken, in +which they rode for a long distance, until they were on the +outskirts of the city. The snow had already fallen to a depth of two +or three inches, and the storm was increasing. When she left the car +in that remote neighborhood, not a person was to be seen on the +street. Catching Andy into her arms, Pinky ran with him for the +distance of half a block, and then turned into a close alley with +small houses on each side. At the lower end she stopped before one +of these houses, and without knocking pushed open the door. + +"Who's that?" cried a voice from an upper room, the stairway to +which led up from the room below. + +"It's me. Come down, and be quiet," answered Pinky, in a warning +voice. + +A woman, old and gray, with all the signs of a bad life on her +wrinkled face, came hastily down stairs and confronted Pinky. + +"What now? What's brought you here?" she demanded, in no friendly +tones. + +"There, there, Mother Peter! smooth down your feathers. I've got +something for you to do, and it will pay," answered Pinky, who had +shut the outside door and slipped the bolt. + +At this, the manner of Mother Peter, as Pinky had called her, +softened, and she said, + +"What's up? What deviltry are you after now, you huzzy?" + +Without replying to this, Pinky began shaking the snow from Andy and +unwinding the shawl with which she had bound him up. After he was +free from his outside wrappings, she said, looking toward the woman, + +"Now, isn't he a nice little chap? Did you ever see such eyes?" + +The worn face of the woman softened as she turned toward the +beautiful child, but not with pity. To that feeling she had long +been a stranger. + +"I want you to keep him for a few days," said Pinky, speaking in the +woman's ears. "I'll tell you more about it after he's in bed and +asleep." + +"He's to be kept shut up out of sight, mind," was Pinky's +injunction, in the conference that followed. "Not a living soul in +the neighborhood must know he's in the house, for the police will be +sharp after him. I'll pay you five dollars a week, and put it down +in advance. Give him plenty to eat, and be as good to him as you +can, for you see it's a fat job, and I'll make it fatter for you if +all comes out right." + +The woman was not slow to promise all that Pinky demanded. The house +in which she lived had three rooms, one below and two smaller ones +above. From the room below a stove-pipe went up through the floor +into a sheet-iron drum in the small back chamber, and kept it +partially heated. It was arranged that Andy should be made a close +prisoner in this room, and kept quiet by fear. It had only one +window, looking out upon the yard, and there was no shed or porch +over the door leading into the yard below upon which he could climb +out and make his escape. In order to have things wholly secure the +two women, after Andy was asleep, pasted paper over the panes of +glass in the lower sash, so that no one could see his face at the +window, and fastened the sash down by putting a nail into a +gimlet-hole at the top. + +"I guess thatt will fix him," said Pinky, in a tone of satisfaction. +"All you've got to do now is to see that he doesn't make a noise." + +On the next morning Andy was awake by day-dawn. At first he did not +know where he was, but he kept very still, looking around the small +room and trying to make out what it all meant. Soon it came to him, +and a vague terror filled his heart. By his side lay the woman into +whose hands Pinky had given him. She was fast asleep, and her face, +as he gazed in fear upon it, was even more repulsive than it had +looked on the night before. His first impulse, after comprehending +his situation, was to escape if possible. Softly and silently he +crept out of bed, and made his way to the door. It was fastened. He +drew the bolt back, when it struck the guard with a sharp click. In +an instant the old woman was sitting up in bed and glaring at him. + +"You imp of Satan!" she cried, springing after him with a singular +agility for one of her age, and catching him by the arm with a +vice-like grip that bruised the tender flesh and left it marked for +weeks, drew him back from the door and flung him upon the bed. + +"Stay there till I tell you to get up," she added, with a cruel +threat in her voice. "And mind you, there's to be no fooling with +me." + +The frightened child crept under the bed-clothes, and hid his face +beneath them. Mother Peter did not lie down again, but commenced +dressing herself, muttering and grumbling as she did so. + +"Keep where you are till I come back," she said to Andy, with the +same cruel threat in her voice. Going out, she bolted the door on +the other side. It was nearly half an hour before the