Where, then, was my baby buried? asked Edith, with a calm resolution of manner that was not to be denied.
I do not know. I did not care at the time, and never asked.
Who can tell me?
I dont know.
Who took my baby to nurse?
I have forgotten the womans name. All I know is that she is dead. When the child died, I sent her money, and told her to bury it decently.
Where did she live?
I never knew precisely. Somewhere down town.
Who brought her here? who recommended her? said Edith, pushing her inquiries rapidly.
I have forgotten that also, replied Mrs. Dinneford, maintaining her coldness of manner.
My nurse, I presume, said Edith. I have a faint recollection of hera dark little woman with black eyes whom I had never seen before. What was her name?
Bodine, answered Mrs. Dinneford, without a moments hesitation.
Where does she live?
She went to Havana with a Cuban lady several months ago.
Do you know the ladys name?
It was Casteline, I think.
Edith questioned no further. The mother and daughter were still sitting together, both deeply absorbed in thought, when a servant opened the door and said to Mrs. Dinneford,
A lady wishes to see you.
Didnt she give you her card?
No maam.
Nor send up her name?
No, maam.
Go down and ask her name.
The servant left the room. On returning, she said,
Her name is Mrs. Bray.
Mrs. Dinneford turned her face quickly, but not in time to prevent Edith from seeing by its expression that she knew her visitor, and that her call was felt to be an unwelcome one. She went from the room without speaking. On entering the parlor, Mrs. Dinneford said, in a low, hurried voice,
I dont want you to come here, Mrs. Bray. If you wish to see me send me word, and I will call on you, but you must on no account come here.
Why? Is anything wrong?
Yes.
What?
Edith isnt satisfied about the baby, has been out to Fairview looking for its grave, wants to know who her nurse was.
What did you tell her?
I said that your name was Mrs. Bodine, and that you had gone to Cuba.
Do you think she would know me?
Cant tell; wouldnt like to run the risk of her seeing you here. Pull down your veil. There! close. She said, a little while ago, that she had a faint recollection of you as a dark little woman with black eyes whom she had never seen before.
Indeed! and Mrs. Bray gathered her veil close about her face.
The baby isnt living? Mrs. Dinneford asked the question in a whisper.
Yes.
Oh, it cant be! Are you sure?
Yes; I saw it day before yesterday.
You did! Where?
On the street, in the arms of a beggar-woman.
You are deceiving me! Mrs. Dinneford spoke with a throb of anger in her voice.
As I live, no! Poor little thing! half starved and half frozen. It most made me sick.
Its impossible! You could not know that it was Ediths baby.
I do know, replied Mrs. Bray, in a voice that left no doubt on Mrs. Dinnefords mind.
Was the woman the same to whom we gave the baby?
No; she got rid of it in less than a month.
What did she do with it?
Sold it for five dollars, after she had spent all the money she received from you in drink and lottery-policies.
Sold it for five dollars!
Yes, to two beggar-women, who use it every day, one in the morning and the other in the afternoon, and get drunk on the money they receive, lying all night in some miserable den.
Mrs. Dinneford gave a little shiver.
What becomes of the baby when they are not using it? she asked.
They pay a woman a dollar a week to take care of it at night.
Do you know where this woman lives?
Yes.
Were you ever there?
Yes.
What kind of a place is it?
Worse than a dog-kennel.
What does all this mean? demanded Mrs. Dinneford, with repressed excitement. Why have you so kept on the track of this baby, when you knew I wished it lost sight of?
I had my own reasons, replied Mrs. Bray. One doesnt know what may come of an affair like this, and its safe to keep well up with it.
Mrs. Dinneford bit her lips till the blood almost came through. A faint rustle of garments in the hall caused her to start. An expression of alarm crossed her face.
Go now, she said, hurriedly, to her visitor; I will call and see you this afternoon.
Mrs. Bray quietly arose, saying, as she did so, I shall expect you, and went away.
There was a menace in her tone as she said, I shall expect you, that did not escape the ears of Mrs. Dinneford.
Edith was in the hall, at some distance from the parlor door. Mrs. Bray had to pass her as she went out. Edith looked at her intently.
Who is that woman? she asked, confronting her mother, after the visitor was gone.
If you ask the question in a proper manner, I shall have no objection to answer, said Mrs. Dinneford, with a dignified and slightly offended air; but my daughter is assuming rather, too much.
Mrs. Bray, the servant said.
No, Mrs. Gray.
I understood her to say Mrs. Bray.
I cant help what you understood. The mother spoke with some asperity of manner. She calls herself Gray, but you can have it anything you please; it wont change her identity.
What did she want?
To see me.
I know. Edith was turning away with an expression on her face that Mrs. Dinneford did not like, so she said,
She is in trouble, and wants me to help her, if you must know. She used to be a dressmaker, and worked for me before you were born; she got married, and then her troubles began. Now she is a widow with a house full of little children, and not half bread enough to feed them. Ive helped her a number of times already, but Im getting tired of it; she must look somewhere else, and I told her so.
Edith turned from her mother with an unsatisfied manner, and went up stairs. Mrs. Dinneford was surprised, not long afterward, to meet her at her chamber door, dressed to go out. This was something unusual.
Where are you going? she asked, not concealing her surprise.
I have a little errand out, Edith replied.
This was not satisfactory to her mother. She asked other questions, but Edith gave only evasive answers.
On leaving the house, Edith walked quickly, like one in earnest about something; her veil was closely drawn. Only a few blocks from where she lived was the office of Dr. Radcliffe. Hither she directed her steps.
