Cast Adrift

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

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"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.

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