_AS_ for Edith, all doubts and questionings as to her baby's fate were
merged into a settled conviction that it was alive, and that her mother
knew where it was to be found. From her mother's pity and humanity she
had nothing to hope for the child. It had been cruelly cast adrift,
pushed out to die; by what means was cared not, so that it died and left
no trace.
The face of Mrs. Bray had, in the single glance Edith obtained of it,
become photographed in her mind. If she had been an artist, she could
have drawn it from memory so accurately that no one who knew the woman
could have failed to recognize her likeness. Always when in the street
her eyes searched for this face; she never passed a woman of small
stature and poor dark clothing without turning to look at her. Every day
she went out, walking the streets sometimes for hours looking for this
face, but not finding it. Every day she passed certain corners and
localities where she had seen women begging, and whenever she found one
with a baby in her arms would stop to look at the poor starved thing,
and question her about it.
Gradually all her thoughts became absorbed in the condition of poor,
neglected and suffering children. Her attendance at the St. John's
mission sewing-school, which was located in the neighborhood of one
of the worst places in the city, brought her in contact with little
children in such a wretched state of ignorance, destitution and vice
that her heart was moved to deepest pity, intensified by the thought
that ever and anon flashed across her mind: “And my baby may become like
one of these!”
Sometimes this thought would drive her almost to madness. Often she
would become so wild in her suspense as to be on the verge of openly
accusing her mother with having knowledge of her baby's existence and
demanding of her its restoration. But she was held back by the fear that
such an accusation would only shut the door of hope for ever. She had
come to believe her mother capable of almost any wickedness. Pressed
to the wall she would never be if there was any way of escape, and to
prevent such at thing there was nothing so desperate that she would not
do it; and so Edith hesitated and feared to take the doubtful issue.
Week after week and month after month now went on without a single,
occurrence that gave to Edith any new light. Mrs. Dinneford wrought with
her accomplice so effectually that she kept her wholly out of the way.
Often, in going and returning from the mission-school, Edith would
linger about the neighborhood where she had once met her mother, hoping
to see her come out of some one of the houses there, for she had got it
into her mind that the woman called Mrs. Gray lived somewhere in this
locality.
One day, in questioning a child who had come to the sewing-school as to
her home and how she lived, the little girl said something about a baby
that her mother said she knew must have been stolen.
“How old is the baby?” asked Edith, hardly able to keep the tremor out
of her voice.
“It's a little thing,” answered the child. “I don't know how old it is;
maybe it's six months old, or maybe it's a year. It can sit upon the
floor.”
“Why does your mother think it has been stolen?”
“Because two bad girls have got it, and they pay a woman to take care of
it. It doesn't belong to them, she knows. Mother says it would be a good
thing if it died.”
“Why does she say that?”
“Oh she always talks that way about babies--says she's glad when they
die.”
“Is it a boy or a girl?”
“It's a boy baby,” answered the child.
“Does the woman take good care of it?”
“Oh dear, no! She lets it sit on the floor 'most all the time, and it
cries so that I often go up and nurse it. The woman lives in the room
over ours.”
“Where do you live?”
“In Grubb's court.”
“Will you show me the way there after school is over?”
The child looked up into Edith's face with an expression of surprise and
doubt. Edith repeated her question.
“I guess you'd better not go,” was answered, in a voice that meant all
the words expressed.
“Why not?”
“It isn't a good place.”
“But you live there?”
“Yes, but nobody's going to trouble me.”
“Nor me,” said Edith.
“Oh, but you don't know what kind of a place it is, nor what dreadful
people live there.”
“I could get a policeman to go with me, couldn't I?”
“Yes, maybe you could, or Mr. Paulding, the missionary. He goes about
everywhere.”
“Where can I find Mr. Paulding?”
“At the mission in Briar street.”
“You'll show me the way there after school?”
“Oh yes; it isn't a nice place for you to go, but I guess nobody'll
trouble you.”
After the school closed, Edith, guided by the child, made her way to the
Briar st. mission-house. As she entered the narrow street in which it
was situated, the aspect of things was so strange and shocking to her
eyes that she felt a chill creep to her heart. She had never imagined
anything so forlorn and squalid, so wretched and comfortless. Miserable
little hovels, many of them no better than pig-styes, and hardly cleaner
within, were crowded together in all stages of dilapidation. Windows
with scarcely a pane of glass, the chilly air kept out by old hats, bits
of carpet or wads of newspaper, could be seen on all sides, with here
and there, showing some remains of an orderly habit, a broken pane
closed with a smooth piece of paper pasted to the sash. Instinctively
she paused, oppressed by a sense of fear.
