Cast Adrift

“You kept me here a long time,” said Mrs. Dinneford, with ill-concealed impatience.

“No longer than I could help,” replied Mrs. Bray. “Affairs of this kind are not settled in a minute.”

“Then it was that miserable woman?”

“Yes.”

“Well, what did you make out of her?”

“Not much; she’s too greedy. The taste of blood has sharpened her appetite.”

“What does she want?”

“She wants two hundred dollars paid into her hand to-day, and says that if the money isn’t here by sundown, you’ll have a visit from her in less than an hour afterward.”

“Will that be the end of it?”

A sinister smile curved Mrs. Bray’s lips slightly.

“More than I can say,” she answered.

“Two hundred dollars?”

“Yes. She put the amount higher, but I told her she’d better not go for too big a slice or she might get nothing—that there was such a thing as setting the police after her. She laughed at this in such a wicked, sneering way that I felt my flesh creep, and said she knew the police, and some of their masters, too, and wasn’t afraid of them. She’s a dreadful woman;” and Mrs. Bray shivered in a very natural manner.

“If I thought this would be the last of it!” said Mrs. Dinneford as she moved about the room in a disturbed way, and with an anxious look on her face.

“Perhaps,” suggested her companion, “it would be best for you to grapple with this thing at the outset—to take our vampire by the throat and strangle her at once. The knife is the only remedy for some forms of disease. If left to grow and prey upon the body, they gradually suck away its life and destroy it in the end.”

“If I only knew how to do it,” replied Mrs. Dinneford. “If I could only get her in my power, I’d make short works of her.” Her eyes flashed with a cruel light.

“It might be done.”

“How?”

“Mr. Dinneford knows the chief of police.”

The light went out of Mrs. Dinneford’s eyes:

“It can’t be done in that way, and you know it as well as I do.”

Mrs. Dinneford turned upon Mrs. Bray sharply, and with a gleam of suspicion in her face.

“I don’t know any other way, unless you go to the chief yourself,” replied Mrs. Bray, coolly. “There is no protection in cases like this except through the law. Without police interference, you are wholly in this woman’s power.”

Mrs. Dinneford grew very pale.

“It is always dangerous,” went on Mrs. Bray, “to have anything to do with people of this class. A woman who for hire will take a new-born baby and sell it to a beggar-woman will not stop at anything. It is very unfortunate that you are mixed up with her.”

“I’m indebted to you for the trouble,” replied. Mrs. Dinneford, with considerable asperity of manner. “You ought to have known something about the woman before employing her in a delicate affair of this kind.”

“Saints don’t hire themselves to put away new-born babies,” retorted Mrs. Bray, with an ugly gurgle in her throat. “I told you at the time that she was a bad woman, and have not forgotten your answer.”

“What did I answer?”

“That she might be the devil for all you cared!”

“You are mistaken.”

“No; I repeat your very words. They surprised and shocked me at the time, and I have not forgotten them. People who deal with the devil usually have the devil to pay; and your case, it seems, is not to be an exception.”

Mrs. Bray had assumed an air of entire equality with her visitor.

A long silence followed, during which Mrs. Dinneford walked the floor with the quick, restless motions of a caged animal.

“How long do you think two hundred dollars will satisfy her?” she asked, at length, pausing and turning to her companion.

“It is impossible for me to say,” was answered; “not long, unless you can manage to frighten her off; you must threaten hard.”

Another silence followed.

“I did not expect to be called on for so large a sum,” Mrs. Dinneford said at length, in a husky voice, taking out her pocket-book as she spoke. “I have only a hundred dollars with me. Give her that, and put her off until to-morrow.”

“I will do the best I can with her,” replied Mrs. Bray, reaching out her hand for the money, “but I think it will be safer for you to let me have the balance to-day. She will, most likely, take it into her head that I have received the whole sum from you, and think I am trying to cheat her. In that case she will be as good as her word, and come down on you.”

“Mrs. Bray!” exclaimed Mrs. Dinneford, suspicion blazing from her eyes. “Mrs. Bray!”—and she turned upon her and caught her by the arms with a fierce grip—“as I live, you are deceiving me. There is no woman but yourself. You are the vampire!”

She held the unresisting little woman in her vigorous grasp for some moments, gazing at her in stern and angry accusation.