Why, Edith, child! exclaimed the doctor, not concealing the surprise he felt at seeing her. Nobody sick, I hope?
No one, she answered.
There was a momentary pause; then Edith said, abruptly,
Doctor, what became of my baby?
It died, answered Doctor Radcliffe, but not without betraying some confusion. The question had fallen upon him too suddenly.
Did you see it after it was dead? She spoke in a firm voice, looking him steadily in the face.
No, he replied, after a slight hesitation.
Then how do you know that it died? Edith asked.
I had your mothers word for it, said the doctor.
What was done with my baby after it was born?
Doctor, what became of my baby?
It died, answered Doctor Radcliffe, but not without betraying some confusion. The question had fallen upon him too suddenly.
Did you see it after it was dead? She spoke in a firm voice, looking him steadily in the face.
No, he replied, after a slight hesitation.
Then how do you know that it died? Edith asked.
I had your mothers word for it, said the doctor.
What was done with my baby after it was born?
It was given out to nurse.
With your consent?
I did not advise it. Your mother had her own views in the case. It was something over which I had no control.
And you never saw it after it was taken away?
Never.
And do not really know whether it be dead or living?
Oh, its dead, of course, my child. There is no doubt of that, said the doctor, with sudden earnestness of manner.
Have you any evidence of the fact?
My dear, dear child, answered the doctor, with much feeling, it is all wrong. Why go back over this unhappy ground? why torture yourself for nothing? Your baby died long ago, and is in heaven.
Would God I could believe it! she exclaimed, in strong agitation. If it were so, why is not the evidence set before me? I question my mother; I ask for the nurse who was with me when my baby was born, and for the nurse to whom it was given afterward, and am told that they are dead or out of the country. I ask for my babys grave, but it cannot be found. I have searched for it where my mother told me it was, but the grave is not there. Why all this hiding and mystery? Doctor, you said that my baby was in heaven, and I answered, Would God it were so! for I saw a baby in hell not long ago!
The doctor was scared. He feared that Edith was losing her mind, she looked and spoke so wildly.
A puny, half-starved, half-frozen little thing, in the arms of a drunken beggar, she added. And, doctor, an awful thought has haunted me ever since.
Hush, hush! said the doctor, who saw what was in her mind. You must not indulge such morbid fancies.
It is that I may not indulge them that I have come to you. I want certainty, Dr. Radcliffe. Somebody knows all about my baby. Who was my nurse?
I never saw her before the night of your babys birth, and have never seen her since. Your mother procured her.
Did you hear her name?
No.
And so you cannot help me at all? said Edith, in a disappointed voice.
I cannot, my poor child, answered the doctor.
All the flush and excitement died out of Ediths face. When she arose to go, she was pale and haggard, like one exhausted by pain, and her steps uneven, like the steps of an invalid walking for the first time. Dr. Radcliffe went with her in silence to the door.
Oh, doctor, said Edith, in a choking voice, as she lingered a moment on the steps, cant you bring out of this frightful mystery something for my heart to rest upon? I want the truth. Oh, doctor, in pity help me to find the truth!
I am powerless to help you, the doctor replied. Your only hope lies in your mother. She knows all about it; I do not.
And he turned and left her standing at the door. Slowly she descended the steps, drawing her veil as she did so about her face, and walked away more like one in a dream than conscious of the tide of life setting so strongly all about her.
CHAPTER V
MEANTIME, obeying the unwelcome summons, Mrs. Dinneford had gone to see Mrs. Bray. She found her in a small third-story room in the lower part of the city, over a mile away from her own residence. The meeting between the two women was not over-gracious, but in keeping with their relations to each other. Mrs. Dinneford was half angry and impatient; Mrs. Bray cool and self-possessed.
And now what is it you have to say? asked the former, almost as soon as she had entered.
The woman to whom you gave that baby was here yesterday.
A frightened expression came into Mrs. Dinnefords face. Mrs. Bray watched her keenly as, with lips slightly apart, she waited for what more was to come.
Unfortunately, she met me just as I was at my own door, and so found out my residence, continued Mrs. Bray. I was in hopes I should never see her again. We shall have trouble, Im afraid.
In what way?
A bad woman who has you in her power can trouble you in many ways, answered Mrs. Bray.
She did not know my nameyou assured me of that. It was one of the stipulations.
She does know, and your daughters name also. And she knows where the baby is. Shes deeper than I supposed. Its never safe to trust such people; they have no honor.
Fear sent all the color out of Mrs. Dinnefords face.
What does she want?
Money.
She was paid liberally.
That has nothing to do with it. These people have no honor, as I said; they will get all they can.
How much does she want?
A hundred dollars; and it wont end there, Im thinking. If she is refused, she will go to your house; she gave me that alternativewould 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 dont like to be placed in such a position.
And Mrs. Bray put on a dignified, half-injured manner.
Its a wretched business in every way, she added, and Im sorry that I ever had anything to do with it. Its 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.
Thats neither here nor there; and Mrs. Dinneford waved her hand impatiently. The thing now in hand is to deal with this woman.
Yes, thats itand 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.
Its no use to talk, Mrs. Bray. I will not see the woman.
Very well; you must be your own judge in the case.
Cant you bind her up to something, or get her out of the city? Id pay almost anything to have her a thousand miles away. See if you cant induce her to go to New Orleans. Ill pay her passage, and give her a hundred dollars besides, if shell go.
Mrs. Bray smiled a faint, sinister smile:
If you could get her off there, it would be the end of her. Shed 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 dollarsall the money I have with me. Give her that, and promise more if necessary. I will see you again.