Kitabı oku: «Cast Adrift», sayfa 2

“To-morrow we will talk this matter over,” he said in reply to Mrs. Dinneford’s last remark; “in the mean time I will examine the ground thoroughly and see how it looks.”

“Don’t hesitate to make any use you can of Granger,” suggested the lady. “He has done his part toward getting things tangled, and must help to untangle them.”

“All right, ma’am.”

And they separated, Mrs. Dinneford reaching the street by one door of the hotel, and Freeling by another.

On the following day they met again, Mrs. Dinneford bringing the two thousand dollars.

“And now what next?” she asked, after handing over the money and taking the receipt of “Freeling & Granger.” Her eyes had a hard glitter, and her face was almost stern in its expression. “How are you going to raise money and keep afloat?”

“Only some desperate expedient is left me now,” answered Freeling, though not in the tone of a man who felt himself at bay. It was said with a wicked kind of levity.

Mrs. Dinneford looked at him keenly. She was beginning to mistrust the man. They gazed into each other’s faces in silence for some moments, each trying to read what was in the other’s thought. At length Freeling said,

“There is one thing more that you will have to do, Mrs. Dinneford.”

“What?” she asked.

“Get your husband to draw two or three notes in Mr. Granger’s favor. They should not be for less than five hundred or a thousand dollars each. The dates must be short—not over thirty or sixty days.”

“It can’t be done,” was the emphatic answer.

“It must be done,” replied Freeling; “they need not be for the business. You can manage the matter if you will; your daughter wants an India shawl, or a set of diamonds, or a new carriage—anything you choose. Mr. Dinneford hasn’t the ready cash, but we can throw his notes into bank and get the money; don’t you see?”

But Mrs. Dinneford didn’t see.

“I don’t mean,” said Freeling, “that we are to use the money. Let the shawl, or the diamond, or the what-not, be bought and paid for. We get the discounts for your use, not ours.”

“All very well,” answered Mrs. Dinneford; “but how is that going to help you?”

“Leave that to me. You get the notes,” said Freeling.

“Never walk blindfold, Mr. Freeling,” replied the lady, drawing herself up, with a dignified air. “We ought to understand each other by this time. I must see beyond the mere use of these notes.”

Freeling shut his mouth tightly and knit his heavy brows. Mrs. Dinneford watched him, closely.

“It’s a desperate expedient,” he said, at length.

“All well as far as that is concerned; but if I am to have a hand in it, I must know all about it,” she replied, firmly. “As I said just now, I never walk blindfold.”

Freeling leaned close to Mrs. Dinneford, and uttered a few sentences in a low tone, speaking rapidly. The color went and came in her face, but she sat motionless, and so continued for some time after he had ceased speaking.

“You will get the notes?” Freeling put the question as one who has little doubt of the answer.

“I will get them,” replied Mrs. Dinneford.

“When?”

“It will take time.”

“We cannot wait long. If the thing is done at all, it must be done quickly. ‘Strike while the iron is hot’ is the best of all maxims.”

“There shall be no needless delay on my part. You may trust me for that,” was answered.

Within a week Mrs. Dinneford brought two notes, drawn by her husband in favor of George Granger—one for five hundred and the other for one thousand dollars. The time was short—thirty and sixty days. On this occasion she came to the store and asked for her son-in-law. The meeting between her and Freeling was reserved and formal. She expressed regret for the trouble she was giving the firm in procuring a discount for her use, and said that if she could reciprocate the favor in any way she would be happy to do so.

“The notes are drawn to your order,” remarked Freeling as soon as the lady had retired. Granger endorsed them, and was about handing them to his partner, when the latter said:

“Put our name on them while you are about it.” And the young man wrote also the endorsement of the firm.

After this, Mr. Freeling put the bank business into Granger’s hands. Nearly all checks were drawn and all business paper endorsed by the younger partner, who became the financier of the concern, and had the management of all negotiations for money in and out of bank.

One morning, shortly after the first of Mr. Dinneford’s notes was paid, Granger saw his mother-in-law come into the store. Freeling was at the counter. They talked together for some time, and then Mrs. Dinneford went out.

On the next day Granger saw Mrs. Dinneford in the store again. After she had gone away, Freeling came back, and laying a note-of-hand on his partner’s desk, said, in a pleased, confidential way.