woman +returned, bringing a plate containing two or three slices of bread +and butter and a cup of milk. + +"Now get up and dress yourself," was her sharply-spoken salutation +to Andy as she came into the room. "And you're to be just as still +as a mouse, mind. There's your breakfast." She set the plate on a +table and went out, bolting, as before, the door on the other side. +Andy did not see her again for over an hour. Left entirely alone in +his prison, his restless spirit chafed for freedom. He moved about +the apartment, examining everything it contained with the closest +scrutiny, yet without making any noise, for the woman's threat, +accompanied as it had been with such a wicked look, was not +forgotten. He had seen in that look a cruel spirit of which he was +afraid. Two or three times he thought he heard a step and a movement +in the adjoining chamber, and waited, almost holding his breath, +with his eyes upon the door, expecting every moment to see the +scowling face of his jailer. But no hand touched the door. + +Tired at last with everything in the room, he went to the window and +sought to look out, as he had already done many times. He could not +understand why this window, was so different from any he had ever +seen, and puzzled over it in his weak, childish way. As he moved +from pane to pane, trying to see through, he caught a glimpse of +something outside, but it was gone in a moment. He stepped back, +then came up quickly to the glass, all the dull quietude of manner +leaving him. As he did so a glimpse of the outside world came again, +and now he saw a little hole in the paper not larger than a pin's +head. To scrape at this was a simple instinct. In a moment he saw it +enlarging, as the paper peeled off from the glass. Scraping away +with his finger-nail, the glass was soon cleared of paper for the +space of an inch in diameter, and through this opening he stood +gazing out upon the yards, below, and the houses that came up to +them from a neighboring street. There was a woman in one of these +yards, and she looked up toward the window where Andy stood, +curiously. + +"You imp of Satan!" were the terrible words that fell upon his ears +at this juncture, and he felt himself caught up as by a vulture. He +knew the cruel voice and the grip of the cruel hands that had +already left their marks in his tender flesh. Mother Peter, her face +red with passion and her eyes slowing like coals of fire, held him +high in the air, and shook him with savage violence. She did not +strike, but continued shaking him until the sudden heat of her +passion had a little cooled. + +"Didn't I tell you not to meddle with anything in this room?" and +with another bruising grip of Andy's arms, she threw him roughly +upon the floor. + +The little hole in the paper was then repaired by pasting another +piece of paper over it, after which Andy was left alone, but with a +threat from Mother Peter that if he touched the window again she +would beat the life out of him. She had no more trouble with him +that day. Every half hour or so she would come up stairs +noiselessly, and listen at the door, or break in upon the child +suddenly and without warning. But she did not find him again at the +window. The restlessness at first exhibited had died out, and he sat +or lay upon the floor in a kind of dull, despairing stupor. So that +day passed. + +On the second day of Andy's imprisonment he distinctly heard the old +woman go out at the street door and lock it after her. He listened +for a long time, but could hear no sound in the house. A feeling of +relief and a sense of safety came over him. He had not been so long +in his prison alone without the minutest examination of every part, +and it had not escaped his notice that the panes of glass in the +upper sash of the window were not covered with paper, as were those +below. But for the fear of one of Mother Peter's noiseless pouncings +in upon him, he would long since have climbed upon the sill and +taken a look through the upper sash. He waited now for full half an +hour to be sure that his jailer had left the house, and then, +climbing to the window-sill with the agility of a squirrel, held on +to the edge of the lower sash and looked out through the clear glass +above. Dreary and unsightly as was all that lay under his gaze, it +was beautiful in the eyes of the child. His little heart swelled and +glowed; he longed, as a prisoner, for freedom. As he stood there he +saw that a nail held down the lower sash, which he had so often +tried, but in vain, to lift. Putting his finger on this nail, he +felt it move. It had been placed loosely in a gimlet-hole, and could +be drawn out easily. For a little while he stood there, taking out +and