Cast Adrift Part 33

At last the poor thin lips curved a little, crus.h.i.+ng 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 cla.s.s 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 cla.s.s 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 cla.s.s, 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 cla.s.s.

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 a.s.sured. 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 pa.s.s 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 un.o.bserved into one of the parlors, where, concealed by a curtain, she heard everything that pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sed out of the fas.h.i.+onable 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, un.o.btrusive 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.