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Mary Webb - "Gone to Earth"

Ben Jonson - "Epicoene: Or, The Silent Woman"

Nathaniel W. Stephenson - "The Day of the Confederacy"

Unknown - "The first 498 Bernoulli Numbers"

Cast Adrift

T >> T. S. Arthur >> Cast Adrift




"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.

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