CHAPTER XI
FOR more than a week after Edith’s call on Dr. Radcliffe she seemed to take but little interest in anything, and remained alone in her room for a greater part of the time, except when her father was in the house. Since her questions about her baby a slight reserve had risen up between them. During this time she went out at least once every day, and when questioned by her mother as to where she had been, evaded any direct answer. If questioned more closely, she would show a rising spirit and a decision of manner that had the effect to silence and at the same time to trouble Mrs. Dinneford, whose mind was continually on the rack.
One day the mother and daughter met in a part of the city where neither of them dreamed of seeing the other. It was not far from where Mrs. Bray lived. Mrs. Dinneford had been there on a purgational visit, and had come away lighter in purse and with a heavier burden of fear and anxiety on her heart.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded.
“I’ve been to St. John’s mission sewing-school,” replied Edith. “I have a class there.”
“You have! Why didn’t you tell me this before? I don’t like such doings. This is no place for you.”
“My place is where I can do good,” returned Edith, speaking slowly, but with great firmness.
“Good! You can do good if you want to without demeaning yourself to work like this. I don’t want you mixed up with these low, vile people, and I won’t have it!” Mrs. Dinneford spoke in a sharp, positive voice.
Edith made no answer, and they walked on together.
“I shall speak to your father about this,” said Mrs. Dinneford. “It isn’t reputable. I wouldn’t have you seen here for the world.”
“I shall walk unhurt; you need not fear,” returned Edith.
There was silence between them for some time, Edith not caring to speak, and her mother in doubt as to what it were best to say.
“How long have you been going to St. John’s mission school?” at length queried Mrs. Dinneford.
“I’ve been only a few times,” replied Edith.
“And have a class of diseased and filthy little wretches, I suppose—gutter children?”
“They are God’s children,” said Edith, in a tone of rebuke.
“Oh, don’t preach to me!” was angrily replied.
“I only said what was true,” remarked Edith.
There was silence again.
“Are you going directly home?” asked Mrs. Dinneford, after they had walked the distance of several blocks. Edith replied that she was.
“Then you’d better take that car. I shall not be home for an hour yet.”
They separated, Edith taking the car. As soon as she was alone Mrs. Dinneford quickened her steps, like a person who had been held back from some engagement. A walk of ten minutes brought her to one of the principal hotels of the city. Passing in, she went up to a reception-parlor, where she was met by a man who rose from a seat near the windows and advanced to the middle of the room. He was of low stature, with quick, rather nervous movements, had dark, restless eyes, and wore a heavy black moustache that was liberally sprinkled with gray. The lower part of his face was shaved clean. He showed some embarrassment as he came forward to meet Mrs. Dinneford.
“Mr. Feeling,” she said, coldly.
The man bowed with a mixture of obsequiousness and familiarity, and tried to look steadily into Mrs. Dinneford’s face, but was not able to do so. There was a steadiness and power in her eyes that his could not bear.
“What do you want with me, sir?” she demanded, a little sharply.
“Take a chair, and I will tell you,” replied Freeling, and he turned, moving toward a corner of the room, she following. They sat down, taking chairs near each other.
“There’s trouble brewing,” said the man, his face growing dark and anxious.
“What kind of trouble?”
“I had a letter from George Granger yesterday.”
“What!” The color went out of the lady’s face.
“A letter from George Granger. He wished to see me.”
“Did you go?”
“Yes.”
“What did he want?”
Freeling took a deep breath, and sighed. His manner was troubled.
“What did he want?” Mrs. Dinneford repeated the question.
“He’s as sane as you or I,” said Freeling.
“Is he? Oh, very well! Then let him go to the State’s prison.” Mrs. Dinneford said this with some bravado in her manner. But the color did not come back to her face.
“He has no idea of that,” was replied.
“What then?” The lady leaned toward Freeling. Her hands moved nervously.
“He means to have the case in court again, but on a new issue.”
“He does!”
