_WHEN_ Mr. Dinneford and the policeman sent by the mayor at his
solicitation visited Grubb's court, the baby was not to be found. The
room in which it had been seen by Mr. Paulding was vacant. Such a room
as it was!--low and narrow, with bare, blackened walls, the single
window having scarcely two whole panes of glass, the air loaded with the
foulness that exhaled from the filth-covered floor, the only furniture a
rough box and a dirty old straw bed lying in a corner.
As Mr. Dinneford stood at the door of this room and inhaled its fetid
air, he grew sick, almost faint. Stepping back, with a shocked and
disgusted look on his face, he said to the policeman,
“There must be a mistake. This cannot be the room.”
Two or three children and a coarse, half-clothed woman, seeing a
gentleman going into the house accompanied by a policeman, had followed
them closely up stairs.
“Who lives in this room?” asked the policeman, addressing the woman.
“Don't know as anybody lives there now,” she replied, with evident
evasion.
“Who did live here?” demanded the policeman.
“Oh, lots!” returned the woman, curtly.
“I want to know who lived here last,” said the policeman, a little
sternly.
“Can't say--never keep the run of 'em,” answered the woman, with more
indifference than she felt. “Goin' and comin' all the while. Maybe it
was Poll Davis.”
“Had she a baby?”
The woman gave a vulgar laugh as she replied: “I rather think not.”
“It was Moll Fling,” said one of the children, “and she had a baby.”
“When was she here last?” inquired the policeman.
The woman, unseen by the latter, raised her fist and threatened the
child, who did not seem to be in the least afraid of her, for she
answered promptly:
“She went away about an hour ago.”
“And took the baby?”
“Yes. You see Mr. Paulding was here asking about the baby, and she got
scared.”
“Why should that scare her?”
“I don't know, only it isn't her baby.”
“How do you know that?”
“'Cause it isn't--I know it isn't. She's paid to take care of it.”
“Who by?”
“Pinky Swett.”
“Who's Pinky Swett?”
“Don't you know Pinky Swett?” and the child seemed half surprised.
“Where does Pinky Swett live?” asked the policeman.
“She did live next door for a while, but I don't know where she's gone.”
Nothing beyond this could be ascertained. But having learned the names
of the women who had possession of the child, the policeman said there
would be no difficulty about discovering them. It might take a little
time, but they could not escape the vigilance of the police.
With this assurance, Mr. Dinneford hastened from the polluted air of
Grubb's court, and made his way to the mission in Briar street, in order
to have some further conference with Mr. Paulding.
“As I feared,” said the missionary, on learning that the baby could not
be found. “These creatures are as keen of scent as Indians, and know
the smallest sign of danger. It is very plain that there is something
wrong--that these women have no natural right to the child, and that
they are not using it to beg with.”
“Do you know a woman called Pinky Swett?” asked the policeman.
“I've heard of her, but do not know her by sight. She bears a hard
reputation even here, and adds to her many evil accomplishments the
special one of adroit robbery. A victim lured to her den rarely escapes
without loss of watch or pocket-book. And not one in a hundred dares to
give information, for this would expose him to the public, and so her
crimes are covered. Pinky Swett is not the one to bother herself about
a baby unless its parentage be known, and not then unless the knowledge
can be turned to advantage.”
“The first thing to be done, then, is to find this woman,” said the
policeman.
“That will not be very hard work. But finding the baby, if she thinks
you are after it, would not be so easy,” returned Mr. Paulding. “She's
as cunning as a fox.”
“We shall see. If the chief of police undertakes to find the baby, it
won't be out of sight long. You'd better confer with the mayor again,”
added the policeman, addressing Mr. Dinneford.
“I will do so without delay,” returned that gentleman.
“I hope to see you here again soon,” said the missionary as Mr.
Dinneford was about going. “If I can help you in any way, I shall do so
gladly.”
“I have no doubt but that you can render good service.” Then, in half
apology, and to conceal the real concern at his heart, Mr. Dinneford
added, “Somehow, and strangely enough when I come to think of it, I have
allowed myself to get drawn into this thing, and once in, the natural
persistence of my character leads me to go on to the end. I am one of
those who cannot bear to give up or acknowledge a defeat; and so, having
set my hand to this work, I am going to see it through.”
