MRS. MCGONIGLE’S BABIES
In spite of the fact that aunt Eunice took little notice of her when
she came to the house or when Elizabeth saw her at her cousins’,
Elizabeth’s resentment waned rather than increased, for Miss Darby
was pleased to speak approvingly of Kathie, seemed charmed with Babs,
and behaved very generously and affectionately toward their mother.
More than once, off in a corner, Elizabeth listened to harrowing tales
of orphaned children whom aunt Eunice had befriended and gradually a
certain respect for the nervous, irritable woman was fostered. After
that first day, she never referred to the practical joke, as she had
named it, but she had a way of looking over Elizabeth’s head as if she
did not see her, and of changing the subject whenever anything was
mentioned in which Elizabeth was concerned, so that the child felt
herself still disliked. However, there were yet dear Miss Jewett and
Mr. Kemp who cared much for her, and excepting when Kathie dilated
upon aunt Eunice’s virtues and generosity, Elizabeth thought little
about her. She had invited Kathie to visit her the following winter,
promising a good time in the city where she had her home, and insisting
that her visitor should be at no expense.
“Of course I would love to go,” Elizabeth overheard Kathie saying to
her mother, “for aunt Eunice says I may join any class I choose at her
expense. I could study music, or drawing, or languages, and it would be
a great advantage to me.”
“It is certainly an opportunity for you, dear, and I think you should
take it,” her mother replied.
“But there is the school,” said Kathie, after a short silence. “I am
sure that I can have it if I apply, and then I could pay Elizabeth’s
way at the Academy; she really should go next year. Miss Jewett will
be married in June, and it would be much better that Elizabeth should
change her school.”
“All that is true,” agreed Mrs. Hollins. “Perhaps we can manage,
Kathie, although Dick’s college expenses keep us pretty short. The dear
boy does his best to keep them down, but when all is said they do
mount up. If you go to aunt Eunice you must have a few new things, for
I cannot bear to have you go off with only what you have. You didn’t
get a new suit last winter and must have one this.”
“I think, then, that I shall certainly have to give up the visit,” said
Kathie. “I won’t put you and father to any greater expense, that is
certain.”
“Well,” returned Mrs. Hollins, “winter is a long way off, and who knows
what may happen before then? If only aunt Eunice had taken a fancy to
Elizabeth,” she added, after a pause, “I am sure she would take an
interest in the child’s education.”
“Oh well, we won’t borrow trouble, for, as you say, winter is a long
way off,” Kathie responded.
She walked away humming cheerfully. Elizabeth, curled up in her chair,
sighed. “The old question again,” she said to herself. “I wish I
could do something.” She realized that it was within aunt Eunice’s
power to make things a little easier for her mother and that any help
she might be inclined to give would not be refused, for cousin Belle
and Mrs. Hollins were her nearest of kin, and naturally need have no
compunctions about taking gifts. To be sure, the Gilmores did not
have to be considered, for there was Grandpa Gil always ready to do
for them, but Mr. Hollins had no such person to lighten his family
burdens. He always maintained that he was glad enough that he was
under obligations to no one, that they were happier in their moderate
circumstances than most wealthier persons, yet--Elizabeth sat busily
thinking for some time, then she made a sudden bounce from her chair
and hurried off to Betsy.
She found this young person in her garden, for it was high time to
think of future flowers. Betsy, on her knees, was planting seeds. “Have
you most finished?” asked Elizabeth.
“Yes, I have only the rest of this paper to put in. These are all
zinnias in this bed. They make such a show and don’t require any
attention. Have you made a garden yet, Elizabeth?”
“A sort of one, but I have weightier subjects to consider than gardens
just now.”
Betsy got up, brushed the earth from her hands, and picked up her
trowel. “What?” she asked concisely.
But Elizabeth’s thoughts had flown ahead of her remark. “Which would
you rather, that aunt Eunice liked you or didn’t like you?” she asked.
“Why, I suppose I’d rather she liked me; it isn’t pleasant to have
people dislike you.”
“That is just what I think,” returned Elizabeth. “Mother and father
think it is horrid to try to please people for just what you can get
out of them, but there are circumstances when it seems to me that we
ought to overcome repugniance if we can. Aunt Eunice is really a very
good woman, you know.”