“Yes; says that he’s innocent, and that you and I know it—that he’s the victim of a conspiracy, and that we are the conspirators!”
“Talk!—amounts to nothing,” returned Mrs. Dinneford, with a faint little laugh.
“I don’t know about that. It’s ugly talk, and especially so, seeing that it’s true.”
“No one will give credence to the ravings of an insane criminal.”
“People are quick to credit an evil report. They will pity and believe him, now that the worst is reached. A reaction in public feeling has already taken place. He has one or two friends left who do not hesitate to affirm that there has been foul play. One of these has been tampering with a clerk of mine, and I came upon them with their heads together on the street a few days ago, and had my suspicions aroused by their startled look when they saw me.”
“‘What did that man want with you?’ I inquired, when the clerk came in.
“He hesitated a moment, and then replied, ‘He was asking me something about Mr. Granger.’
“‘What about him?’ I queried. ‘He asked me if I knew anything in regard to the forgery,’ he returned.
“I pressed him with questions, and found that suspicion was on the right track. This friend of Granger’s asked particularly about your visits to the store, and whether he had ever noticed anything peculiar in our intercourse—anything that showed a familiarity beyond what would naturally arise between a customer and salesman.”
“There’s nothing in that,” said Mrs. Dinneford. “If you and I keep our own counsel, we are safe. The testimony of a condemned criminal goes for nothing. People may surmise and talk as much as they please, but no one knows anything about those notes but you and I and George.”
“A pardon from the governor may put a new aspect on the case.”
“A pardon!” There was a tremor of alarm in Mrs. Dinneford’s voice.
“Yes; that, no doubt, will be the first move.”
“The first move! Why, Mr. Freeling, you don’t think anything like this is in contemplation?”
“I’m afraid so. George, as I have said, is no more crazy than you or I. But he cannot come out of the asylum, as the case now stands, without going to the penitentiary. So the first move of his friends will be to get a pardon. Then he is our equal in the eyes of the law. It would be an ugly thing for you and me to be sued for a conspiracy to ruin this young man, and have the charge of forgery added to the count.”
Mrs. Dinneford gave a low cry, and shivered.
“But it may come to that.”
“Impossible!”
“The prudent man foreseeth the evil and hideth himself, but the simple pass on and are punished,” said Freeling. “It is for this that I have sent for you. It’s an ugly business, and I was a weak fool ever to have engaged in it.”
“You were a free agent.”
“I was a weak fool.”
“As you please,” returned Mrs. Dinneford, coldly, and drawing herself away from him.
It was some moments before either of them spoke again. Then Freeling said,
“I was awake all night, thinking over this matter, and it looks uglier the more I think of it. It isn’t likely that enough evidence could be found to convict either of us, but to be tried on such an accusation would be horrible.”
“Horrible! horrible!” ejaculated Mrs. Dinneford. “What is to be done?” She gave signs of weakness and terror. Freeling observed her closely, then felt his way onward.
“We are in great peril,” he said. “There is no knowing what turn affairs will take. I only wish I were a thousand miles from here. It would be safer for us both.” Then, after a pause, he added, “If I were foot-free, I would be off to-morrow.”
He watched Mrs. Dinneford closely, and saw a change creep over her face.
“If I were to disappear suddenly,” he resumed, “suspicion, if it took a definite shape, would fall on me. You would not be thought of in the matter.”
He paused again, observing his companion keenly but stealthily. He was not able to look her fully in the face.
“Speak out plainly,” said Mrs. Dinneford, with visible impatience.
“Plainly, then, madam,” returned Freeling, changing his whole bearing toward her, and speaking as one who felt that he was master of the situation, “it has come to this: I shall have to break up and leave the city, or there will be a new trial in which you and I will be the accused. Now, self-preservation is the first law of nature. I don’t mean to go to the State’s prison if I can help it. What I am now debating are the chances in my favor if Granger gets a pardon, and then makes an effort to drive us to the wall, which he most surely will. I have settled it so far—”
Mrs. Dinneford leaned toward him with an anxious expression on her countenance, waiting for the next sentence. But Freeling did not go on.