“It's only halfway down,” said the child. “We'll 'go quick. I guess
nobody'll speak to you. They're afraid of Mr. Paulding about here. He's
down on 'em if they meddle with anybody that's coming to the mission.”
Edith, thus urged, moved on. She had gone but a few steps when two men
came in sight, advancing toward her. They were of the class to be seen
at all times in that region--debased to the lowest degree, drunken,
ragged, bloated, evil-eyed, capable of any wicked thing. They were
singing when they came in sight, but checked their drunken mirth as soon
as they saw Edith, whose heart sunk again. She stopped, trembling.
“They're only drunk,” said the child. “I don't believe they'll hurt
you.”
Edith rallied herself and walked on, the men coming closer and closer.
She saw them look at each other with leering eyes, and then at her in
a way that made her shiver. When only a few paces distant, they paused,
and with the evident intention of barring her farther progress.
“Good-afternoon, miss,” said one of them, with a low bow. “Can we do
anything for you?”
The pale, frightened face of Edith was noticed by the other, and it
touched some remnant of manhood not yet wholly extinguished.
“Let her alone, you miserable cuss!” he cried, and giving his drunken
companion a shove, sent him staggering across the street. This made the
way clear, and Edith sprang forward, but she had gone only a few feet
when she came face to face with another obstruction even more frightful,
if possible, than the first. A woman with a red, swollen visage, black
eye, soiled, tattered, drunk, with arms wildly extended, came rushing up
to her. The child gave a scream. The wretched creature caught at a shawl
worn by Edith, and was dragging it from her shoulders, when the door of
one of the houses flew open, and a woman came out hastily. Grasping
the assailant, she hurled her across the street with the strength of a
giant.
“We're going to the mission,” said the child.
“It's just down there. Go 'long. I'll stand here and see that no one
meddles with you again.”
Edith faltered her thanks, and went on.
“That's the queen,” said her companion.
“The queen!” Edith's hasty tones betrayed her surprise.
“Yes; it's Norah. They're all afraid of her. I'm glad she saw us. She's
as strong as a man.”
In a few minutes they reached the mission, but in those few minutes
Edith saw more to sadden the heart, more to make it ache for humanity,
than could be described in pages.
The missionary was at home. Edith told him the purpose of her call and
the locality she desired to visit.
“I wanted to go alone,” she remarked, “but this little girl, who is in
my class at the sewing-school, said it wouldn't be safe, and that you
would go with me.”
“I should be sorry to have you go alone into Grubb's court,” said the
missionary, kindly, and with concern in his voice, “for a worse place
can hardly be found in the city--I was going to say in the world. You
will be safe with me, however. But why do you wish to visit Grubb's
court? Perhaps I can do all that is needed.”
“This little girl who lives in there, has been telling me about a
poor neglected baby that her mother says has no doubt been stolen,
and--and--” Edith voice faltered, but she quickly gained steadiness
under a strong effort of will: “I thought perhaps I might be able to
do something for it--to get it into one of the homes, maybe. It is
dreadful, sir, to think of little babies being neglected.”
Mr. Paulding questioned the child who had brought Edith to the
mission-house, and learned from her that the baby was merely boarded by
the woman who had it in charge, and that she sometimes took it out and
sat on the street, begging. The child repeated what she had said to
Edith--that the baby was the property, so to speak, of two abandoned
women, who paid its board.
“I think,” said the missionary, after some reflection, “that if getting
the child out of their hands is your purpose, you had better not go
there at present. Your visit would arouse suspicion; and if the two
women have anything to gain by keeping the child in their possession,
it will be at once taken to a new place. I am moving about in these
localities all the while, and can look in upon the baby without anything
being thought of it.”
This seemed so reasonable that Edith, who could not get over the nervous
tremors occasioned by what she had already seen and encountered, readily
consented to leave the matter for the present in Mr. Paulding's hands.
“If you will come here to-morrow,” said the missionary, “I will tell you
all I can about the baby.”
Out of a region where disease, want and crime shrunk from common
observation, and sin and death held high carnival, Edith hurried with
trembling feet, and heart beating so heavily that she could hear it
throb, the considerate missionary going with her until she had crossed
the boundary of this morally infected district.
Mr. Dinneford met Edith at the door on her arrival home.
“My child,” he exclaimed as he looked into her face, back to which the
color had not returned since her fright in Briar street, “are you sick?”
“I don't feel very well;” and she tried to pass him hastily in the hall
as they entered the house together. But he laid his hand on her arm
and held her back gently, then drew her into the parlor. She sat down,
trembling, weak and faint. Mr. Dinneford waited for some moments,
looking at her with a tender concern, before speaking.