“Look at that, my friend.”

Granger read the face of the note with a start of surprise. It was drawn to his order, for three thousand dollars, and bore the signature of Howard Dinneford.

“A thing that is worth having is worth asking for,” said Freeling. “We obliged your mother-in-law, and now she has returned the favor. It didn’t come very easily, she said, and your father-in-law isn’t feeling rather comfortable about it; so she doesn’t care about your speaking of it at home.”

Granger was confounded.

“I can’t understand it,” he said.

“You can understand that we have the note, and that it has come in the nick of time,” returned Freeling.

“Yes, I can see all that.”

“Well, don’t look a gift-horse in the mouth, but spring into the saddle and take a ride. Your mother-in-law is a trump. If she will, she will, you may depend on’t.”

Freeling was unusually excited. Granger looked the note over and over in a way that seemed to annoy his partner, who said, presently, with a shade of ill-nature in his voice,

“What’s the matter? Isn’t the signature all right?”

“That’s right enough,” returned the young man, after looking at it closely. “But I can’t understand it.”

“You will when you see the proceeds passed to our accounted in bank—ha! ha!”

Granger looked up at his partner quickly, the laugh had so strange a sound, but saw nothing new in his face.

In about a month Freeling had in his possession another note, signed by Mr. Dinneford and drawn to the order of George Granger. This one was for five thousand dollars. He handed it to his partner soon after the latter had observed Mrs. Dinneford in the store.

A little over six weeks from this time Mrs. Dinneford was in the store again. After she had gone away, Freeling handed Granger three more notes drawn by Mr. Dinneford to his order, amounting in all to fifteen thousand dollars. They were at short dates.

Granger took these notes without any remark, and was about putting them in his desk, when Freeling said,

“I think you had better offer one in the People’s Bank and another in the Fourth National. They discount to-morrow.”

“Our line is full in both of these banks,” replied Granger.

“That may or may not be. Paper like this is not often thrown out. Call on the president of the Fourth National and the cashier of the People’s Bank. Say that we particularly want the money, and would like them to see that the notes go through. Star & Giltedge can easily place the other.”

Granger’s manner did not altogether please his partner. The notes lay before him on his desk, and he looked at them in a kind of dazed way.

“What’s the matter?” asked Freeling, rather sharply.

“Nothing,” was the quiet answer.

“You saw Mrs. Dinneford in the store just now. I told her last week that I should claim another favor at her hands. She tried to beg off, but I pushed the matter hard. It must end here, she says. Mr. Dinneford won’t go any farther.”

“I should think not,” replied Granger. “I wouldn’t if I were he. The wonder to me is that he has gone so far. What about the renewal of these notes?”

“Oh, that is all arranged,” returned Freeling, a little hurriedly. Granger looked at him for some moments. He was not satisfied.

“See that they go in bank,” said Freeling, in a positive way.

Granger took up his pen in an abstracted manner and endorsed the notes, after which he laid them in his bank-book. An important customer coming in at the moment, Freeling went forward to see him. After Granger was left alone, he took the notes from his bank-book and examined them with great care. Suspicion was aroused. He felt sure that something was wrong. A good many things in Freeling’s conduct of late had seemed strange. After thinking for a while, he determined to take the notes at once to Mr. Dinneford and ask him if all was right. As soon as his mind had reached this conclusion he hurried through the work he had on hand, and then putting his bank-book in his pocket, left the store.

On that very morning Mr. Dinneford received notice that he had a note for three thousand dollars falling due at one of the banks. He went immediately and asked to see the note. When it was shown to him, he was observed to become very pale, but he left the desk of the note-clerk without any remark, and returned home. He met his wife at the door, just coming in.

“What’s the matter?” she asked, seeing how pale he was. “Not sick, I hope?”

“Worse than sick,” he replied as they passed into the house together. “George has been forging my name.”

“Impossible!” exclaimed Mrs. Dinneford.

“I wish it were,” replied Mr. Dinneford, sadly; “but, alas! it is too true. I have just returned from the Fourth National Bank. They have a note for three thousand dollars, bearing my signature. It is drawn to the order of George Granger, and endorsed by him. The note is a forgery.”

Mrs. Dinneford became almost wild with excitement. Her fair face grew purple. Her eyes shone with a fierce light.

“Have you had him arrested?” she asked.