“Yes, that is what aunt Emily says, and Mrs. Lynde; they think she is
fine. It is a dreadful pity, Elizabeth, that we were so unlucky that
day she came.”
“Yes, that was most misfortunate,--I mean unfortunate; ’Lectra says
misfortunate, and mother says it isn’t correct. Well, Betsy, are you
ready to do something to gain the approbation of the honorable Miss
Darby? I am.”
“What?”
“Well, you know she is much interested in doing charity things, for
the poor, poor babies, especially, so I thought if we went down to
Mrs. McGonigle’s and told her we would take care of the twins this
afternoon, we could display our charitable interests to aunt Eunice,
and she might stop just looking over the tops of our heads.”
Betsy looked doubtful. “They are such dirty, smelly babies,” she said.
“They always smell sour and as if their clothes hadn’t been washed in
ages and ages.”
“I know; but I suppose that is generally the way with poor babies whose
mothers don’t have time to attend to them properly. We could bathe them
ourselves, but I suppose it wouldn’t do to wash their clothes, for we
have nothing we could put on while theirs were drying.” Elizabeth would
not have hesitated at the undertaking, given the change of clothes.
Betsy, who had taken to heart the fact that her usually popular
Elizabeth was scorned by the haughty lady with white hair and majestic
mien, was ready to do anything which might establish her friend in aunt
Eunice’s good graces, so the two set off for Mrs. McGonigle’s rickety
house. It was not a specially attractive place to the girls, although
Bert usually found it so, as for some reason he preferred the society
of Patsy McGonigle to that of any other of his schoolmates. Mrs.
McGonigle took in washing, and there was always a queer, steamy smell
arising from suds and wet clothes. There was, too, always a baby; just
now there were two, the twins of whom Elizabeth had spoken.
Mrs. McGonigle, bending over her wash-tubs, looked up as the little
girls entered and made their request to be allowed to take the babies
for an airing. “Hear to that now,” she cried in a hearty voice. “Glory
be to Peter, but I’ll not be refusin’ such a little thing as that. Will
I let ’em go? I will then, and be thankful to yez for takin’ the pair
’av ’em offen me hands. Me husband, pore, weakly sowl that he is, has
been ailin’ more than usual, an’ I’ve me hands full without watchin’
the little wans.”
Elizabeth and Betsy did not stand upon further ceremony, but each
picked up a blue-eyed wondering baby and took it on her lap.
Mrs. McGonigle stripped her hands of suds and remarked: “I’d better be
givin’ thim a sup before they go, so they’ll not be gittin’ hungry the
while and be onaisy.”
The girls thought this a good plan and yielded up their charges to be
fed. When they had had their fill Mrs. McGonigle produced two much
soiled worsted shawls in which the babies were wrapped. “There, now,”
exclaimed the mother, “they’ll be as warm as if they was in St. Peter’s
pocket, the darlin’s. If they do be onaisy or cryin’ ye’ll be bringin’
thim home, young ladies.”
The girls promised and bore off the babies, the mother watching them
with pride, pleased that they should want her babies and yet quite
satisfied that two such attractive infants as hers must naturally be
desirable.
The two girls toiled up the street with their unaccustomed burdens.
Presently Betsy stopped. “Mine’s getting pretty heavy,” she said.
“So is mine,” returned Elizabeth. “We might have brought them in
a little cart or something, but I thought it would look so much
more,--more,--intimate to carry them.”
“Yes, of course,” returned Betsy doubtfully; “but though they are good
little things, I wouldn’t mind if mine were a little further away from
my nose.”
Elizabeth laughed, but she had to stand still in order to do it,--the
extra exertion of carrying the baby at the same time was a little too
much for her powers.
“I think I will sit down on this stone,” said Betsy, “for, although my
baby isn’t as big as yours, it does seem as if it would weigh a ton
before we reached your cousin’s house.”
“I tell you what I will do,”--Elizabeth had a plan; “if you can look
after both babies for a few minutes, I will go home and bring back
Babs’s baby carriage; she doesn’t use it any more, and it is in the
wood-house where I can easily get it; then we can take the babies in
it as far as our house and will only have to carry them the rest of
the way. We can take them all the way back to Mrs. McGonigle’s in the
carriage, too.”
