ASfor Edith, all doubts and questionings as to her baby's fate were merged into a settled conviction that it was alive, and that her mother knew where it was to be found. From her mother's pity and humanity she had nothing to hope for the child. It had been cruelly cast adrift, pushed out to die; by what means was cared not, so that it died and left no trace.
The face of Mrs. Bray had, in the single glance Edith obtained of it, become photographed in her mind. If she had been an artist, she could have drawn it from memory so accurately that no one who knew the woman could have failed to recognize her likeness. Always when in the street her eyes searched for this face; she never passed a woman of small stature and poor dark clothing without turning to look at her. Every day she went out, walking the streets sometimes for hours looking for this face, but not finding it. Every day she passed certain corners and localities where she had seen women begging, and whenever she found one with a baby in her arms would stop to look at the poor starved thing, and question her about it.
Gradually all her thoughts became absorbed in the condition of poor, neglected and suffering children. Her attendance at the St. John's mission sewing-school, which was located in the neighborhood of one of the worst places in the city, brought her in contact with little children in such a wretched state of ignorance, destitution and vice that her heart was moved to deepest pity, intensified by the thought that ever and anon flashed across her mind: “And my baby may become like one of these!”
Sometimes this thought would drive her almost to madness. Often she would become so wild in her suspense as to be on the verge of openly accusing her mother with having knowledge of her baby's existence and demanding of her its restoration. But she was held back by the fear that such an accusation would only shut the door of hope for ever. She had come to believe her mother capable of almost any wickedness. Pressed to the wall she would never be if there was any way of escape, and to prevent such at thing there was nothing so desperate that she would not do it; and so Edith hesitated and feared to take the doubtful issue.
Week after week and month after month now went on without a single, occurrence that gave to Edith any new light. Mrs. Dinneford wrought with her accomplice so effectually that she kept her wholly out of the way. Often, in going and returning from the mission-school, Edith would linger about the neighborhood where she had once met her mother, hoping to see her come out of some one of the houses there, for she had got it into her mind that the woman called Mrs. Gray lived somewhere in this locality.
One day, in questioning a child who had come to the sewing-school as to her home and how she lived, the little girl said something about a baby that her mother said she knew must have been stolen.
“How old is the baby?” asked Edith, hardly able to keep the tremor out of her voice.
“It's a little thing,” answered the child. “I don't know how old it is; maybe it's six months old, or maybe it's a year. It can sit upon the floor.”
“Why does your mother think it has been stolen?”
“Because two bad girls have got it, and they pay a woman to take care of it. It doesn't belong to them, she knows. Mother says it would be a good thing if it died.”
“Why does she say that?”
“Oh she always talks that way about babies—says she's glad when they die.”
“Is it a boy or a girl?”
“It's a boy baby,” answered the child.
“Does the woman take good care of it?”
“Oh dear, no! She lets it sit on the floor 'most all the time, and it cries so that I often go up and nurse it. The woman lives in the room over ours.”
“Where do you live?”
“In Grubb's court.”
“Will you show me the way there after school is over?”
The child looked up into Edith's face with an expression of surprise and doubt. Edith repeated her question.
“I guess you'd better not go,” was answered, in a voice that meant all the words expressed.
“Why not?”
“It isn't a good place.”
“But you live there?”
“Yes, but nobody's going to trouble me.”
“Nor me,” said Edith.
“Oh, but you don't know what kind of a place it is, nor what dreadful people live there.”
“I could get a policeman to go with me, couldn't I?”
“Yes, maybe you could, or Mr. Paulding, the missionary. He goes about everywhere.”
“Where can I find Mr. Paulding?”
“At the mission in Briar street.”
“You'll show me the way there after school?”
“Oh yes; it isn't a nice place for you to go, but I guess nobody'll trouble you.”
After the school closed, Edith, guided by the child, made her way to the Briar st. mission-house. As she entered the narrow street in which it was situated, the aspect of things was so strange and shocking to her eyes that she felt a chill creep to her heart. She had never imagined anything so forlorn and squalid, so wretched and comfortless. Miserable little hovels, many of them no better than pig-styes, and hardly cleaner within, were crowded together in all stages of dilapidation. Windows with scarcely a pane of glass, the chilly air kept out by old hats, bits of carpet or wads of newspaper, could be seen on all sides, with here and there, showing some remains of an orderly habit, a broken pane closed with a smooth piece of paper pasted to the sash. Instinctively she paused, oppressed by a sense of fear.
“It's only halfway down,” said the child. “We'll 'go quick. I guess nobody'll speak to you. They're afraid of Mr. Paulding about here. He's down on 'em if they meddle with anybody that's coming to the mission.”
Edith, thus urged, moved on. She had gone but a few steps when two men came in sight, advancing toward her. They were of the class to be seen at all times in that region—debased to the lowest degree, drunken, ragged, bloated, evil-eyed, capable of any wicked thing. They were singing when they came in sight, but checked their drunken mirth as soon as they saw Edith, whose heart sunk again. She stopped, trembling.