“Oh no, no, no!” Mr. Dinneford answered. “For poor Edith’s sake, if for nothing else, this dreadful business must be kept secret. I will take up the note when due, and the public need be none the wiser.”

“If,” said Mrs. Dinneford, “he has forged your name once, he has, in all probability, done it again and again. No, no; the thing can’t be hushed up, and it must not be. Is he less a thief and a robber because he is our son-in-law? My daughter the wife of a forger! Great heavens! has it come to this Mr. Dinneford?” she added, after a pause, and with intense bitterness and rejection in her voice. “The die is cast! Never again, if I can prevent it, shall that scoundrel cross our threshold. Let the law have its course. It is a crime to conceal crime.”

“It will kill our poor child!” answered Mr. Dinneford in a broken voice.

“Death is better than the degradation of living with a criminal,” replied his wife. “I say it solemnly, and I mean it; the die is cast! Come what will, George Granger stands now and for ever on the outside! Go at once and give information to the bank officers. If you do not, I will.”

With a heavy heart Mr. Dinneford returned to the bank and informed the president that the note in question was a forgery. He had been gone from home a little over half an hour, when Granger, who had come to ask him about the three notes given him that morning by Freeling, put his key in the door, and found, a little to his surprise, that the latch was down. He rang the bell, and in a few moments the servant appeared. Granger was about passing in, when the man said, respectfully but firmly, as he held the door partly closed,

“My orders are not to let you come in.”

“Who gave you those orders?” demanded Granger, turning white.

“Mrs. Dinneford.”

“I wish to see Mr. Dinneford, and I must see him immediately.”

“Mr. Dinneford is not at home,” answered the servant.

“Shut that door instantly!”

It was the voice of Mrs. Dinneford, speaking from within. Granger heard it; in the next moment the door was shut in his face.

The young man hardly knew how he got back to the store. On his arrival he found himself under arrest, charged with forgery, and with fresh evidence of the crime on his person in the three notes received that morning from his partner, who denied all knowledge of their existence, and appeared as a witness against him at the hearing before a magistrate. Granger was held to bail to answer the charge at the next term of court.

It would have been impossible to keep all this from Edith, even if there had been a purpose to do so. Mrs. Dinneford chose to break the dreadful news at her own time and in her own way. The shock was fearful. On the night that followed her baby was born.

CHAPTER III

“IT is a splendid boy,” said the nurse as she came in with the new-born baby in her arms, “and perfect as a bit of sculpture. Just look at that hand.”

“Faugh!” ejaculated Mrs. Dinneford, to whom this was addressed. Her countenance expressed disgust. She turned her head away. “Hide the thing from my sight!” she added, angrily. “Cover it up! smother it if you will!”

“You are still determined?” said the nurse.

“Determined, Mrs. Bray; I am not the woman to look back when I have once resolved. You know me.” Mrs. Dinneford said this passionately.

The two women were silent for a little while. Mrs. Bray, the nurse, kept her face partly turned from Mrs. Dinneford. She was a short, dry, wiry little woman, with French features, a sallow complexion and very black eyes.

The doctor looked in. Mrs. Dinneford went quickly to the door, and putting her hand on his arm, pressed him back, going out into the entry with him and closing the door behind them. They talked for a short time very earnestly.

“The whole thing is wrong,” said the doctor as he turned to go, “and I will not be answerable for the consequences.”

“No one will require them at your hand, Doctor Radcliffe,” replied Mrs. Dinneford. “Do the best you can for Edith. As for the rest, know nothing, say nothing. You understand.”

Doctor Burt Radcliffe had a large practice among rich and fashionable people. He had learned to be very considerate of their weaknesses, peculiarities and moral obliquities. His business was to doctor them when sick, to humor them when they only thought themselves sick, and to get the largest possible fees for his, services. A great deal came under his observation that he did not care to see, and of which he saw as little as possible. From policy he had learned to be reticent. He held family secrets enough to make, in the hands of a skillful writer, more than a dozen romances of the saddest and most exciting character.

Mrs. Dinneford knew him thoroughly, and just how far to trust him. “Know nothing, say nothing” was a good maxim in the case, and so she divulged only the fact that the baby was to be cast adrift. His weak remonstrance might as well not have been spoken, and he knew it.