Betsy thought this an excellent plan, and agreed to look after both
babies. “I don’t see why I can’t do it as well as Maggie McGonigle,”
she said, “for she is only eight years old.”
So, leaving Betsy with the babies both hunched up on her lap as she
sat on the big flat stone by the way, Elizabeth sped home and soon
returned with the carriage. The babies were both lifted in and the two
self-instituted nursemaids cheerfully pushed it along. Having reached
the lower gate of the Hollins place, they pushed the carriage inside
and then took up their burdens again. “I’m thankful we didn’t have to
carry them all the way,” sighed Betsy. “My arm would have been broken
before now. I don’t see how Maggie McGonigle stands lugging babies
around.”
“Where was she this afternoon, I wonder,” said Elizabeth.
“Oh, I think I saw her with the next oldest ones out in the yard when
we were there. There is one just walking and another a little bigger,
you know. Here, Josie, you musn’t chew that dirty shawl!” She removed
the end of shawl from the baby’s mouth and instantly the child set up a
wail.
“Oh dear, if they begin to cry I don’t know what we shall do,” said
Elizabeth. “I believe Jo is thinking of it; somehow he looks as if
he were. Here, Jo, see the pretty flowers. Jumpity, jumpity, jump!”
She tried to distract the baby’s attention, but was only partially
successful, for he continued to fret while his small sister’s wail
increased in volume until it reached the ears of a lady walking in the
garden of the gray house.
She came to the fence and looked over. This time she did not fix her
gaze above the heads of the two little girls, but she gave no sign of
recognition. “What babies are those?” she asked.
“They are Mrs. McGonigle’s,” answered Elizabeth.
“Who is she?”
“Well, she washes for us,” returned Elizabeth. “She lives in that
little white house near the blacksmith’s shop. She is very poor, and
has a great many children. Her husband is a poor weakly soul.”
“Humph!” Miss Darby gave the exclamation in her scornful way. “Bring
the babies over here,” she ordered.
The two little girls lugged their charges over to the fence, where
Miss Darby viewed them critically. “They are very dirty,” she said
disgustedly. “Will you tell me what you are doing with them away up
here?”
“We thought we would take them for a walk,” said Betsy. “Their mother
is washing, and we thought it would be doing good to help her.”
A quizzical look came into Miss Darby’s eyes. “I think in your case
charity should begin at home,” she said. “I never touch the babies at
our Home till the nurses have given them a good bath and have made them
perfectly clean. You might contract anything, any sort of disease.
Those old filthy shawls are probably reeking with germs. I would advise
you to take the babies back to their mother and then go home and change
your clothes. I hope neither of you will venture near Ruth till you
have done so.”
Meekly the two little girls walked away. Their sacrifice had brought
them blame instead of praise, and they felt quite downcast. Neither
spoke for some time, then Elizabeth said: “Well, at least she spoke
to us and looked at us as if we were human beings and not beetles or
caterpillars.”
This remark broke up regrets and the two laughed; then, having reached
the waiting baby carriage, the twins were snugly tucked in and were
cheerfully wheeled home to their mother.
As for Miss Darby, she returned to the house and, finding Grandpa Gil
on the porch, began to tell him of the sight she had just seen. “I
declare, that Elizabeth of Kate’s is the oddest child,” she began.
“What do you suppose I just caught her and that Tyson girl doing?”
“Nothing very bad, I hope,” returned Grandpa Gil.
“Well, no, not bad exactly, but extremely imprudent. They had borrowed
two remarkably dirty little babies, and were taking them out for a
walk. I hope they will not be seized with any disease from contact
with such filth. I warned them to go home immediately and change their
clothes.”
A smile came over Grandpa Gil’s face. He felt sure that Elizabeth had
some motive beyond what appeared, and the next time he and she were
alone he began to question her. “I hear you and Betsy were parading
around with two borrowed babies, the other day,” he began. “Did you
want live dolls to play with, and were those the only ones you could
get?”
“Well, it wasn’t exactly that,” replied Elizabeth. “We didn’t do it to
make a play of it, for it was really very hard work, but we did do it
for a good cause.”
