Cast Adrift

“I’ve been to St. John’s mission sewing-school,” replied Edith. “I have a class there.”

“You have! Why didn’t you tell me this before? I don’t like such doings. This is no place for you.”

“My place is where I can do good,” returned Edith, speaking slowly, but with great firmness.

“Good! You can do good if you want to without demeaning yourself to work like this. I don’t want you mixed up with these low, vile people, and I won’t have it!” Mrs. Dinneford spoke in a sharp, positive voice.

Edith made no answer, and they walked on together.

“I shall speak to your father about this,” said Mrs. Dinneford. “It isn’t reputable. I wouldn’t have you seen here for the world.”

“I shall walk unhurt; you need not fear,” returned Edith.

There was silence between them for some time, Edith not caring to speak, and her mother in doubt as to what it were best to say.

“How long have you been going to St. John’s mission school?” at length queried Mrs. Dinneford.

“I’ve been only a few times,” replied Edith.

“And have a class of diseased and filthy little wretches, I suppose—gutter children?”

“They are God’s children,” said Edith, in a tone of rebuke.

“Oh, don’t preach to me!” was angrily replied.

“I only said what was true,” remarked Edith.

There was silence again.

“Are you going directly home?” asked Mrs. Dinneford, after they had walked the distance of several blocks. Edith replied that she was.

“Then you’d better take that car. I shall not be home for an hour yet.”

They separated, Edith taking the car. As soon as she was alone Mrs. Dinneford quickened her steps, like a person who had been held back from some engagement. A walk of ten minutes brought her to one of the principal hotels of the city. Passing in, she went up to a reception-parlor, where she was met by a man who rose from a seat near the windows and advanced to the middle of the room. He was of low stature, with quick, rather nervous movements, had dark, restless eyes, and wore a heavy black moustache that was liberally sprinkled with gray. The lower part of his face was shaved clean. He showed some embarrassment as he came forward to meet Mrs. Dinneford.

“Mr. Feeling,” she said, coldly.

The man bowed with a mixture of obsequiousness and familiarity, and tried to look steadily into Mrs. Dinneford’s face, but was not able to do so. There was a steadiness and power in her eyes that his could not bear.

“What do you want with me, sir?” she demanded, a little sharply.

“Take a chair, and I will tell you,” replied Freeling, and he turned, moving toward a corner of the room, she following. They sat down, taking chairs near each other.

“There’s trouble brewing,” said the man, his face growing dark and anxious.

“What kind of trouble?”

“I had a letter from George Granger yesterday.”

“What!” The color went out of the lady’s face.

“A letter from George Granger. He wished to see me.”

“Did you go?”

“Yes.”

“What did he want?”

Freeling took a deep breath, and sighed. His manner was troubled.

“What did he want?” Mrs. Dinneford repeated the question.

“He’s as sane as you or I,” said Freeling.

“Is he? Oh, very well! Then let him go to the State’s prison.” Mrs. Dinneford said this with some bravado in her manner. But the color did not come back to her face.

“He has no idea of that,” was replied.

“What then?” The lady leaned toward Freeling. Her hands moved nervously.

“He means to have the case in court again, but on a new issue.”

“He does!”

“Yes; says that he’s innocent, and that you and I know it—that he’s the victim of a conspiracy, and that we are the conspirators!”

“Talk!—amounts to nothing,” returned Mrs. Dinneford, with a faint little laugh.

“I don’t know about that. It’s ugly talk, and especially so, seeing that it’s true.”

“No one will give credence to the ravings of an insane criminal.”

“People are quick to credit an evil report. They will pity and believe him, now that the worst is reached. A reaction in public feeling has already taken place. He has one or two friends left who do not hesitate to affirm that there has been foul play. One of these has been tampering with a clerk of mine, and I came upon them with their heads together on the street a few days ago, and had my suspicions aroused by their startled look when they saw me.”

“‘What did that man want with you?’ I inquired, when the clerk came in.

“He hesitated a moment, and then replied, ‘He was asking me something about Mr. Granger.’

“‘What about him?’ I queried. ‘He asked me if I knew anything in regard to the forgery,’ he returned.

“I pressed him with questions, and found that suspicion was on the right track. This friend of Granger’s asked particularly about your visits to the store, and whether he had ever noticed anything peculiar in our intercourse—anything that showed a familiarity beyond what would naturally arise between a customer and salesman.”

“There’s nothing in that,” said Mrs. Dinneford. “If you and I keep our own counsel, we are safe. The testimony of a condemned criminal goes for nothing. People may surmise and talk as much as they please, but no one knows anything about those notes but you and I and George.”

“A pardon from the governor may put a new aspect on the case.”

“A pardon!” There was a tremor of alarm in Mrs. Dinneford’s voice.