While this brief interview was in progress, Nurse Bray sat with the baby on her lap. She had taken the soft little hands into her own; and evil and cruel though she was, an impulse of tenderness flowed into her heart from the angels who were present with the innocent child. It grew lovely in her eyes. Its helplessness stirred in her a latent instinct of protection. “No no, it must not be,” she was saying to herself, when the door opened and Mrs. Dinneford came back.

Mrs. Bray did not lift her head, but sat looking down at the baby and toying with its hands.

“Pshaw!” ejaculated Mrs. Dinneford, in angry disgust, as she noticed this manifestation of interest. “Bundle the thing up and throw into that basket. Is the woman down stairs?”

“Yes,” replied Mrs. Bray as she slowly drew a light blanket over the baby.

“Very well. Put it in the basket, and let her take it away.”

“She is not a good woman,” said the nurse, whose heart was failing her at the last moment.

“She may be the devil for all I care,” returned Mrs. Dinneford.

Mrs. Bray did as she was ordered, but with an evident reluctance that irritated Mrs. Dinneford.

“Go now and bring up the woman,” she said, sharply.

The woman was brought. She was past the prime of life, and had an evil face. You read in it the record of bad passions indulged and the signs of a cruel nature. She was poorly clad, and her garments unclean.

“You will take this child?” said Mrs. Dinneford abruptly, as the woman came into her presence.

“I have agreed to do so,” she replied, looking toward Mrs. Bray.

“She is to have fifty dollars,” said the nurse.

“And that is to be the last of it!” Mrs. Dinneford’s face was pale, and she spoke in a hard, husky voice.

Opening her purse, she took from it a small roll of bills, and as she held out the money said, slowly and with a hard emphasis,

“You understand the terms. I do not know you—not even your name. I don’t wish to know you. For this consideration you take the child away. That is the end of it between you and me. The child is your own as much as if he were born to you, and you can do with him as you please. And now go.” Mrs. Dinneford waved her hand.

“His name?” queried the woman.

“He has no name!” Mrs. Dinneford stamped her foot in angry impatience.

The woman stooped down, and taking up the basket, tucked the covering that had been laid over the baby close about its head, so that no one could see what she carried, and went off without uttering another word.

It was some moments before either Mrs. Dinneford or the nurse spoke. Mrs. Bray was first to break silence.

“All this means a great deal more than you have counted on,” she said, in a voice that betrayed some little feeling. “To throw a tender baby out like that is a hard thing. I am afraid—”

“There, there! no more of that,” returned Mrs. Dinneford, impatiently. “It’s ugly work, I own, but it had to be done—like cutting off a diseased limb. He will die, of course, and the sooner it is over, the better for him and every one else.”

“He will have a hard struggle for life, poor little thing!” said the nurse. “I would rather see him dead.”

Mrs. Dinneford, now that this wicked and cruel deed was done, felt ill at ease. She pushed the subject away, and tried to bury it out of sight as we bury the dead, but did not find the task an easy one.

What followed the birth and removal of Edith’s baby up to the time of her return to reason after long struggle for life, has already been told. Her demand to have her baby—“Oh, mother, bring me my baby! I shall die if you do not!” and the answer, “Your baby is in heaven!”—sent the feeble life-currents back again upon her heart. There was another long period of oblivion, out of which she came very slowly, her mind almost as much a blank as the mind of a child.

She had to learn again the names of things, and to be taught their use. It was touching to see the untiring devotion of her father, and the pleasure he took in every new evidence of mental growth. He went over the alphabet with her, letter by letter, many times each day, encouraging her and holding her thought down to the unintelligible signs with a patient tenderness sad yet beautiful to see; and when she began to combine letters into words, and at last to put words together, his delight was unbounded.

Very slowly went on the new process of mental growth, and it was months before thought began to reach out beyond the little world that lay just around her.

Meanwhile, Edith’s husband had been brought to trial for forgery, convicted and sentenced to the State’s prison for a term of years. His partner came forward as the chief witness, swearing that he had believed the notes genuine, the firm having several times had the use of Mr. Dinneford’s paper, drawn to the order of Granger.