“I suppose you couldn’t tell without divulging a secret. We have had a
great many secrets, you and I, Elizabeth, and I think I can keep one
pretty well. Can’t you tell me?”
Elizabeth was silent for a moment. She did not know exactly how to
explain, but it was quite true that if she could tell anyone it
would be Grandpa Gil, who was such a friend and who always took her
confidences in just the right spirit. “Well, you see,” she started by
saying, “aunt Eunice dislikes me very much, and my mother is sorry
and so is Kathie. They would like to have her like me because she
might--now please don’t breathe a word of this, Grandpa Gil, for this
is the secretest part of the secret----”
“I promise solemnly on my honor as a gentleman, that I will keep the
secret inviolate,” said Grandpa Gil, with a slight flicker of a smile.
The words sounded a little familiar to Elizabeth, but she was satisfied
with the promise, and went on:
“You see she has no nearer relations than mother and cousin Belle, and
she is really quite good and generous to most people and I heard mother
and Kathie talking about how nice it would be if she had only taken a
fancy to me and could help with my education.”
Grandpa Gil was listening attentively.
“You know father isn’t so very, very rich. I don’t mean that we don’t
have loads to eat and quantities of fuel to keep us warm and more
clothes than we can wear, but it is when the educations come that there
isn’t quite enough. You see Dick is going to college and if I have to
go to the Academy at the same time, somebody might have to get left and
of course it would be me. Kathie thought she could help out by taking
the school here next year,--Miss Jewett is going to be married, you
know.”
“Yes, I know. Go on, my dear; I am interested in all you are telling
me.”
“So, you see,” Elizabeth continued, “that would be all right, for when
my turn came I could teach and send Babs to the Academy while Bert goes
to college. But, what do you think? Aunt Eunice has invited Kathie to
spend next winter with her and wants to give her lessons in anything
she likes, and if she goes where will I be? And if she doesn’t go, I
shall feel like a pig for keeping her at home on my account. That’s the
secret, Grandpa Gil.”
“I understand; but I still fail to see where the babies come in.”
“Oh, I forgot; I didn’t finish about aunt Eunice. You know I thought
she was very much interested in poor babies, and I thought if she
believed I was interested in them, too, she might begin to take more
notice of me. She did look right at me and not over my head, but
she somehow didn’t approve of the McGonigle babies. I wonder if she
approves of all the babies she helps.”
Grandpa Gil smiled and shook his head. “We won’t inquire into that,
but I should like you to see, my dear little girl, that when persons
do things for a self-interested reason they do not always make the
impression they wish. If you had really played nurse for Mrs. McGonigle
because you thought only of helping her, you would not have come so far
from home, would you?”
“No, I suppose not.”
“And do you think your parents would like you to try to win favor from
your aunt Eunice by pretending?”
“Oh dear; I see I was all wrong, Grandpa Gil. Mother and father would
just hate me to do anything like that, and they would hate to have
anything done for me that there was any slyness in getting. I am sure
of that. Father hates anything of that kind.”
“I am very sure of that, and that is why I am showing you that you took
the wrong way to win your aunt Eunice’s favor. I hope some day she will
overcome her prejudice in your direction, and when she does you will be
glad that it is because you have been your honest, straightforward self
and have been a good girl because it is right and lovely to be good and
not because there is any material gain to be had from it.”
Elizabeth looked very sober; but there was a wistful look in her face,
too, and Grandpa Gil understood what she was thinking. “I am sure that
your main motive was to please your father and mother,” he went on,
“and to help them and your sister, but I wouldn’t try to do grown-up
things before you are able. Do the best you can, and maybe things will
come out better than they promise now.”
“That is just what mother told Kathie.” Elizabeth brightened up. “You
are very encourageful, Grandpa Gil. I feel ever so much better and I
won’t borrow the McGonigle babies any more, neither will Betsy.” This
ended the conversation, but its effect was lasting.
Grandpa Gil sat for some time lost in thought. After awhile he called
Miller to bring around the motor car. When it came, he went off without
asking anyone to go with him. He stopped at Miss Dunbar’s, went in
and presently came out with Miss Jewett. The two were in earnest
conversation. When the car started off again it turned into the road
which led to the Academy.