putting in the nail. While doing this he thought he heard a +sound below, and instantly dropped noiselessly from the window. He +had scarcely done so when the door of his room opened and Mother +Peter came in. She looked at him sharply, and then retired without +speaking. + +All the next day Andy listened after Mother Peter, waiting to hear +her go out. But she did not leave the house until after he was +asleep in the evening. + +On the next day, after waiting until almost noon, the child's +impatience of confinement grew so strong that he could no longer +defer his meditated escape from the window, for ever since he had +looked over the sash and discovered how it was fastened down, his +mind had been running on this thing. He had noticed that Mother +Peter's visits to his room were made after about equal intervals of +time, and that after she gave him his dinner she did not come up +stairs again for at least an hour. This had been brought, and he was +again alone. + +For nearly five minutes after the woman went out, he sat by the +untasted food, his head bent toward the door, listening. Then he got +up quietly, climbed upon the window-sill and pulled the nail out. +Dropping back upon the floor noiselessly, he pushed his hands upward +against the sash, and it rose easily. Like an animal held in +unwilling confinement, he did not stop to think of any danger that +might lie in the way of escape when opportunity for escape offered. +The fear behind was worse than any imagined fear that could lie +beyond. Pushing up the sash, Andy, without looking down from the +window, threw himself across the sill and dropped his body over, +supporting himself with his hands on the snow-encrusted ledge for a +moment, and then letting himself fall to the ground, a distance of +nearly ten feet. He felt his breath go as he swept through the air, +and lost his senses for an instant or two. + +Stunned by the fall, he did not rise for several minutes. Then he +got up with a slow, heavy motion and looked about him anxiously. He +was in a yard from which there was no egress except by way of the +house. It was bitter cold, and he had on nothing but the clothing +worn in the room from which he had just escaped. His head was bare. + +The dread of being found here by Mother Peter soon lifted him above +physical impediment or suffering. Through a hole in the fence he saw +an alley-way; and by the aid of an old barrel that stood in the +yard, he climbed to the top of the fence and let himself down on the +other side, falling a few feet. A sharp pain was felt in one of his +ankles as his feet touched the ground. He had sprained it in his +leap from the window, and now felt the first pangs attendant on the +injury. + +Limping along, he followed the narrow alley-way, and in a little +while came out upon a street some distance from the one in which +Mother Peter lived. There were very few people abroad, and no one +noticed or spoke to him as he went creeping along, every step +sending a pain from the hurt ankle to his heart. Faint with +suffering and chilled to numbness, Andy stumbled and fell as he +tried, in crossing a street, to escape from a sleigh that turned a +corner suddenly. It was too late for the driver to rein up his +horse. One foot struck the child, throwing him out of the track of +the sleigh. He was insensible when taken up, bleeding and apparently +dead. A few people came out of the small houses in the neighborhood, +attracted by the accident, but no one knew the child or offered to +take him in. + +There were two ladies in the sleigh, and both were greatly pained +and troubled. After a hurried consultation, one of them reached out +her hands for the child, and as she received and covered him with +the buffalo-robe said something to the driver, who turned his +horse's head and drove off at a rapid speed. + + + + + + +CHAPTER XXVIII. + + + + + +_EVERY_ home for friendless children, every sin or poverty-blighted +ward and almost every hovel, garret and cellar where evil and +squalor shrunk from observation were searched for the missing child, +but in vain. No trace of him could be found. The agony of suspense +into which Edith's mind was brought was beginning to threaten her +reason. It was only by the strongest effort at self-compulsion that +she could keep herself to duty among the poor and suffering, and +well for her it was that she did not fail here; it was all that held +her to safe mooring. + +One day, as she was on her way home from some visit of mercy, a lady +who was passing in a carriage called to her from the window, at the +same time ordering her driver to stop. The carriage drew up to the +sidewalk. + +"Come, get in," said the lady as she pushed open the carriage door. +"I was