Mrs. Bray stood very quit and with scarcely a change of countenance until this outburst of passion had subsided. She was still holding the money she had taken from Mrs. Dinneford. As the latter released her she extended her hand, saying, in a low resolute voice, in which not the faintest thrill of anger could be detected,

“Take your money.” She waited for a moment, and then let the little roll of bank-bills fall at Mrs. Dinneford’s feet and turned away.

Mrs. Dinneford had made a mistake, and she saw it—saw that she was now more than ever in the power of this woman, whether she was true or false. If false, more fatally in her power.

At this dead-lock in the interview between these women there came a diversion. The sound of feet was heard on the stairs, then a hurrying along the narrow passage; a hand was on the door, but the key had been prudently turned on the inside.

With a quick motion, Mrs. Bray waved her hand toward the adjoining chamber. Mrs. Dinneford did not hesitate, but glided in noiselessly, shutting and locking the door behind her.

“Pinky Swett!” exclaimed Mrs. Bray, in a low voice, putting her finger to her lips, as she admitted her visitor, at the same time giving a warning glance toward the other room. Eyeing her from head to foot, she added, “Well, you are an object!”

Pinky had drawn aside a close veil, exhibiting a bruised and swollen face. A dark band lay under one of her eyes, and there was a cut with red, angry margins on the cheek.

“You are an object,” repeated Mrs. Bray as Pinky moved forward into the room.

“Well, I am, and no mistake,” answered Pinky, with a light laugh. She had been drinking enough to overcome the depression and discomfort of her feelings consequent on the hard usage she had received and a night in one of the city station-houses. “Who’s in there?”

Mrs. Bray’s finger went again to her lips. “No matter,” was replied. “You must go away until the coast is clear. Come back in half an hour.”

And she hurried Pinky out of the door, locking it as the girl retired. When Mrs. Dinneford came out of the room into which he had gone so hastily, the roll of bank-notes still lay upon the floor. Mrs. Bray had prudently slipped them into her pocket before admitting Pinky, but as soon as she was alone had thrown them down again.

The face of Mrs. Dinneford was pale, and exhibited no ordinary signs of discomfiture and anxiety.

“Who was that?” she asked.

“A friend,” replied Mrs. Bray, in a cold, self-possessed manner.

A few moments of embarrassed silence followed. Mrs. Bray crossed the room, touching with her foot the bank-bills, as if they were of no account to her.

“I am half beside myself,” said Mrs. Dinneford.

Mrs. Bray made no response, did not even turn toward her visitor.

“I spoke hastily.”

“A vampire!” Mrs. Bray swept round upon her fiercely. “A blood-sucker!” and she ground her teeth in well-feigned passion.

Mrs. Dinneford sat down trembling.

“Take your money and go,” said Mrs. Bray, and she lifted the bills from the floor and tossed them into her visitor’s lap. “I am served right. It was evil work, and good never comes of evil.”

But Mrs. Dinneford did not stir. To go away at enmity with this woman was, so far as she could see, to meet exposure and unutterable disgrace. Anything but that.

“I shall leave this money, trusting still to your good offices,” she said, at length, rising. Her manner was much subdued. “I spoke hastily, in a sort of blind desperation. We should not weigh too carefully the words that are extorted by pain or fear. In less than an hour I will send you a hundred dollars more.”

Mrs. Dinneford laid the bank-bills on a table, and then moved to the door, but she dared not leave in this uncertainty. Looking back, she said, with an appealing humility of voice and manner foreign to her character,

“Let us be friends still, Mrs. Bray; we shall gain nothing by being enemies. I can serve you, and you can serve me. My suspicions were ill founded. I felt wild and desperate, and hardly knew what I was saying.”

She stood anxiously regarding the little dark-eyed woman, who did not respond by word or movement.

Taking her hand from the door she was about opening, Mrs. Dinneford came back into the room, and stood close to Mrs. Bray:

“Shall I send you the money?”

“You can do as you please,” was replied, with chilling indifference.

“Are you implacable?”

“I am not used to suspicion, much less denunciation and assault. A vampire! Do you know what that means?”

“It meant, as used by me, only madness. I did not know what I was saying. It was a cry of pain—nothing more. Consider how I stand, how much I have at stake, in what a wretched affair I have become involved. It is all new to me, and I am bewildered and at fault. Do not desert me in this crisis. I must have some one to stand between me and this woman; and if you step aside, to whom can I go?”

Mrs. Bray relented just a little. Mrs. Dinneford pleaded and humiliated herself, and drifted farther into the toils of her confederate.

