Cast Adrift | Page 4

to come again

CHAPTER XXV.
Granger's pardon procured--How he receives his pardon--Mrs. Bray

tries to trace Pinky home--Loses sight of her in the street--Mrs. Bray
interviews a shop-woman--Pinky's destination--The child is gone

CHAPTER XXVI.
Mrs. Bray does not call on Mr. Dinneford, as she promised--Peril to
Andrew Hall through loss of the child--Help--Edith longs to see or
write to Granger, but does not--Edith encounters Mrs. Bray in the
street--"Where is my baby?"--Disappointment--How to identify the
child if found

CHAPTER XXVII.
No trace of Andy--Account of Andy's abduction--Andy's prison--An
outlook from prison--A loose nail--The escape--The sprained
ankle--The accident

CHAPTER XXVIII.
Edith's visit to the children's hospital--"Oh, my baby! thank God! my
baby!"--The identification

CHAPTER XXIX.
Meeting of Mr. Dinneford and George Granger--"We want you to help
us find your child"--"Edith's heart is calling out for you"--The
meeting--The marriage benediction

CAST ADRIFT.

CHAPTER I.

A BABY had come, but he was not welcome. Could anything be sadder?
The young mother lay with her white face to the wall, still as death. A
woman opened the chamber door noiselessly and came in, the faint

rustle of her garments disturbing the quiet air.
A quick, eager turning of the head, a look half anxious, half fearful, and
then the almost breathless question,
"Where is my baby?"
"Never mind about the baby," was answered, almost coldly; "he's well
enough. I'm more concerned about you."
"Have you sent word to George?"
"George can't see you. I've said that before."
"Oh, mother! I must see my husband."
"Husband!" The tone of bitter contempt with which the word was
uttered struck the daughter like a blow. She had partly risen in her
excitement, but now fell back with a low moan, shutting her eyes and
turning her face away. Even as she did so, a young man stepped back
from the door of the elegant house in which she lay with a baffled,
disappointed air. He looked pale and wretched.
"Edith!" Two hours afterward the doctor stood over the young mother,
and called her name. She did not move nor reply. He laid his hand on
her cheek, and almost started, then bent down and looked at her intently
for a moment or two. She had fever. A serious expression came into his
face, and there was cause.
The sweet rest and heavenly joy of maternity had been denied to his
young patient. The new-born babe had not been suffered to lie even for
one blissful moment on her bosom. Hard-hearted family pride and cruel
worldliness had robbed her of the delight with which God ever seeks to
dower young motherhood, and now the overtaxed body and brain had
given way.
For many weeks the frail young creature struggled with
delirium--struggled and overcame.
"Where is my baby?"
The first thought of returning consciousness was of her baby.
A woman who sat in a distant part of the chamber started up and
crossed to the bed. She was past middle life, of medium stature, with
small, clearly cut features and cold blue eyes. Her mouth was full, but
very firm. Self-poise was visible even in her surprised movements. She
bent over the bed and looked into Edith's wistful eyes.
"Where is my baby, mother?" Mrs. Dinneford put her fingers lightly on
Edith's lips.

"You must be very quiet," she said, in a low, even voice. "The doctor
forbids all excitement. You have been extremely ill."
"Can't I see my baby, mother? It won't hurt me to see my baby."
"Not now. The doctor--"
Edith half arose in bed, a look of doubt and fear coming into her face.
"I want my baby, mother," she said, interrupting her.
A hard, resolute expression came into the cold blue eyes of Mrs.
Dinneford. She put her hand firmly against Edith and pressed her back
upon the pillow.
"You have been very ill for nearly two months," she said, softening her
voice. "No one thought you could live. Thank God! the crisis is over,
but not the danger."
"Two months! Oh, mother!"
The slight flush that had come into Edith's wan face faded out, and the
pallor it had hidden for a few moments became deeper. She shut her
eyes and lay very still, but it was plain from the expression of her face
that thought was busy.
"Not two whole months, mother?" she said, at length, in doubtful tones.
"Oh no! it cannot be."
"It is just as I have said, Edith; and now, my dear child, as you value
your life, keep quiet; all excitement is dangerous."
But repression was impossible. To Edith's consciousness there was no
lapse of time. It seemed scarcely an hour since the birth of her baby and
its removal from her sight. The inflowing tide of mother-love, the
pressure and yearning