Cast Adrift

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” she said to herself. “I wanted to see him again.”

She pressed through the crowd of children, and made her way down among them to the landing below and out upon the street, looking this way and that, but could not see the child. Then she returned to the upper rooms, but her search was in vain. Remembering that Mrs. Paulding had called him by name, she sought for the missionary’s wife and made inquiry about him.

“Do you mean the little fellow I called Andy?” said Mrs. Paulding.

“Yes, that’s the one,” returned Edith.

“A beautiful boy, isn’t he?”

“Indeed he is. I never saw such eyes in a child. Who is he, Mrs. Paulding, and what is he doing here? He cannot be the child of depraved or vicious parents.”

“I do not think he is. But from whence he came no one knows. He drifted in from some unknown land of sorrow to find shelter on our inhospitable coast. I am sure that God, in his wise providence, sent him here, for his coming was the means of saving a poor debased man who is well worth the saving.”

Then she told in a few words the story of Andy’s appearance at Mr. Hall’s wretched hovel and the wonderful changes that followed—how a degraded drunkard, seemingly beyond the reach of hope and help, had been led back to sobriety and a life of honest industry by the hand of a little child cast somehow adrift in the world, yet guarded and guided by Him who does not lose sight in his good providence of even a single sparrow.

“Who is this man, and where does he live?” asked Mr. Dinneford, who had been listening to Mrs. Paulding’s brief recital.

“His name is Andrew Hall,” was replied.

“Andrew Hall!” exclaimed Mr. Dinneford, with a start and a look of surprise.

“Yes, sir. That is his name, and he is now living alone with the child of whom we have been speaking, not very far from here, but in a much better neighborhood. He brought Andy around this morning to let him enjoy the day, and has come for him, no doubt, and taken him home.”

“Give me the street and number, if you please, Mr. Paulding,” said Mr. Dinneford, with much repressed excitement. “We will go there at once,” he added, turning to his daughter.

Edith’s face had become pale, and her father felt her hand tremble as she laid it on his arm.

At this moment a man came up hurriedly to Mrs. Paulding, and said, with manifest concern,

“Have you seen Andy, ma’am? I’ve been looking all over, but can’t find him.”

“He was here a little while ago,” answered the missionary’s wife. “We were just speaking of him. I thought you’d taken him home.”

“Mr. Hall!” said Edith’s father, in a tone of glad recognition, extending his hand at the same time.

“Mr. Dinneford!” The two men stood looking at each other, with shut lips and faces marked by intense feeling, each grasping tightly the other’s hand.

“It is going to be well with you once more, my dear old friend!” said Mr. Dinneford.

“God being my helper, yes!” was the firm reply. “He has taken my feet out of the miry clay and set them on firm ground, and I have promised him that they shall not go down into the pit again. But Andy! I must look for him.”

And he was turning away.

“I saw Andy a little while ago,” now spoke up a woman who had come in from the street and heard the last remark.

“Where?” asked Mr. Hall.

“A girl had him, and she was going up Briar street on the run, fairly dragging Andy after her. She looked like Pinky Swett, and I do believe it was her. She’s been in prison, you know but I guess her time’s up.”

Mr. Hall stopped to hear no more, but ran down stairs and up the street, going in the direction said to have been taken by the woman. Edith sat down, white and faint.

“Pinky Swett!” exclaimed Mrs. Paulding. “Why, that’s the girl who had the child you were looking after a long time ago, Mr. Dinneford.”

“Yes; I remember the name, and no doubt this is the very child she had in her possession at that time. Are you sure she has been in prison for the last two years?” and Mr. Dinneford turned to the woman who had mentioned her name.

“Oh yes, Sir; I remember all about it,” answered the woman. “She stole a man’s pocket-book, and got two years for it.”

“You know her?”

“Oh yes, indeed! And she’s a bad one, I can tell you. She had somebody’s baby round in Grubb’s court, and it was ‘most starved to death. I heard it said it belonged to some of the big people up town, and that she was getting hush-money for it, but I don’t know as it was true. People will talk.”

“Do you know what became of that baby?” asked Edith, with ill-repressed excitement. Her face was still very pale, and her forehead contracted as by pain.

“No, ma’am. The police came round asking questions, and the baby wasn’t seen in Grubb’s court after that.”

“You think it was Pinky Swett whom you saw just now?”

“I’m dead sure of it, sir,” turning to Mr. Dinneford, who had asked the question.

“And you are certain it was the little boy named Andy that she had with her?”

“I’m as sure as death, sir.”

“Did he look frightened?”

“Oh dear, yes, sir—scared as could be. He pulled back all his might, but she whisked him along as if he’d been only a chicken. I saw them go round the corner of Clayton street like the wind.”