“You are not rich, Mrs. Bray,” she said, at parting, “independent in spirit as you are. I shall add a hundred dollars for your own use; and if ever you stand in need, you will know where to find an unfailing friend.”

Mrs. Bray put up her hands, and replied, “No, no, no; don’t think of such a thing. I am not mercenary. I never serve a friend for money.”

But Mrs. Dinneford heard the “yes” which flushed into the voice that said “no.” She was not deceived.

A rapid change passed over Mrs. Bray on the instant her visitor left the room. Her first act was to lock the door; her next, to take the roll of bank-bills from the table and put it into her pocket. Over her face a gleam of evil satisfaction had swept.

“Got you all right now, my lady!” fell with a chuckle from her lips. “A vampire, ha!” The chuckle was changed for a kind of hiss. “Well, have it so. There is rich blood in your veins, and it will be no fault of mine if I do not fatten upon it. As for pity, you shall have as much of it as you gave to that helpless baby. Saints don’t work in this kind of business, and I’m not a saint.”

And she chuckled and hissed and muttered to herself, with many signs of evil satisfaction.

CHAPTER VIII

FOR an hour Mrs. Bray waited the reappearance of Pinky Swett, but the girl did not come back. At the end of this time a package which had been left at the door was brought to her room. It came from Mrs. Dinneford, and contained two hundred dollars. A note that accompanied the package read as follows:

“Forgive my little fault of temper. It is your interest to be my friend. The woman must not, on any account, be suffered to come near me.”

Of course there was no signature. Mrs. Bray’s countenance was radiant as she fingered the money.

“Good luck for me, but bad for the baby,” she said, in a low, pleased murmur, talking to herself. “Poor baby! I must see better to its comfort. It deserves to be looked after. I wonder why Pinky doesn’t come?”

Mrs. Bray listened, but no sound of feet from the stairs or entries, no opening or shutting of doors, broke the silence that reigned through the house.

“Pinky’s getting too low down—drinks too much; can’t count on her any more.” Mrs. Bray went on talking to herself. “No rest; no quiet; never satisfied; for ever knocking round, and for ever getting the worst of it. She was a real nice girl once, and I always liked her. But she doesn’t take any care of herself.”

As Pinky went out, an hour before, she met a fresh-looking girl, not over seventeen, and evidently from the country. She was standing on the pavement, not far from the house in which Mrs. Bray lived, and had a traveling-bag in her hand. Her perplexed face and uncertain manner attracted Pinky’s attention.

“Are you looking for anybody?” she asked.

“I’m trying to find a Mrs. Bray,” the girl answered. “I’m a stranger from the country.”

“Oh, you are?” said Pinky, drawing her veil more tightly so that her disfigured face could not be seen.

“Yes I’m from L–.”

“Indeed? I used to know some people there.”

“Then you’ve been in L–?” said the girl, with a pleased, trustful manner, as of one who had met a friend at the right time.

“Yes, I’ve visited there.”

“Indeed? Who did you know in L–?”

“Are you acquainted with the Cartwrights?”

“I know of them. They are among our first people,” returned the girl.

“I spent a week in their family a few years ago, and had a very pleasant time,” said Pinky.

“Oh, I’m glad to know that,” remarked the girl. “I’m a stranger here; and if I can’t find Mrs. Bray, I don’t see what I am to do. A lady from here who was staying at the hotel gave me at letter to Mrs. Bray. I was living at the hotel, but I didn’t like it; it was too public. I told the lady that I wanted to learn a trade or get into a store, and she said the city was just the place for me, and that she would give me a letter to a particular friend, who would, on her recommendation, interest he self for me. It’s somewhere along here that she lived, I’m sure;” and she took a letter from her pocket and examined the direction.

The girl was fresh and young and pretty, and had an artless, confiding manner. It was plain she knew little of the world, and nothing of its evils and dangers.

“Let me see;” and Pinky reached out her hand for the letter. She put it under her veil, and read,

“MRS. FANNY BRAY, “No. 631–street, “–

“By the hand of Miss Flora Bond.”

“Flora Bond,” said Pinky, in a kind, familiar tone.

“Yes, that is my name,” replied the girl; “isn’t this–street?”

“Yes; and there, is the number you are looking for.”

“Oh, thank you! I’m so glad to find the place. I was beginning to feel scared.”