thinking of you this very moment, and want to have some talk +about our children's hospital. We must have you on our ladies' +visiting committee." + +Edith shook her head, saying, "It won't be possible, Mrs. Morton. I +am overtaxed now, and must lessen, instead of increasing, my work." + +"Never mind, about that now. Get in. I want to have some talk with +you." + +Edith, who knew the lady intimately, stepped into the carriage and +took a seat by her side. + +"I don't believe you have ever been to our hospital," said the lady +as the carriage rolled on. "I'm going there now, and want to show +you how admirably everything is conducted, and what a blessing it is +to poor suffering children." + +"It hurts me so to witness suffering in little children," returned +Edith, "that it seems as if I couldn't bear it much longer. I see so +much of it." + +"The pain is not felt as deeply when we are trying to relieve that +suffering," answered her friend. "I have come away from the hospital +many times after spending an hour or two among the beds, reading and +talking to the children, with an inward peace in my soul too deep +for expression. I think that Christ draws very near to us while we +are trying to do the work that he did when he took upon himself our +nature in, the world and stood face to face visibly with men--nearer +to us, it may be, than at any other time; and in his presence there +is peace--peace that passeth understanding." + +They were silent for a little while, Edith not replying. "We have +now," resumed the lady, "nearly forty children under treatment--poor +little things who, but for this charity, would have no tender care +or intelligent ministration. Most of them would be lying in garrets +or miserable little rooms, dirty and neglected, disease eating out +their lives, and pain that medical skill now relieves, racking their +poor worn bodies. I sat by the bed of a little girl yesterday who +has been in the hospital over six months. She has hip disease. When +she was brought here from one of the vilest places in the city, +taken away from a drunken mother, she was the saddest-looking child +I ever saw. Dirty, emaciated, covered with vermin and pitiable to +behold, I could hardly help crying when I saw her brought in. Now, +though still unable to leave her bed, she has as bright and happy a +face as you ever saw. The care and tenderness received since she +came to us have awakened a new life in her soul, and she exhibits a +sweetness of temper beautiful to see. After I had read a little +story for her yesterday, she put her arms about my neck and kissed +me, saying, in her frank, impulsive way, 'Oh, Mrs. Morton, I do love +you so!' I had a great reward. Never do I spend an hour among these +children without thanking God that he put it into the hearts of a +few men and women who could be touched with the sufferings of +children to establish and sustain so good an institution." + +The carriage stopped, and the driver swung open the door. They were +at the children's hospital. Entering a spacious hall, the two ladies +ascended to the second story, where the wards were located. There +were two of these on opposite sides of the hall, one for boys and +one for girls. Edith felt a heavy pressure on her bosom as they +passed into the girls' ward. She was coming into the presence of +disease and pain, of suffering and weariness, in the persons of +little children. + +There were twenty beds in the room. Everything was faultlessly +clean, and the air fresh and pure. On most of these beds lay, or sat +up, supported by pillows, sick or crippled children from two years +of age up to fifteen or sixteen, while a few were playing about the +room. Edith caught her breath and choked back a sob that came +swiftly to her throat as she stood a few steps within the door and +read in a few quick glances that passed from face to face the +sorrowful records that pain had written upon them. + +"Oh, there's Mrs. Morton!" cried a glad voice, and Edith saw a girl +who was sitting up in one of the beds clap her hands joyfully. + +"That's the little one I was telling you about," said the lady, and +she crossed to the bed, Edith following. The child reached up her +arms and put them about Mrs. Morton's neck, kissing her as she did +so. + +It took Edith some time to adjust herself to the scene before her. +Mrs. Morton knew all the children, and had a word of cheer or +sympathy for most of them as she passed from bed to bed through the +ward. Gradually the first painful impressions wore off, and Edith +felt herself drawn to the little patients, and before five minutes +had passed her heart was full of a strong desire to do whatever lay +in her power to help and comfort them. After spending half