“How have you settled it?” she demanded, trembling as she spoke with the excitement of suspense.
“That I am not going to the wall if I can help it.”
“How will you help it?”
“I have an accomplice;” and this time he was able to look at Mrs. Dinneford with such a fixed and threatening gaze that her eyes fell.
“You have?” she questioned, in a husky voice.
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“Mrs. Helen Dinneford. And do you think for a moment that to save myself I would hesitate to sacrifice her?”
The lady’s face grew white. She tried to speak, but could not.
“I am talking plainly, as you desired, madam,” continued Freeling. “You led me into this thing. It was no scheme of mine; and if more evil consequences are to come, I shall do my best to save my own head. Let the hurt go to where it rightfully belongs.”
“What do you mean?” Mrs. Dinneford tried to rally herself.
“Just this,” was answered: “if I am dragged into court, I mean to go in as a witness, and not as a criminal. At the first movement toward an indictment, I shall see the district attorney, whom I know very well, and give him such information in the case as will lead to fixing the crime on you alone, while I will come in as the principal witness. This will make your conviction certain.”
“Devil!” exclaimed Mrs. Dinneford, her white face convulsed and her eyes starting from their sockets with rage and fear. “Devil!” she repeated, not able to control her passion.
“Then you know me,” was answered, with cool self-possession, “and what you have to expect.”
Neither spoke for a considerable time. Up to this period they had been alone in the parlor. Guests of the house now came in and took seats near them. They arose and walked the floor for a little while, still in silence, then passed into an adjoining parlor that happened to be empty, and resumed the conference.
“This is a last resort,” remarked Freeling, softening his voice as they sat down—“a card that I do not wish to play, and shall not if I can help it. But it is best that you should know that it is in my hand. If there is any better way of escape, I shall take it.”
“You spoke of going away,” said Mrs. Dinneford.
“Yes. But that involves a great deal.”
“What?”
“The breaking up of my business, and loss of money and opportunities that I can hardly hope ever to regain.”
“Why loss of money?”
“I shall have to wind up hurriedly, and it will be impossible to collect more than a small part of my outstanding claims. I shall have to go away under a cloud, and it will not be prudent to return. Most of these claims will therefore become losses. The amount of capital I shall be able to take will not be sufficient to do more than provide for a small beginning in some distant place and under an assumed name. On the other hand, if I remain and fight the thing through, as I have no doubt I can, I shall keep my business and my place in society here—hurt, it may be, in my good name, but still with the main chance all right. But it will be hard for you. If I pass the ordeal safely, you will not. And the question to consider is whether you can make it to my interest to go away, to drop out of sight, injured in fortune and good name, while you go unscathed. You now have it all in a nutshell. I will not press you to a decision to-day. Your mind is too much disturbed. To-morrow, at noon, I would like to see you again.”
Freeling made a motion to rise, but Mrs. Dinneford did not stir.
“Perhaps,” he said, “you decide at once to let things take their course. Understand me, I am ready for either alternative. The election is with yourself.”
Mrs. Dinneford was too much stunned by all this to be able to come to any conclusion. She seemed in the maze of a terrible dream, full of appalling reality. To wait for twenty-four hours in this state of uncertainty was more than her thoughts could endure. And yet she must have time to think, and to get command of her mental resources.
“Will you be disengaged at five o’clock?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“I will be here at five.”
“Very well.”
Mrs. Dinneford arose with a weary air.
“I shall want to hear from you very explicitly,” she said. “If your demand is anywhere in the range of reason and possibility, I may meet it. If outside of that range, I shall of course reject it. It is possible that you may not hold all the winning cards—in fact, I know that you do not.”
“I will be here at five,” said Freeling.
“Very well. I shall be on time.”