“I will ring the bell for you,” said Pinky, going to the door of No. 631. A servant answered the summons.

“Is Mrs. Bray at home?” inquired Pinky.

“I don’t know,” replied the servant, looking annoyed. “Her rooms are in the third story;” and she held the door wide open for them to enter. As they passed into the hall Pinky said to her companion,

“Just wait here a moment, and I will run up stairs and see if she is in.”

The girl stood in the hall until Pinky came back.

“Not at home, I’m sorry to say.”

“Oh dear! that’s bad; what shall I do?” and the girl looked distressed.

“She’ll be back soon, no doubt,” said Pinky, in a light, assuring voice. “I’ll go around with you a little and see things.”

The girl looked down at her traveling-bag.

“Oh, that’s nothing; I’ll help you to carry it;” and Pinky took it from her hand.

“Couldn’t we leave it here?” asked Flora.

“It might not be safe; servants are not always to be trusted, and Mrs. Bray’s rooms are locked; we can easily carry it between us. I’m strong—got good country blood in my veins. You see I’m from the country as well as you; right glad we met. Don’t know what you would have done.”

And she drew the girl out, talking familiarly, as they went.

“Haven’t had your dinner yet?”

“No; just arrived in the cars, and came right here.”

“You must have something to eat, then. I know a nice place; often get dinner there when I’m out.”

The girl did not feel wholly at ease. She had not yet been able to get sight of Pinky’s closely-veiled features, and there was something in her voice that made her feel uncomfortable.

“I don’t care for any dinner,” she said; “I’m not hungry.”

“Well, I am, then, so come. Do you like oysters?”

“Yes.”

“Cook them splendidly. Best place in the city. And you’d like to get into a store or learn a trade?”

“Yes.”

“What trade did you think of?”

“None in particular.”

“How would you like to get into a book-bindery? I know two or three girls in binderies, and they can make from five to ten dollars a week. It’s the nicest, cleanest work I know of.”

“Oh, do you?” returned Flora, with newly-awakening interest.

“Yes; we’ll talk it all over while we’re eating dinner. This way.”

And Pinky turned the corner of a small street that led away from the more crowded thoroughfare along which they had been passing.

“It’s a quiet and retired place, where only the nicest kind of people go,” she added. “Many working-girls and girls in stores get their dinners there. We’ll meet some of them, no doubt; and if any that I know should happen in, we might hear of a good place. Just the thing, isn’t it? I’m right glad I met you.”

They had gone halfway down the square, when Pinky stopped before the shop of a confectioner. In the window was a display of cakes, pies and candies, and a sign with the words, “LADIES’ RESTAURANT.”

“This is the place,” she said, and opening the door, passed in, the young stranger following.

A sign of caution, unseen by Flora, was made to a girl who stood behind the counter. Then Pinky turned, saying,

“How will you have your oysters? stewed, fried, broiled or roasted?”

“I’m not particular—any way,” replied Flora.

“I like them fried. Will you have them the same way?”

Flora nodded assent.

“Let them be fried, then. Come, we’ll go up stairs. Anybody there?”

“Two or three only.”

“Any girls from the bindery?”

“Yes; I think so.”

“Oh. I’m glad of that! Want to see some of them. Come, Miss Bond.”

And Pinky, after a whispered word to the attendant, led the way to a room up stairs in which were a number of small tables. At one of these were two girls eating, at another a girl sitting by herself, and at another a young man and a girl. As Pinky and her companion entered, the inmates of the room stared at them familiarly, and then winked and leered at each other. Flora did not observe this, but she felt a sudden oppression and fear. They sat down at a table not far from one of the windows. Flora looked for the veil to be removed, so that she might see the face of her new friend. But Pinky kept it closely down.

In about ten minutes the oysters were served. Accompanying them were two glasses of some kind of liquor. Floating on one of these was a small bit of cork. Pinky took this and handed the other to her companion, saying,

“Only a weak sangaree. It will refresh you after your fatigue; and I always like something with oysters, it helps to make them lay lighter on the stomach.”

Meantime, one of the girls had crossed over and spoken to Pinky. After word or two, the latter said,

“Don’t you work in a bindery, Miss Peter?”

“Yes,” was answered, without hesitation.

“I thought so. Let me introduce you to my friend, Miss Flora Bond. She’s from the country, and wants to get into some good establishment. She talked about a store, but I think a bindery is better.”