an hour +with the girls, during which time Edith talked and read to a number +of them, Mrs. Morton said, + +"Now let us go into the boys' ward." + +They crossed the hall together, and entered the room on the other +side. Here, as in the opposite ward, Mrs. Morton was recognized as +welcome visitor. Every face that happened to be turned to the door +brightened at her entrance. + +"There's a dear child in this ward," said Mrs. Morton as they stood +for a moment in the door looking about the room. "He was picked up +in the street about a week ago, hurt by a passing vehicle, and +brought here. We have not been able to learn anything about him." + +Edith's heart gave a sudden leap, but she held it down with all the +self-control she could assume, trying to be calm. + +"Where is he?" she asked, in a voice so altered from its natural +tone that Mrs. Morton turned and looked at her in surprise. + +"Over in that corner," she answered, pointing down the room. + +Edith started forward, Mrs. Morton at her side. + +"Here he is," said the latter, pausing at a bed on which child with +fair face, blue eyes and golden hair was lying. A single glance sent +the blood back to Edith's heart. A faintness came over her; +everything grew dark. She sat down to keep from falling. + +As quickly as possible and by another strong effort of will she +rallied herself. + +"Yes," she said, in a faint undertone in which was no apparent +interest, "he is a dear little fellow." + +As she spoke she laid her hand softly on the child's head, but not +in a way to bring any response. He looked at her curiously, and +seemed half afraid. + +Meanwhile, a child occupying a bed only a few feet off had started +up quickly on seeing Edith, and now sat with his large brown eyes +fixed eagerly upon her, his lips apart and his hands extended. But +Edith did not notice him. Presently she got up from beside the bed +and was turning away when the other child, with a kind of despairing +look in his face, cried out, + +"Lady, lady! oh, lady!" + +The voice reached Edith's ears. She turned, and saw the face of +Andy. Swift as a flash she was upon him, gathering him in her arms +and crying out, in a wild passion of joy that could not be +repressed, + +"Oh, my baby! my baby! my boy! my boy! Bless God! thank God! oh, my +baby!" + +Startled by this sudden outcry, the resident physician and two +nurses who were in the ward hurried down the room to see what it +meant. Edith had the child hugged tightly to her bosom, and resisted +all their efforts to remove him. + +"My dear madam," said the doctor, "you will do him some harm if you +don't take care." + +"Hurt my baby? Oh no, no!" she answered, relaxing her hold and +gazing down upon Andy as she let him fall away from her bosom. Then +lifting her eyes to the physician, her face so flooded with love and +inexpressible joy that it seemed like some heavenly transfiguration, +she murmured, in a low voice full of the deepest tenderness, + +"Oh no. I will not do my baby any harm." + +"My dear, dear friend," said Mrs. Morton, recovering from the shock +of her first surprise and fearing that Edith had suddenly lost her +mind, "you cannot mean what you say;" and she reached down for the +child and made a movement as if she were going to lift him away from +her arms. + +A look of angry resistance swept across Edith's pale face. There was +a flash of defiance in her eyes. + +"No, no! You must not touch him," she exclaimed; "I will die before +giving him up. My baby!" + +And now, breaking down from her intense excitement, she bent over +the child again, weeping and sobbing. Waiting until this paroxysm +had expended itself, Mrs. Morton, who had not failed to notice that +Andy never turned his eyes for an instant away from Edith, nor +resisted her strained clasp or wild caresses, but lay passive +against her with a look of rest and peace in his face, said, + +"How shall we know that he is your baby?" + +At this Edith drew herself up, the light on her countenance fading +out. Then catching at the child's arm, she pulled the loose sleeve +that covered it above the elbow with hands that shook like aspens. +Another cry of joy broke from her as she saw a small red mark +standing out clear from the snowy skin. She kissed it over and over +again, sobbing, + +"My baby! Yes, thank God! my own long-lost baby!" + +And still the child showed no excitement, but lay very quiet, +looking at Edith whenever he could see her countenance, the peace +and rest on his face as unchanging as if it were not really a living +and mobile face, but one cut into this expression by the hands of an +artist. + +"How shall you know?" asked Edith, now remembering the question of +Mrs. Morton. And she drew up her own sleeve and showed