Mr. Paulding now joined them, and became advised of what had happened. He looked very grave.

“We shall find the little boy,” he said. “He cannot be concealed by this wretched woman as the baby was; he is too old for that. The police will ferret him out. But I am greatly concerned for Mr. Hall. That child is the bond which holds him at safe anchorage. Break this bond, and he may drift to sea again. I must go after him.”

And the missionary hurried away.

For over an hour Edith and her father remained at the mission waiting for some news of little Andy. At the end of this time Mr. Paulding came back with word that nothing could be learned beyond the fact that a woman with a child answering to the description of Andy had been seen getting into an up-town car on Clayton street about one o’clock. She came, it was said by two or three who professed to have seen her, from the direction of Briar street. The chief of police had been seen, and he had already telegraphed to all the stations. Mr. Hall was at the central station awaiting the result.

After getting a promise from Mr. Paulding to send a messenger the moment news of Andy was received, Mr. Dinneford and Edith returned home.

CHAPTER XXIII

AS Edith glanced up, on arriving before their residence, she saw for a moment her mother’s face at the window. It vanished like the face of a ghost, but not quick enough to prevent Edith from seeing that it was almost colorless and had a scared look. They did not find Mrs. Dinneford in the parlor when they came in, nor did she make her appearance until an hour afterward, when dinner was announced. Then it was plain to both her husband and daughter that something had occurred since morning to trouble her profoundly. The paleness noticed by Edith at the window and the scared look remained. Whenever she turned her eyes suddenly upon her mother, she found her looking at her with a strange, searching intentness. It was plain that Mrs. Dinneford saw in Edith’s face as great a change and mystery as Edith saw in hers, and the riddle of her husband’s countenance, so altered since morning, was harder even than Edith’s to solve.

A drearier Christmas dinner, and one in which less food was taken by those who ate it, could hardly have been found in the city. The Briar-street feast was one of joy and gladness in comparison. The courses came and went with unwonted quickness, plates bearing off the almost untasted viands which they had received. Scarcely a word was spoken during the meal. Mrs. Dinneford asked no question about the dinner in Briar street, and no remark was made about it by either Edith or her father. In half the usual time this meal was ended. Mrs. Dinneford left the table first, and retired to her own room. As she did so, in taking her handkerchief from her pocket, she drew out a letter, which fell unnoticed by her upon the floor. Mr. Dinneford was about calling her attention to it when Edith, who saw his purpose and was near enough to touch his hand, gave a quick signal to forbear. The instant her mother was out of the room she sprang from her seat, and had just secured the letter when the dining-room door was pushed open, and Mrs. Dinneford came in, white and frightened. She saw the letter in Edith’s hand, and with a cry like some animal in pain leaped upon her and tried to wrest it from her grasp. But Edith held it in her closed hand with a desperate grip, defying all her mother’s efforts to get possession of it. In her wild fear and anger Mrs. Dinneford exclaimed,

“I’ll kill you if you don’t give me that letter!” and actually, in her blind rage, reached toward the table as if to get a knife. Mr. Dinneford, who had been for a moment stupefied, now started forward, and throwing his arms about his wife, held her tightly until Edith could escape with the letter, not releasing her until the sound of his daughter’s retiring feet were no longer heard. By this time she had ceased to struggle; and when he released her, she stood still in a passive, dull sort of way, her arms falling heavily to her sides. He looked into her face, and saw that the eyes were staring wildly and the muscles in a convulsive quiver. Then starting and reaching out helplessly, she fell forward. Catching her in his arms, Mr. Dinneford drew her toward a sofa, but she was dead before he could raise her from the floor.

When Edith reached her room, she shut and locked the door. Then all her excitement died away. She sat down, and opening the letter with hands that gave no sign of inward agitation or suspense, read it through. It was dated at Havana, and was as follows:

“MRS. HELEN DINNEFORD: MADAM—My physician tells me that I cannot live a week—may die at any moment; and I am afraid to die with one unconfessed and unatoned sin upon my conscience—a sin into which I was led by you, the sharer of my guilt. I need not go into particulars. You know to what I refer—the ruin of an innocent, confiding young man, your daughter’s husband. I do not wonder that he lost his reason! But I have information that his insanity has taken on the mildest form, and that his friends are only keeping him at the hospital until they can get a pardon from the governor. It is in your power and mine to establish his innocence at once. I leave you a single mouth in which to do this, and at the same time screen yourself, if that be possible. If, at the end of a month, it is not done, then a copy of this letter, with a circumstantial statement of the whole iniquitous affair, will be placed in the hands of your husband, and another in the hands of your daughter. I have so provided for this that no failure can take place. So be warned and make the innocence of George Granger as clear as noonday.