“A great deal better,” was replied by Miss Peter. “I’ve tried them both, and wouldn’t go back to a store again on any account. If I can serve your friend, I shall be most happy.”

“Thank you!” returned Flora; “you are very kind.”

“Not at all; I’m always glad when I can be of service to any one. You think you’d like to go into a bindery?”

“Yes. I’ve come to the city to get employment, and haven’t much choice.”

“There’s no place like the city,” remarked the other. “I’d die in the country—nothing going on. But you won’t stagnate here. When did you arrive?”

“To-day.”

“Have you friends here?”

“No. I brought a letter of introduction to a lady who resides in the city.”

“What’s her name?”

“Mrs. Bray.”

Miss Peter turned her head so that Flora could not see her face. It was plain from its expression that she knew Mrs. Bray.

“Have you seen her yet?” she asked.

“No. She was out when I called. I’m going back in a little while.”

The girl sat down, and went on talking while the others were eating. Pinky had emptied her glass of sangaree before she was half through with her oysters, and kept urging Flora to drink.

“Don’t be afraid of it, dear,” she said, in a kind, persuasive way; “there’s hardly a thimbleful of wine in the whole glass. It will soothe your nerves, and make you feel ever so much better.”

There was something in the taste of the sangaree that Flora did not like—a flavor that was not of wine. But urged repeatedly by her companion, whose empty glass gave her encouragement and confidence, she sipped and drank until she had taken the whole of it. By this time she was beginning to have a sense of fullness and confusion in the head, and to feel oppressed and uncomfortable. Her appetite suddenly left her, and she laid down her knife and fork and leaned her head upon her hand.

“What’s the matter?” asked Pinky.

“Nothing,” answered the girl; “only my head feels a little strangely. It will pass off in a moment.”

“Riding in the cars, maybe,” said Pinky. “I always feel bad after being in the cars; it kind of stirs me up.”

Flora sat very quietly at the table, still resting her head upon her hands. Pinky and the girl who had joined them exchanged looks of intelligence. The former had drawn her veil partly aside, yet concealing as much as possible the bruises on her face.

“My! but you’re battered!” exclaimed Miss Peter, in a whisper that was unheard by Flora.

Pinky only answered by a grimace. Then she said to Flora, with well-affected concern,

“I’m afraid you are ill, dear? How do you feel?”

“I don’t know,” answered the poor girl, in a voice that betrayed great anxiety, if not alarm. “It came over me all at once. I’m afraid that wine was too strong; I am not used to taking anything.”

“Oh dear, no! it wasn’t that. I drank a glass, and don’t feel it any more than if it had been water.”

“Let’s go,” said Flora, starting up. “Mrs. Bray must be home by this time.”

“All right, if you feel well enough,” returned Pinky, rising at the same time.

“Oh dear! how my head swims!” exclaimed Flora, putting both hands to her temples. She stood for a few moments in an uncertain attitude, then reached out in a blind, eager way.

Pinky drew quickly to her side, and put one arm about her waist.

“Come,” she said, “the air is too close for you here;” and with the assistance of the girl who had joined them, she steadied Flora down stairs.

“Doctored a little too high,” whispered Miss Peter, with her mouth close to Pinky’s ear.

“All right,” Pinky whispered back; “they know how to do it.”

At the foot of the stairs Pinky said,

“You take her out through the yard, while I pay for the oysters. I’ll be with you in a moment.”

Poor Flora, was already too much confused by the drugged liquor she had taken to know what they were doing with her.

Hastily paying for the oysters and liquor, Pinky was on hand in a few moments. From the back door of the house they entered a small yard, and passed from this through a gate into a narrow private alley shut in on each side by a high fence. This alley ran for a considerable distance, and had many gates opening into it from yards, hovels and rear buildings, all of the most forlorn and wretched character. It terminated in a small street.

Along this alley Pinky and the girl she had met at the restaurant supported Flora, who was fast losing strength and consciousness. When halfway down, they held a brief consultation.

“It won’t do,” said Pinky, “to take her through to–street. She’s too far gone, and the police will be down on us and carry her off.”

“Norah’s got some place in there,” said the other, pointing to an old wooden building close by.

“I’m out with Norah,” replied Pinky, “and don’t mean to have anything more to do with her.”

“Where’s your room?”

“That isn’t the go. Don’t want her there. Pat Maley’s cellar is just over yonder. We can get in from the alley.”