“They're only drunk,” said the child. “I don't believe they'll hurt you.”
Edith rallied herself and walked on, the men coming closer and closer. She saw them look at each other with leering eyes, and then at her in a way that made her shiver. When only a few paces distant, they paused, and with the evident intention of barring her farther progress.
“Good-afternoon, miss,” said one of them, with a low bow. “Can we do anything for you?”
The pale, frightened face of Edith was noticed by the other, and it touched some remnant of manhood not yet wholly extinguished.
“Let her alone, you miserable cuss!” he cried, and giving his drunken companion a shove, sent him staggering across the street. This made the way clear, and Edith sprang forward, but she had gone only a few feet when she came face to face with another obstruction even more frightful, if possible, than the first. A woman with a red, swollen visage, black eye, soiled, tattered, drunk, with arms wildly extended, came rushing up to her. The child gave a scream. The wretched creature caught at a shawl worn by Edith, and was dragging it from her shoulders, when the door of one of the houses flew open, and a woman came out hastily. Grasping the assailant, she hurled her across the street with the strength of a giant.
“We're going to the mission,” said the child.
“It's just down there. Go 'long. I'll stand here and see that no one meddles with you again.”
Edith faltered her thanks, and went on.
“That's the queen,” said her companion.
“The queen!” Edith's hasty tones betrayed her surprise.
“Yes; it's Norah. They're all afraid of her. I'm glad she saw us. She's as strong as a man.”
In a few minutes they reached the mission, but in those few minutes Edith saw more to sadden the heart, more to make it ache for humanity, than could be described in pages.
The missionary was at home. Edith told him the purpose of her call and the locality she desired to visit.
“I wanted to go alone,” she remarked, “but this little girl, who is in my class at the sewing-school, said it wouldn't be safe, and that you would go with me.”
“I should be sorry to have you go alone into Grubb's court,” said the missionary, kindly, and with concern in his voice, “for a worse place can hardly be found in the city—I was going to say in the world. You will be safe with me, however. But why do you wish to visit Grubb's court? Perhaps I can do all that is needed.”
“This little girl who lives in there, has been telling me about a poor neglected baby that her mother says has no doubt been stolen, and—and—” Edith voice faltered, but she quickly gained steadiness under a strong effort of will: “I thought perhaps I might be able to do something for it—to get it into one of the homes, maybe. It is dreadful, sir, to think of little babies being neglected.”
Mr. Paulding questioned the child who had brought Edith to the mission-house, and learned from her that the baby was merely boarded by the woman who had it in charge, and that she sometimes took it out and sat on the street, begging. The child repeated what she had said to Edith—that the baby was the property, so to speak, of two abandoned women, who paid its board.
“I think,” said the missionary, after some reflection, “that if getting the child out of their hands is your purpose, you had better not go there at present. Your visit would arouse suspicion; and if the two women have anything to gain by keeping the child in their possession, it will be at once taken to a new place. I am moving about in these localities all the while, and can look in upon the baby without anything being thought of it.”
This seemed so reasonable that Edith, who could not get over the nervous tremors occasioned by what she had already seen and encountered, readily consented to leave the matter for the present in Mr. Paulding's hands.
“If you will come here to-morrow,” said the missionary, “I will tell you all I can about the baby.”
Out of a region where disease, want and crime shrunk from common observation, and sin and death held high carnival, Edith hurried with trembling feet, and heart beating so heavily that she could hear it throb, the considerate missionary going with her until she had crossed the boundary of this morally infected district.
Mr. Dinneford met Edith at the door on her arrival home.
“My child,” he exclaimed as he looked into her face, back to which the color had not returned since her fright in Briar street, “are you sick?”
“I don't feel very well;” and she tried to pass him hastily in the hall as they entered the house together. But he laid his hand on her arm and held her back gently, then drew her into the parlor. She sat down, trembling, weak and faint. Mr. Dinneford waited for some moments, looking at her with a tender concern, before speaking.
“Where have you been, my dear?” he asked, at length.
After a little hesitation, Edith told her father about her visit to Briar street and the shock she had received.
“You were wrong,” he answered, gravely. “It is most fortunate for you that you took the child's advice and called at the mission. If you had gone to Grubb's court alone, you might not have come out alive.”
“Oh no, father! It can't be so bad as that.”
“It is just as bad as that,” he replied, with a troubled face and manner. “Grubb's court is one of the traps into which unwary victims are drawn that they may be plundered. It is as much out of common observation almost as the lair of a wild beast in some deep wilderness. I have heard it described by those who have been there under protection of the police, and shudder to think of the narrow escape you have made. I don't want you to go into that vile district again. It is no place for such as you.”
“There's a poor little baby there,” said Edith, her voice trembling and tears filling her eyes. Then, after a brief struggle with her feelings, she threw herself upon her father, sobbing out, “And oh, father, it may be my baby!”
“My poor child,” said Mr. Dinneford, not able to keep his voice firm—“my poor, poor child! It is all a wild dream, the suggestion of evil spirits who delight in torment.”
“What became of my baby, father? Can you tell me?”
