_DAY_ after day Mr. Dinneford waited for the woman who was to restore
the child of Edith, but she did not come. Over a week elapsed, but she
neither called nor sent him a sign or a word. He dared not speak
about this to Edith. She was too weak in body and mind for any further
suspense or strain.
Drew Hall had been nearly thrown down again by the events of that
Christmas day. The hand of a little child was holding him fast to a
better life; but when that hand was torn suddenly away from his grasp,
he felt the pull of evil habits, the downward drift of old currents. His
steps grew weak, his knees trembled. But God did not mean that he should
be left alone. He had reached down to him through the hand of a little
child, had lifted him up and led him into a way of safety; and now that
this small hand, the soft, touch of which had gone to his heart and
stirred him with old memories, sad and sweet and holy, had dropped away
from him, and he seemed to be losing his hold of heaven, God sent
him, in Mr. Dinneford, an angel with a stronger hand. There were old
associations that held these men together. They had been early and
attached friends, and this meeting, after many years of separation,
under such strange circumstances, and with a common fear and anxiety
at heart, could not but have the effect of arousing in the mind of Mr.
Dinneford the deepest concern for the unhappy man. He saw the new peril
into which he was thrown by the loss of Andy, and made it his first
business to surround him with all possible good and strengthening
influences. So the old memories awakened by the coming of Andy did not
fade out and lose their power over the man. He had taken hold of the
good past again, and still held to it with the tight grasp of one
conscious of danger.
“We shall find the child--no fear of that,” Mr. Dinneford would say to
him over and over again, trying to comfort his own heart as well, as
the days went by and no little Andy could be found. “The police have the
girl under the sharpest surveillance, and she cannot baffle them much
longer.”
George Granger left the asylum with his friends, and dropped out
of sight. He did not show himself in the old places nor renew old
associations. He was too deeply hurt. The disaster had been too great
for any attempt on his part at repairing the old dwelling-places of his
life. His was not what we call a strong nature, but he was susceptible
of very deep impressions. He was fine and sensitive, rather than strong.
Rejected by his wife and family without a single interview with her or
even an opportunity to assert his innocence, he felt the wrong so deeply
that he could not get over it. His love for his wife had been profound
and tender, and when it became known to him that she had accepted the
appearances of guilt as conclusive, and broken with her own hands the
tie that bound them, it was more than he had strength to bear, and a
long time passed before he rallied from this hardest blow of all.
Edith knew that her father had seen Granger after securing his pardon,
and she had learned from him only, particulars of the interview. Beyond
this nothing came to her. She stilled her heart, aching with the
old love that crowded all its chambers, and tried to be patient and
submissive. It was very hard. But she was helpless. Sometimes, in the
anguish and wild agitation of soul that seized her, she would resolve
to put in a letter all she thought and felt, and have it conveyed to
Granger; but fear and womanly delicacy drove her back from this. What
hope had she that he would not reject her with hatred and scorn? It was
a venture she dared not make, for she felt that such a rejection would
kill her. But for her work among the destitute and the neglected, Edith
would have shut herself up at home. Christian charity drew her forth
daily, and in offices of kindness and mercy she found a peace and rest
to which she would otherwise have been stranger.
She was on her way home one afternoon from a visit to the mission-school
where she had first heard of the poor baby in Grubb's court. All that
day thoughts of little Andy kept crowding into her mind. She could not
push aside his image as she saw it on Christmas, when he sat among the
children, his large eyes resting in such a wistful look upon her face.
Her eyes often grew dim and her heart full as she looked upon that
tender face, pictured for her as distinctly as if photographed to
natural sight.
“Oh my baby, my baby!” came almost audibly from her lips, in a burst
of irrepressible feeling, for ever since she had seen this child, the
thought of him linked itself with that of her lost baby.
Up to this time her father had carefully concealed his interview
with Mrs. Bray. He was in so much doubt as to the effect that woman's
communication might produce while yet the child was missing that he
deemed it best to maintain the strictest silence until it could be
found.
Walking along with heart and thought where they dwelt for so large a
part of her time, Edith, in turning a corner, came upon a woman who
stopped at sight of her as if suddenly fastened to the ground--stopped
only for an instant, like one surprised by an unexpected and unwelcome
encounter, and then made a motion to pass on. But Edith, partly from
memory and partly from intuition, recognized her nurse, and catching
fast hold of her, said in a low imperative voice, while a look of wild
excitement spread over her face,
“Where is my baby?”
The woman tried to shake her off, but Edith held her with a grasp that
could not be broken.
“For Heaven's sake,” exclaimed the woman “let go of me! This is the
public street, and you'll have a crowd about us in a moment, and the
police with them.”
But Edith kept fast hold of her.
“First tell me where I can find my baby,” she answered.
“Come along,” said the woman, moving as she spoke in the direction Edith
was going when they met. “If you want a row with the police, I don't.”
Edith was close to her side, with her hand yet upon her and her voice in
her ears.
“My baby! Quick! Say! Where can I find my baby?”
“What do I know of your baby? You are a fool, or mad!” answered the
woman, trying to throw her off. “I don't know you.”
“But I know you, Mrs. Bray,” said Edith, speaking the name at a venture
as the one she remembered hearing the servant give to her mother.
At this the woman's whole manner changed, and Edith saw that she was
right--that this was, indeed, the accomplice of her mother.
“And now,” she added, in voice grown calm and resolute, “I do not mean
to let you escape until I get sure knowledge of my child. If you fly
from me, I will follow and call for the police. If you have any of
the instincts of a woman left, you will know that I am desperately
in earnest. What is a street excitement or a temporary arrest by the
police, or even a station-house exposure, to me, in comparison with the
recovery of my child? Where is he?”
“I do not know,” replied Mrs. Bray. “After seeing your father--”
“My father! When did you see him?” exclaimed Edith, betraying in her
surprised voice the fact that Mr. Dinneford had kept so far, even from
her, the secret of that brief interview to which she now referred.
“Oh, he hasn't told you! But it's no matter--he will do that in good
time. After seeing your father, I made an effort to get possession of
your child and restore him as I promised to do. But the woman who had
him hidden somewhere managed to keep out of my way until this morning.
And now she says he got off from her, climbed out of a second-story
window and disappeared, no one knows where.”
“This woman's name is Pinky Swett?” said Edith.
“Yes.”
Mrs. Bray felt the hand that was still upon her arm shake as if from a
violent chill.
“Do you believe what she says?--that the child has really escaped from
her?”
“Yes.”
“Where does she live?”
Mrs. Bray gave the true directions, and without hesitation.
“Is this child the one she stole from the Briar-street mission on
Christmas day?” asked Edith.
“He is,” answered Mrs. Bray.
“How shall I know he is mine? What proof is there that little Andy, as
he is called, and my baby are the same?”
“I know him to be your child, for I have never lost sight of him,”
replied the woman, emphatically. “You may know him by his eyes and mouth
and chin, for they are yours. Nobody can mistake the likeness. But there
is another proof. When I nursed you, I saw on your arm, just above the
elbow, a small raised mark of a red color, and noticed a similar one on
the baby's arm. You will see it there whenever you find the child that
Pinky Swett stole from the mission-house on Christmas day. Good-bye!”
And the woman, seeing that her companion was off of her guard, sprang
away, and was out of sight in the crowd before Edith could rally herself
and make an attempt to follow. How she got home she could hardly tell.