When the little girl who had taken Edith to the mission-house in Briar
street got home and told her story, there was a ripple of excitement in
that part of Grubb's court where she lived, and a new interest was felt
in the poor neglected baby. Mr. Paulding's visit and inquiries added to
this interest. It had been several days since Pinky Swett's last visit
to the child to see that it was safe. On the morning after Edith's call
at the mission she came in about ten o'clock, and heard the news. In
less than twenty minutes the child and the woman who had charge of it
both disappeared from Grubb's court. Pinky sent them to her own room,
not many squares distant, and then drew from the little girl who was in
Edith's sewing-class all she knew about that young lady. It was not much
that the child could tell. She was very sweet and good and handsome, and
wore such beautiful clothes, was so kind and patient with the girls, but
she did not remember her name, thought it was Edith.
“Now, see here,” said Pinky, and she put some money into the child's
hand; “I want you to find out for me what her name is and where she
lives. Mind, you must be very careful to remember.”
“What do you want to know for?” asked the little girl.
“That's none of your business. Do what I tell you,” returned Pinky, with
impatience; “and if you do it right, I'll give you a quarter more. When
do you go again?”
“Next week, on Thursday.”
“Not till next Thursday!” exclaimed Pinky, in a tone of disappointment.
“The school's only once a week.”
Pinky chafed a good deal, but it was of no use; she must wait.
“You'll be sure and go next Thursday?” she said.
“If Mother lets me,” replied the child.
“Oh, I'll see to that; I'll make her let you. What time does the school
go in?”
“At three o'clock.”
“Very well. You wait for me. I'll come round here at half-past two, and
go with you. I want to see the young lady. They'll let me come into the
school and learn to sew, won't they?”
“I don't know; you're too big, and you don't want to learn.”
“How do you know I don't?”
“Because I do.”
Pinky laughed, and then said,
“You'll wait for me?”
“Yes, if mother says so.”
“All right;” and Pinky hurried away to take measures for hiding the baby
from a search that she felt almost sure was about being made. The first
thing she did was to soundly abuse the woman in whose care she had
placed the hapless child for her neglect and ill treatment, both of
which were too manifest, and then to send her away under the new aspect
of affairs she did not mean to trust this woman, nor indeed to trust
anybody who knew anything of the inquiries which had been made about the
child. A new nurse must be found, and she must live as far away from the
old locality as possible. Pinky was not one inclined to put things off.
Thought and act were always close together. Scarcely had the woman been
gone ten minutes, before, bundling the baby in a shawl, she started off
to find a safer hiding-place. This time she was more careful about the
character and habits of the person selected for a nurse, and the baby's
condition was greatly improved. The woman in whose charge she placed it
was poor, but neither drunken nor depraved. Pinky arranged with her to
take the care of it for two dollars a week, and supplied it with clean
and comfortable clothing. Even she, wicked and vile as she was, could
not help being touched by the change that appeared in the baby's
shrunken face, and in its sad but beautiful eyes, after its wasted
little body had been cleansed and clothed in clean, warm garments and it
had taken its fill of nourishing food.
“It's a shame, the way it has been abused,” said Pinky, speaking from an
impulse of kindness, such as rarely swelled in her evil heart.
“A crying shame,” answered the woman as she drew the baby close against
her bosom and gazed down upon its pitiful face, and into the large brown
eyes that were lifted to hers in mute appeal.
The real motherly tenderness that was in this woman's heart was quickly
perceived by the child, who did not move its eyes from hers, but lay
perfectly still, gazing up at her in a kind of easeful rest such as it
had never before known. She spoke to it in loving tones, touched its
thin cheeks with her finger in playful caresses, kissed it on its lips
and forehead, hugged it to her bosom; and still the eyes were fixed on
hers in a strange baby-wonder, though not the faintest glinting of a
smile played on its lips or over its serious face. Had it never learned
to smile?
At last the poor thin lips curved a little, crushing 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
class 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 class 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 class, 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
class.