“It died, Edith dear. We know that,” returned her father, trying to speak very confidently. But the doubt in his own mind betrayed itself.
“Do you know it?” she asked, rising and confronting her father.
“I didn't actually see it die. But—but—”
“You know no more about it than I do,” said Edith; “if you did, you might set my heart at rest with a word. But you cannot. And so I am left to my wild fears, that grow stronger every day. Oh, father, help me, if you can. I must have certainty, or I shall lose my reason.”
“If you don't give up this wild fancy, you surely will,” answered Mr. Dinneford, in a distressed voice.
“If I were to shut myself up and do nothing,” said Edith, with greater calmness, “I would be in a madhouse before a week went by. My safety lies in getting down to the truth of this wild fancy, as you call it. It has taken such possession of me that nothing but certainty can give me rest. Will you help me?”
“How can I help you? I have no clue to this sad mystery.”
“Mystery! Then you are as much in the dark as I am—know no more of what became of my baby than I do! Oh, father, how could you let such a thing be done, and ask no questions—such a cruel and terrible thing—and I lying helpless and dumb? Oh, father, my innocent baby cast out like a dog to perish—nay, worse, like a lamb among wolves to be torn by their cruel teeth—and no one to put forth a hand to save! If I only knew that he was dead! If I could find his little grave and comfort my heart over it!”
Weak, naturally good men, like Mr. Dinneford, often permit great wrongs to be done in shrinking from conflict and evading the sterner duties of life. They are often the faithless guardians of immortal trusts.
There was a tone of accusation and rebuke in Edith's voice that smote painfully on her father's heart. He answered feebly:
“What could I do? How should I know that anything wrong was being done? You were very ill, and the baby was sent away to be nursed, and then I was told that it was dead.”
“Oh, father! Sent away without your seeing it! My baby! Your little grandson! Oh, father!”
“But you know, dear, in what a temper of mind your mother was—how impossible it is for me to do anything with her when she once sets herself to do a thing.”
“Even if it be murder!” said Edith, in a hoarse whisper.
“Hush, hush, my child! You must not speak so,” returned the agitated father.
A silence fell between them. A wall of separation began to grow up. Edith arose, and was moving from the room.
“My daughter!” There was a sob in the father's voice.
Edith stopped.
“My daughter, we must not part yet. Come back; sit down with me, and let us talk more calmly. What is past cannot be changed. It is with the now of this unhappy business that we have to do.”
Edith came back and sat down again, her father taking a seat beside her.
“That is just it,” she answered, with a steadiness of tone and manner that showed how great was the self-control she was able to exert. “It is with the now of this unhappy affair that we have to do. If I spoke strongly of the past, it was that a higher and intenser life might be given to present duty.”
“Let there be no distance between us. Let no wall of separation grow up,” said Mr. Dinneford, tenderly. “I cannot bear to think of this. Confide in me, consult with me. I will help you in all possible ways to solve this mystery. But do not again venture alone into that dreadful place. I will go with you if you think any good will come of it.”
“I must see Mr. Paulding in the morning,” said Edith, with calm decision.
“Then I will go with you,” returned Mr. Dinneford.
“Thank you, father;” and she kissed him. “Until then nothing more can be done.” She kissed him again, and then went to her own room. After locking the door she sank on her knees, leaning forward, with her face buried in the cushion of a chair, and did not rise for a long time.
ONthe next morning, after some persuasion, Edith consented to postpone her visit to Grubb's court until after her father had seen Mr. Paulding, the missionary.
“Let me go first and gain what information I can,” he urged. “It may save you a fruitless errand.”
It was not without a feeling of almost unconquerable repugnance that Mr. Dinneford took his way to the mission-house, in Briar street. His tastes, his habits and his naturally kind and sensitive feelings all made him shrink from personal contact with suffering and degradation. He gave much time and care to the good work of helping the poor and the wretched, but did his work in boards and on committees, rather than in the presence of the needy and suffering. He was not one of those who would pass over to the other side and leave a wounded traveler to perish, but he would avoid the road to Jericho, if he thought it likely any such painful incident would meet him in the way and shock his fine sensibilities. He was willing to work for the downcast, the wronged, the suffering and the vile, but preferred doing so at a distance, and not in immediate contact. Thus it happened that, although one of the managers of the Briar street mission and familiar with its work in a general way, he had never been at the mission-house—had never, in fact, set his foot within the morally plague-stricken district in which it stood. He had often been urged to go, but could not overcome his reluctance to meet humanity face to face in its sadder and more degraded aspects.
Now a necessity was upon him, and he had to go. It was about ten o'clock in the morning when, at almost a single step, he passed from what seemed paradise to purgatory, the sudden contrast was so great. There were but few persons in the little street; where the mission was situated at that early hour, and most of these were children—poor, half-clothed, dirty, wan-faced, keen-eyed and alert bits of humanity, older by far than their natural years, few of them possessing any higher sense of right and wrong than young savages. The night's late orgies or crimes had left most of their elders in a heavy morning sleep, from which they did not usually awaken before midday. Here and there one and another came creeping out, impelled by a thirst no water could quench. Now it was a bloated, wild-eyed man, dirty and forlorn beyond description, shambling into sight, but disappearing in a moment or two in one of the dram-shops, whose name was legion, and now it was a woman with the angel all gone out of her face, barefooted, blotched, coarse, red-eyed, bruised and awfully disfigured by her vicious, drunken life. Her steps too made haste to the dram-shop.
