Cast Adrift. T. S. Arthur
“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