And they turned from each other, passing from the parlor by separate doors.
CHAPTER XII
ONE morning, about two weeks later, Mr. Freeling did not make his appearance at his place of business as usual. At ten o’clock a clerk went to the hotel where he boarded to learn the cause of his absence. He had not been there since the night before. His trunks and clothing were all in their places, and nothing in the room indicated anything more than an ordinary absence.
Twelve o’clock, and still Mr. Freeling had not come to the store. Two or three notes were to be paid that day, and the managing-clerk began to feel uneasy. The bank and check books were in a private drawer in the fireproof of which Mr. Freeling had the key. So there was no means of ascertaining the balances in bank.
At one o’clock it was thought best to break open the private drawer and see how matters stood. Freeling kept three bank-accounts, and it was found that on the day before he had so nearly checked out all the balances that the aggregate on deposit was not over twenty dollars. In looking back over these bank-accounts, it was seen that within a week he had made deposits of over fifty thousand dollars, and that most of the checks drawn against these deposits were in sums of five thousand dollars each.
At three o’clock he was still absent. His notes went to protest, and on the next day his city creditors took possession of his effects. One fact soon became apparent—he had been paying the rogue’s game on a pretty liberal scale, having borrowed on his checks, from business friends and brokers, not less than sixty or seventy thousand dollars. It was estimated, on a thorough examination of his business, that he had gone off with at least a hundred thousand dollars. To this amount Mrs. Dinneford had contributed from her private fortune the sum of twenty thousand dollars. Not until she had furnished him with that large amount would he consent to leave the city. He magnified her danger, and so overcame her with terrors that she yielded to his exorbitant demand.
On the day a public newspaper announcement of Freeling’s rascality was made, Mrs. Dinneford went to bed sick of a nervous fever, and was for a short period out of her mind.
Neither Mr. Dinneford nor Edith had failed to notice a change in Mrs. Dinneford. She was not able to hide her troubled feelings. Edith was watching her far more closely than she imagined; and now that she was temporarily out of her mind, she did not let a word or look escape her. The first aspect of her temporary aberration was that of fear and deprecation. She was pursued by some one who filled her with terror, and she would lift her hands to keep him off, or hide her head in abject alarm. Then she would beg him to keep away. Once she said,
“It’s no use; I can’t do anything more. You’re a vampire!”
“Who is a vampire?” asked Edith, hoping that her mother would repeat some name.
But the question seemed to put her on her guard. The expression of fear went out of her face, and she looked at her daughter curiously.
Edith did not repeat the question. In a little while the mother’s wandering thoughts began to find words again, and she went on talking in broken sentences out of which little could be gleaned. At length she said, turning to Edith and speaking with the directness of one in her right mind,
“I told you her name was Gray, didn’t I? Gray, not Bray.”
It was only by a quick and strong effort that Edith could steady her voice as she replied:
“Yes; you said it was Gray.”
“Gray, not Bray. You thought it was Bray.”
“But it’s Gray,” said Edith, falling in with her mother’s humor. Then she added, still trying to keep her voice even,
“She was my nurse when baby was born.”
“Yes; she was the nurse, but she didn’t—”
Checking herself, Mrs. Dinneford rose on one arm and looked at Edith in a frightened way, then said, hurriedly,
“Oh, it’s dead, it’s dead! You know that; and the woman’s dead, too.”
Edith sat motionless and silent as a statue, waiting for what more might come. But her mother shut her lips tightly, and turned her head away.
A long time elapsed before she was able to read in her mother’s confused utterances anything to which she could attach a meaning. At last Mrs. Dinneford spoke out again, and with an abruptness that startled her:
“Not another dollar, sir! Remember, you don’t hold all the winning cards!”
Edith held her breath, and sat motionless. Her mother muttered and mumbled incoherently for a while, and then said, sharply,
“I said I would ruin him, and I’ve done it!”
“Ruin who?” asked Edith, in a repressed voice.