Such houses for men and women to live in as now stretched before his eyes in long dreary rows Mr. Dinneford had never seen, except in isolated cases of vice and squalor. To say that he was shocked would but faintly express his feelings. Hurrying along, he soon came in sight of the mission. At this moment a jar broke the quiet of the scene. Just beyond the mission-house two women suddenly made their appearance, one of them pushing the other out upon the street. Their angry cries rent the air, filling it with profane and obscene oaths. They struggled together for a little while, and then one of them, a woman with gray hair and not less than sixty years of age, fell across the curb with her head on the cobble-stones.
As if a sorcerer had stamped his foot, a hundred wretched creatures, mostly women and children, seemed to spring up from the ground. It was like a phantasy. They gathered about the prostrate woman, laughing and jeering. A policeman who was standing at the corner a little way off came up leisurely, and pushing the motley crew aside, looked down at the prostrate woman.
“Oh, it's you again!” he said, in a tone of annoyance, taking hold of one arm and raising her so that she sat on the curb-stone. Mr. Dinneford now saw her face distinctly; it was that of an old woman, but red, swollen and terribly marred. Her thin gray hair had fallen over her shoulders, and gave her a wild and crazy look.
“Come,” said the policeman, drawing on the woman's arm and trying to raise her from the ground. But she would not move.
“Come,” he said, more imperatively.
“Nature you going to do with me?” she demanded.
“I'm going to lock you up. So come along. Have had enough of you about here. Always drunk and in a row with somebody.”
Her resistance was making the policeman angry.
“It'll take two like you to do that,” returned the woman, in a spiteful voice, swearing foully at the same time.
At this a cheer arose from the crowd. A negro with a push-cart came along at the moment.
“Here! I want you,” called the policeman.
The negro pretended not to hear, and the policeman had to threaten him before he would stop.
Seeing the cart, the drunken woman threw herself back upon the pavement and set every muscle to a rigid strain. And now came one of those shocking scenes—too familiar, alas! in portions of our large Christian cities—at which everything pure and merciful and holy in our nature revolts: a gray-haired old woman, so debased by drink and an evil life that all sense of shame and degradation had been extinguished, fighting with a policeman, and for a time showing superior strength, swearing vilely, her face distorted with passion, and a crowd made up chiefly of women as vile and degraded as herself, and of all ages, and colors, laughing, shouting and enjoying the scene intensely.
At last, by aid of the negro, the woman was lifted into the cart and thrown down upon the floor, her head striking one of the sides with a sickeningthud. She still swore and struggled, and had to be held down by the policeman, who stood over her, while the cart was pushed off to the nearest station-house, the excited crowd following with shouts and merry huzzas.
Mr. Dinneford was standing in a maze, shocked and distressed by this little episode, when a man at his side said in a grave, quiet voice,
“I doubt if you could see a sight just like that anywhere else in all Christendom.” Then added, as he extended his hand,
“I am glad to see you here, Mr. Dinneford.”
“Oh, Mr. Paulding!” and Mr. Dinneford put out his hand and grasped that of the missionary with a nervous grip. “This is awful! I am sixty years old, but anything so shocking my eyes have not before looked upon.”
“We see things worse than this every day,” said the missionary. “It is only one of the angry boils on the surface, and tells of the corrupt and vicious blood within. But I am right glad to find you here, Mr. Dinneford. Unless you see these things with your own eyes, it is impossible for you to comprehend the condition of affairs in this by-way to hell.”
“Hell, itself, better say,” returned Mr. Dinneford. “It is hell pushing itself into visible manifestation—hell establishing itself on the earth, and organizing its forces for the destruction of human souls, while the churches are too busy enlarging their phylacteries and making broader and more attractive the hems of their garments to take note of this fatal vantage-ground acquired by the enemy.”
Mr. Dinneford stood and looked around him in a dazed sort of way.
“Is Grubb's court near this?” he asked, recollecting the errand upon which he had come.
“Yes.”
“A young lady called to see you yesterday afternoon to ask about a child in that court?”
“Oh yes! You know the lady?”
“She is my daughter. One of the poor children in her sewing-class told her of a neglected baby in Grubb's court, and so drew upon her sympathies that she started to go there, but was warned by the child that it would be dangerous for a young lady like her to be seen in that den of thieves and harlots, and so she came to you. And now I am here in her stead to get your report about the baby. I would not consent to her visiting this place again.”