“Where have you been, my dear?” he asked, at length.
After a little hesitation, Edith told her father about her visit to
Briar street and the shock she had received.
“You were wrong,” he answered, gravely. “It is most fortunate for you
that you took the child's advice and called at the mission. If you had
gone to Grubb's court alone, you might not have come out alive.”
“Oh no, father! It can't be so bad as that.”
“It is just as bad as that,” he replied, with a troubled face and
manner. “Grubb's court is one of the traps into which unwary victims
are drawn that they may be plundered. It is as much out of common
observation almost as the lair of a wild beast in some deep wilderness.
I have heard it described by those who have been there under protection
of the police, and shudder to think of the narrow escape you have made.
I don't want you to go into that vile district again. It is no place for
such as you.”
“There's a poor little baby there,” said Edith, her voice trembling and
tears filling her eyes. Then, after a brief struggle with her feelings,
she threw herself upon her father, sobbing out, “And oh, father, it may
be my baby!”
“My poor child,” said Mr. Dinneford, not able to keep his voice
firm--“my poor, poor child! It is all a wild dream, the suggestion of
evil spirits who delight in torment.”
“What became of my baby, father? Can you tell me?”
“It died, Edith dear. We know that,” returned her father, trying to
speak very confidently. But the doubt in his own mind betrayed itself.
“Do you know it?” she asked, rising and confronting her father.
“I didn't actually see it die. But--but--”
“You know no more about it than I do,” said Edith; “if you did, you
might set my heart at rest with a word. But you cannot. And so I am left
to my wild fears, that grow stronger every day. Oh, father, help me, if
you can. I must have certainty, or I shall lose my reason.”
“If you don't give up this wild fancy, you surely will,” answered Mr.
Dinneford, in a distressed voice.
“If I were to shut myself up and do nothing,” said Edith, with greater
calmness, “I would be in a madhouse before a week went by. My safety
lies in getting down to the truth of this wild fancy, as you call it. It
has taken such possession of me that nothing but certainty can give me
rest. Will you help me?”
“How can I help you? I have no clue to this sad mystery.”
“Mystery! Then you are as much in the dark as I am--know no more of what
became of my baby than I do! Oh, father, how could you let such a thing
be done, and ask no questions--such a cruel and terrible thing--and I
lying helpless and dumb? Oh, father, my innocent baby cast out like a
dog to perish--nay, worse, like a lamb among wolves to be torn by their
cruel teeth--and no one to put forth a hand to save! If I only knew that
he was dead! If I could find his little grave and comfort my heart over
it!”
Weak, naturally good men, like Mr. Dinneford, often permit great wrongs
to be done in shrinking from conflict and evading the sterner duties of
life. They are often the faithless guardians of immortal trusts.
There was a tone of accusation and rebuke in Edith's voice that smote
painfully on her father's heart. He answered feebly:
“What could I do? How should I know that anything wrong was being done?
You were very ill, and the baby was sent away to be nursed, and then I
was told that it was dead.”
“Oh, father! Sent away without your seeing it! My baby! Your little
grandson! Oh, father!”
“But you know, dear, in what a temper of mind your mother was--how
impossible it is for me to do anything with her when she once sets
herself to do a thing.”
“Even if it be murder!” said Edith, in a hoarse whisper.
“Hush, hush, my child! You must not speak so,” returned the agitated
father.
A silence fell between them. A wall of separation began to grow up.
Edith arose, and was moving from the room.
“My daughter!” There was a sob in the father's voice.
Edith stopped.
“My daughter, we must not part yet. Come back; sit down with me, and let
us talk more calmly. What is past cannot be changed. It is with the now
of this unhappy business that we have to do.”
Edith came back and sat down again, her father taking a seat beside her.
“That is just it,” she answered, with a steadiness of tone and manner
that showed how great was the self-control she was able to exert. “It
is with the now of this unhappy affair that we have to do. If I spoke
strongly of the past, it was that a higher and intenser life might be
given to present duty.”
“Let there be no distance between us. Let no wall of separation grow
up,” said Mr. Dinneford, tenderly. “I cannot bear to think of this.
Confide in me, consult with me. I will help you in all possible ways to
solve this mystery. But do not again venture alone into that dreadful
place. I will go with you if you think any good will come of it.”
“I must see Mr. Paulding in the morning,” said Edith, with calm
decision.
“Then I will go with you,” returned Mr. Dinneford.
“Thank you, father;” and she kissed him. “Until then nothing more can
be done.” She kissed him again, and then went to her own room. After
locking the door she sank on her knees, leaning forward, with her face
buried in the cushion of a chair, and did not rise for a long time.