Ere the day of trial came the poor young man was nearly broken-hearted. Public disgrace like this, added to the terrible private wrongs he was suffering, was more than he had the moral strength to bear. Utterly repudiated by his wife’s family, and not even permitted to see Edith, he only knew that she was very ill. Of the birth of his baby he had but a vague intimation. A rumor was abroad that it had died, but he could learn nothing certain. In his distress and uncertainty he called on Dr. Radcliffe, who replied to his questions with a cold evasion. “It was put out to nurse,” said the doctor, “and that is all I know about it.” Beyond this he would say nothing.

Granger was not taken to the State’s prison after his sentence, but to an insane asylum. Reason gave way under the terrible ordeal through which he had been made to pass.

“Mother,” said Edith, one day, in a tone that caused Mrs. Dinneford’s heart to leap. She was reading a child’s simple story-book, and looked up as she spoke. Her eyes were wide open and full of questions.

“What, my dear?” asked Mrs. Dinneford, repressing her feelings and trying to keep her voice calm.

“There’s something I can’t understand, mother.” She looked down at herself, then about the room. Her manner was becoming nervous.

“What can’t you understand?”

Edith shut her hands over her eyes and remained very still. When she removed them, and her mother looked into her face the childlike sweetness and content were all gone, and a conscious woman was before her. The transformation was as sudden as it was marvelous.

Both remained silent for the space of nearly a minute. Mrs. Dinneford knew not what to say, and waited for some sign from her daughter.

“Where is my baby, mother?” Edith said this in a low, tremulous whisper, leaning forward as she spoke, repressed and eager.

“Have you forgotten?” asked Mrs. Dinneford, with regained composure.

“Forgotten what?”

“You were very ill after your baby was born; no one thought you could live; you were ill for a long time. And the baby—”

“What of the baby, mother?” asked Edith, beginning to tremble violently. Her mother, perceiving her agitation, held back the word that was on her lips.

“What of the baby, mother?” Edith repeated the question.

“It died,” said Mrs. Dinneford, turning partly away. She could not look at her child and utter this cruel falsehood.

“Dead! Oh, mother, don’t say that! The baby can’t be dead!”

A swift flash of suspicion came into her eyes.

“I have said it, my child,” was the almost stern response of Mrs. Dinneford. “The baby is dead.”

A weight seemed to fall on Edith. She bent forward, crouching down until her elbows rested on her knees and her hands supported her head. Thus she sat, rocking her body with a slight motion. Mrs. Dinneford watched her without speaking.

“And what of George?” asked Edith, checking her nervous movement at last.

Her mother did not reply. Edith waited a moment, and then lifted herself erect.

“What of George?” she demanded.

“My poor child!” exclaimed Mrs. Dinneford, with a gush of genuine pity, putting her arms about Edith and drawing her head against her bosom. “It is more than you have strength to bear.”

“You must tell me,” the daughter said, disengaging herself. “I have asked for my husband.”

“Hush! You must not utter that word again;” and Mrs. Dinneford put her fingers on Edith’s lips. “The wretched man you once called by that name is a disgraced criminal. It is better that you know the worst.”

When Mr. Dinneford came home, instead of the quiet, happy child he had left in the morning, he found a sad, almost broken-hearted woman, refusing to be comforted. The wonder was that under the shock of this terrible awakening, reason had not been again and hopelessly dethroned.

After a period of intense suffering, pain seemed to deaden sensibility. She grew calm and passive. And now Mrs. Dinneford set herself to the completion of the work she had begun. She had compassed the ruin of Granger in order to make a divorce possible; she had cast the baby adrift that no sign of the social disgrace might remain as an impediment to her first ambition. She would yet see her daughter in the position to which she had from the beginning resolved to lift her, cost what it might. But the task was not to be an easy one.

After a period of intense suffering, as we have said, Edith grew calm and passive. But she was never at ease with her mother, and seemed to be afraid of her. To her father she was tender and confiding. Mrs. Dinneford soon saw that if Edith’s consent to a divorce from her husband was to be obtained, it must come through her father’s influence; for if she but hinted at the subject, it was met with a flash of almost indignant rejection. So her first work was to bring her husband over to her side. This was not difficult, for Mr. Dinneford felt the disgrace of having for a son-in-law a condemned criminal, who was only saved from the State’s prison by insanity. An insane criminal was not worthy to hold the relation of husband to his pure and lovely child.

After a feeble opposition to her father’s arguments and persuasions, Edith yielded her consent. An application for a divorce was made, and speedily granted.