Mr. Paulding took his visitor into the mission-house, near which they were standing. After they were seated, he said,
“I have seen the baby about which your daughter wished me to make inquiry. The woman who has the care of it is a vile creature, well known in this region—drunken and vicious. She said at first that it was her own baby, but afterward admitted that she didn't know who its mother was, and that she was paid for taking care of it. I found out, after a good deal of talking round, and an interview with the mother of the child who is in your daughter's sewing-class, that a girl of notoriously bad character, named Pinky Swett, pays the baby's board. There's a mystery about the child, and I am of the opinion that it has been stolen, or is known to be the offcast of some respectable family. The woman who has the care of it was suspicious, and seemed annoyed at my questions.”
“Is it a boy?” asked Mr. Dinneford.
“Yes, and has a finely-formed head and a pair of large, clear, hazel eyes. Evidently it is of good parentage. The vicious, the sensual and the depraved mark their offspring with the unmistakable signs of their moral depravity. You cannot mistake them. But this baby has in its poor, wasted, suffering little face, in its well-balanced head and deep, almost spiritual eyes, the signs of a better origin.”
“It ought at once to be taken away from the woman,” said Mr. Dinneford, in a very decided manner.
“Who is to take it?” asked the missionary.
Mr. Dinneford was silent.
“Neither you nor I have any authority to do so. If I were to see it cast out upon the street, I might have it sent to the almshouse; but until I find it abandoned or shamefully abused, I have no right to interfere.”
“I would like to see the baby,” said Mr. Dinneford, on whose mind painful suggestions akin to those that were so disturbing his daughter were beginning to intrude themselves.
“It would hardly be prudent to go there to-day,” said Mr. Paulding.
“Why not?”
“It would arouse suspicion; and if there is anything wrong, the baby would drop out of sight. You would not find it if you went again. These people are like birds with their wings half lifted, and fly away at the first warning of danger. As it is, I fear my visit and inquiries will be quite sufficient to the cause the child's removal to another place.”
Mr. Dinneford mused for a while:
“There ought to be some way to reach a case like this, and there is, I am sure. From what you say, it is more than probable that this poor little waif may have drifted out of some pleasant home, where love would bless it with the tenderest care, into this hell of neglect and cruelty. It should be rescued on the instant. It is my duty—it is yours—to see that it is done, and that without delay. I will go at once to the mayor and state the case. He will send an officer with me, I know, and we will take the child by force. If its real mother then comes forward and shows herself at all worthy to have the care of it, well; if not, I will see that it is taken care of. I know where to place it.”
To this proposition Mr. Paulding had no objection to offer.
“If you take that course, and act promptly, you can no doubt get possession of the poor thing. Indeed, sir”—and the missionary spoke with much earnestness—“if men of influence like yourself would come here and look the evil of suffering and neglected children in the face, and then do what they could to destroy that evil, there would soon be joy in heaven over the good work accomplished by their hands. I could give you a list of ten or twenty influential citizens whose will would be next to law in a matter like this who could in a month, if they put heart and hand to it, do such a work for humanity here as would make the angels glad. But they are too busy with their great enterprises to give thought and effort to a work like this.”
A shadow fell across the missionary's face. There was a tone of discouragement in his voice.
“The great question iswhatto do,” said Mr. Dinneford. “There are no problems so hard to solve as these problems of social evil. If men and women choose to debase themselves, who is to hinder? The vicious heart seeks a vicious life. While the heart is depraved the life will be evil. So long as the fountain is corrupt the water will be foul.”
“There is a side to all this that most people do not consider,” answered Mr. Paulding. “Self-hurt is one thing, hurt of the neighbor quite another. It may be questioned whether society has a right to touch the individual freedom of a member in anything that affects himself alone. But the moment he begins to hurt his neighbor, whether from ill-will or for gain, then it is the duty of society to restrain him. The common weal demands this, to say nothing of Christian obligation. If a man were to set up an exhibition in our city dangerous to life and limb, but so fascinating as to attract large numbers to witness and participate therein, and if hundreds were maimed or killed every year, do you think any one would question the right of our authorities to repress it? And yet to-day there are in our city more than twenty thousand persons who live by doing things a thousand times more hurtful to the people than any such exhibition could possibly be. And what is marvelous to think of, the larger part of these persons are actually licensed by the State to get gain by hurting, depraving and destroying the people. Think of it, Mr. Dinneford! The whole question lies in a nutshell. There is no difficulty about the problem. Restrain men from doing harm to each other, and the work is more than half done.”
“Is not the law all the while doing this?”
“The law,” was answered, “is weakly dealing with effect—how weakly let prison and police statistics show. Forty thousand arrests in our city for a single year, and the cause of these arrests clearly traced to the liquor licenses granted to five or six thousand persons to make money by debasing and degrading the people. If all of these were engaged in useful employments, serving, as every true citizen is bound to do, the common good, do you think we should have so sad and sickening a record? No, sir! We must go back to the causes of things. Nothing but radical work will do.”
“You think, then,” said Mr. Dinneford, “that the true remedy for all these dreadful social evils lies in restrictive legislation?”