This question, instead of eliciting an answer, as Edith had hoped, brought her mother back to semi-consciousness. She rose again in bed, and looked at her daughter in the same frightened way she had done a little while before, then laid herself over on the pillows again. Her lips were tightly shut.
Edith was almost wild with suspense. The clue to that sad and painful mystery which was absorbing her life seemed almost in her grasp. A word from those closely-shut lips, and she would have certainty for uncertainty. But she waited and waited until she grew faint, and still the lips kept silent.
But after a while Mrs. Dinneford grew uneasy, and began talking. She moved her head from side to side, threw her arms about restlessly and appeared greatly disturbed.
“Not dead, Mrs. Bray?” she cried out, at last, in a clear, strong voice.
Edith became fixed as a statue once more.
A few moments, and Mrs. Dinneford added,
“No, no! I won’t have her coming after me. More money! You’re a vampire!”
Then she muttered, and writhed and distorted her face like one in some desperate struggle. Edith shuddered as she stood over her.
After this wild paroxysm Mrs. Dinneford grew more quiet, and seemed to sleep. Edith remained sitting by the bedside, her thoughts intent on the strange sentences that had fallen from her Mother’s lips. What mystery lay behind them? Of what secret were they an obscure revelation? “Not dead!” Who not dead? And again, “It’s dead! You know that; and the woman’s dead, too.” Then it was plain that she had heard aright the name of the person who had called on her mother, and about whom her mother had made a mystery. It was Bray; if not, why the anxiety to make her believe it Gray? And this woman had been her nurse. It was plain, also, that money was being paid for keeping secret. What secret? Then a life had been ruined. “I said I would ruin him, and I’ve done it!” Who? who could her mother mean but the unhappy man she had once called husband, now a criminal in the eyes of the law, and only saved by insanity from a criminal’s cell?
Putting all together, Edith’s mind quickly wrought out a theory, and this soon settled into a conviction—a conviction so close to fact that all the chief elements were true.
During her mother’s temporary aberration, Edith never left her room except for a few minutes at a time. Not a word or sentence escaped her notice. But she waited and listened in vain for anything more. The talking paroxysm was over. A stupor of mind and body followed. Out of this a slow recovery came, but it did not progress to a full convalescence. Mrs. Dinneford went forth from her sick-chamber weak and nervous, starting at sudden noises, and betraying a perpetual uneasiness and suspense. Edith was continually on the alert, watching every look and word and act with untiring scrutiny. Mrs. Dinneford soon became aware of this. Guilt made her wary, and danger inspired prudence. Edith’s whole manner had changed. Why? was her natural query. Had she been wandering in her mind? Had she given any clue to the dark secrets she was hiding? Keen observation became mutual. Mother and daughter watched each other with a suspicion that never slept.
It was over a month from the time Freeling disappeared before Mrs. Dinneford was strong enough to go out, except in her carriage. In every case where she had ridden out, Edith had gone with her.
“If you don’t care about riding, it’s no matter,” the mother would say, when she saw Edith getting ready. “I can go alone. I feel quite well and strong.”
But Edith always had some reason for going against which her mother could urge no objections. So she kept her as closely under observation as possible. One day, on returning from a ride, as the carriage passed into the block where they lived, she saw a woman standing on the step in front of their residence. She had pulled the bell, and was waiting for a servant to answer it.
“There is some one at our door,” said Edith.
Mrs. Dinneford leaned across her daughter, and then drew back quickly, saying,
“It’s Mrs. Barker. Tell Henry to drive past. I don’t want to see visitors, and particularly not Mrs. Barker.”
She spoke hurriedly, and with ill-concealed agitation. Edith kept her eyes on the woman, and saw her go in, but did not tell the driver to keep on past the house. It was not Mrs. Barker. She knew that very well. In the next moment their carriage drew up at the door.
“Go on, Henry!” cried Mrs. Dinneford, leaning past her daughter, and speaking through the window that was open on that side. “Drive down to Loring’s.”
