Cast Adrift

“How much does she want?”

“A hundred dollars; and it won’t end there, I’m thinking. If she is refused, she will go to your house; she gave me that alternative—would have gone yesterday, if good luck had not thrown her in my way. I promised to call on you and see what could be done.”

Mrs. Dinneford actually groaned in her fear and distress.

“Would you like to see her yourself?” coolly asked Mrs. Bray.

“Oh dear! no, no!” and the lady put up her hands in dismay.

“It might be best,” said her wily companion.

“No, no, no! I will have nothing to do with her! You must keep her away from me,” replied Mrs. Dinneford, with increasing agitation.

“I cannot keep her away without satisfying her demands. If you were to see her yourself, you would know just what her demands were. If you do not see her, you will only have my word for it, and I am left open to misapprehension, if not worse. I don’t like to be placed in such a position.”

And Mrs. Bray put on a dignified, half-injured manner.

“It’s a wretched business in every way,” she added, “and I’m sorry that I ever had anything to do with it. It’s something dreadful, as I told you at the time, to cast a helpless baby adrift in such a way. Poor little soul! I shall never feel right about it.”

“That’s neither here nor there;” and Mrs. Dinneford waved her hand impatiently. “The thing now in hand is to deal with this woman.”

“Yes, that’s it—and as I said just now, I would rather have you deal with her yourself; you may be able to do it better than I can.”

“It’s no use to talk, Mrs. Bray. I will not see the woman.”

“Very well; you must be your own judge in the case.”

“Can’t you bind her up to something, or get her out of the city? I’d pay almost anything to have her a thousand miles away. See if you can’t induce her to go to New Orleans. I’ll pay her passage, and give her a hundred dollars besides, if she’ll go.”

Mrs. Bray smiled a faint, sinister smile:

“If you could get her off there, it would be the end of her. She’d never stand the fever.”

“Then get her off, cost what it may,” said Mrs. Dinneford.

“She will be here in less than half an hour.” Mrs. Bray looked at the face of a small cheap clock that stood on the mantel.

“She will?” Mrs. Dinneford became uneasy, and arose from her chair.

“Yes; what shall I say to her?”

“Manage her the best you can. Here are thirty dollars—all the money I have with me. Give her that, and promise more if necessary. I will see you again.”

“When?” asked Mrs. Bray.

“At any time you desire.”

“Then you had better come to-morrow morning. I shall not go out.”

“I will be here at eleven o’clock. Induce her if possible to leave the city—to go South, so that she may never come back.”

“The best I can shall be done,” replied Mrs. Bray as she folded the bank-bills she had received from Mrs. Dinneford in a fond, tender sort of way and put them into her pocket.

Mrs. Dinneford retired, saying as she did so,

“I will be here in the morning.”

An instant change came over the shallow face of the wiry little woman as the form of Mrs. Dinneford vanished through the door. A veil seemed to fall away from it. All its virtuous sobriety was gone, and a smile of evil satisfaction curved about her lips and danced in her keen black eyes. She stood still, listening to the retiring steps of her visitor, until she heard the street door shut. Then, with a quick, cat-like step, she crossed to the opposite side of the room, and pushed open a door that led to an adjoining chamber. A woman came forward to meet her. This woman was taller and stouter than Mrs. Bray, and had a soft, sensual face, but a resolute mouth, the under jaw slightly protruding. Her eyes were small and close together, and had that peculiar wily and alert expression you sometimes see, making you think of a serpent’s eyes. She was dressed in common finery and adorned by cheap jewelry.

“What do you think of that, Pinky Swett?” exclaimed Mrs. Bray, in a voice of exultation. “Got her all right, haven’t I?”

“Well, you have!” answered the woman, shaking all over with unrestrained laughter. “The fattest pigeon I’ve happened to see for a month of Sundays. Is she very rich?”

“Her husband is, and that’s all the same. And now, Pinky”—Mrs. Bray assumed a mock gravity of tone and manner—“you know your fate—New Orleans and the yellow fever. You must pack right off. Passage free and a hundred dollars for funeral expenses. Nice wet graves down there—keep off the fire;” and she gave a low chuckle.

“Oh yes; all settled. When does the next steamer sail?” and Pinky almost screamed with merriment. She had been drinking.

“H-u-s-h! h-u-s-h! None of that here, Pinky. The people down stairs are good Methodists, and think me a saint.”

“You a saint? Oh dear!” and she shook with repressed enjoyment.

After this the two women grew serious, and put their heads together for business.

“Who is this woman, Fan? What’s her name, and where does she live?” asked Pinky Swett.

“That’s my secret, Pinky,” replied Mrs. Bray, “and I can’t let it go; it wouldn’t be safe. You get a little off the handle sometimes, and don’t know what you say—might let the cat out of the bag. Sally Long took the baby away, and she died two months ago; so I’m the only one now in the secret. All I want of you is to keep track of the baby. Here is a five-dollar bill; I can’t trust you with more at a time. I know your weakness, Pinky;” and she touched her under the chin in a familiar, patronizing way.

Pinky wasn’t satisfied with this, and growled a little, just showing her teeth like an unquiet dog.

“Give me ten,” she said; “the woman gave you thirty. I heard her say so. And she’s going to bring you seventy to-morrow.”

“You’ll only waste it, Pinky,” remonstrated Mrs. Bray. “It will all be gone before morning.”

“Fan,” said the woman, leaning toward Mrs. Bray and speaking in a low, confidential tone, “I dreamed of a cow last night, and that’s good luck, you know. Tom Oaks made a splendid hit last Saturday—drew twenty dollars—and Sue Minty got ten. They’re all buzzing about it down in our street, and going to Sam McFaddon’s office in a stream.”

“Do they have good luck at Sam McFaddon’s?” asked Mrs. Bray, with considerable interest in her manner.

“It’s the luckiest place that I know. Never dreamed of a cow or a hen that I didn’t make a hit, and I dreamed of a cow last night. She was giving such a splendid pail of milk, full to the brim, just as old Spot and Brindle used to give. You remember our Spot and Brindle, Fan?”

“Oh yes.” There was a falling inflection in Mrs. Bray’s voice, as if the reference had sent her thoughts away back to other and more innocent days.

The two women sat silent for some moments after that; and when Pinky spoke, which she did first, it was in lower and softer tones:

“I don’t like to think much about them old times, Fan; do you? I might have done better. But it’s no use grizzling about it now. What’s done’s done, and can’t be helped. Water doesn’t run up hill again after it’s once run down. I’ve got going, and can’t stop, you see. There’s nothing to catch at that won’t break as soon as you touch it. So I mean to be jolly as I move along.”

“Laughing is better than crying at any time,” returned Mrs. Bray; “here are five more;” and she handed Pinky Swett another bank-bill. “I’m going to try my luck. Put half a dollar on ten different rows, and we’ll go shares on what is drawn. I dreamed the other night that I saw a flock of sheep, and that’s good luck, isn’t it?”

Pinky thrust her hand into her pocket and drew out a worn and soiled dream-book.