“Restrictive only on the principles of eternal right,” answered the missionary. “Man's freedom over himself must not be touched. Only his freedom to hurt his neighbor must be abridged. Here society has a right to put bonds on its members—to say to each individual, You are free to do anything by which your neighbor is served, but nothing to harm him. Here is where the discrimination must be made; and when the mass of the people come to see this, we shall have the beginning of a new day. There will then be hope for such poor wretches as crowd this region; or if most of them are so far lost as to be without hope, their places, when they die, will not be filled with new recruits for the army of perdition.”
“If the laws we now have were only executed,” said Mr. Dinneford, “there might be hope in our legislative restrictions. But the people are defrauded of justice through defects in its machinery. There are combinations to defeat good laws. There are men holding high office notoriously in league with scoundrels who prey upon the people. Through these, justice perpetually fails.”
“The people are alone to blame,” replied the missionary. “Each is busy with his farm and his merchandise with his own affairs, regardless of his neighbor. The common good is nothing, so that his own good is served. Each weakly folds his hands and is sorry when these troublesome questions are brought to his notice, but doesn't see that he can do anything. Nor can the people, unless some strong and influential leaders rally them, and, like great generals, lead them to the battle. As I said a little while ago, there are ten or twenty men in this city who, if they could be made to feel their high responsibility—who, if they could be induced to look away for a brief period from their great enterprises and concentrate thought and effort upon these questions of social evil, abuse of justice and violations of law—would in a single month inaugurate reforms and set agencies to work that would soon produce marvelous changes. They need not touch the rottenness of this half-dead carcass with knife or poultice. Only let them cut off the sources of pollution and disease, and the purified air will do the work of restoration where moral vitality remains, or hasten the end in those who are debased beyond hope.”
“What could these men do? Where would their work begin?” asked Mr. Dinneford.
“Their own intelligence would soon discover the way to do this work if their hearts were in it. Men who can organize and successfully conduct great financial and industrial enterprises, who know how to control the wealth and power of the country and lead the people almost at will, would hardly be at fault in the adjustment of a matter like this. What would be the money influence of 'whisky rings' and gambling associations, set against the social and money influence of these men? Nothing, sir, nothing! Do you think we should long have over six thousand bars and nearly four hundred lottery-policy shops in our city if the men to whom I refer were to take the matter in hand?”
“Are there so many policy-shops?” asked Mr. Dinneford, in surprise.
“There may be more. You will find them by scores in every locality where poor and ignorant people are crowded together, sucking out their substance, and in the neighborhood of all the market-houses and manufactories, gathering in spoil. The harm they are doing is beyond computation. The men who control this unlawful business are rich and closely organized. They gather in their dishonest gains at the rate of hundreds of thousands of dollars every year, and know how and where to use this money for the protection of their agents in the work of defrauding the people, and the people are helpless because our men of wealth and influence have no time to give to public justice or the suppression of great social wrongs. With them, as things now are, rests the chief responsibility. They have the intelligence, the wealth and the public confidence, and are fully equal to the task if they will put their hands to the work. Let them but lift the standard and sound the trumpet of reform, and the people will rally instantly at the call. It must not be a mere spasmodic effort—a public meeting with wordy resolutions and strong speeches only—but organized work based on true principles of social order and the just rights of the people.”
“You are very much in earnest about this matter,” said Mr. Dinneford, seeing how excited the missionary had grown.
“And so would you and every other good citizen become if, standing face to face, as I do daily, with this awful debasement and crime and suffering, you were able to comprehend something of its real character. If I could get the influential citizens to whom I have referred to come here and see for themselves, to look upon this pandemonium in their midst and take in an adequate idea of its character, significance and aggressive force, there would be some hope of making them see their duty, of arousing them to action. But they stand aloof, busy with personal and material interest, while thousands of men, women and children are yearly destroyed, soul and body, through their indifference to duty and ignorance of their fellows' suffering.”
“It is easy to say such things,” answered Mr. Dinneford, who felt the remarks of Mr. Paulding as almost personal.
“Yes, it is easy to say them,” returned the missionary, his voice dropping to a lower key, “and it may be of little use to say them. I am sometimes almost in despair, standing so nearly alone as I do with my feet on the very brink of this devastating flood of evil, and getting back only faint echoes to my calls for help. But when year after year I see some sheaves coming in as the reward of my efforts and of the few noble hearts that work with me, I thank God and take courage, and I lift my voice and call more loudly for help, trusting that I may be heard by some who, if they would only come up to the help of the Lord against the mighty, would scatter his foes like chaff on the threshing-floor. But I am holding you back from your purpose to visit the mayor; I think you had better act promptly if you would get possession of the child. I shall be interested in the result, and will take it as a favor if you will call at the mission again.”
WHENMr. Dinneford and the policeman sent by the mayor at his solicitation visited Grubb's court, the baby was not to be found. The room in which it had been seen by Mr. Paulding was vacant. Such a room as it was!—low and narrow, with bare, blackened walls, the single window having scarcely two whole panes of glass, the air loaded with the foulness that exhaled from the filth-covered floor, the only furniture a rough box and a dirty old straw bed lying in a corner.
