Cast Adrift. Arthur Timothy Shay

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ /p>

      Cast Adrift

TO THE READER

      IN this romance of real life, in which the truth is stranger than the fiction, I have lifted only in part the veil that hides the victims of intemperance and other terrible vices—after they have fallen to the lower deeps of degradation to be found in our large cities, where the vile and degraded herd together more like wild beasts than men and women—and told the story of sorrow, suffering, crime and debasement as they really exist in Christian America with all the earnestness and power that in me lies.

      Strange and sad and terrible as are some of the scenes from which I hare drawn this veil, I have not told the half of what exists. My book, apart from the thread of fiction that runs through its pages, is but a series of photographs from real life, and is less a work of the imagination than a record of facts.

      If it stirs the hearts of American readers profoundly, and so awakens the people to a sense of their duty; if it helps to inaugurate more earnest and radical modes of reform for a state of society of which a distinguished author has said, “There is not a country throughout the earth on which it would not bring a curse; there is no religion upon the earth that it would not deny; there is no people upon the earth it would not put to shame;”—then will not my work be in vain.

      Sitting in our comfortable homes with well-fed, well-clothed and happy-hearted children about us—children who have our tenderest care, whose cry of pain from a pin-prick or a fall on the carpeted floor hurts us like a blow–how few of us know or care anything about the homes in which some other children dwell, or of the hard and cruel battle for life they are doomed to fight from the very beginning!

      To get out from these comfortable homes and from the midst of tenderly cared-for little ones, and stand face to face with squalor and hunger, with suffering, debasement and crime, to look upon the starved faces of children and hear their helpless cries, is what scarcely one in a thousand will do. It is too much for our sensibilities. And so we stand aloof, and the sorrow, and suffering, the debasement, the wrong and the crime, go on, and because we heed it not we vainly imagine that no responsibility lies at our door; and yet there is no man or woman who is not, according to the measure of his or her influence, responsible for the human debasement and suffering I have portrayed.

      The task I set for myself has not been a pleasant one. It has hurt my sensibilities and sickened my heart many times as I stood face to face with the sad and awful degradation that exists in certain regions of our larger cities; and now that my work is done, I take a deep breath of relief. The result is in your hands, good citizen, Christian reader, earnest philanthropist! If it stirs your heart in the reading as it stirred mine in the writing, it will not die fruitless.

      THE AUTHOR.

      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 sweetness of which she had begun to feel when she first called for the baby they had not permitted to rest, even for an instant, on her bosom, was now flooding her heart. Two months! If that were so, what of the baby? To be submissive was impossible.

      Starting up half wildly, a vague terror in her face, she cried, piteously,

      “Oh, mother, bring me my baby. I shall die if you do not!”

      “Your baby is in heaven,” said Mrs. Dinneford, softening her voice to a tone of tender regret.

      Edith caught her breath, grew very white, and then, with a low, wailing СКАЧАТЬ