Cast Adrift. Arthur Timothy Shay
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