As Mr. Dinneford stood at the door of this room and inhaled its fetid air, he grew sick, almost faint. Stepping back, with a shocked and disgusted look on his face, he said to the policeman,
“There must be a mistake. This cannot be the room.”
Two or three children and a coarse, half-clothed woman, seeing a gentleman going into the house accompanied by a policeman, had followed them closely up stairs.
“Who lives in this room?” asked the policeman, addressing the woman.
“Don't know as anybody lives there now,” she replied, with evident evasion.
“Who did live here?” demanded the policeman.
“Oh, lots!” returned the woman, curtly.
“I want to know who lived here last,” said the policeman, a little sternly.
“Can't say—never keep the run of 'em,” answered the woman, with more indifference than she felt. “Goin' and comin' all the while. Maybe it was Poll Davis.”
“Had she a baby?”
The woman gave a vulgar laugh as she replied: “I rather think not.”
“It was Moll Fling,” said one of the children, “and she had a baby.”
“When was she here last?” inquired the policeman.
The woman, unseen by the latter, raised her fist and threatened the child, who did not seem to be in the least afraid of her, for she answered promptly:
“She went away about an hour ago.”
“And took the baby?”
“Yes. You see Mr. Paulding was here asking about the baby, and she got scared.”
“Why should that scare her?”
“I don't know, only it isn't her baby.”
“How do you know that?”
“'Cause it isn't—I know it isn't. She's paid to take care of it.”
“Who by?”
“Pinky Swett.”
“Who's Pinky Swett?”
“Don't you know Pinky Swett?” and the child seemed half surprised.
“Where does Pinky Swett live?” asked the policeman.
“She did live next door for a while, but I don't know where she's gone.”
Nothing beyond this could be ascertained. But having learned the names of the women who had possession of the child, the policeman said there would be no difficulty about discovering them. It might take a little time, but they could not escape the vigilance of the police.
With this assurance, Mr. Dinneford hastened from the polluted air of Grubb's court, and made his way to the mission in Briar street, in order to have some further conference with Mr. Paulding.
“As I feared,” said the missionary, on learning that the baby could not be found. “These creatures are as keen of scent as Indians, and know the smallest sign of danger. It is very plain that there is something wrong—that these women have no natural right to the child, and that they are not using it to beg with.”
“Do you know a woman called Pinky Swett?” asked the policeman.
“I've heard of her, but do not know her by sight. She bears a hard reputation even here, and adds to her many evil accomplishments the special one of adroit robbery. A victim lured to her den rarely escapes without loss of watch or pocket-book. And not one in a hundred dares to give information, for this would expose him to the public, and so her crimes are covered. Pinky Swett is not the one to bother herself about a baby unless its parentage be known, and not then unless the knowledge can be turned to advantage.”
“The first thing to be done, then, is to find this woman,” said the policeman.
“That will not be very hard work. But finding the baby, if she thinks you are after it, would not be so easy,” returned Mr. Paulding. “She's as cunning as a fox.”
“We shall see. If the chief of police undertakes to find the baby, it won't be out of sight long. You'd better confer with the mayor again,” added the policeman, addressing Mr. Dinneford.
“I will do so without delay,” returned that gentleman.
“I hope to see you here again soon,” said the missionary as Mr. Dinneford was about going. “If I can help you in any way, I shall do so gladly.”
“I have no doubt but that you can render good service.” Then, in half apology, and to conceal the real concern at his heart, Mr. Dinneford added, “Somehow, and strangely enough when I come to think of it, I have allowed myself to get drawn into this thing, and once in, the natural persistence of my character leads me to go on to the end. I am one of those who cannot bear to give up or acknowledge a defeat; and so, having set my hand to this work, I am going to see it through.”
When the little girl who had taken Edith to the mission-house in Briar street got home and told her story, there was a ripple of excitement in that part of Grubb's court where she lived, and a new interest was felt in the poor neglected baby. Mr. Paulding's visit and inquiries added to this interest. It had been several days since Pinky Swett's last visit to the child to see that it was safe. On the morning after Edith's call at the mission she came in about ten o'clock, and heard the news. In less than twenty minutes the child and the woman who had charge of it both disappeared from Grubb's court. Pinky sent them to her own room, not many squares distant, and then drew from the little girl who was in Edith's sewing-class all she knew about that young lady. It was not much that the child could tell. She was very sweet and good and handsome, and wore such beautiful clothes, was so kind and patient with the girls, but she did not remember her name, thought it was Edith.
“Now, see here,” said Pinky, and she put some money into the child's hand; “I want you to find out for me what her name is and where she lives. Mind, you must be very careful to remember.”
“What do you want to know for?” asked the little girl.
“That's none of your business. Do what I tell you,” returned Pinky, with impatience; “and if you do it right, I'll give you a quarter more. When do you go again?”
“Next week, on Thursday.”
“Not till next Thursday!” exclaimed Pinky, in a tone of disappointment.
“The school's only once a week.”
Pinky chafed a good deal, but it was of no use; she must wait.
“You'll be sure and go next Thursday?” she said.
“If Mother lets me,” replied the child.
