_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.
“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.