on one of her +arms a mark as clearly defined and bright as that on the child's +arm. + +No one sought to hinder Edith as she rose to her feet holding Andy, +after she had wrapped the bed-clothes about him. + +"Come!" she spoke to her friend, and moved away with her precious +burden. + +"You must go with us," said Mrs. Morton to the physician. + +They followed as Edith hurried down stairs, and entering the +carriage after her, were driven away from the hospital. + + + + + + +CHAPTER XXIX. + + + + + +_ABOUT_ the same hour that Edith entered the boys' ward of the +children's hospital, Mr. Dinneford met Granger face to face in the +street. The latter tried to pass him, but Mr. Dinneford stopped, and +taking his almost reluctant hand, said, as he grasped it tightly, + +"George Granger!" in a voice that had in it a kind of helpless cry. + +The young man did not answer, but stood looking at him in a +surprised, uncertain way. + +"George," said Mr. Dinneford, his utterance broken, "we want you!" + +"For what?" asked Granger, whose hand still lay in that of Mr. +Dinneford. He had tried to withdraw it at first, but now let it +remain. + +"To help us find your child." + +"My child! What of my child?" + +"Your child and Edith's," said Mr. Dinneford. "Come!" and he drew +his arm within that of Granger, the two men moving away together. +"It has been lost since the day of its birth--cast adrift through +the same malign influence that cursed your life and Edith's. We are +on its track, but baffled day by day. Oh, George, we want you, +frightfully wronged as you have been at our hands--not Edith's. Oh +no, George! Edith's heart has never turned from you for an instant, +never doubted you, though in her weakness and despair she was driven +to sign that fatal application for a divorce. If it were not for the +fear of a scornful rejection, she would be reaching out her hands to +you now and begging for the old sweet love, but such a rejection +would kill her, and she dare not brave the risk." + +Mr. Dinneford felt the young man's arm begin to tremble violently. + +"We want you, George," he pursued. "Edith's heart is calling out for +you, that she may lean it upon your heart, so that it break not in +this great trial and suspense. Your lost baby is calling for you out +of some garret or cellar or hovel where it lies concealed. Come, my +son. The gulf that lies between the dreadful past and the blessed +future can be leaped at a single bound if you choose to make it. We +want you--Edith and I and your baby want you." + +Mr. Dinneford, in his great excitement, was hurrying the young man +along at a rapid speed, holding on to his arm at the same time, as +if afraid he would pull it away and escape. + +Granger made no response, but moved along passively, taking in every +word that was said. A great light seemed to break upon his soul, a +great mountain to be lifted off. He did not pause at the door from +which, when he last stood there, he had been so cruelly rejected, +but went in, almost holding his breath, bewildered, uncertain, but +half realizing the truth of what was transpiring, like one in a +dream. + +"Wait here," said Mr. Dinneford, and he left him in the parlor and +ran up stairs to find Edith. + +George Granger had scarcely time to recognize the objects around +him, when a carriage stopped at the door, and in a moment afterward +the bell rang violently. + +The image that next met his eyes was that of Edith standing in the +parlor door with a child all bundled up in bed-clothing held closely +in her arms. Her face was trembling with excitement. He started +forward on seeing her with an impulse of love and joy that he could +not restrain. She saw him, and reading his soul in his eyes, moved +to meet him. + +"Oh, George, and you too!" she exclaimed. "My baby and my husband, +all at once! It is too much. I cannot bear if all!" + +Granger caught her in his arms as she threw herself upon him and +laid the child against his breast. + +"Yours and mine," she sobbed. "Yours and mine, George!" and she put +up her face to his. Could he do less than cover it with kisses? + +A few hours later, and a small group of very near friends witnessed +a different scene from this. Not another tragedy as might well be +feared, under the swift reactions that came upon Edith. No, no! She +did not die from a excess of joy, but was filled with new life and +strength. Two hands broken asunder so violently a few years ago were +now clasped again, and the minister of God as he laid them together +pronounced in trembling tones the marriage benediction. + +This was the scene, and here we drop the curtain. +The Project Gutenberg Etext of Cast Adrift +by T. S. 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