“Not till I get out, Henry,” said Edith, pushing open the door and stepping to the pavement. Then with a quick movement she shut the door and ran across the pavement, calling back to the driver as she did so,
“Take mother to Loring’s.”
“Stop, Henry!” cried Mrs. Dinneford, and with an alertness that was surprising sprung from the carriage, and was on the steps of their house before Edith’s violent ring had brought a servant to the door. They passed in, Edith holding her place just in advance.
“I will see Mrs. Barker,” said Mrs. Dinneford, trying to keep out of her voice the fear and agitation from which she was suffering. “You can go up to your room.”
“It isn’t Mrs. Barker. You are mistaken.” There was as much of betrayal in the voice of Edith as in that of her mother. Each was trying to hide herself from the other, but the veil in both cases was far too thin for deception.
Mother and daughter entered the parlor together. As they did so a woman of small stature, and wearing a rusty black dress, arose from a seat near the window. The moment she saw Edith she drew a heavy dark veil over her face with a quickness of movement that had in it as much of discomfiture as surprise.
Mrs. Dinneford was equal to the occasion. The imminent peril in which she stood calmed the wild tumult within, as the strong wind calms this turbulent ocean, and gave her thoughts clearness and her mind decision. Edith saw before the veil fell a startled face, and recognized the sallow countenance and black, evil eyes, the woman who had once before called to see her mother.
“Didn’t I tell you not to come here, Mrs. Gray?” cried out Mrs. Dinneford, with an anger that was more real than feigned, advancing quickly upon the woman as she spoke. “Go!” and she pointed to the door, “and don’t you dare to come here again. I told you when you were here last time that I wouldn’t be bothered with you any longer. I’ve done all I ever intend doing. So take yourself away.”
And she pointed again to the door. Mrs. Bray—for it was that personage—comprehended the situation fully. She was as good an actor as Mrs. Dinneford, and quite as equal to the occasion. Lifting her hand in a weak, deprecating way, and then shrinking like one borne down by the shock of a great disappointment, she moved back from the excited woman and made her way to the hall, Mrs. Dinneford following and assailing her in passionate language.
Edith was thrown completely off her guard by this unexpected scene. She did not stir from the spot where she stood on entering the parlor until the visitor was at the street door, whither her mother had followed the retreating figure. She did not hear the woman say in the tone of one who spoke more in command than entreaty,
“To-morrow at one o’clock, or take the consequences.”
“It will be impossible to-morrow,” Mrs. Dinneford whispered back, hurriedly; “I have been very ill, and have only just begun to ride out. It may be a week, but I’ll surely come. I’m watched. Go now! go! go!”
And she pushed Mrs. Bray out into the vestibule and shut the door after her. Mrs. Dinneford did not return to the parlor, but went hastily up to her own room, locking herself in.
She did not come out until dinner-time, when she made an effort to seem composed, but Edith saw her hand tremble every time it was lifted. She drank three glasses of wine during the meal. After dinner she went to her own apartment immediately, and did not come down again that day.
On the next morning Mrs. Dinneford tried to appear cheerful and indifferent. But her almost colorless face, pinched about the lips and nostrils, and the troubled expression that would not go out of her eyes, betrayed to Edith the intense anxiety and dread that lay beneath the surface.
Days went by, but Edith had no more signs. Now that her mother was steadily getting back both bodily strength and mental self-poise, the veil behind which she was hiding herself, and which had been broken into rifts here and there during her sickness, grew thicker and thicker. Mrs. Dinneford had too much at stake not to play her cards with exceeding care. She knew that Edith was watching her with an intentness that let nothing escape. Her first care, as soon as she grew strong enough to have the mastery over herself, was so to control voice, manner and expression of countenance as not to appear aware of this surveillance. Her next was to re-establish the old distance between herself and daughter, which her illness had temporarily bridged over, and her next was to provide against any more visits from Mrs. Bray.