“Oh, I'll see to that; I'll make her let you. What time does the school go in?”
“At three o'clock.”
“Very well. You wait for me. I'll come round here at half-past two, and go with you. I want to see the young lady. They'll let me come into the school and learn to sew, won't they?”
“I don't know; you're too big, and you don't want to learn.”
“How do you know I don't?”
“Because I do.”
Pinky laughed, and then said,
“You'll wait for me?”
“Yes, if mother says so.”
“All right;” and Pinky hurried away to take measures for hiding the baby from a search that she felt almost sure was about being made. The first thing she did was to soundly abuse the woman in whose care she had placed the hapless child for her neglect and ill treatment, both of which were too manifest, and then to send her away under the new aspect of affairs she did not mean to trust this woman, nor indeed to trust anybody who knew anything of the inquiries which had been made about the child. A new nurse must be found, and she must live as far away from the old locality as possible. Pinky was not one inclined to put things off. Thought and act were always close together. Scarcely had the woman been gone ten minutes, before, bundling the baby in a shawl, she started off to find a safer hiding-place. This time she was more careful about the character and habits of the person selected for a nurse, and the baby's condition was greatly improved. The woman in whose charge she placed it was poor, but neither drunken nor depraved. Pinky arranged with her to take the care of it for two dollars a week, and supplied it with clean and comfortable clothing. Even she, wicked and vile as she was, could not help being touched by the change that appeared in the baby's shrunken face, and in its sad but beautiful eyes, after its wasted little body had been cleansed and clothed in clean, warm garments and it had taken its fill of nourishing food.
“It's a shame, the way it has been abused,” said Pinky, speaking from an impulse of kindness, such as rarely swelled in her evil heart.
“A crying shame,” answered the woman as she drew the baby close against her bosom and gazed down upon its pitiful face, and into the large brown eyes that were lifted to hers in mute appeal.
The real motherly tenderness that was in this woman's heart was quickly perceived by the child, who did not move its eyes from hers, but lay perfectly still, gazing up at her in a kind of easeful rest such as it had never before known. She spoke to it in loving tones, touched its thin cheeks with her finger in playful caresses, kissed it on its lips and forehead, hugged it to her bosom; and still the eyes were fixed on hers in a strange baby-wonder, though not the faintest glinting of a smile played on its lips or over its serious face. Had it never learned to smile?
At last the poor thin lips curved a little, crushing out the lines of suffering, and into the eyes there came a loving glance in place of the fixed, wondering look that was almost a stare. A slight lifting of the hands, a motion of the head, a thrill through the whole body came next, and then a tender cooing sound.
“Did you ever see such beautiful eyes?” said the woman. “It will be a splendid baby when it has picked up a little.”
“Let it pick up as fast as it can,” returned Pinky; “but mind what I say: you are to be mum. Here's your pay for the first week, and you shall have it fair and square always. Call it your own baby, if you will, or your grandson. Yes, that's better. He's the child of your dead daughter, just sent to you from somewhere out of town. So take good care of him, and keep your mouth shut. I'll be round again in a little while.”
And with this injunction Pinky went away. On the next Thursday she visited the St. John's mission sewing-school in company with the little girl from Grubb's court, but greatly to her disappointment, Edith did not make her appearance. There were four or five ladies in attendance on the school, which, under the superintendence of one of them, a woman past middle life, with a pale, serious face and a voice clear and sweet, was conducted with an order and decorum not often maintained among a class of children such as were there gathered together.
It was a long time since Pinky had found herself so repressed and ill at ease. There was a spiritual atmosphere in the place that did not vitalize her blood. She felt a sense of constriction and suffocation. She had taken her seat in the class taught usually by Edith, with the intention of studying that young lady and finding out all she could about her, not doubting her ability to act the part in hand with perfect self-possession. But she had not been in the room a minute before confidence began to die, and very soon she found herself ill at ease and conscious of being out of her place. The bold, bad woman felt weak and abashed. An unseen sphere of purity and Christian love surrounded and touched her soul with as palpable an impression as outward things give to the body. She had something of the inward distress and pain a devil would feel if lifted into the pure air of heaven, and the same desire to escape and plunge back into the dense and impure atmosphere in which evil finds its life and enjoyment. If she had come with any good purpose, it would have been different, but evil, and only evil, was in her heart; and when this felt the sphere of love and purity, her breast was constricted and life seemed going out of her.
It was little less than torture to Pinky for the short time she remained. As soon as she was satisfied that Edith would not be there, she threw down the garment on which she had been pretending to sew, and almost ran from the room.
“Who is that girl?” asked the lady who was teaching the class, looking in some surprise after the hurrying figure.
“It's Pinky Swett,” answered the child from Grubb's court. “She wanted to see our teacher.”
“Who is your regular teacher?” was inquired.
“Don't remember her name.”
“It's Edith,” spoke up one of the girls. “Mrs. Martin called her that.”
“What did this Pinky Swett want to see her about?”
“Don't know,” answered the child as she remembered the money Pinky had given her and the promise of more.
The teacher questioned no further, but went on with her work in the class.